Dangerous Amish Memories

Author

Diane Burke

Reads

17.5K

Chapters

Author

Diane Burke

Reads

17.5K

Chapters

🏰 Historical 😊 Low Spice

Prologue

Sarah Lapp wasn’t thinking about guns or violence or murder on this unseasonably warm fall day. She was thinking about getting her basket of apples and cheese to the schoolhouse.

Pedaling her bicycle down the dirt road, she spotted the silhouettes of her in-laws, Rebecca and Jacob, standing close together in the distant field.

Sarah knew when she’d married their son, Peter, that she had been fortunate to have married her best friend.

But sometimes...

She glanced at them again.

Sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder what true love felt like.

Chiding herself for her foolish notions, she turned her attention back to the road. A sense of unease taunted her as she approached the school. The children should be out in the yard on their first break of the day, but the ball field was empty.

She hit the kickstand on her bike and looked around the yard.

Peter’s horse and wagon were tethered to the rail, a water bucket beside them. Children’s bicycles haphazardly dotted the lawn. The bats for the morning ball game rested against the bottom of the steps.

Everything appeared normal.

But it didn’t feel normal.

Sarah climbed the steps and moved cautiously across the small landing, noting the open windows and the curtains fluttering in the breeze.

Silence.

Her pulse pounded. When was a room full of children ever silent?

She’d barely turned the knob when the door was pulled wide with such force that Sarah was propelled forward and sprawled across the floor.

Peter started in her direction.

“Stop right there, Peter, unless you want to see your wife hurt.” The speaker was John Zook, a cousin who had recently returned to the Amish way of life. He pulled Sarah roughly to her feet.

“John?” Sarah gasped when she saw a gun peeking out from the folds of the carpentry apron tied around his waist.

Immediately Peter and the teacher, Hannah, gathered the children together and took a protective stance in front of them, shielding their view of the room.

Sarah stood alone in the middle of the room and faced the gunman. She saw fear in his hooded eyes—fear and something else. Something hard and cold.

“John, why are you doing this terrible thing?” she asked.

“Is he out there? Did you see him?”

“Who, John? Who do you think is out there?” Sarah tried to understand what was frightening him.

“What do you want?” Peter’s voice commanded from the back of the room.

“I want you to shut up,” John snapped in return.

Sarah glanced at the children and marveled at how well behaved and silent they were. John had made sure the adults had seen his weapon, but Sarah was fairly certain the children had not. They seemed more confused and curious than frightened.

John lifted the curtain. “He’s out there. I know it.”

“John, I did not pass anyone on the road. It was just me.” Sarah kept her voice calm and friendly. “We will help you if you will tell us what it is that frightens you so.”

When John looked at them, Sarah was taken aback by the absolute terror she saw in his eyes. “He’s going to kill me,” he whispered. “There will be no place I can hide.”

Peter, his patience running thin, yelled at the man. “You are starting to scare the children. I am going to let them out the back door and send them home.”

“Nobody moves,” John ordered.

Feeling the tension escalate, Sarah tried to find words to defuse the situation. “Peter is right. Whatever’s wrong, we will help you. But you must let the children leave.”

John shot a furtive glance at the group huddled in the corner and then nodded. “All right. Get them out of here, but make it quick.”

Peter ushered the children outside, with whispers to each child to run straight home. When the teacher came up behind the last child, Peter ignored her protests and shoved her to safety, too.

John shoved a felt pouch at Sarah. “Hide this and don’t give it to anyone but me. Understand?”

The heavy and cumbersome bag felt like rocks or marbles were nestled inside. She used several straight pins to bind it to her waistband.

Suddenly the sound of boots pounding against the wooden steps filled the air.

“Shut up. Don’t make a sound!” John ordered. With trembling hands, he aimed his gun and waited for the door to open. But it didn’t.

Instead, bullets slammed through the door.

“Sarah, get down!” Peter yelled from across the room.

Pieces of wood from the walls and desks, as well as chunks of chalkboard, splintered as each bullet reached a target.

John Zook grabbed his shoulder. Then doubled over and clutched his stomach, groaning in pain.

The door banged open and slammed against the wall. A stranger entered, this one much taller, with darkness in his eyes that cemented Sarah’s feet to the floor in fear.

“Hello, John. Didn’t expect to see me, did you?”

The slighter man’s body shook. “I was gonna call and let you know where I was, Jimmy. Just as soon as I found a safe place for us to hide out.”

“Is that so? Well, I saved you the trouble. Give me my diamonds.”

Diamonds?

Instantly, Sarah’s fingers flew to the pouch hidden in the folds of her skirt.

“You’ve got until the count of three. One.”

“I don’t have them. I have to go get them.”

“Two.”

“I don’t have them!” John’s voice came out in an almost hysterical pitch.

“Please, Jimmy, honest.” John pulled Sarah in front of him. “She has them. I gave them to her.”

Sarah looked into the stranger’s face, and evil looked back.

“Three.”

The sudden burst of gunfire shook Sarah to her core.

A small, round hole appeared in John’s forehead. His expression registered surprise and his hand, which had been painfully gripping Sarah’s arm, opened. He fell to the floor.

The loud, piercing sound of a metal triangle rent the air. The children had reached their homes. Help was on the way.

The shooter leered at Sarah. “Let’s take a look and see what you’re hiding in that skirt, shall we?”

“No!” Peter yelled, and ran toward her.

The intruder fired.

Her husband’s body jerked not once but twice as he grabbed his chest and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“Peter!”

Sarah’s heart refused to accept what her mind knew was fact. Peter was dead.

Before she could drop to his side, something slammed into the left side of her head. Another blow to her arm. To her back. Pain seized her breath. Weakened her knees. Crumpled her to the floor.

She stretched her right arm out toward Peter, their fingers almost touching as she slid into blessed oblivion.