Plain Sanctuary

AMISH COUNTRY DANGER

Returning to her Amish hometown to open a bed-and-breakfast, Heather Miller thinks she’s finally safe from her violent ex-husband—until he escapes from prison. Now with her ex determined to hurt her, she must rely on US Marshal Zachary Walker for safety. For Zach, this mission isn’t only his duty—it’s personal. The escaped convict killed his sister, and Heather was instrumental in putting the man behind bars. But with Zach’s natural protective instincts toward Heather turning into something deeper, he must keep his emotional distance. He can’t be distracted, because the danger that lies in wait is as evil as it is unexpected...and a lapse in judgment could prove deadly.

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoyed Plain Sanctuary. This book was my sixth Amish story written for Love Inspired Suspense, but my first set in the new fictional town of Quail Hollow, New York. I decided the sleepy Amish town of Apple Creek needed a little break from the murder and mayhem. I wanted my characters there to enjoy their happily-ever-afters—for a little while. But I’m sure the characters living there will start whispering in my ear, forcing me to eventually tell their stories.

I love receiving reader letters telling me how much you’ve enjoyed my stories and how you want to hear more about a certain character. I’m thrilled when I can respond that that character’s story is already in the next book! I also have hopes of writing more stories set in Quail Hollow, too. The reader desire for Amish stories appears strong, and as long as that’s true, I’ll be plotting a way to be a part of it. Thank you for loving these stories.

During my research, I’ve learned that New York State has a growing Amish population. The Amish have left other settlements in Ohio, Pennsylvania and other states to come to New York for a number of reasons, including seeking farmland, disagreeing with previous settlements over rules, or perhaps because they’re trying to escape state laws that would impact their daily life. Because of this, I felt comfortable creating Quail Hollow as a not-too-distant settlement from Apple Creek, which is loosely based on one of the oldest settlements of Amish in Western New York. I’ve also received many letters from readers who currently live (or previously lived) in Western New York and they love the Buffalo-area connection. I hope you do, too, even if you’re not from the area. It’s a beautiful part of the country.

As always, I love to hear from my readers. If you’d like to stay abreast of all my releases, please go to my website, www.AlisonStone.com, and sign up for my digital newsletter. Feel free to email me at Alison@AlisonStone.com or mail a letter to me at PO Box 333, Buffalo, NY 14051.

Sincerely,

Alison Stone

“Heather, call me as soon as you get this!”

Zach yelled, as if she might hear him despite talking into her voice mail. “Lock the doors. Make sure the alarm is set. I’ll be there in—” he glanced at the clock out of habit “—five minutes.”

Zach ended the call and pressed the accelerator to the floor. In the not-so-far distance behind him, he could hear sirens. He hoped they were racing to the Lapp home and not to pull him over for driving like a lunatic.

Up ahead, smoke filled the air in a thick black plume, disappearing into the dark storm clouds. His heart plummeted.

His truck skidded on the wet pavement as he slowed at Heather’s driveway. He slammed the gear into Park and jumped out of the truck, leaving the door open and the engine running.

He ran as fast as he could toward the barn. “Heather! Heather!” Zach screamed, then he hooked his arm over his mouth and pushed into the smoky confines of the fire.

Dear Lord, let her be okay, he prayed.

ALISON STONE lives with her husband of more than twenty years and their four children in Western New York. Besides writing, Alison keeps busy volunteering at her children’s schools, driving her girls to dance and watching her boys race motocross. Alison loves to hear from her readers at Alison@AlisonStone.com. For more information, please visit her website, alisonstone.com. She’s also chatty on Twitter, @alison_stone. Find her on Facebook at Facebook.com/alisonstoneauthor.

Plain Sanctuary

Alison Stone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Give all your worries and cares to God, for He cares about you.

—1 Peter 5:7

To Scott, with love, forever and always

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Dear Reader

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

ONE

“Walker.” Deputy U.S. Marshal Zachary Walker answered his cell phone and held it in front of him set on speakerphone. He dropped his duffel bag on the floor of his rarely used hunting cabin. He hadn’t had a chance to open the windows to air out the place before the call came in. It was probably just as well considering the rain pelting the sides of his family’s cabin.

“Hi, Zach.” It was his boss, Dave Kenner, at the U.S. Marshals Service at the Western District of New York headquarters in Buffalo. And if his boss was calling him late on a Friday night at the start of what was to be Zach’s vacation—a vacation his boss had to force him to take—he knew it wasn’t to make small talk. “Are you in Quail Hollow yet?” Zach pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and waited for his boss to get to the point.

“Yeah, just got here.” He cleared his throat. “Remember that vacation you told me I had to take?”

“You never thought you’d have a nine-to-five job as a U.S. Marshal, did you?” Dave exhaled sharply over the line. Something was seriously wrong. “You see the news?”

“No.” Zach had left the office at six, stopped to visit a college friend and his family for a few hours, then listened to an audiobook on the hour drive to Quail Hollow. It was his attempt to decompress. Transition. Leave the stress of the job behind. So, no, he hadn’t listened to the news.

“Let me bring you up to speed.”

“Am I no longer on vacation?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Hold on.” Zach stood, set his phone on the counter, grabbed the remote and aimed it at the nine-inch TV sitting on the kitchen counter. The laugh track of some sitcom filled the quiet room. He immediately hit the down arrow on the volume and then played with the bunny ears mounted on the TV. He refused to pay for cable at his getaway cabin.

“Let me fill you in.”

“I had no doubt you would.” Zach didn’t try to hide his frustration. He had worked for Dave long enough to know when he was avoiding getting to the point. That could mean only one thing: the news had to strike a personal chord.

Zach flipped the channels blindly, sensing his blood pressure spiking.

“It’s Brian Fox.”

And there it was.

A headache exploded behind his eyes. He dragged a hand over his mouth. Just then he clicked on a channel and a live news broadcast appeared on the screen. Searchlights lit the stone walls of Peters Correctional Facility like a scene out of some prison break movie. A woman with a blond bob and a red coat stood with a mike in one hand, pressing the other to her ear, waiting for directions from her producer or whoever called the shots at the studio in a situation like this. The words on the bottom of the screen scrolled past. Zach had to squint to read them as the reception cut in and out to the old-school TV: “Convicted murderer Brian Fox escaped Peters Correctional Facility at 8:15 p.m.”

He swallowed hard as disbelief made the words flicker even more.

Over two hours ago.

Zach muttered under his breath. “You gotta be kidding me. He escaped? How in the...?” He rubbed his temples with his fingers. The image of his little sister, bloodied and sprawled on his back steps with a trail of blood leaking from her head, flashed in his mind. Bile rose in his throat. People had told him he’d have closure when Fox was convicted. Put behind bars. The people who’d claimed that had never experienced the brutal death of a loved one. Peace. Closure. They were elusive.

“How did this happen, Dave?”

“Initial speculation is that he had help from the inside.”

“Help?” Zach paced the small space. “Who helps a convicted killer escape?” He closed his eyes against the flickering image on the TV, feeling a migraine coming on.

“A female employee may have provided him tools. She’s missing now, too. He’s resourceful. Fox dug a hole through the cement wall in his cell. Got into the bowels of the prison, then, it appears, he got out through the sewer system.”

Zach fisted his hand. “You’re kidding me. He was able to do this without anyone noticing?”

“Apparently he knows how to turn on the charm. Had this woman wrapped around his finger...” His boss’s words trailed off when he realized he had opened mouth, inserted foot. Fox had turned on the charm with Zach’s sister. Married her. Then showed his true self when it was too late. “I’m sorry. I know this is personal for you.”

Zach ignored the last comment. That was the only way he got through each day. The only way he was able to do his job. Each day he did his best to catch the bad guys, something he did in memory of his little sister. But he had yet to find a way to do his job and not be haunted by the horrific scene in which she died.

He was successful in shutting down the dark thoughts maybe 20 percent of the time, at most. Despite helping other people, he’d never get past failing the one person who had spent her entire life looking up to him.

I’m sorry, Jill.

“Brian Fox’s on the run.” His boss got back to the facts.

“Any idea where he’s headed?”

“His first wife moved to Quail Hollow about nine months ago. She’s renovating an old house. Word is she’s opening a bed-and-breakfast.”

“She’s here in Quail Hollow?” Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach. This wasn’t the first time Zach had wondered how a guy like Fox landed not one, but two wives. “Does Fox know where she is?”

“Not sure. But his cellmate said he’s fixated on her. Blamed her for putting him in prison.”

“Great. The jerk kills my sister and he blames his first wife for his imprisonment. What a delusional idiot.”

“About that vacation...” his boss said, a hint of hesitancy in his voice.

“I’m officially off vacation.”

“I need you to track down his ex-wife. Put her in protective custody until we have Fox back behind bars.”

“Give me her info.”

Dave rattled off an address for the woman. “Listen, we couldn’t find a phone number, but we found her current address from a public real estate transaction. Fox could do the same thing.”

“Well—” Zach sighed “—Heather Miller hid for ten years from this guy. She only came out of hiding to testify against him in my sister’s murder case. I owe her.”

“Keep your head on straight. If it gets too personal, I’ll send someone else in.”

Zach gritted his teeth. “I’m already here.”

“I know. That’s why I called. Besides, they have every law enforcement agency in Western New York tracking Fox. I can’t spare another person. Stay cool. And I’ll let you know as soon as we have him in custody. It shouldn’t be long. And let me know when you make contact with Miss Miller.”

“Will do.” He ended the call and grabbed the car keys from the table. So much for rest and relaxation.

* * *

A crack of lightning illuminated the night sky in the distance. The stillness felt electric. A sense of expectation hung in the air. Swallowing around a knot of emotion, Heather Miller adjusted the plain roller shade on the bedroom window. A light breeze blew in from the cracked window and with it a mist of rain and the scent of country air.

Her mammy had lived out her life in this home, looking out this same window at the barn and the seasons that cycled through tall rows of corn and barren land. How had her mammy been able to look at that barn every morning and night? The dilapidated structure hunkered in the shadows, a silent reminder of a tragic event that had changed the course of all their lives. Back then, could her mammy, Mariam Lapp, ever have predicted that her descendants would be living as outsiders, defying their Amish roots?

Heather had been six years old when her father slipped out of town with his three young daughters in their long dresses and bonnets. That was the last time she had seen this house, her mammy and her Amish wardrobe. Their father had stopped at a superstore outside of town and purchased his daughters cheap sneakers and Englisch clothes and they’d never looked back.

The memories of that day were both disjointed and etched in her memory. The bright white sneakers. Her first pair of jeans. The colorful unicorn on her T-shirt.

Her heartbroken father had taken what was left of his family and carved a life for them in the outside world. Leaving the Amish was one of a handful of events that had shaped Heather into the woman she was today.

Today was yet another milestone. A happy one.

Heather was back in Quail Hollow, an Englischer, planning to run a bed-and-breakfast for all the tourists interested in seeing the Amish countryside. The inheritance had come as a surprise and Heather hoped her grandmother wouldn’t mind that her eldest granddaughter had opened her home to the outside world in this way.

Heather was excited by the possibilities. She had come a long way since she had fallen for a charmer when she was only nineteen. Now she was making a second—no, a third—go at life in a place that held her roots, yet she’d never felt more free.

She would learn to live in the moment and let go of the past.

Moving away from the window, Heather flipped back the covers and climbed into bed. She pulled up the hand-stitched quilt passed down to her through generations. She was exhausted but feared she wouldn’t sleep. Without a TV or Wi-Fi, her options for wasting time were limited to reading and her eyes were too tired for that. Besides, she needed to try to rest. She had another long day ahead of her. The house still needed work before opening weekend in a couple weeks. Just in time for the peak autumn colors. She had hoped to remain in her nearby apartment until renovations were completed, but time and money had run out.

Just as she settled her head on the pillow, a thunderclap made her jump and the resulting rumble vibrated through the walls of her new home. A whoosh of wind rustled the oak tree on her front lawn. A vague memory whispered across her brain. Had her father brought her back here to play on a tire swing hanging from its limbs? Or was that a memory from before their family moved out of the home they shared with their mammy? Her mother had been an only child, a rarity in the Amish community, and she and her husband had moved into the home with Mariam to start their family. When Heather’s mother died and her father left Quail Hollow, her mammy had been left alone in this big house.

Heather closed her eyes and imagined the wind blowing through her long flowing hair—free from the constraints of a tight Amish bun—as she pumped her legs on the swing. Despite the vivid memory, or maybe it was a dream, her father claimed he had never gone back to Quail Hollow. He couldn’t face the tragic past. Heather forgave her father that. His wife—Heather’s mem—had been murdered by a stranger passing through town, or so they suspected. No one was ever arrested. Every corner, every face, every waking moment in Quail Hollow had reminded him of all he had lost.

All they had lost.

Heather threw back the quilt, climbed out of the bed and was drawn again to the window. Thick drops of rain pelted the glass and screen. She pushed down on the frame and it slid with a loud screech, making the hairs on her arms stand on edge. A shadow in the distance, near the rows of corn, caught her attention. She blinked rapidly. It was gone.

Am I imagining things?

Heart racing in her chest, she flattened herself against the wall, careful to stay out of view.

An old, familiar fear coiled around her lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

Heather focused on each intake and release of breath as the walls seemed to close in around her.

In through the nose, count to three, out through the mouth...

In through the nose, count to three, out through the mouth...

She was safe. The man who had tormented her was in prison. A hint of guilt twined with her fear and pressed heavily on her lungs. Somehow in her warped perspective, she felt guilty that after she escaped her violent marriage, he had sought out another victim.

His new wife hadn’t been able to get away.

Brian Fox killed his second wife, landing him in prison. Finally granting Heather her freedom.

She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer for Jill’s soul, the only remedy that gave her some modicum of peace.

Heather opened her eyes and focused on her reality. She was standing against the wall, still afraid of the bogeyman from her past. Perhaps she wouldn’t have been so jumpy if the Amish workmen had completed the installation of the new window in the breakfast area. Large plastic tarps stapled over the huge opening may keep the rain out, but not a determined intruder.

She rolled back her shoulders, trying to dismiss her racing thoughts. She blamed Brian Fox for the lingering fear, the paranoia that always hovered just below the surface. A person didn’t live in constant fear for ten years and not escape unscarred.

The wind picked up and the tree branches scraped the side of her home. She climbed back into bed and shuddered against the chill despite having closed the window. She’d have to hire someone to trim the branches. The dragging sound was unsettling.

Heather finally drifted to sleep when a loud crash downstairs startled her awake. She bolted upright in bed, her heart jackhammering in her chest.

“It’s just the storm,” she muttered to herself. “It’s just the storm.”

A creaking sounded in the hallway. On instinct, she slipped out from under the warm quilt and grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand. She moved to the bedroom door, considered locking herself in, or perhaps dragging the tall chest of drawers in front of it. Indecision kept her rooted in place. Why had she thought it was a good idea to move way out into the country all by herself?

In spite of her past fears, Heather decided she’d live life as a strong, independent woman, not letting her ex take that away from her, too. However, in reality, she was defenseless out here. Even if the spotty cell phone reception allowed her to call 9-1-1, how long would it take for help to arrive? Could law enforcement reach her before a potential intruder did?

Grabbing the golf club she always kept in the bedroom closet—this new home was no exception—she tucked her cell phone under her arm and opened the bedroom door. The loud creak of the hinges set her nerves on edge.

Since her grandmother had been Amish and she meant to recreate an Amish-like experience for the tourists, there was no light switch close by. Instead she’d have to take the time to turn the knob on the kerosene lamps mounted on the walls in the hallway.

An unease threaded its way up her spine as she tiptoed down the hallway toward the stairs. She grabbed her cell phone out from under her arm and used the back of her hand to feel along the wall in the dark. The other hand was wrapped firmly around the handle of her driver.

Dear Lord, please keep me safe.

Heather navigated the stairs, each one creaking under her weight. Breathing heavily, she made her way to the new addition off the kitchen, where she hoped to serve meals to large groups of tourists staying in her home.

The plastic sheets the Amish workmen had hung over the opening for the window flapped in the wind. The snapping sound—along with the rumble of thunder in the distance—was disconcerting in the dark of night.

For a long moment, Heather stared at the rippling plastic, trying to decide if she should barricade herself in the bathroom and call 9-1-1 because someone had slipped in through the opening or if perhaps the wind had somehow torn the plastic sheeting from its staples.

With her back flat against the wall, she didn’t let go of the golf club. Her eyes adjusted to the shadows. A crack of lightning illuminated the new breakfast nook. A metal mop and broom had been upended and had come to rest in the corner.

A shaky groan of relief ripped from her throat as the need to both laugh and cry at the same time overwhelmed her. The metal bucket must have made the crashing sound. Not an intruder. She set the golf club against the wall, then examined the plastic sheet more closely. She couldn’t leave it like that or the rain would warp the plywood that formed the base of the new hardwood floors that were scheduled to go in soon.

She glanced at the time on her cell phone. The workmen wouldn’t be there till morning. And she couldn’t very well call her Amish handyman this late at night. Even though he was allowed to have a cell phone for work purposes, she doubted he kept it on his bedside table as she had. The rules provided limits.

Come on, you can do it, a little voice inside her head nudged her. You want to own a business? You gotta get your hands dirty. Put on your big girl britches.

Rolling her shoulders, she tried to ease out the kinks. She might as well replace the torn plastic and seal the window opening because the adrenaline surging through her veins wasn’t going to allow her to catch a wink of sleep anyway.

She turned on a kerosene lamp in the sitting room, then jogged up the stairs to throw on some clothes. On the way back down the stairs, she could hear the rain pelting the roof.

“Being a business owner is highly overrated,” she muttered.

She grabbed an umbrella from the front hall, then put it back. She’d need two hands to carry the supplies from the shed in the back corner of the yard. She had noticed her Amish handyman, Sloppy Sam, putting them away this afternoon. The Amish people’s tendency to use nicknames to distinguish between the same names was both creative and charming. She doubted she would have had a nickname because her name wasn’t all that common among the Amish. Her mother’s love for flowers influenced the names of her daughters: Heather, Lily and Rose. But the girls never had to worry about their unique names while living in Quail Hollow because they were ripped away from their extended family as little girls.

Focusing on the task at hand, Heather plucked her rain slicker from a hook by the door and stuffed her arms into the cold sleeves. She psyched herself up to run across the wet yard, get the stuff she needed from the shed and then return to the house. It would take no time. No time at all.