A Sister's Hope (18 page)

A
s Martha sat around the breakfast table with her folks a week later, she was shocked to discover an article in the newspaper written by Gary Walker. It was about Amish puppy mills again, only this time he mentioned her as a breeder who had refused an interview.
“Could Ms. Hostettler be running a puppy mill?”
the article read.
“Is that why she wouldn’t allow this reporter to see her kennels or ask any pertinent questions?”

Martha slammed the paper down so hard it jiggled her mother’s cup, spilling some of the coffee.

“Ach! Martha, watch what you’re doing!” Mom grabbed a napkin and mopped up the spill.

“What’s wrong with you this morning?” Dad asked crossly. “You shouldn’t be reading the paper while we’re trying to eat.”

“This is what’s wrong!” Martha pointed to the newspaper. “There’s an article by Gary Walker. He insinuates that I might be running a puppy mill!”

Mom’s mouth dropped open. “Where would he get such a notion?”

Dad snatched up the paper. He studied it a few seconds then slapped it down hard, jostling his own cup of coffee. “That man has some nerve saying those things!”

“What’d he say, Roman?” Mom asked. “Did he accuse Martha of running a puppy mill?”

“Not in so many words, but he said Martha’s a dog breeder and
that she refused an interview with him. It also says he suspects she might be running a puppy mill.” Dad looked over at Martha and frowned. “Any idea where he got such a notion?”

Martha reached for her glass of orange juice and took a drink, hoping to buy some time. Dad was upset enough; she didn’t want to say anything that might rile him even more.

Dad leaned closer to Martha and tapped his finger against the newspaper. “Have you talked to that nosy reporter recently?”

Martha nodded. “He came to Irene’s last week with some others who work at the newspaper. After everyone else had left, Gary cornered me and started asking a bunch of questions.”

“What’d you tell him?” Mom asked.

“I just said my business was struggling, and when he asked if he could come by our place to take a look at my dogs and interview me, I turned him down.”

“Ah, I see how it is.” Dad frowned deeply. “You got Mr. Walker riled when you refused to let him interview you, so he’s trying to get even by writing things that aren’t true.”

“Well, I—”

“If an Englisher raises more than one breed of dog and doesn’t have a license, it’s considered ‘enterprising.’ If an Amish person raises more than one breed and has a license, it’s called ‘running a puppy mill.’ ”

“Some Amish and Englishers probably don’t take good care of their dogs,” Martha said. “But I’m not one of them.”

“Of course you’re not,” Mom said. Her hand shook a bit as she patted Martha’s arm.

Dad gave the newspaper another good rap and grunted. “If that man comes around here asking a bunch of nosy questions, I’ll give him a piece of my mind. Fact is, I’ve got half a notion to go over to that newspaper office and have a little talk with Gary’s boss. He ought to know one of his reporters is writing things that aren’t true.”

Martha figured if her father hadn’t gone to the sheriff when most of the attacks had occurred, he wasn’t likely to go to the newspaper office and file a complaint.

“Calm down, Roman. You’re getting too upset about this,” Mom said. “I’m sure anyone reading that article will know it’s not true.” She added more coffee to her cup. “Would. . .would you like more coffee, Roman, or another piece of toast?”

Dad shook his head and pushed away from the table. “I’ve lost my appetite, so I think I’ll head out to the barn and get busy on that new set of cabinets the bishop ordered the other day. Nothing gets me calmed down better than work.”

Dad grabbed his stocking cap from the wall peg and slipped into his jacket. He turned and looked right at Martha. “If you ever see that reporter again, don’t say a word to him. Is that clear?”

“Jah, Dad,” she mumbled. She hoped she hadn’t made a promise she might not be able to keep, because if she ran into Gary again, she’d probably give him a piece of her mind.

As Luke headed home from work that afternoon, he spotted Toby’s rig pulling out of his folks’ driveway.
I wonder what he was doing at our place.
Luke lifted his hand in a wave, but Toby looked the other way and kept on going.

When Luke entered the house, he found his mother sitting at the kitchen table massaging her forehead. His dad sat across from her wearing a frown. Something must be wrong.

“What’s going on?” Luke asked. “Why was Toby here?”

Pop glared at him. “You don’t know?”

“I have no idea.”

“He came about that stupid truck of yours.”

“My. . .my what?”

“Don’t play dumm with me, Luke.” Pop’s voice raised an octave, and a muscle on the side of his neck quivered. “Toby told us you have a truck you keep hidden in the woods so we won’t know about it. Is it true?” He leveled Luke with a piercing stare. “Well, is it?”

Luke dropped his gaze to the floor. “Jah, it’s true.”

Pop slammed his fist on the table, sending the napkin holder sailing across the room. “I might have known you’d go behind my
back and do something like that!”

“Now, Elam, please calm down.” Mom’s voice was pleading, and Luke figured she was close to tears. She had never approved of yelling in the house.

Apparently, Mom’s cocker spaniel, Cindy, didn’t care for Pop’s yelling, either, for the shaggy little dog left her place by the woodstove and ducked under the table.

“I won’t calm down!” Pop shouted. “Not until our son gets rid of that truck!”

“I’ve not joined the church yet, so I have every right to own a motorized vehicle.” Luke’s defenses rose. “What all did Toby say that’s got you so riled and demanding that I sell my truck?” he asked.

“He said a black truck matching the description of yours was seen cruising around the schoolhouse near Farmerstown last night.”

“I wasn’t riding around in my truck last night.”

“Jah, well, Toby says the fellow driving the truck was wearing a baseball cap like you sometimes wear.” Dad grunted. “You oughta be wearin’ an Amish man’s hat, not what the Englishers wear.”

“So someone was driving a truck that looks like mine, and he was wearing a baseball cap,” Luke said, making no reference to what he should or shouldn’t be wearing. “What does that prove?”

“It proves that whoever egged the schoolhouse during the night could have been the same one driving the truck.”

Luke’s eyebrows lifted high on his forehead. “The schoolhouse was egged?”

Pop nodded. “The public school in Charm had some windows broken out awhile back, and now the Amish schoolhouse in Farmerstown’s been singled out.”

“I hope you don’t think I egged the schoolhouse or broke those windows in Charm.”

“I’m not saying you did either of those things,” Pop replied, “but Toby believes you did because he saw your truck in the area.”

“So it was Toby who supposedly saw me, huh? A minute ago you said Toby told you someone else had seen my truck.” Luke clenched his fists. “That
someone
was Toby, wasn’t it?”

Pop nodded slowly.

“Well, he’s lying! I wasn’t driving my truck last night, and I didn’t egg the schoolhouse.”

“We believe you, Luke,” Mom said. “But we don’t want folks making accusations.”

“If the bishop’s son is the one making those accusations, then people are likely to listen,” Pop added.

Luke folded his arms. “I don’t care what other people think. I didn’t vandalize either of those schools, and I’m not the one responsible for any of the attacks against the Hostettlers.”

Mom shot out of her chair. “Now where’d you come up with that? Your daed never accused you of—”

“He didn’t have to,” Luke interrupted. “I already know Roman thinks I’m the one responsible for the things that have been done at their place.” He rocked back and forth on his heels. “I don’t know why, but it seems as if Toby’s trying to make me look bad, even to my own parents.”

“You don’t look bad,” Mom said with a shake of her head. “It’s just that we want you to—”

“Get rid of that truck!” Dad said. “That way if anybody sees someone driving a black truck and wearing a baseball cap, they won’t accuse you.”

Luke shook his head. “I’m not selling my truck because Toby’s likes to
blabbermaul.”

“He may like to blabber, but if he can convince others that you’re responsible—”

“I don’t want to sell my truck. At least not now.”

“If you don’t, then you’ll likely be blamed for everything that happens in this area.” A vein on the side of Pop’s neck bulged, and Luke knew he was walking on thin ice.

“I’ll have a talk with Toby if you like,” Luke said. “Maybe I can talk some sense into him—make him realize it wasn’t me who did all those things.”

Pop shook his head. “Forget talking to Toby. I want you to sell that truck!”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll have to move out.”

Luke turned sharply toward the door. “Fine then, I’ll move out!”

“Please, don’t do that!” Mom grabbed the sleeve of Luke’s jacket. “Where would you go?”

“Guess I’ll head for the woods and sleep in my truck.”

“It’s too cold to be sleeping in your truck.” Mom turned pleading eyes on Pop. “Please say something to convince Luke he shouldn’t move out.”

Pop shrugged his shoulders. “Betty, there’s not much I can say if the boy wants to live in his precious truck.”

Luke moved toward the door, but Mom positioned herself in front of it. “I won’t sleep a wink tonight if I have to lie in bed thinking about you freezing to death. Please, don’t go, Luke. Stay here and we’ll work things out.”

“There’s not much to work out unless he agrees to sell his truck,” Pop said, shooting a piercing glance at Luke.

Luke drew in a deep breath and released it with a huff. He didn’t like seeing his mother so upset. Truth was, he really didn’t want to sleep in his truck—especially in the dead of winter. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing his truck keys. “How about I leave these with you for two weeks? During that time, if any attacks occur where a black truck is seen, then you’ll know I wasn’t driving the truck or doing the dirty deed.”

Pop held out his hand and accepted the offered keys. “All right then. It’s agreed.”

W
hen Martha went out to the barn to feed her dogs the following morning, she discovered Fritz, her male sheltie, lying in the corncrib on a pile of dried corn. Her heart gave a lurch. Had someone come into the barn and let the dog out? No, that was impossible; the barn door had been locked. She was just being paranoid.

“How did you get out of your kennel, boy?” Martha murmured, reaching out to pat Fritz’s head. “And what are you doing here in the corncrib?”

The dog lifted his head and responded with a lethargic grunt. He was obviously quite comfortable.

Martha was sure she had latched all the cage doors securely last night. She glanced around, wondering if any of the other dogs had gotten out. To her relief, there was no sign of them.

“Come on, Fritz. You can’t stay here all day.” Grasping the dog’s collar, Martha led him back to his kennel. The door to his cage was hanging open, although the latch didn’t appear to be broken. Could Fritz have figured out some way to open the gate? If that were the case, she would have to rig something up so he couldn’t get out. Martha put Fritz back in his cage and inspected the rest of the cages. Everything was just as it should be.

Smiling, she leaned against the wire fence that enclosed the dog run and watched Heidi’s growing puppies scamper around, yipping and nipping at one another in play. She glanced at her beagle Polly and was pleased to see that her pups were nursing. The little scamps
were sure growing. Maybe she would run an ad in the
Bargain Hunter
and sell some of the puppies for Valentine’s Day.

I hope that article by Gary Walker won’t hurt my sales.

Pushing her disconcerting thoughts aside, Martha hurried to get the dogs fed and watered. She didn’t have to work for Irene today, so after breakfast, she planned to head to Berlin to do some shopping for Mom.

Should I lock the door?
Martha wondered as she left the barn a few minutes later.
No, everything will be fine. I’m just feeling anxious for nothing.
Martha closed the barn door and headed for the house to help Mom with breakfast.