As usual, her gaze wandered longingly over the array of patterned fabrics that crowded the displays of the small shop and she thought of how she might look in an English-style skirt cut from the bolt of cream with large mauve roses and dark green leaves on it She ran her fingers over the nubby texture of a fine white eyelet and pictured it as a flowing nightgown adorned with pale blue ribbons. But she bought only her length of durable broadcloth and moved on to the next of her errands.

As she went about her business she did her best to ignore the curious looks and the outright stares directed at her by other patrons of the businesses, mainly people from out of town, for the townsfolk of Jesse had long ago become accustomed to seeing Plain people. Still, it made her uncomfortable. More so today than most days. Today she didn't want to feel so different from everyone else. Today she didn't want to have it pointed out to her that she wasn't just an ordinary woman doing her shopping. Today everything about her Amish-ness irritated her like burlap chafing against her skin. She wanted to fling her bonnet off and wear sneakers and not worry about her long skirts snagging on store shelves. And the reason was Matt Thorne.

At the drugstore she finally gave in. Along with the supplies for the inn she purchased a tiny blue vial of perfume called Evening in Paris and a copy of Glamour magazine that featured articles on fall fashions and dating in the nineties. The clerk gave her a curious look, but evidendy decided all the items were for someone else at Thornewood and made no comment. Sarah paid the bill at the pharmacy counter and quietly thanked the woman. On her way to the front of the store she paused when she was out of view of the clerk and dug her two prizes out of the bag. The perfume she tucked into a small pocket she'd sewn inside the waistband of her apron. The magazine was tucked between the folds of the latest edition of the Jesse Herald-Dispatch.

She pressed her packages against her with one arm and arranged the newspaper-magazine combination in her hands, the magazine opened to an ad for ladies' razors. She bumped the drugstore door open with her hip and stepped out onto the sidewalk—directly into the path of her father. His gaze was focused on the hardware store farther down the street and he plowed into her unchecked, sending packages, paper, and magazine all flying.

“Sarah!” he said, startled, grabbing her by the shoulders to catch her from falling.

“Pop!” She sounded—and looked, she supposed—more guilty than surprised, and she could have bit her tongue. She was twenty-five, a grown woman, but with Isaac she would ever feel the wayward adolescent.

She pulled out of his grasp and they both bent to gather up the packages. He got hold of the magazine before she could reach it and he scowled at the picture on the front cover—a doe-eyed young woman with short, wild hair, exaggerated makeup, and a thick collar of gaudy necklaces. Isaac scowled so hard, it seemed to elongate his lean, lined face and lengthen his scruffy gray beard. Thick, woolly eyebrows drew together in a severe V of disapproval that reached from the rim of his black felt hat to the bridge of his nose. With forced calm, Sarah gathered her other articles and then took the magazine from her father's hands as she straightened.

“I&m just in town to do some shopping for the inn,” she said. It was probably as much a sin as an out-and-out lie, but she couldn't help not wanting him to think the worldly book was hers. They'd had the argument too many times for her to go looking for it.

Isaac sniffed, his scowl not lessening. He was no more than an inch or two taller than Sarah, but carried himself so straight and so stiffly, she always had the impression of him towering over her. He straightened his heavy work coat, his broad hands brushing off some of the road dust in a gesture that seemed insultingly symbolic to Sarah.

“Where is the woman who runs the place?” he asked in German. “Is she too good to do the shopping?”

“Ingrid is away at her other place of busi ness,” Sarah answered primly in the tongue that was her first language. She had always thought it rude to speak a language in public that others couldn't understand—which was, of course, her father's reason for doing it—but she gave in on the point this time. She was having enough trouble grappling for control of her temper. Ingrid was her friend as well as her employer and she took great exception to her father's dim view of the woman.

“A woman running businesses all over the place,” Isaac grumbled. “Where is her husband then? Staying in the same house as you without his wife?”

“John Wood is gone to California.” She tried not to flinch even inwardly at the information she was not giving her father. God knew the eruption that would cause. Isaac Maust's rebel daughter staying in a house with a handsome young doctor from the Cities and no one to chaperon. It made her dizzy just thinking about it. Then she remembered with a sudden terrible jolt that Jacob knew all about Matt's presence. Jacob, whom Isaac himself had sent to the inn. Her heart thudded in her chest like a hammer. Before she had a chance to think about it, she pressed on. “Ingrid left me in charge of the guests. Five for the weekend.”

“Guests.” Isaac spat the word, as if using it for tourists were some defilement of the term. “And one of them teaching your brother filthy foul language.”

“What?”

“Jacob came home the other day saying such words. He got his mouth washed out, I can tell you.”

Sarah was as appalled as if Jacob had been her own son and Isaac some stranger bent on disciplining the boy for imagined sins. She couldn't hold back her gasp of outrage or her defense. “Gross? Is that the word?” Isaac turned purple. “That's not bad language! It's just a word the English children say—”

“Reason enough to stop him using it. I have one child among the English already. I have no desire to see another go astray.”

Sarah drew back, her lips pressed together in a tight line against the pain. How dare he accuse her of going astray when she had tried so hard to stay among them, when every day she fought her own spirit to stay Amish.

She lifted her chin to a stubborn angle her father had seen too many times. “Yes, I've traded my horse for a fancy car, you know. A … a … Dagmar,” she said, not quite sure if that was the right name or not. It sounded impressive nevertheless.

Her sarcasm brought only another disapproving snort. She could feel her father's steel-blue eyes boring into her. “What is this I hear?”

“Hear?” She swallowed hard. “From who?”

“Micah Hochstetler asked you to go to the Beachys' auction with him and you wouldn't go. He says you're acting high and worldly more and more.”

“He goes around saying such things and you wonder why I wouldn't go with him?” She rolled her eyes.

“He is a fine young man, a member of the church with his own farm.”

“And you think that's reason enough for me to go around with him?”

“I'm thinking if you married and had children as you were meant to, we'd not live in fear of being visited by the deacon.”

“I've done nothing to warrant a visit from the deacon!” Sarah protested, her temper flaring as it always did when she exchanged more than five lines with her father.

He stared meaningfully at the magazine in her arms.

“I have committed no sin,” Sarah said stubbornly.

“Excuse me,” a third voice intruded with a sharp, sarcastic edge. “Is there a problem here?”

Isaac turned and looked at Matt, the old man's face set like a mask of granite. “None that concerns you,” he said stiffly in English and he walked away with his head up and his eyes on the hardware store.

Sarah watched him go, a sour mixture of love and hate rolling inside her.

“Friend of yours?” Matt asked sofdy.

“No,” she said, tears burning the backs of her eyes. “He's my father.”

As Sarah shopped for her groceries Matt sat in the buggy tied to the hitching rail at the end of the parking lot. Despite the fact that he felt a thousand percent better than he had the day before, he was still a ways from being back to fall strength, and the mornings activities had taken a toll on him. He leaned back against the seat as he watched toddlers play in the park across thfe street, his thoughts going over his visit with Jesse's resident physician.

The man was an insult to doctors in general and probably a menace to his patients. Phillip Coswell was fiftyish, best described as squat with oily, thinning dark hair, and a fine example of a chainsmoker. He'd asked Matt no less than five times what medication he was on, indicating that he either wasn't paying attention or he had a serious problem with concentration. His main topic of conversation had been the scandalous cost of malpractice insurance and how to milk the most out of the Medicare system. During his time in the waiting room, Matt had heard him insult one female patient and deride another for wasting his time. The poor woman had burst into tears. Matt still couldn't get over the fact that the waiting room had been full. People actually depended on that man for their medical care. It was a terrifying thought.

Sarah came out of the store then and Matt's attention shifted abruptly. She looked pale and tense. He wondered what she and her father had been arguing about, but he didn't feel right asking and she hadn't offered to tell him. He reached out to help her into the buggy and they drove up to the door to have the groceries loaded in. Then they were on their way out of Jesse, past the tourists congregating in front of the Viking Cafe, past the towering corrugated metal structures that comprised the Jesse Grain Elevator, and out once more into the country