Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (38 page)

The party was in full swing by the time he arrived. The Amish teens, most of them on
rumspringa,
had been gathering at the trailer home for going on a month now. Everyone, it seemed, was always broke. But somehow, someone always managed to wrangle a few six-packs of beer. On a good night, someone would bring a bottle of whiskey or tequila and everyone would sit in the living room and do shots until it was gone and everyone was so shit-faced that they were lucky to make it to their vehicles. Most simply passed out where they were.

As usual, the front door stood wide open. As he parked behind Big Dan Beiler’s pickup truck, he could hear the bass thrum of Nirvana’s “The Man Who Sold the World” blaring through the open windows. Two Amish girls wearing dresses and sneakers sat on the steps, sharing a joint. They looked up when he got out of the car, but he didn’t pay them any heed. They weren’t the one he was looking for to night.

He found her in the kitchen. Rachel Shrock was seventeen years old and as beautiful and intelligent as she was headstrong. He’d met her here three weeks ago and he’d thought of little else since. She’d charmed him with her sense of humor and gentle way. When he was with her, it was as if he were the only man in the world and the very center of her universe. He’d taken her to one of the bedrooms that same night and they’d made love until the sun streamed in through the window.

He knew it was wrong to lie with her before marriage. They’d discussed it, in fact, and Rachel felt the same way. She was a gentle soul, after all. She loved God. She loved her family. And he was beginning to think she loved him, too. It was the start of something beautiful. That was why Noah had to do everything in his power to save her soul. The way his
datt
had saved the others.

The way his
datt
had saved
him.

Perry Mast had been an ordained deacon—an important position within the church district. One of his responsibilities had been to go into the Amish community and secure information about transgressors. He’d also been charged with meting out admonitions, usually at worship. They were burdensome duties, but his
datt
had borne them with courage and fortitude.

Noah would never be the man his father had been; he’d made too many mistakes—sinned too many times—most of which he was not repentant for. That was why he’d had to live in the tunnel, why his father had chained him and used the whip. It was why he’d been denied food and, sometimes, water. His
datt
had loved him and wanted only to ensure his son’s place in heaven. Noah understood that. He’d accepted his punishment with the same strength and grace with which his father had doled it out.

As part of his penance, his
datt
had sent Noah into the Amish community sometimes to seek out the rebellious members, the ones who’d fallen into sin. Noah had brought them home, where his father had meted out the appropriate punishment.

Noah had decided early on that, while he would never be a deacon, he could continue his father’s work. His father had taught him well, after all, and Noah had been an astute student. His
datt,
he mused, would be pleased.

Noah had worked hard through the summer. Held down two jobs. But he had a place now. A little house set on two acres. He’d bought a nice young gelding for his buggy, and also a cow. By spring, he’d have a calf, the beginning of a herd.

Rachel stood at the kitchen counter with her back to him. She wore cutoff shorts and a white T-shirt, both of which hugged her female curves. He loved the way her long brown hair tumbled over her shoulders. He loved the feel of it in his fingers, the way it smelled when he brought it to his face and breathed in her scent.

Yes,
he thought as he drank in the sight of her,
she is the one.
He knew she would make a good wife. She would bear him children. She could be saved, and he was just the man to do it.

“Rachel,” he said.

She turned. Her eyes widened, as if she was surprised to see him, which was silly, since he’d been coming for a month now. She held a can of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Then she smiled, and he was so dazzled by her expression, he forgot all about her vices. With patience and admonition, they would be eradicated.

“Hey, Noah.” She shoved a can of beer at him. “Want a Bud?”

“Sure.” He popped the tab and sipped, uncharacteristically nervous. “What are you up to?” he asked.

“Just trying to cop a buzz.”

He fingered the syringe in his pocket. “You want to take a drive out to see my new place?”

Her eyes lit up. “I’d love to,” she said, and they started toward the door.

Bestselling author Linda Castillo has always known she wanted to be a writer and penned her first novel at the age of thirteen. She is the winner of numerous industry awards, including the Holt Medallion, the Golden Heart, the Daphne du Maurier and a nomination for the prestigious Rita. She lives in Texas with her husband, four loveable dogs, two barn cats, and two Appaloosa horses.

ALSO BY LINDA CASTILLO

A writer spends months on end writing a book, but there are many other behind-the-scenes individuals whose efforts, talent, dedication, and heart go into the publishing of it. I’d like to acknowledge a few of the people who helped bring this book to fruition. First and foremost, I wish to thank my editor, Charlie Spicer, for sharing so much of his talent, being such a great listener, and always urging me to go that extra mile. I’d like to thank my agent, Nancy Yost, whose brilliance never ceases to amaze me. I’ve learned much from you. Many thanks to my editor in the UK, Trisha Jackson, for always making the books better. I’d also like to thank the entire team at St. Martin’s Press for their continued support, confidence in me and in this series, for working so tirelessly to get the books into the hands of readers—and for making it fun! Sally Richardson. Andrew Martin. Matthew Shear. Matthew Baldacci. Sarah Melnyk. Hector DeJean. Kerry Nordling. April Osborn. David Rotstein. There are many more individuals who contributed much, but remain unnamed due to space constraints. I’m incredibly lucky to write for such a dynamic publishing house.

I’d also like to thank my critique group for all of those Wednesday night marathons when I kept you up late. Jennifer Archer. Anita Howard. Marcy McKay. April Redmon.

Heartfelt thanks to fellow authors, Ellie James and Catherine Spangler, for the years of friendship and support. You gals rock!

Last, but not least, I’d like to thank the love of my life, Ernest, for his unconditional love and support through all the ups and downs of cohabitating with a full-time writer.

First published 2012 by Macmillan

This electronic edition published 2012 by Macmillan
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ISBN 978-1-4472-1355-0 EPUB

Copyright © Linda Castillo 2012

The right of Linda Castillo to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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