The Inn at Harts Haven--A Novel Read online

  Praise for Patricia Davids

  “The Inn at Harts Haven is filled with delightful and complex characters that readers will adore. Hope, romance, and suspense combine perfectly in this heartfelt story from one of my favorite Amish fiction authors.”

  —Jennifer Beckstrand, USA TODAY bestselling author of First Christmas on Huckleberry Hill

  “Patricia Davids has done it again. The Inn at Harts Haven might just be my favorite of her books, and I’ve loved all of them. But a bit of suspense mixed with a romance full of conflict and torment had me reading long after I needed to get to bed! If you love Amish fiction, this one will go on your keeper shelf.”

  —Lenora Worth, New York Times bestselling author

  “Patricia Davids is one of the best writers in the Amish fiction genre. She’s now on my must-read list!”

  —Shelley Shepard Gray, New York Times bestselling author

  “Patricia writes with heart, integrity, and hope. Her stories both entertain and edify—the perfect combination.”

  —Kim Vogel Sawyer, award-winning, bestselling author

  Also by Patricia Davids

  The Amish of Cedar Grove

  The Promise

  The Hope

  The Wish

  For a complete list of books by Patricia Davids, visit www.patriciadavids.com.

  Patricia Davids

  The Inn at Harts Haven

  This book is lovingly dedicated to my youngest brother, Gary. I love that you like cats and that you gave a giant stray dog like Mika a home. I love how much we laugh when we get together. I adore that I can call you with research questions for my book, like “can illegal drugs be baled into straw and transported on trucks?” I love that you respect wildlife and keep them in mind when you’re farming by leaving cover and crops for them. You’re a good man and I’m proud to be your sister. Any time you need me to help you rope two bucks with their antlers locked together and free them again, just call.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  One

  This has got to work. God, I’m so scared.

  Victoria Abigail Worthington used one trembling hand to pull some of her curly long blond hair forward to obscure her face. She rubbed her damp palms on the sides of her jeans, took a deep breath then burst out of the restroom at the last possible moment to catch her bus.

  Hurrying across the terminal in the Kansas City station, she dashed out to the bus departing for St. Louis. Her heart hammered in her chest when she was forced to stand behind a man huffing as he hauled a suitcase up the two steps. She expected to feel a hand grab her shoulder at any second.

  Finally, she entered the vehicle. The door closed behind her. She looked back for the first time. The bus station was busy with travelers coming and going. She didn’t see anyone she recognized, but she didn’t know all her father’s men. No one appeared to be searching for someone. For her.

  The knot in her stomach loosened. Her pounding heart slowed. She moved to the back of the bus and sank onto a vacant seat two rows from the bathroom. So far, so good, but this was only a single step in her escape plan. Step one had been getting out of her father’s estate undetected. Step two had been getting on this outbound bus without being stopped. The trip to St. Louis would take just over four hours. The bus would make a brief layover in Columbia in two hours’ time. That would be step three, and the most crucial one to throw off any pursuit. She had a long way to go.

  She didn’t breathe easy until the bus left the city and was heading east on the interstate. As the suburbs fell away behind her, she briefly closed her eyes. She needed rest but couldn’t afford to let her guard down. Her father and her ex-boyfriend Logan would do everything in their power to get her back. Stopping a bus and having her hauled off would be a piece of cake for men with their connections. All she could do was pray her absence wouldn’t be noticed for at least four hours. A four-hour lead was crucial for her plan to work.

  An hour and fifty minutes later she glanced around carefully. It was almost midnight and everyone she saw was nodding off, staring out at the night or reading by the light of the little overhead spots. No one paid any attention to her as she made her way to the restroom at the back of the bus.

  Inside the stall that reeked of industrial-grade air freshener over less pleasant odors, she opened her backpack and pulled out a change of clothes. Her fingers shook as she slipped out of her faded jeans and bright pink T-shirt. She pulled on a dress that she had sewn from a set of her dark blue sheets. It reached to her midcalf and was gathered slightly at the waist with three-quarter-length sleeves, a style worn by thousands of Amish women. She slipped a matching apron over her shoulders and tied it in back. Next, she ruthlessly brushed her frizzy blond curls into sleek submission, parted her hair in the middle and twisted it up to the back of her head and pinned it in place.

  Turning her yellow backpack inside out so that only the gray lining showed, she stuffed her jeans and shirt into it. She didn’t have another pair of shoes. The serviceable black ones she had “borrowed” from one of the housekeepers were a half size too small but nondescript enough to escape notice. She then scrubbed every trace of makeup from her face with the dribble of cold water from the faucet and paper towels.

  Finally, she settled a white Amish kapp on her head and smoothed the ribbons that hung loose on each side of her neck. It was the head covering her Amish grandmother, Miriam Martin, had made for her seven years ago. It was a treasured memento from the woman who’d loved her, and now it was a key part of her disguise.

  She looked at her transformation in the cracked mirror. The heavily made-up woman with wild curly hair was gone. In her place stood a plain, modest, young Amish maiden. “Thank you, Grandma Martin.”

  No, she must speak Deitsh.

  “Danki, Grossmammi.” Her accent wasn’t quite right, but no one would notice unless they were very familiar with the Amish. She tucked her brush in with her clothes. Picking up her backpack, she hooked the drawstring closure over her shoulder then opened the lavatory door and checked outside. Nothing had changed. No one was looking her way. She dropped Logan’s credit card on the floor where anyone could find it. Proof that she had gotten on this bus and was heading for St Louis and then on to Miami, Florida, when in fact she was going back to Kansas. She glanced in the broken mirror one last time.

  “Goodbye, Victoria Abigail Worthington. May Gott protect you.”

  She pressed a hand to her midsection and thought of the new life growing inside her. Her unborn babe was the reason she had found the courage to leave her father’s house. She couldn’t call it home. It had never been that, only her prison. “This is going to work, sweet one. I’ll find a way to keep you safe. I promise.”

  The bus slowed down and turned. It came to a full stop and the intercom crackled. “Columbia.” She stepped out and joined the trickle of passengers heading for the exit. She kept her head down in case there were cameras. It was essential to her plan that no one see Victoria getting off the bus.

  Inside the terminal she saw people waiting in line to board the bus as the departing passengers met with others or left the building. Among the people leaving was a large Amish family. The father gathered up their suitcases as the mother shepherded the children toward the exit. It was good that she wasn’t the only Amish person present. It meant she was less likely to stand out.

  She went to the counter. “I’d like to purchase a ticket to Hutchinson, Kansas. I’ll pay cash.”

  “Name?” A tired-looking, gray-haired woman slouched behind the counter.

  “Abigail Martin.” It wasn’t the name she had been born with, but it was who she would become. Her grandmother had always called her Abby. She’d never liked the name Victoria. It was too Englisch sounding. Not a plain name. When Abby was older, she wondered if it wasn’t really because she had been named after her father, Victor Worthington III, the man who had taken Miriam’s only child away from her family and her faith.

  “I’ll need to see a photo ID.” The booking agent looked up but didn’t smile.

  Abby hadn’t planned for this contingency. Her father had never let her learn to drive. The Amish didn’t drive and so didn’t have licenses. She didn’t think she would need an ID. “I’m afraid I don’t have one.”

  “No ID, no ticket.”

  She had used one of Logan’s credit cards and his laptop to purchase a “gift” ticket to Miami and had picked it up in the Kansas City terminal using the confirmation number instead of an ID. She wanted her father to track her all the way to Miami because she wouldn’t be there when he came looking for her.

  Now what? Panic rose like bile in her throat. “I mu
st get to Hutchinson. It’s important.”

  The woman’s expression softened. “First time traveling, dearie?”

  “Ja.” Abby didn’t have to fake the catch in her voice.

  The woman glanced around. “I saw your family here a moment ago, didn’t I?”

  Did she mean the other Amish people? Abby clutched at that straw. “They’ve gone outside.”

  “We do make rare exceptions for the Amish, but you really should get a no-picture ID if you are going to travel.”

  Relief made Abby’s knees weak. “I will. Danki. I mean, thank you.”

  She paid for her ticket with the cash she had taken from Logan’s pockets over the past weeks. He was careless with his money and never noticed, but she had only taken what she needed to get away. She tucked her last three dollars into her pocketbook and picked up her ticket.

  After that she took a seat and kept one eye on the door as people came and went. She stiffened when a police officer walked through, but he barely glanced her way. She kept her gaze down and noticed a copy of a newspaper the Amish family had left behind. It was The Budget, an Amish periodical read nationwide by the plain folk. She picked it up and pretended to read as the officer completed his rounds and walked past her again.

  When he left, she used the paper to fan her hot face. Had he been looking for her this far from the city? Had her escape been discovered already? Her father wasn’t likely to have called in the police. Not when he had a small army of men working for his security company at his disposal, but it was possible. She couldn’t trust anyone.

  Waiting for her boarding call turned into the longest thirty minutes of her life. When it finally came without the officer’s return, she boarded the bus going back to Kansas City, still clutching the newspaper. The bus would stop briefly in KC. She could only pray her absence hadn’t been discovered but if it had, her father’s men would be looking for her to board a bus heading out of town. She was banking on the fact that they wouldn’t check inside a bus that had just arrived. To be safe she never looked up from the newspaper.

  A want ad caught her eye. Amish maid needed full-time. Apply at Harts Haven Inn. Harts Haven was a little over five miles from her grandmother’s house. It would be perfect if she could get the job. Otherwise she would be begging charity from the local Amish bishop until she found employment. She knew he would help, even if reluctantly. The Amish took care of one another, but she needed to be able to take care of herself and her baby.

  An elderly couple took the seat in front of Abby. She chanced a look back. Two men in dark suits stood off to the side of the building watching the passengers boarding another bus. She knew them. A third man came out of the building and stopped beside them. It was Logan. Her escape had been discovered.

  Her father would have men checking the airports and car rental companies, but the hints that she had dropped to Logan had brought him here exactly as she had hoped they would. Only she didn’t expect him to get here so quickly. She needed more time.

  Please, God, don’t let him check this bus.

  Her mouth went dry with fear as her pulse pounded in her ears. After several agonizing minutes the bus pulled slowly out of the station. Logan didn’t look in her direction. The bus turned the corner, and she lost sight of him.

  Logan Brewer, her baby’s father. A man who pretended to love her but had only used her to move up in her father’s firm. Tears sprang to her eyes. He was every bit as ruthless as her father. What a fool she had been to believe his whispered words of love. She had wanted so badly to be loved. Once she gave in to him, he quickly became controlling and then abusive, emotionally and physically. Just like her father.

  She let her head fall back against the seat. Never again would she allow a man to touch her heart. From now on she could only depend on herself.

  Once the bus was on the open highway, Abby closed her eyes and drew a deep breath of free air. She had done it. Then for the first time in twenty-four hours, she gave in to the luxury of sleep.

  * * *

  Ten hours later, Abigail Martin started to knock on the door of an unfamiliar two-story house in Harts Haven, Kansas, but the sound of raised voices inside made her pause. She looked for some indication that she was in the right place. There weren’t any electric lines coming to the property. That meant it had to be an Amish home, but there wasn’t a sign out front to prove it was the Harts Haven Inn she was looking for.

  The directions she had gotten from the young Amish boy riding his bike past the bus stop where she stumbled off the nauseating bus twenty minutes outside of Hutchinson, Kansas, had seemed simple enough. The inn was at Rose Yoder’s home. The place was only a stone’s throw east at the second intersection in Harts Haven.

  As the town had only four streets, she didn’t think she could have taken a wrong turn, but the boy clearly threw rocks farther than she could. She had walked more than a quarter of a mile east before spotting this place tucked off the road on a tree-lined lane.

  With nowhere else to go and only three dollars in her pocketbook, Abby took a deep breath and knocked. If this was the place looking to hire an Amish maid, she had to get the job.

  Be modest. Keep your eyes downcast. Be humble. Never draw attention to yourself. She could hear her grandmother coaching her on how a proper Amish girl behaved. It was good advice for a woman wishing to hide her identity, too.

  The voices grew louder, but no one answered the door. Abby’s mother had once told her that any Amish home would welcome an Amish traveler. Their doors were never locked. She tried the knob. It opened, and she stepped inside.

  Please let this be the place.

  She followed the voices to a kitchen that appeared to be in the middle of a renovation. There was no stove and no refrigerator that she could see. Half the kitchen cupboards were hung, but they didn’t match the lower cabinets. Several large crates were lined up waiting to be opened.

  Three women sat at a square gray card table off to one side with cups of coffee in front of them. Two of them were Amish by their clothing. The third woman appeared to be an Old Order Mennonite. Her modest dress was a light blue print with tiny white flowers. Amish women wore only solid colors. All three of the women were older with gray hair beneath white kapps.

  The Mennonite woman crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the younger Amish woman facing her. “I still think we should have a bar. All the best places do.”

  The Amish woman slapped a hand to her forehead. “Are you joking? The bishop would have a heart attack if we suggested such a thing.”

  “Did I have strawberry jam for breakfast or was that boysenberry?” The most elderly of the trio absentmindedly chewed on the ribbon of her kapp. “Grape jelly gives me indigestion, and I have a touch of it now.”

  “Excuse me.” Abby took a step into the room. No one noticed. “I’ve come about the ad in the paper.”

  The Mennonite woman raised her hands in the air. “Susanna King, I have no idea why you think your bishop would object to us having a breakfast bar.”

  “You expect to serve alcohol first thing in the morning? And you think Bishop Wyse would be okay with that?” the one called Susanna asked, aghast.

  “People serve themselves food at a breakfast bar, Susanna. Not alcoholic beverages,” the Mennonite woman said calmly. “That way we won’t have to hire waitstaff for the morning meal.”

  “Oh.” Susanna looked mollified.

  The small elderly woman nodded as she mumbled, “I believe it was peach preserves. Definitely apricot jam.”

  Abby took a step back. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to ask for a job.

  The movement caught the jam woman’s attention. She smiled brightly at Abby. “Oh, look. Our new maid has arrived.”

  The other two women stopped glaring at each other and turned their frowning faces toward Abby.

  She took another step back. “If this is a bad time I can come back later.” Not that she had anyplace to go.

  “Nonsense.” The little woman jumped spryly off her chair and rushed to take Abby by the hand. “Come in, my dear. You must be tired after your long journey.”