Page 2 of Dark Storm Rising

I look out the window, recalling the conversation I had with my sister when she suggested we spend our honeymoon here. “Sarah mentioned most of the Amish are gone now.”

“Seems like a decent place to live and raise a family,” he says thoughtfully. “I wonder why they left.”

“Sarah wasn’t sure. She said a lot of the younger Amish moved away. To Holmes County. Kish Valley. Even upstate New York. The older generation is dying off.”

“Always a bummer to see the old-timers go.”

The trees part, like the curtains at some grand opera house, and Lake Erie makes her inaugural appearance, a superstar emblazoned in blue sapphire that stretches all the way to the horizon.

“Now that’s one hell of a view.” Tomasetti stops the Tahoe.

For the span of a full minute, we admire the beauty of the lake, the white sand beach, and grass-covered dunes. We listen to the pound of waves, the hum of wind through the trees, and the chip of a cardinal outside my window.

“It’s stunning,” I hear myself say.

“Underappreciated to be sure.” Leaning, Tomasetti turns his attention to the dash and uses his thumb and forefinger to enlarge the GPS map. “A mile to the cabin,” he says. “Due east.”

The road we’re on runs parallel with the lake. The shore to our left. Trees as thick as a jungle to our right. Though the air holds a distinct chill, we keep our windows down, enjoying the smell of the surf, the damp and cool against our faces.

“What the hell?”

I glance right, spot the blackened mound of debris surrounded by the charred skeletons of trees. The ground is scorched and crisscrossed with tire ruts. A stone chimney juts from the pile of rubbish and ash. A pyrographic sign, its black script seared onto weathered maple wood, identifies the structure as the KILLDEER CABIN.

“Looks fresh,” he murmurs.

I glance over at him. “Tell me that’s not ours.”

“It’s not.” He shifts his gaze to the GPS. “The main house is half a mile ahead. Our cabin is another half a mile past it.”

“I wonder what happened,” I murmur.

“Hard telling.” He shrugs. “Might be a good question for our hosts.”

He puts the vehicle in gear and we keep going.

The main house of the Sugar Maple Cabins is a picture-perfect two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch and half a dozen cedar window boxes. Farther back is a horse barn with attached pens, and a pasture where a herd of sheep graze. Nearer the road, a big bank barn hulks over a garden the size of an Olympic pool.

“Nice-looking farm.” Tomasetti parks in the gravel area in front of the house and we get out.

“I remember that barn,” I say as we start toward the house, where a sign informs visitors that they’ve reached THE OFFICE.

A bell jingles cheerfully as we go through the door. The office is small with maple-wood floors, a ragtag sofa draped with an afghan, and a vintage desk upon which a cat sits, eyeing us with suspicion. A cast-iron stove in the corner throws off a generous amount of welcome heat.

A tiny older woman wearing a gauzy white kapp, navy dress, and traditional halsduch, or apron, sits at the desk, fingers pecking at a typewriter. She looks up as we enter and beams a smile at us. “Well, hello there! You must be the newlyweds! Kate and John. Welcome to Sugar Maple Cabins!”

The sound of her voice conjures a flicker of memory and in that instant, I know I’ve met her before.

“Mrs. Nisley?” I stride to her, my hand outstretched.

“I’ve been known to answer to that.”

“I’m Kate Burkholder.”

“Well, now, there’s a nice Amish name for you.” She cocks her head as she takes my hand, looking at me a little more closely. “Used to have a Burkholder around here. Alva, I believe.”

“He was my datt’s cousin,” I tell her.

“Well, I’ll be. Always liked Alva. Could count on him to help us clear the lane when we got the big snows. Had two of the biggest Clydesdales I’ve ever seen. He passed a while back, didn’t he?”