An Uncommon Grace Read Free Page B

mother had instilled in her little ones—they would stay put until he returned for them—he urged his horse into its fastest canter as he shot out onto the road, racing for his mother’s life, eating up the distance that separated him from their closest neighbor, and thanking God for their Englisch neighbor who had no prejudice against telephones.
    He also thanked God for the brokers who brought their less-than-perfect racehorses from Kentucky up to Ohio to the Amish auctions. He had purchased Devil Dancer only a month before—in spite of Daed ’s insistence that the name was a bad omen. Levi did not believe in omens. He believed in strong, well-muscled lines and the gentle willingness he saw in the lovely mare’s eyes. After one week, delighted with his purchase, he had changed her name to Angel Dancer.
    He rarely let her run flat-out. She was too valuable an animal to risk a broken leg on the uneven ground of their fields. There was no telling when a hoof might accidentally bury itself in a gopher hole or trip over a rock. Now, on the graveled back road, with the reins slack enough to allow herall the headway she needed, it seemed as though she sensed the urgency of his mission and wanted to live up to her new name. She seemed to grow wings as she raced toward their neighbor’s home—running like the champion she had been bred to be. It felt as though her hooves barely touched the ground as they flew toward help for his mother.
    “Good girl!” he whispered.
    As his horse skittered to a stop in front of the neighbor’s house, he prayed that someone would be home. Anyone. If not, he would access their telephone by himself—even if it meant kicking in a door or breaking a window to do so. He could repair the window or door. He could not repair his mother. Even the Amish knew the magic of the numbers 911.
    “Hello! Is anyone home?” He leaped off his horse and ran up the porch steps.
    To his relief, a young woman flung open the door. She was dressed in white shorts and a red tank top and her dark blond hair was cut as short as a boy’s.
    “What’s wrong?” She put a hand up to her eyes to block out the bright morning sun.
    “I am Levi Troyer. We live over there.” He pointed to his home. “My mother has been shot. She needs help.”
    He hoped that this woman was Grace—the Englisch granddaughter his mother had met while visiting Elizabeth Connor a few days earlier. When Maam heard that their neighbor had finally come home after her heart surgery, she had taken the lady some freshly dug sassafras root, all washed and ready to be made into medicinal tea.
    When she returned from her visit, Maam told them that Elizabeth was being well cared for by her oldest granddaughter, a nurse just back from the strange land of Afghanistan. The two of them had a wonderful good time, she said, talking about the healing of sick people.
    Levi’s stepfather, like most Swartzentruber men, was wary of unnecessary contact with the Englisch and had warned her not to spend too much time with this granddaughter of Elizabeth’s. Daed had reminded her that they were to keep themselves apart from the world.
    The woman—this Grace Connor—did not hesitate now or pepper him with questions. She jerked a slim cell phone from her pocket and punched in numbers.
    “Claire Shetler has been shot at her farm, two miles west of Mt. Hope. We need an ambulance here immediately!” Grace gave her name and the location of the Shetler house, then shoved her phone back into her pocket and without another word disappeared into the house.
    Levi saw Elizabeth Connor making her way slowly onto the porch, steadying herself with a walker. She was wearing a cheerful pink sweatsuit, but she was pale and shaky, hardly recognizable as the hearty, active woman he had seen working in her garden with a rototiller less than a month ago. He had waved and called out a greeting. She had laughed and challenged him to a contest to see who could produce the first