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including the horse-drawn sleigh rides, an ice sculpture contest, snowman-building competitions, and Rachel’s favorite, a huge ice rink. Visitors could rent skates, glide on the flooded and frozen man-made pond, and warm up with hot chocolate brewed over an open fire.
    Rachel was approaching a display of local cheeses when she felt sharp claws on her ankle and heard a familiar yipping. She glanced down to see a small white bichon frise hopping up and down. “Sophie, no,” she said. Sophie ignored her as usual and kept jumping and yipping. Rachel knelt and scooped her up, trying to avoid wet kisses as she glanced around for the dog’s owner.
    â€œSophie, you bad girl. Sorry, Rachel. She slipped off her leash.” Leaning heavily on a polished walnut cane with a fox-head handle, George O’Day made his way toward her. “Didn’t I tell you that you can’t do that?” he reasoned with the little dog. “It isn’t safe. You could be trampled in this crowd.” He gathered Sophie into his arms and held her against his chest while Rachel slipped the collar around the bichon’s neck and then lowered her to the floor. Immediately, Sophie began hopping and barking again, but the leash held her fast.
    â€œI doubt anyone would trample her,” Rachel said. “I’d say the visitors are more in danger of having Sophie trample them.”
    â€œShe wouldn’t hurt a fly,” George defended. “She’s just happy to see you, aren’t you, Sophie? I think she misses you.”
    â€œIt was you she missed, George. She was homesick the whole time you were gone.” Rachel looked into his puffy, pale face. His white dress shirt, brown bow tie, and brown cardigan sweater were a little at odds with the colorful Scandinavian knit hat that covered his bald head, but his eyes were clear and alert. “Are you sure this isn’t too much for you?”
    â€œI’m fine,” he said, smiling. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
    â€œStill, you should take care of yourself,” Rachel warned. “Give yourself time to heal.” George, a convicted felon recently released from prison, was five weeks out of brain surgery, surgery that few of his physicians had expected him to survive. But he’d beaten the odds and, with the removal of a tumor, seemed to be well on the road to recovery.
    â€œHave you seen Billingsly?” she asked George. She knew he’d been avoiding her since the early-week edition of his paper had come out, but he couldn’t hide forever.
    â€œBill? Not in the last hour.” George shook his head. “Sophie doesn’t like him, so he stays clear of her. Last time he came into the bookstore, she tried to take a nip out of his ankle. He threatened to sue, but I told him to go ahead and try. Me, an old man with a brain tumor who taught most of the residents of this county. Him, an outsider slandering wholesome Amish families and good townsfolk. Give me a jury of our peers and we’ll see how it goes.”
    Rachel reached out to scratch under the little bichon’s chin. “They say dogs are excellent judges of character.”
    â€œThere you go.” George gestured. “If you had been earlier, you would have tried to take a bite out of him.”
    â€œWhy? What was he doing?”
    George shrugged. “The usual. Trying to take pictures of some of the Amish kids in the children’s play area. Your cousin Mary Aaron spied him and alerted their mothers. Lickety-split, before you know it, there were a dozen riled Amish mothers surrounding the children, their backs to Billingsly. If he took a picture, it was of a wall of black bonnets and capes. Then, when he backed off, the Amish women started shaking their fingers at him and fussing at him in Deitsch until he made a beeline for the door. Bill’s ears were burning, I can tell you that. I doubt if he understands much Amish, but your