Free A Secret Identity by Gayle Roper Page A

lifetime of dealing with Pop and Ward, I scowled at him. “’Fraidy cat.”
    “What?”
    “You heard me. You’re afraid to have fun.”
    “I am not.”
    “Hah!”
    “Hi,” announced a happy teenage voice behind us. “My name’s Angie, and I’ll be your driver for the buggy tour.”
    We spun to find a grinning Angie wearing a rose T-shirt and jeans with a knee missing.
    “Hi, Angie,” I said. “I’m Cara. And this scowling hulk is—”
    “Yeah, I know who he is. We go to the same church. What are you doing going on a buggy ride, Todd?”
    He looked pointedly at me. “I got conned.” But I noticed the scowl was gone.
    Angie laughed and led the way to a gray buggy with black trim waiting at the edge of the road. She reached in and pulled the front seat aside to give access to the back. Todd stood aside and let me get in first. I put my foot on the round metal step on the side of the buggy and stepped up and in. I sat on a seat covered with burgundy crushed velvet.
    Angie pulled the front seat into place and Todd climbed in. He sat on the right of the seat while Angie sat on the left. She took the reins and slapped them gently on the rump of our horse, who knew from frequent practice just what to do. He ambled slowly along the shoulder of 340.
    We turned right off 340 and drove down a country road. It pleasured me how quickly the bustle of the major tourist thoroughfare was left behind. Angie kept up a steady patter of information that Todd ignored but I found fascinating. We passed several farms and an Amish school. I thought of the Nickel Mines school shootings that had happened not too far from here. I looked at the little white building and wondered at the despair or illness of a man who would go into such a setting and shoot little girls.
    I was shocked when I heard Angie say that Amish kids only went through eighth grade.
    “Education takes you from the culture,” Todd commented, his arm resting on the open window frame. “It makes you independent, and the Amish prize a cooperative, group mentality.”
    With the open door and side window and the open front and back windows, there was a soft breeze through the buggy in spite of the warm temperature. I was enjoying my ride and so, I thought, was Todd, who was looking relaxed and handsome.
    At least he was enjoying it until the horse did what comes naturally. He raised his tail and Todd reacted.
    “Ah, yuck!” he muttered and leaned as far back into the buggy as he could.
    Angie and I both laughed at him as the manure fell harmlessly onto the road.
    “No one would ever take you for a farmer,” Angie said.
    When we arrived at our starting place after tracing a two-mile square, we climbed out of the buggy. Todd paid Angie. We both thanked her and walked to the car. Todd went automatically to the driver’s side again. I shook my head, amused at his presumption, and climbed into the passenger side.
    “So?” I said.
    “So what?”
    “Did you have fun?”
    He snorted and gave me a look of imperious scorn.
    “You are such a phony,” I said.
    “And you’re bossy,” he said.
    “ Quid pro quo ,” I said.
    “Exactly.”
    We rode in companionable silence to and past the restaurant.
    “Hey, where are we going?” I said, twisting to look back over my shoulder. “Don’t you have to get your car? Or do you like mine better, and you’re planning to keep it?”
    “My car’s not there,” he said. “I walked.”
    We turned off 340 and drove for a bit, made another turn, and then pulled into a drive before a brick Cape Cod with white clapboard dormers, a red door, and white shutters. A split rail fence separated a yard about an acre in size from the press of cornfields on three sides.
    “You live here?” I asked.
    He nodded. “Yep. This is my house.”
    “I thought you didn’t like farms. There’s nothing around you but farms.”
    “I don’t like manure, and I’ll admit that February and March are a bit fragrant when my neighbors are putting