Free Katie's Choice by Amy Lillard Page B

town.” He purposefully left out the details of the horrific ride into Clover Ridge, probably because he felt so guilty over his walk home with Katie Rose. Or maybe because he sought her out this morning. He shook away the thought. He’d done nothing wrong. Not really.
    “Wait. They don’t have electricity, but they do have cars?”
    “No,” Zane scrambled for the words to describe Amish customs. “It’s not that simple.”
    “But you said—”
    “I know what I said, but it’s too complicated to go into right now. I need to keep the charge on my phone as long as possible.”
    “That complicated?”
    “You know it.”
    “All right, then. I need to go anyway. I have a spa appointment at four.”
    “Sounds wonderful,” he said, giving Monica the answer she expected. He’d never been to a spa in his life.
    “I love you,” she said, her voice earnest, even as he imagined her grabbing her designer purse before heading out for an afternoon of pampering.
    “Me, too,” he said. The words didn’t slip out like they normally did.
    Monica seemed not to notice, blowing him a kiss before hanging up.
    In silence, Zane stared at the wallpaper of his computer screen. After a moment he pocketed his phone and sighed.
    He was tired. That was all. He had stayed up a little too late last night logging questions and answers about the Amish and writing down the anecdotes from the day. He was sure Jo would be pleased. Except for the part about no pictures. But he’d figure out a way around that. A twinge of something— remorse maybe? —pinged him at the thought.
    Again, it could have been the fatigue. After the troubles from the day before, he had opted not to take something to help him sleep, and that had meant dreams. It was unfair to true sufferers of post-traumatic stress syndrome to call them nightmares or terrors. They were disturbing. Dreams so real he could smell the war surrounding him, feel the hot desert air on his face, the grit in his mouth and eyes. There wasn’t anything overly horrific in these night visions he had, just work and war and death, same ol’ same ol’ of his job. But they didn’t let him rest. It was beyond strange to him that when he was living it everyday, the dreams never came, but the minute he returned to the States, they returned. Haunting him at night. The people he couldn’t save—the soldiers, children, innocent civilians.
    Longing for a nap, he looked at the colorful quilt on his bed, and then checked his watch. He had about fifteen minutes before he would need to start the evening chores with John Paul. Fifteen glorious minutes of daytime sleep more restful than his efforts in the dark, but not nearly enough to make up for what he had missed.
    He shook his head and hiked up his too-short pants. Tonight, he promised himself. Tonight he’d take a sleeping pill and go to bed early.

    Sunday morning dawned bright and beautiful, another crisp day that Zane had learned would quickly turn into a warm afternoon. He caught Ruth in the hall of the ambling house reaching a hand up to her bonnet, ensuring it was in place.
    “ Guder mariye, Zane Carson,” she said with a wan smile.
    Zane had gotten used to everyone calling him by his first and last name, but the sound still brought a smile to his lips. “And to you too, Ruth Fisher.”
    “There is somethin’ I need to speak to you about.”
    He nodded. “All right.” He waited for her to begin, but she just smiled.
    “Let’s go to the kitchen, we will talk this out over a piece of pie.”
    If pie was involved, surely the topic couldn’t be too serious. Zane nodded and followed her down the stairs.
    He got out plates and cups for coffee as she cut and served the pie. Together they carried their early morning after-breakfast snack to the table.
    Amish pie was wonderful if not a little odd, the flaky crust as thick as cardboard. John Paul had told him it was for convenience, to allow them to eat the pie without plates and forks as they