Free Upon A Winter's Night by Karen Harper

over-the-top decorations and Santa stuff we moderns enjoy.”
    “For sure no Santa stuff.”
    “But how about decorated trees? I passed a Christmas tree farm near Josh’s.”
    “That’s the Stark tree farm on the outskirts of Homestead, but the Amish don’t buy those. The moderns do, though, and the farm ships truckloads of trees to local cities to be sold on rented lots. That’s Ohio Senator Bess Stark’s family business, though she’s almost never here, and her son oversees it.”
    “Boy, that’s a good one. Snarky Stark’s family sells Christmas trees.”
    Lydia didn’t know what snarky meant but she didn’t want to ask. Sandra used all kinds of strange words like voilà.
    “So, go on about Christmas,” Sandra prompted.
    “The truth is that many Amish want to ignore the December 25 celebration, since the world has commercialized it so much. We struggle to ignore outside temptation and keep the day focused on our faith. But as for the second so-called Amish Christmas, we just call it Old Christmas because it went with the historical religious calendar from centuries ago. We close our stores on that day, too. It’s January 6, called Epiphany, the traditional day of the arrival of the wise men from the East—probably the first non-Jews to see the baby Jesus, and that shows anyone can approach Him.”
    “So you celebrate January 6, too, while the rest of America does not? I don’t think that’s very well-known. Great, I can use that in my dissertation on immigrant holidays. The modern-day Amish are against commercialized Christmas, so they cling to another day when the wise men brought their gifts to the manger.”
    “But it’s a simple day, too, sometimes spent with extended family. You know, that’s one of the things I might have missed, being adopted. I have a few cousins on my father’s side, but they don’t live within buggy distance, so I see them mostly at weddings and funerals. Mother’s family is from Pennsylvania, so the same there. But maybe if I learn who my biological parents were, there will be new cousins, even some in buggy range.”
    Sandra leaned closer and put her hand on Lydia’s arm. “Don’t dream too big. They might not even find the old article of the accident. Then, if you still don’t want to involve your adoptive parents, we’d have to start asking around on the sly.”
    But her voice trailed off as Monica Jordan came back out to the front desk with a manila folder in her hand. “Ladies,” she said, “I think I’ve found what you’re looking for.”
    They rose. Lydia’s heartbeat kicked up. They approached the counter where Ms. Jordan spread open the folder, filled with old newspaper articles that looked more black-and-yellow than black-and-white. And on top lay one with a photo of a crumpled buggy in a ditch and a dead horse.
    Lydia sucked in a sob. Any hurt or killed animal got to her, even when the local men went hunting. But this—her parents’ death scene...
    “Could we look at this over there?” Sandra asked the woman. “We’ll be very careful with it.”
    Evidently noting Lydia’s distress, Monica said, “It’s almost closing time, but I can photocopy it for you.”
    Lydia carried the warm copy of the article outside into the thickening dark. She cradled it to her cape; it seemed to burn her hand. When they got back in Sandra’s car, the overhead light popped on. Lydia was suddenly afraid to look at the picture again, though it didn’t show dead bodies. Sandra turned on the ignition and the heater, but it blew out cold air at first.
    “Can you read it out loud or should I?” Sandra asked.
    “I can. I want to—have wanted to for a long time,” Lydia whispered. Then, despite feeling chilled from within, she read aloud, “‘Young Amish Couple Die in Buggy Accident. Driver Cited.’”
    Lydia frowned. “Driver cited?” she muttered as Sandra leaned closer to look at the photo. The article was trembling in Lydia’s hand.
    “That means the