Chapter 1.
Cherish and Malachi’s daughter Tabitha ran down the gravel path, holding either sides of her dress so it wouldn’t flap in the breeze. Her breath came in short gasps, heart hammering as her grandmother's house came into view. The house, usually so calm and steady-looking, now felt ominous and uncertain. Silas had been rushed to the hospital after collapsing from chest pain, and everything had unraveled in a whirl of confusion.
She had seen the ambulance leave. She’d watched Florence and Iris race next door to get the car so they could follow the ambulance to the hospital. She’d seen the way her grandmother had stood back, hand to her mouth, eyes wide with fear.
No one noticed her in that moment.
No one thought to question where she was going.
More importantly no one had listened to Silas when he’d mentioned something about a letter in his room. Was she the only one who’d heard him?
Tabitha reached the front steps and leaped up them in one go, and then she pushed open the door and slipped inside. Then she ran to the stairs and took them two at a time.
After she entered the room Silas had been using, she closed the door softly behind her. The click of the latch sounding too loud in the stillness. The room was neat. His bed made, the side table tidy.
No clutter.
No signs of anything out of place.Tabitha began with the desk, pulling open each drawer with care, rifling gently through paper, pens, and notebooks.
Nothing. No letter in sight.
She moved to the wardrobe, pushing hangers aside, checking inside boots, patting the inner corners of the shelf above the hanging clothes. Still nothing.
Then her eyes fell on the modest bookshelf in the corner. Three rows of books, some new, some worn. Nothing seemed out of place—until she noticed one book sitting backward, its spine facing in. Who would put a book away like that?
She leaned down and pulled it free. It was a battered hardback copy of some Englisher novel. As she opened it, the pages fanned out—and something slipped from between them.
Her hands shot out, catching the items before they hit the floor.
A folded piece of paper. A plastic card. And a thin clipping of newsprint.
Tabitha sat down heavily on the bed, spreading the items in her lap.
The card was a driver’s license. The name on it made her stomach drop: Roy Caldwell. The picture was of a man who looked like Silas—but younger, clean-shaven, and dressed in outsider’s clothing, not Amish at all. No beard. No hat.
She picked up the newspaper clipping next.
The headline read: “Land Dispute Escalates Between Josiah Baker and Caldwell Family.”
Tabitha stared.
Josiah Baker. That was her grandfather who had died before she was even born.
The clipping was old, yellowed at the edges. She skimmed the article. It mentioned tension over boundaries, accusations of trespassing, and even hinted at a court case that never quite went through. The name Caldwell hadn’t meant anything to Tabitha before. But it did now.
She opened the letter last.
Her eyes scanned the page. The handwriting was tidy, masculine. Her eyes snagged on phrases:
“...didn’t mean for things to happen the way they did...”
“...wasn’t supposed to get that far...”
“...I never forgot what your family did, but I didn’t expect to come back like this...”
Her breath caught. The paper shook in her hands. She folded it quickly, heart thudding in her throat. The pieces—the name, the photo, the feud—they all fit together too well. This man, this “Silas Baker” they’d all welcomed into their lives, wasn’t Silas at all.
He was Roy Caldwell.
And no one knew. But why was he pretending?
Tabitha stared at the closed door of the room, fear creeping up her spine. The last time she had revealed a secret, it had blown up in her face. She had heard the twins say that Grace and Daniel were going to marry and she’d told people. She’d been too quick to speak, and she’d seen the trouble it caused between Grace and Daniel. They’d argued in front of everyone.
But this? This was different. Maybe this was a secret that she should tell others about.
Still, her fingers closed around the letter, the license, and the newspaper clipping. She slipped them into the secret pocket she’d sewn into her dress.
Her thoughts swirled. What did it mean? He’d come back to try to get the land again? But was he about to confess all? Leave this letter and disappear?
She stood slowly and looked around the room one last time, her heart heavy. She didn’t want to carry this. She didn’t want another secret pressing on her chest like a stone.
Tabitha bit her lip, her mind searching for one time in her life where she’d kept a secret. No. She couldn’t come up with one. As soon as anyone ever told her anything she had to tell. That’s how she’d earned the name Blabitha from her brothers. That and that they said she talked way too much. But that wasn’t her fault. It was how God had made her.
What to do? Would they blame her? Of course. Somehow they’d tell her she shouldn’t have gone into his room without asking and gone through all his things.
Well, if everyone thought she could never keep a secret she’d show them all that they were wrong. Very wrong. The wrongest of wrongs.
Tabitha smoothed her dress and opened the door, stepping back into the hallway as if nothing had happened. Downstairs, voices were returning. She could hear her grandmother, Wilma, and the shuffle of footsteps.
She walked down the stairs, keeping her face neutral, her steps steady.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw that everyone was in the kitchen. She entered and sat down with them as everyone fussed over her grandmother. She smiled when she needed to, and nodded when spoken to.
She had found the truth. The man everyone was so distraught about was an imposter.
Then it occurred to her, that if he died, he might be buried as Silas Baker when he wasn’t Silas at all.
For now, she would keep it to herself.
