The Memory Quilt

Book 1: Shadow Lake Series

by Lenora Worth

Genres: Amish & Mennonite; Clean & Wholesome Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Running a historic Inn on beautiful Shadow Lake is a satisfying life for the Amish King sisters. Until love stirs a longing for more . . .
 
When Abigail King stumbles upon a man lying on the beach near her family inn, her every instinct says to help the stranger. With his memory gone, “Jonah” is reluctant to contact the authorities, so Abigail offers him shelter, despite her sisters’ reservations.  As she nurses him back to health, Abigail helps him recover his lost past, creating a quilt from images of the shattered fragments he recalls. But with every square Abigail adds, she wonders if she is falling for a man who can never truly be hers . . .
 
Jonah feels at home at The Shadow Lake Inn with the lovely Abigail, at peace with the Amish lifestyle she lives.  But as the pieces of his past are sewn together, the mystery only deepens—until he knows the only way forward is to turn himself in to the police, to finally discover the truth of who he really is.  For the one thing worse than not knowing his past, is not knowing what the future holds for him and Abigail . . .

Release date: November 30, 2021

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

The wind hit her with a cold, uncaring slap, reminding her March could be a brutal month. A few more days and then April would be here. The sun came to her rescue with a reluctant stroll over the choppy lake waters, its early morning rays timid but steady as they lifted to the sky.

Abigail King loved this time of day, her time to walk the shores near Lake Erie. Glancing back up the bluffs toward the Shadow Lake Inn, she hoped her two sisters would leave her be so she could think. She always talked to God on these early morning walks and rarely missed one unless the weather became too harsh.

Shadow Lake Township was a sleepy little place near Lake City, Pennsylvania, where the small, secluded Amish community got up before dawn and closed down as soon as the sun went away. This steady, sensible routine was comforting and familiar, but Abigail sometimes wished she could travel far away and see some of the world outside these Western Pennsylvania bluffs and valleys. She belonged here and she accepted that. Right here, running the old inn, taking over for her parents. Daed had suffered a heart attack a few years ago, and Mamm had a bad back and worried about him all the time. Who would take care of them and her younger sisters, Eliza and Colette, if she up and left the place?

Perhaps one day she would venture out of this insular world. Maybe one day she’d meet someone to share her life with, the way Mamm and Daed shared every moment with each other as if it were the best treasure in the world. Years had passed since her Rumspringa. Too many years. But Abigail remained hopeful she’d find that kind of love.

But not today. She’d have to save her daydreams for later. They had guests checking in this afternoon, and that meant cleaning and baking and making sure the bridal suite shone with a sweet warmth any newly married couple would enjoy. The honeymooners were traveling from New York to California, meandering and taking whatever paths they found.

They had discovered Shadow Lake Inn, so named because it stood on a high bluff near a small cove and a waterfall that flowed through a tributary near Elk Creek, down to the main lake. Shadow Lake was not nearly as massive as Lake Erie, but close enough that Abigail could hurry down the rock steps on one side of the inn’s vast property for a walk that took her toward the lapping waves of the much bigger lake.

Abigail wanted that for herself, too. Someone to meander with, someone to love and cherish the way her daed and mamm loved each other. Someone to take her out on the big lake every now and then and speak pretty words into her ear.

She lifted her head and pulled her shawl closer as the wind played with the strings of her black winter kapp. Something in the distance caught her attention. A shape on the bronze sand. All kinds of things washed up on these secluded beaches, but this bundle of color looked different.

She squinted and then hurried closer. When she saw a hand touching the muddy brown sand, Abigail let out a gasp. A man floated facedown in the shallows, his upper torso and head out of the freezing water while his legs swayed and bobbed with the crashing surf.

Abigail glanced at the shore, wondering how he’d gotten here. No one was around. This particular stretch of beach was private and usually deserted unless the inn had a lot of guests. But today, in the chilly, blustering wind, Abigail wished someone would walk by.

She was all alone.

With an unconscious man lying at her feet.

Kneeling, she glanced at his wet black sweater and dirty jeans, then tentatively felt for his pulse. Alive but weak. He had to be so cold. “Mister? Can you hear me?”

A soft moan.

Abigail ignored the icy water lapping at her boots and the skirts of her wool dress and tried with a rough tug to drag him and flip him over. Her first attempts didn’t work, but when she changed her position and bent over him, she managed to get him onto his back and drag him a few more inches out of the cold water.

Gripping his sweater, she began checking him for wounds. As her fingers moved down his torso, her hands came away bloody. He had an injury.

She searched the soggy black sweater and saw a dark stain underneath his left rib cage. A small hole oozed blood.

He’d been shot!

Grabbing for the business phone she usually kept in a pocket, she remembered she’d left it charging in the inn’s kitchen. No help there. Abigail went to work, using the CPR method she’d been trained in. Gut to know, her daed had always said, especially because she ran an inn and dealt with all kinds of people.

Her attempts to revive the man made her blush. She had to put her mouth to his to breathe air into his lungs, which gave her a good view of his dark, handsome face. A hard face, stony and world-weary, dented and scarred, but intriguing. His silky brown hair needed a good trim. His jaw bristled from missing several shaves.

Englisch. But how and why did he wind up here, shot and almost dead?

Abigail kept up the breathing and the chest pumps.

Taking in air, she glanced around for a boat or another human. No one nearby or around the stretch of shoreline toward the cove.

She leaned down to try again, but just as she brought her face to his, the man’s eyes came open and his hand lifted to grip her arm. “Who are you?”

Abigail jumped back. She’d never seen such blue eyes. Deep and wild, cobalt mixed with a darkness that startled her and warmed her with an intense heat.

“I’m . . . I was walking on the shore and found you. You’re hurt.”

He studied her for a moment, distrust in his eyes. “Can you help me?”

“I’m trying,” she said. “I’ll find help, I promise. Try to relax.”

His head drooped, whether from relief or pain, she couldn’t be sure. He needed tending, so she struggled to bring him further out of the water. Well-built and solid, his body was heavy.

“Abigail?”

She whirled to see her sister, Eliza, standing on the stone steps leading down from the inn’s gardens to the shore. Had her sister been following her all this way? Never any peace around here.

But she was thankful for some help.

Abigail stood and called, “Eliza, kumm quickly.”

Eliza hurried down the steps, her cloak flowing behind her. “Was der schinner is letz?”

What in the world is wrong?

“He’s hurt. I found him in the water. I mean, on the shore,” Abigail said, frantic now. “He’s been shot and needs our help.”

Eliza rushed toward her and then stopped. “He’s not one of us.”

“Neh, but he’s cold and injured.”

Eliza stared at the man as if he were a nasty bug. “He could be dangerous. We should call the Township police.”

The man moaned and Eliza stepped back. “Abigail, do you hear me? Police.”

“Then hand me your phone,” Abigail said, knowing Eliza sneaked out her own business phone a lot so she could call a boy she’d been walking out with.

Eliza’s eyes went wide as she hesitated, and then, with a sigh, dug into her hidden pocket to retrieve her phone. “Call the police, Abigail.”

The man’s head came up and Abigail leaned away, but he grabbed her arm again. “No police.”

Eliza tugged at Abigail’s arm while the man tightly gripped her other hand. “He might be hurt, but he needs someone to tend him. No police—that means he’s druwwel.”

Abigail stared down at the man. “He might be in trouble, but we don’t know that he’s trouble. I can’t leave him here.”

“Well, you can’t keep him either,” Eliza replied, digging in her dark boots. “Daed will not approve.”

“We will keep this between us,” Abigail decided, breaking so many rules. “I won’t leave him and I’m not calling the police until I can talk to him.”

“Denk,” her sister said. “Denk about what you’re doing.”

“I have thought about it. You’re to go and get Samson and the hauling wagon and drive it around over the bridge and down to the beach. Hurry now. And bring blankets.”

Eliza glanced up toward the towering, Colonial-style white mansion that now served as an inn, then waved her hands in the air, her hazel eyes wide with uncertainty. “And where do you plan to put this man?”

“The carriage haus apartment. Daed never goes out there anymore.”

What had once been the carriage haus was now used mostly for storage. It sat attached to the main haus by a long, wide, covered walkway that had once been a drive-through for fancy carriages; Amish delivery buggies used it now.

They only opened the apartment, located on the far side, when help had to stay over for a big event. Neat and clean but sparse, it had a small bed and a bath, plus a galley kitchen. He’d need cleaning up and he’d need to rest. That would be the best place, once she had all the supplies she’d need to tend to him.

“This is dummkopp,” Eliza replied.

“It might seem stupid, but we have to help. Now go.”

Eliza pushed at her bonnet and rolled her eyes, but she scurried back up the steps and headed toward the stable located at the back of the property. A long walk. She’d have to sneak Samson and the buggy out, or make up an excuse.

The man moaned again. “Help.”

“I’m going to help you,” Abigail said. She took his hand and tried to warm him, then tugged at her wool shawl and covered his chest. He began shivering and coughing. She’d need to tend to his wound. She prayed the bullet had gone through without hurting any of his internal organs.

While she waited for Eliza, Abigail prayed for the man who held her hand. The sun warmed her skin now. Past time for her to get back up to the inn, but here she sat, staring down at a stranger who might be near death. The man shivered and moaned, his tough exterior at odds with the soft sounds of pain and urgency. “No one. No police.”

“We won’t alert anyone until I find out more,” she said. For some reason, Abigail believed this was a good man, and he needed her to hide him and help him.

Did she crave adventure so much that she was willing to risk her life and expose her family to danger?

Her head said no. But her soft heart, which seemed to beat faster now, knew she couldn’t abandon someone hurt and in need. Someone who held her hand like a lifeline.

He woke in a sweat, memories of dark water and a burning pain causing him to lift up. But the pain hit hard, knocking him back.

“Neh, stay there,” a soft voice said. He blinked, remembered that voice. He’d thought an angel had come for him. But somewhere in the mist and pain, he knew he wasn’t worthy of an angel. So he’d taken the pain.

He lay back down, his head spinning. The warmth of a heavy quilt soothed him even while shivers shook him. “Where am I?”

“The Shadow Lake Inn,” she said. “I . . . I found you on the beach.”

“What lake?” His mind felt like dust, floating, thick, burning, and blank.

“Lake Erie, actually. We’re off the beaten path, near a waterfall cove. Between Lake City to the north and Elk Creek to the south.”

Lake Erie? Pennsylvania or Ohio? Michigan or New York? Where was he? The mist took over, dragging him down. Sleep. He needed sleep and he needed to forget. No, no.

“Where?” he asked again, not recognizing the places she’d mentioned. Wincing, he huffed a breath and realized he’d been out again. “Which state?”

“Pennsylvania.”

“How did I wind up in Pennsylvania?”

He opened his eyes and looked up at the woman sitting by the bed sketching, her charcoal pencil slicing across the sketchpad. Amish. The light in the room had shifted and she sat in the glow of early sunset, her hair a shimmering red-gold. Maybe she was an angel after all. How long had he slept?

He stared at her, silent and jittery, his thoughts going back.

“I remember the water,” he said on a rusty whisper. “I remember you.”

She sat up and gazed into his eyes, studying him with apprehension and curiosity, her wide lips parting.

“How long have I been here?”

“Three days now,” she said, her tone quiet and serene. “You’ve slept most of that time. You had a fever, but I managed to get some healing tea in you, so it’s gone down now.”

He lay watching her, trying to form his thoughts, trying to gather his scattered memories. “I remember you and the lake . . . but I can’t remember anything before that.”

The woman went pale, her skin glistening like porcelain in the muted sunshine that streamed through the small windows on both sides of the room. Several freckles fell across her cheeks like fairy dust.

“Do you know your name?”

He closed his eyes, saw shapes and heard noises. Gunshots, screaming, anger. He couldn’t go any further into the recesses of his mind and he couldn’t hide the panic in his words. “I don’t. I can’t remember.”

She rose from the straight-backed little chair, placed her pencil and sketchpad on the bedside table, then gently pushed him back against the pillows. “I’ll call you Jonah, because the lake swallowed you up and spit you back out.”

He almost laughed. She was beautiful in that Plain way. The fact that he recognized her as Amish told him he must have known something about this area. But why was he here?

“I need to know,” he said, trying to stay calm. “How did I get to the lake?”

She gave him a straightforward stare. “I have no idea. I was hoping you could tell me.”

His gut burned, not from pain now, but with an urgency he couldn’t explain. “I have to leave,” he said, trying to rise.

“Neh. You have been wounded, shot in your side, but I think the bullet went through.” Giving him a curious glance, she said, “I cleaned it and put some salve on the wound. It’s bandaged, so don’t mess with it.”

“Shot?” He could feel the burn now, the heat radiating in his midsection. Touching the wound, he found a tightly bandaged piece of gauze covering a wide area under his rib cage. “Who shot me?”

She pursed her lips and held her hands together. “I don’t know. I found you on the shore and dragged you out of the water. You must have hit your head somehow, too. You were unconscious and, at first, drifting in and out. Then you became unresponsive.”

“Unresponsive?”

She cast her gaze down. “I . . . I gave you CPR. I had to learn it because we run this inn, the Shadow Lake Inn. You’re in one of what used to be the servants’ quarters. You’ll have privacy here.”

He glanced around. “This is not your home?”

“I live around back in what used to be the property manager’s house. My family and I live there, that is.”

Family. Why did that word feel like a knife in his heart? Was she married, with children?

Why did that idea hit him in the heart, too, with a pang that seemed to stretch beyond the void of his mind? Did he have a family somewhere?

“What’s your name?”

She fidgeted and adjusted the quilts. “Abigail. Abigail King.”

“And I guess, for now, I’m Jonah.”

“If you don’t mind me calling you that.”

“It’ll do for now. But I need to remember something, anything.” He couldn’t for the life of him remember his own name, and that realization brought a panic he had to contain. He should be worried, but the petite, calm woman who’d apparently saved him had also brought him back to earth. He’d figure this out. Something in his gut told him he was good at that, at least.

He began to settle, to assess the situation. “Someone shot me and dumped me into Lake Erie?”

She fidgeted and then nodded. “I think so. You must have hit your head, too. I found you near the mouth of a tributary that pours directly into the big lake. That’s all I know.”

He needed more. “How did you move me here?”

She stood and paced. “My sister Eliza and I put you into a wagon.”

“You got a wagon down to the beach?”

“We have a good draft horse—Samson. My sister brought him and the wagon around on the cove road. It’s where people bring boats to launch into the lake.”

A boat. He had a flash of a big boat, but then it was gone, leaving a sharp, pounding pain in his confused brain.

“You brought the horse and wagon down to the beach?”

“Yes, and together we got you up and into the wagon.”

“I don’t see how.”

She smiled. “It got messy. She told our staff she needed to pick up something, but they are still wondering what. You weren’t happy. We got sand and mud all over our clothes, and we had to take the old dirt road to avoid coming across anyone.”

“I’m sorry.” No telling what kind of words he’d used. No telling how much effort it had taken them either.

She looked down at her hands. “It wasn’t easy.”

Those words halted him. She’d gone above and beyond to save him. A gesture that could cost her a lot.

“No, I must have fought you. Why did you save me?”

Her eyes widened in surprise before she glanced toward the window by the door. “I felt it my duty to help someone in need.” Then she looked directly at him, a silent strength in her eyes. “And you asked me to help you. You also asked me not to call the police.”

Police.

That word jarred him, shook him. His headache grew in intensity. Holding a hand to his temple, he said, “You didn’t have to listen to me.”

She stood, all business now. “I saved you and dragged you here to this room, without my parents’ knowledge. Do not make me regret that, Jonah. Or I’ll throw you back to the whale.”

A few days later, Jonah watched her go to the small kitchen and come back with a cup of steaming liquid. “If that’s coffee, I’ll kiss you.”

She looked shocked, her high cheeks blushing. “You aren’t my type.”

He chuckled despite the situation. He’d expected her to give him a lesson from the Good Book. “I guess I’m not, at that.”

When she handed him the mug, he frowned. “Not coffee.”

“It’s broth. Bone broth. You need your strength.”

The frown turned to a scowl, so she’d know he wasn’t happy. “It looks disgusting.”

“Drink this and I’ll let you have kaffe and a Danish later.”

“You’re a great host but a mean nurse.” He took a tentative sip of the warm broth. It tasted pretty good, spicy and peppery. Trying to remember how long he’d been there, Jonah figured it was over a week at least.

She put her hands on her hips. “I am not mean, just firm.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Then he felt remorse for chiding her. “Do you make your husband drink this stuff?”

She stopped and pivoted away from the tidying she seemed to want to do, her gaze cast down. “I . . . I’m not married.”

He had to remember she was different from him. She lived her faith in a community secluded and insulated from the world’s evil. “I shouldn’t pry.”

“I’m sure you have lots of questions.”

That he did, starting with his own name and his past, his life, the bullet wound in his side. The nagging headache. How could he remember things about Amish people, but not his own life?

“Abigail?”

“Ja?”

“Thank you for pulling me out of the lake.”

“You’re welcome, I think.”

Setting down the almost-empty mug, he turned serious. “I don’t remember who I am. I don’t want to burden you, but do you have access to a computer or a laptop?”

“Why?”

The distrust hit him square in the chest. “I might be able to do some research.”

“On yourself? When you don’t even know who you are?”

He realized how impossible that sounded. “You make a good point.”

She nodded, her full lips pursed while she stared at him. Her eyes glistened like emeralds. “Right now, you need to rest and get your strength back. But I can sketch you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I like to make pictures.” Grabbing the sketchpad, she pointed to the page she’d been working on—a sketch of craggy bluffs covered in shrubs and the lake beyond, with azure water and a light blue sky. “I can sketch your face and compare it to anyone who might have gone missing on the lake this weekend.”

Sketching. Sketch artist. His head boomed with a deep pain that pushed the memories back so far, he couldn’t grasp them.

His pulse raced as his past receded. What had happened to him?

“Jonah?”

He looked up to find her sketching away. Without thinking, he grabbed her arm. “Don’t.”

The fear that colored her eyes floored him. He didn’t want to hurt this innocent woman, but somehow, he knew he had the power to do that. She dropped the pad and sat back in her chair, demure again, that streak of passion and defiance he’d seen in her eyes gone now.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t explain it, but I don’t think I want anyone to know I’m here. Not yet.”

She gave him that direct stare again. “If you can’t remember, why do you refuse to let me help you?”

“I want help,” he admitted, frustration making his headache worse. “You saved my life, and I’m grateful, but until I find out more, I can’t explain. Let me rest here for a while. I heal quickly.”

“You’ve been shot before?” Looking shy again, she said, “I noticed some scars when I examined your wound and bandaged it. You must either be adventurous or dangerous.”

He halted at that, his hands gripping the quilt. “I’ve been in dangerous situations before.” Then he held up his hands and dropped them. “But I don’t know what or why.”

She stood and gathered her sketchpad and colored pencils, and what looked like medical supplies, into a big basket. Then she headed to the door, but turned to study him. “Are you a dangerous man, Jonah?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think I could be. I don’t want to bring anything dangerous to you, Abigail.”

“Then stay here and get some rest. I know your face. I’ll do some searching of my own.”

“Be careful.”

She nodded, her back straight, her apron clean and white, her dress dark blue wool, her hair, so prim and proper, a shimmering reddish blond. “I’m always cautious. I’ll be back to check on you later.”

He watched her go, then sank back against the soft, fresh-smelling pillows. How had he wound up here in this bucolic Amish setting? Why had he been on the lake in the first place?

And why couldn’t he remember who he was?

A few days later, Abigail hurried to the kitchen to make sure lunch had been served. The large, rectangular dining room had several rows of paned windows offering a full view of the lake out beyond the bluffs. The furnishings, left behind by the original owners, were antique and priceless. Chippendale curios, Hepplewhite mahogany sideboards, and Thomas Sheraton cabinets graced the walls around the Queen Anne–style dining tables. Lands. . .