Until now.
Until as an adult, breathing female, she had to admit what couldn’t be denied.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing asexual about Caleb Troyer.
Chapter 5
“Your name is the same as the president’s.”
There in the middle of the simply furnished room of Caleb Troyer’s equally simple but solidly build house, Emma crouched down to look young Ruthie Troyer, Caleb’s middle daughter, in the eye. The seven-year-old had a rebellious mane of blond hair that kept escaping what was supposed to be a tidy, plain bun. Her blue-green eyes were fastened on Emma boldly and without fear. Emma guessed from her demeanor, the way she stood and the way she seemed to have only two speeds, stop or full run, that she would be Caleb’s biggest handful. In fact, Emma sensed a kindred spirit in the girl and had a strong suspicion that had she been born into the outside world, she would be an irrepressible tomboy.
She felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. How would she herself have survived if not for the indulgence of her family, allowing her to run a bit wild on the ranch, keeping up with the boys and showing little to no interest in learning domestic skills? Eventually she’d learned to cook passably well, but only accepted the lessons because her brothers were forced to learn, as well; there would be no helpless men or women coming out of her house, Charlotte Colton had sternly announced at the start of the summer spent in the big ranch kitchen.
“Yes, my name is the same,” Emma said solemnly. “My father was the president’s cousin.”
The girl didn’t look surprised. Perhaps because in her smaller world, the same name often meant a familial connection. Instead, the bright-eyed and obviously smart child fastened on the critical word in what she’d said.
“Was?”
Funny how it could still sting after all these years, Emma thought.
“Yes,” she said quietly, sensing that this child, like the girl she herself had been, would see through any dissembling, and then quickly put her in the category of adults who thought you were too young or dumb to understand. “He was killed eleven years ago. Along with my mother.”
She wasn’t sure if that date that was so infamous in her world registered much in theirs, so she left it at that.
“Both?” Ruthie asked, her eyes widening as she flicked a glance at her own father.
“Yes.”
Ruthie absorbed that. And Emma thought she saw the realization dawning in her eyes that bad as losing her mother had been, it could have been worse.
“Eleven years? That’s older than me.”
“Yes.”
“What did they look like?”
She asked it so fiercely Emma was a little taken aback. And then the probable reason for the urgent question struck her, and she answered carefully and in detail.
“My father was like a force of nature. He was tall, about your father’s height. He was very strong and handsome. His voice was deep, strong, and when he hugged me and spoke I could feel it booming up out of his chest. He looked a lot younger than he was, with lots of sandy hair and green eyes.”
That had always been a comfort to her, that Donovan Colton’s eyes had been so like her own that no one would suspect he hadn’t been her biological father.
Ruthie was still looking at her, that touch of desperation in her eyes, so she went on.
“My mother was beautiful. Her hair was a bit lighter than yours, and her eyes were just as blue. She was always smiling. Serene, like a warm, sunny day. She could calm a room just by coming into it. They were always there for me, and I still remember and miss them every single day.”
Some of the intensity in the girl’s posture ebbed, and Emma saw a touch of relief in her eyes.
“Just as you will always remember your mother, even when you are old and gray,” she added softly, knowing she’d read the girl who reminded her of herself correctly.
“Ruthie.” Caleb’s own deep voice seemed tense as he interrupted. “Go gather your little sister from Mrs. Stoltzfus.”
The child hesitated, her gaze flicking to Emma as if she were reluctant. But only for a moment, then she quickly went to obey her father, so quickly Emma wondered if that undertone in his voice was more than simply sternness, if Caleb was so strict with his children that they dare not even protest an unwanted command.
For a command it had been, there was no doubt about that, she thought as she straightened up. She knew Amish men were the undisputed heads of their house, but she’d always thought their women were a quiet power behind closed doors. But perhaps they were not; perhaps they were completely submissive, dutiful. And she—
Emma interrupted her own thoughts as the idea struck that perhaps it was not his daughter Caleb Troyer was tense about. Perhaps it was her.
She swiftly reviewed what she’d said to the child and found nothing that could provoke such a response. She hadn’t even really asked the girl any pertinent questions other than if she’d spoken to her aunt the day she’d vanished, if Hannah had said anything unusual to her. She would want to talk to the girl in more detail later, but right now her focus had been on getting the child to trust her a little. And she thought she’d done that, by sharing her own painful memories, and—
“I never realized,” Caleb said.
She turned to look at him then. He was rubbing his jaw, and one glance at his face told her the person he was upset at was himself.
“Realized what?” she asked, a little startled at the relief she felt that he wasn’t angry at her.
“That she was afraid of forgetting what her mother looked like.”
“It’s only natural. And,” she added honestly, “perhaps more difficult in your culture, because there are few photographs.”
“We do not believe in images.”
“I know. I’m not criticizing, just saying it makes it harder at times like this. Then again, perhaps always seeing a picture on the wall as a reminder of your loss—or taking it down and finding it makes no difference, because you simply always notice it’s gone and remember why—is even harder.”
Caleb stared at her for a long, silent moment. “You are … not what I expected a person from the FBI to be.”
“Human, you mean?” She smiled when she said it, determined not to return to that confrontational demeanor.
“Caring,” he said. “I would think, with the work you do, you would avoid that.”
“They do their best to train it out of you,” she admitted. “They know it drains you, sends you on the way to burnout faster.”
She didn’t mention that this training hadn’t taken very well with her. She always struggled to maintain that detachment, her natural empathy becoming both a strength and a weakness. This was something she barely even admitted to herself, because then she’d have to admit they were right. After seven years she was already closer to burnout than some of her colleagues who had been around twice as long.
“And yet you care about the feelings of a child who has lost her mother.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with this case.”
“And you have felt this pain yourself.”
She was uncomfortable with his steady regard and with the personal turn this had taken. She had opened that door herself, however, with Ruthie, so she could hardly complain about it now.
“I have. I do.”
“Eleven years?”
“I’ll