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clean his camera equipment. Honestly, I was relieved. His attitude grated on my nerves. Not having him around allowed me to relax a bit.
    I happened to glance back toward the kitchen and noticed a man staring at me from a large pass-through window. An older man with sparse, graying hair and the features of a basset hound. His expression was less than welcoming. Surely visitorsto Sanctuary weren’t that unusual. I broke my gaze away from his and turned my attention back to ordering.
    â€œWell, I’m up for liver and onions,” I said.
    Reuben nodded. “Sounds good to me too.”
    I glanced up and caught him looking at me. Every time I looked into his blue eyes, my heart beat a little faster. I had to remind myself that I wasn’t here to pick up a Mennonite boyfriend. I had something much more important to accomplish.
    â€œSo tell me about Sanctuary,” I said. “When was it founded? Was it always Mennonite?”
    Reuben started to say something, but I held up my finger. “Wait a minute. Do you mind if I record this? I don’t want to trust my memory.”
    â€œSure, that’s fine,” he said, “but it’s a little intimidating. What if I say something I want to take back later?”
    I smiled. “Then I’ll erase it. It’s not like our conversation will end up in court or anything.”
    â€œI’m afraid that would be a pretty boring court case. Nothing very exciting ever happens here.”
    I fumbled through my purse for my phone. After several attempts, I finally gave up. “Must have left my phone in my room. Guess I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.” I pulled out the small notebook I always carried with me, along with a pen. “I’ll just take notes. It will help us decide what we want in the interview.” As I put my notebook on the table, I couldn’t help but look back toward the kitchen once more. The cook was still there, but he was looking the other way. Good.
    Before Reuben had a chance to respond, a young woman came up to our table with an order pad in her hand.
    â€œHey, Reuben,” she said. “Who’s your friend?”
    â€œEvening, Randi.” Reuben nodded toward me. “This is WynterEvans, a reporter from a television station in St. Louis. She’s here with a photographer to do a story about Sanctuary. Wynter, this is Rachelle Lindquist,” Reuben said, “the owner of this fine establishment. We all call her Randi.”
    â€œNice to meet you.” Her words were welcoming, but the look on her face echoed her cook’s. Fortunately for her sake, she was much better looking. “Hope you won’t make us all out to look like hicks,” she said. “We’re not, you know.”
    â€œWe have no intention of presenting Sanctuary in a bad light,” I said. “We’re here because you have a unique town. This is just a human-interest piece, not an exposé. You have nothing to worry about.”
    The guarded expression on Randi’s face slipped a bit, but the look in her eyes made me feel slightly defensive. What was it with these people? As soon as the thought entered my mind, the reality that I was here with ulterior motives hit me. I felt a quick stab of guilt.
    â€œI’ll hold you to that.”
    â€œYour cook seems upset,” I said. “He’s been giving me the evil eye ever since I sat down.”
    She shrugged. “Not my problem. Guess you’ll have to take it up with him.”
    â€œKnock it off, Randi,” Reuben said. “Wynter is our guest. Let’s treat her with some respect.”
    â€œRespect is earned, Reuben,” she snapped back. She swung her gaze back to me. “So what do you want to drink?”
    Reuben and I ordered coffee.
    â€œWe’d also like to get something to eat,” Reuben said. “Can you hold the poison?”
    For the first time, a small smile flitted across Randi’s