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disposal and left for her morning run. Taking a few deep breaths, Jake headed to the computer in their office on legs wobbly with excitement.

THREE
    I once was lost, but now am found
    P eople didn’t get any nicer than Sarah and Isaac Stoll. Especially Sarah. Rachel had been a guest at their farm for two days, and she had yet to do farm chores around the place. Now she was on her way to take the tour of Twelve Elms Stables in Sarah’s buggy, but at least she’d washed the dishes and swept the kitchen before leaving.
    â€œYou won’t know if Twelve Elms would be a good place to work unless you see it for yourself,” declared Sarah that morning.
    Rachel hugged Sarah so hard she yelped like a dog. “Goodness, you Lancaster folk are a hugging sort, jah ?” Sarah squirmed to escape.
    â€œIt’s me, not the whole county. I like to show my gratitude.”
    â€œA simple danki will suffice. I pity the poor man or woman who offers you a job if that’s how you react to the loan of a horse and buggy.” She laughed good-naturedly.
    â€œI try to control myself with strangers,” Rachel said, smoothing her palms down her skirt.
    â€œSee that you do. If you like the looks of this stable, why not ask if they’re hiring? Here are two bottles of water and a ham sandwich for your lunch. Be on your way before you miss the tour.” Sarah practically pushed her out the door.
    In case I like the place? What was not to like? A beautiful split rail fence enclosed rolling pastures for half a mile before Rachel reached the entrance of Twelve Elms. The driveway was wide enough for two cars to pass side by side or, in her case, one tour bus and one horse-drawn buggy.
    Avoiding the main parking lot for obvious reasons, Rachel tied her horse to a tree in a grassy area, hung a feed bag around his neck, and gave him a bucket of water—all supplied by Isaac Stoll. She hurried to join a group of people with name tags clustered in the shade. “Are you folks waiting for the tour?” she asked.
    â€œWe are,” answered a gray-haired woman who stared at her attire. “Are you Amish?”
    â€œI am. Is this where we buy the tickets?”
    â€œIt is,” said the woman. “Are you interested in horses?”
    â€œI am.” Rachel blushed to her earlobes, embarrassed by her string of two-word answers, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Fortunately, a pretty woman and a young girl walked down the steps of a building marked “Office.” They approached the group with very white smiles.
    â€œGood afternoon,” greeted the older of the two. “I’m Jessie Brady. Welcome to Twelve Elms. If you’re here for the tour, please pay my assistant—also known as my sister, Keeley—six dollars and then climb aboard the red wagon.” She pointed at a conveyance that contained at least twenty benches. With open sides and twin Belgians harnessed to the slats, the wagon had a charming Conestoga cover to keep the hot sun off passengers’ heads.
    After paying the little girl her money, Rachel climbed up with forty other eager tourists. While they rode up and down lanes separating fenced pastures from fields of oats, barley, hay, and alfalfa, the guide relayed plenty of information. According to Jessie, Twelve Elms had a deep artesian well, two springs, two creeks, and a grist mill from a bygone era. When they arrived at a historic waterwheel, Jessie stopped the wagon. Just about everyone other than Rachel pulled out cameras to take photos.
    Jessie turned to the group and explained each crop they had passed, including how each type of grain was planted, harvested, and stored until needed. “Everything fed to our livestock or animals boarded here has been grown on this farm. We use a minimum of pesticides and fertilize only with composted horse manure. It’s a natural form of recycling. Are there any questions so far?” She scanned