The Fiddler Read Online Free PDF Page B

country music.
    She quickened her pace—weren’t country music lovers typically kindhearted? She smiled at her oversimplification yet certainly hoped so in this case. Amelia really had no idea who could be living up here in the boonies.
    The light from the cabin’s interior shone out as a welcome as she strode toward the pebbled walkway. A baritone voice inside belted out the melody as unreservedly as someone singing in the shower.
    Amelia walked to the entrance, but despite her flashlight, didn’t notice so much as a doorbell. She knocked on the door and the music coming from inside stopped abruptly. Suddenly, she was thrust into a brassy spray of light. And, blinking her eyes in the stark brilliance, she saw a good-looking young man standing at the door. His blond hair had been oddly cut, almost as if someone had plopped a bowl on his head and chopped around the edges. Bangs fell across his forehead. If Amelia hadn’t known better, she would’ve guessed from the clothes he was wearing that he might be Amish.
    Is he alone? Can I trust him?
    “Hullo?” he said, a frown on his suntanned face.
    She realized she must look like a nearly drowned rat. “I got a flat tire in the storm. My car’s parked at the end of your driveway.” She turned and pointed toward the end of the dirt lane. “Sorry to bother you.”
    “Ach, miss . . . let’s get you out of the rain,” he said, his blue eyes showing concern. “You’re soaking wet.”
    “Thanks. I really hate to intrude.”
    “No, no . . . that’s all right.” He sounded convincing enough, and his face seemed kind, even innocent. He beckoned her inside, then left her standing just inside the doorway, mud caked on her best cowgirl boots as he disappeared into a tiny bathroom, calling over his shoulder about getting her a dry towel.
    When he returned, he handed it to her with a shy yet concerned expression. “Pardon my bad manners.” He offered to shake her hand. “My name is Michael Hostetler. Some of my English friends call me Mike.” His smile was warm and unassuming. “What’s yours?”
    “Amy Lee,” she said, giving her fiddler name without a second thought. “Thanks so much for the towel . . . and the shelter.” She patted her thick hair and then wrapped the towel around her like a shawl, letting it absorb some of the dampness from her clothes. “Do you happen to have a phone handy?” she asked, glancing about the cozy cabin, not moving her feet an inch.
    “Just my cell phone, but coverage up here is spotty at best.”
    She considered this and wondered how to reach her family and Byron. She knew all too well her boyfriend would worry even more if she said she was marooned in the Pennsylvania mountains. “My own phone’s out of commission,” she explained to Michael.
    “Oh?” He stood there awkwardly, as if not sure how to make her comfortable. She was fairly drenched.
    “Silly me, I dropped it when I got out of the car—into a puddle, no less.” She’d heard that putting a waterlogged phone in a bowl of uncooked rice overnight could draw out the moisture, but she wasn’t going to ask Michael Hostetler for additional favors.
    “Maybe it will dry out, jah?” His face reddened at his Dutch and he apologized quickly. “Sometimes the Amish in me just shows up.”
    So he was Amish. She wondered why he’d want to hide it, if that’s what he meant. Shrugging, Amelia thought her lack of a phone might not be a terrible thing, at least for a little while. A respite from the bombardment of texts and calls from the disgruntled men in her life. Looking at it that way, she welcomed the break.
    “Would ya want to come in . . . and sit awhile?”
    Pointing to her boots, she grimaced. “Not sure I dare.”
    “No problem. I can help you with that.” Michael hurried to get a wad of paper towels and laid them out on the floor, where she removed her boots and set them on the towels. “The mud will harden,” he said.
    Then he showed her into