After which Ephraim had returned to tell the membership that Dorcas and her family had chosen to return to the world after the untimely death of their dear Miriam.

Miriam, who’d walked around with shadows in her eyes. Who, the last time Amos had seen her, had been bruised and bloody and begging to die.

Sister Dorcas had begged Amos for his help. Please help us get her out of here. Please.

Amos had done his best, or he’d thought so at the time, working through the night to fashion a hope chest similar to the one he was now building for Abigail. It wasn’t ornate and hadn’t had a false bottom, but it had been large enough that Miriam had been able to hide inside. Her father and brother had hoisted the hope chest into the bed of Brother DJ’s truck when no one was around to see their muscles strain under the added weight. Miriam was supposed to have climbed from the back of the truck and run for freedom the moment that Brother DJ had slowed enough to make it possible.

But it had all been for naught. Miriam must have been attacked by an animal because her body had been returned to them, too damaged to be identified. And, as punishment for their part in her escape, Sister Dorcas, Brother Stephen, and their son, Ezra, had been murdered in cold blood.

I failed them, too.

But he would not fail again. He would not fail his Abigail.

“Are you all right, Papa?” she asked, leaning in to peer at his bleeding finger.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her. “What brings you skipping into my workshop, Abi-girl?”

She giggled. “Abigail, Papa. How many times must I tell you?”

It’s Mercy, Papa. Not Mercy-girl. How many times must I tell you?

He swallowed hard, shaking off the memory of his daughter, dead for thirteen years. He tapped the end of Abigail’s adorable nose, so like her mother’s. “Until I get it right, obviously.”

Abigail sighed dramatically, then stared again at his finger. “That’s bleeding a lot, Papa. You should go to the healer.”

He glanced at his finger, grimacing at the sight of the rag, already heavy with blood. “You’re right. Why don’t you go to Deborah’s house and play? Tell her mother that I’ll be by to get you as soon as I get my finger taken care of.”

He tossed a tarp over the almost-finished hope chest, hiding it from view. He didn’t want anyone to see it. He didn’t want anyone getting close enough to realize that its interior wasn’t nearly as deep as it should be. He didn’t want anyone spying the false bottom that hid a crawl space just large enough for a seven-year-old girl.

For Abigail.

The chest clearly hadn’t worked for Miriam. If it had, she’d be free instead of dead, so Amos was saving it as a last resort to get Abigail out. He first had to convince Pastor and Brother DJ to allow him to go into town when DJ took items to be traded, because there was no way Amos would leave his little girl hidden in the back of the man’s truck all alone. Move carefully. Take your time. He didn’t want Brother Ephraim to become suspicious of him or he might end up in an unmarked grave like Sister Dorcas and her family. And then who would take care of his Abigail?