“Shut up!” A male voice snarled the words.

Shock sent Billy stumbling back. In the periphery of the beam, he got the impression of a man wearing a denim jacket and a knit face mask. Then rough hands gripped his arm and hauled him into the kitchen. “Get over there! On your knees!”

A hammer blow of fear slammed into him when he saw his mamm and datt kneeling on the other side of the kitchen table, their hands clasped behind their heads. On shaking legs, Billy rounded the table. Who was this Englischer? Why was he here? And what did he want?

No one spoke as he knelt beside his mamm. Leaning forward, he made eye contact with his father, hoping the older man could tell him what to do. Willis Hochstetler always knew what to do.

“God will take care of us.” His father whispered the words in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Shut your mouth!” The man drew a pistol from his waistband and jabbed it at them. “Get your hands up! Behind your head!”

Billy raised his hands, but they were trembling so violently, he could barely lace his fingers.

“Where are the lights?” the man demanded.

“There’s a lantern,” Datt said. “Next to the stove.”

The man strode to the counter, snatched up the lantern, and thrust it at Billy. “Light it.”

Billy jumped to his feet and crossed to the counter. Feeling the man’s eyes on him, resolving to be brave, he pulled the matches from the drawer and lit the mantle. He thought about Little Joe upstairs and prayed to God the boy had fallen back to sleep.

“Give it to me.”

Billy passed it to the man, who yanked it so forcefully, the kerosene sloshed.

“Get back over there and be quiet.”

Billy took his place next to his mamm, praying they would just take what they wanted and leave.

A second man entered the kitchen, a flashlight in one hand, a pistol in the other. He was heavily built with blond hair and a bandanna over his nose and mouth. He glared at Billy’s father. “Where’s the cash?”

Billy had never seen his datt show fear. But he saw it now. In the way his eyes went wide at the sight of the second gunman. The way his mouth quivered. He knew the fear was not for his own safety or for the loss of the money he’d worked so hard to earn. But for the lives of his wife and children.

“There’s a jar,” his datt said. “In the cabinet above the stove.”

Eyes alight with a hunger Billy didn’t understand, the blond man walked to the stove and wrenched open the cabinet door. Pulling out the old peanut butter jar, he unscrewed the lid and dumped the cash on the counter.

Billy watched the money spill out—twenties and tens and fives. At least a month’s worth of sales.

“If you were in need and asked, I would have offered you work and a fair wage,” Willis Hochstetler said.