Chloe took another bite of her pancake, chewing thoughtfully, before looking up at Arthur with wide, bright hazel eyes.
“Mr. Arthur?” she asked in her sweet, clear voice.
“Yes, Chloe?”
“Was that man on Santa’s naughty list?”
A rich, rumbling laugh broke from Arthur Vance’s chest—a magnificent, unburdened laugh that had not lived in that house for three long years. He walked over, leaned down, and kissed the top of the little girl’s head.
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“Chloe, sweetheart,” Arthur smiled, his eyes twinkling with pure, victorious light. “That man was at the very bottom of the naughty list. And he won’t be coming back.”
***Six months later.
The early morning sunshine of late June broke across the rolling limestone bluffs of northern Lancaster County with that breathtaking, golden warmth that turns the hayfields into undulating seas of amber and sweet green clover.
Along the banks of the Cocalico Creek, two miles north of Hawthorn Ridge, the sounds of heavy diesel engines and the rhythmic, musical clinking of mason’s trowels echoed across the valley.
