Trading Secrets Read Online Free Page B

buck up and try to put on the demeanor of a teenage guy. Being nearly five foot ten doesn’t hurt. Even so, I take bigger than usual steps and attempt to swagger a bit as I sling a strap of my backpack over one shoulder. Not that I think anyone is noticing me particularly, but more for the practice. If I really plan to carry out this plan—as insane as it seems—I might as well give it my best shot.
    I stroll down Main Street holding my head high and watching people milling about the town. I’m surprised to see a number of Amish people in the mix, and I wonder if Zach might possibly be one of them. What if he came to town to offer me a ride? But I don’t notice any Amish young men who resemble what I imagine my Zach looks like. Finally Iapproach a pair of older women who are looking at a bulletin board outside of a store.
    â€œExcuse me,” I say in a lowered voice that I hope sounds masculine. “Do you know where Brewster Road is?”
    â€œSure do.” The shorter woman points down the street. “Turn left on Fifth Street right there and go a few blocks—about eight I think—and Brewster Road will intersect.” She peers curiously at me. “Are you new to Hamrick’s Bridge?”
    â€œJust visiting,” I say gruffly.
    â€œBrewster Road leads out to an Amish settlement,” the other woman tells me with a curious glance. “That where you’re headed?”
    â€œYeah. Going to visit a friend.”
    â€œAre you Amish?” she asks with a doubtful expression.
    â€œNah. But my friend is.” I tip my head in what I hope is a polite gesture. “Thanks.” Then before they have time to get suspicious, I continue on down the street. The temperature is in the low sixties and about perfect for a walk. I’m actually looking forward to the quietness of a country stroll. It will give me a chance to gather my thoughts and prepare myself for whatever lies ahead.
    As I walk down Brewster Road, I can hear the clip-clop sound of horse hooves on pavement, and I turn to see a black horse-drawn buggy slowly approaching. Because it’s moving slowly, it takes a while for it to reach me, but when it does, I glance inside to see an Amish couple sitting in the front. The woman has on the traditional white cap, which I know from Zach’s letters is called a kapp , as well as a black shoulder cape. But it’s her serious expression that catches my attention, and I wonder why she seems so glum. The man, wearing a dark jacket and straw hat, keeps his gaze straight ahead.It takes them a while to get ahead of me since I’m walking fast, but eventually they take the lead, and before long I can barely hear the horse’s hooves.
    According to Zach’s directions, I will reach Green Brush Lane when I’m about three miles out of town, and I’ll turn right on that road. After another couple of miles, I’ll see a black mailbox that says JD Miller on it—and that means I’m at Zach’s farm.
    The countryside around here is picturesque and beautiful. With white rail fences and tidy little farms, everything looks crisp and clean. Whether it’s a dark brown freshly plowed field or one that’s bright green with new growth, it all looks carefully tended. I take a number of photos on my phone and even do a selfie with several black-and-white cows behind me, which I send to Lizzie.
    Just as I come to Green Brush Lane, I hear more clip-clopping of hooves. This time it’s a buggy being pulled by a pair of handsome brown horses, and like me, they are turning onto this road. I’d love to take a picture, but I know that won’t be appreciated, so I control myself. Feeling a little nervous—could this be Zach and his family?—I glance inside the buggy and am relieved to see an elderly couple in front and several small kids in the back. The kids look as curiously at me as I look at them, and the youngest boy sticks out