Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio (4 page)

A deep cough racked Bobby’s small body.

“Your son is ill,” Eli pointed out.

“He’s had a cough for a couple of days.”

“And you have no vehicle and no place to stay?”

“That’s pretty much it.”

“Do you have
geld
—money?”

Joe felt embarrassed, but it was a fair question, under the circumstances. “Not much.”

“I know a place,” Eli said. “It is not far.”

“A place to camp?”

“No. A sick child should be under a roof at night. I will take you to my cousins. It will be all right. You will see. But first I need to make this delivery of apples.”

Eli seemed so confident about everything being okay that Joe allowed himself to be lulled by the gentle rocking of the buggy. Bobby, enraptured by the novelty of riding behind a horse, sat quietly, pressed tightly against his side.

After Eli dropped off the box of apples at a young Amish housewife’s home and accepted payment, he drove Rosie back past the garage where Joe’s broken truck sat. They made a couple of left turns and then crossed over a small creek before trotting past an IGA grocery store that had also been constructed to resemble a Swiss chalet. Buggies were tied up at hitching posts at the end of the parking lot. Across the street from the IGA was a large restaurant also constructed with a Swiss chalet appearance.

“Beachy’s has goot food.” Eli pointed to the restaurant. “My granddaughter, Mabel, works there. She is a hard worker, that girl.”

They turned onto Sugarcreek Road and the village fell away as rolling farm land once again took precedence. When they topped a hill, a large, two-story white farmhouse with a blue metal roof appeared.

“My cousins have closed their inn,” Eli said, “but I think they will make room for a father and his little boy.”

Joe noticed two tiny white cabins dotting the yard to the east. A much smaller replica of the larger house sat directly behind the farmhouse. A lone horse grazed in the pasture. Multicolored chickens pecked at the grass. It was a pretty scene, and his heart lifted at the sight.

As they turned into the driveway, he noticed a shedlike structure directly to his right. It reminded him of an old-fashioned outhouse, but for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why it would be there. Were the Amish so accommodating that they constructed toilets by the roadside for travelers?

“You will be wondering what that little building is for, I betcha,” Eli said.

“I was.”

“It is a telephone booth.” Eli glanced at Joe’s face to gauge his reaction to this news. “We do not have telephones in our homes, but we have them nearby for emergencies.” He pulled back on the reins to slow Rosie as she trotted down the gravel driveway. “We are very modern around here.”

Joe shot the man a sideways glance to see if he was joking and caught a telltale twinkle in Eli’s eye.

From his perch beside the buggy’s door, he spied a weather-beaten sign lying on the ground near the fence. It read S
UGAR
H
AUS
I
NN
.

“Wait here,” Eli said. “I will see if it is all right for you to stay.”

A face flashed momentarily in the window of the residence as the buggy stopped. Eli secured the reins to a hitching post before disappearing into the house.

“I’m hungry,” Bobby announced.

Joe had a few snacks in his duffel bag, but he wanted to dole them out slowly, hoping to get his son through the evening if he could.

“Let’s wait. I want to see if we’re going to be staying here or not.”

Instead of hunger, worry gnawed at Joe’s belly. When he’d left Los Angeles, he had never, in his wildest dreams, imagined that he would end up stone-broke in a strange place without so much as a roof over his head.

“My cousins have an empty cabin for you,” Eli called, waving them in from the porch. “Come.”

Joe climbed from the buggy and dragged out his baggage, laying the tent and duffel on the ground before reaching for his son.

“I must go,” Eli said as he came near and untied Rosie. “It is past time for milking. My cousins will take goot care of you and your child.”

Eli made clicking sounds as he coaxed Rosie to back up. Then, with a wave, he drove down the driveway and out onto the road.

Joe and Bobby mounted the steps. A short dumpling of a woman, neatly dressed in a wine-colored dress with a white cap and black apron, stood waiting for them. She bore the unmistakable features of Down syndrome.

“I’m Anna!” she announced happily.

“I’m Joe Matthews.” He laid his palm on Bobby’s head. “This little guy hiding behind my legs is my son, Bobby.”

“Wie geht’s!” Anna squatted and peered around Joe’s knees at the little boy. “We have cookies!” she sang.

Joe shifted beneath the weight of the gear he was carrying. “Eli said you have a cabin?”

“Uh-huh.” She put her hands over her eyes, peeked through her fingers at Bobby, and said, “Boo!”

She giggled while Bobby dug his face into his dad’s leg.

Joe cleared his throat. “How much do you charge for your cabins, ma’am?”

She stood up, frowned, and chewed her lower lip as she concentrated. Then her face lit up as she remembered. “Forty-five dollars.”

“I don’t have quite that much. We don’t mind sleeping in our tent.”

“You can stay anyway.” Anna’s almond-shaped eyes were as innocent and trusting as a child’s. “Bertha says.”

“We only need a piece of level ground and access to a water spigot,” Joe said. “I’m not looking for a handout.”

“Bertha says!” She frowned and stomped her foot but then brightened and stooped to the boy’s level. “We have kitties. Wanna see?”

Bobby slid out from behind his father’s legs and nodded.

“C’mon.” Anna slipped the little boy’s hand into her own.

Bemused, Joe marveled as Bobby grabbed Anna’s hand and trotted off beside her. She was the first person Bobby had trusted since…since…

After all these months, it was still difficult for him to place his lovely wife, Grace, and the word “death” together in the same thought. His mind shied away from it like a skittish colt. As he walked toward the cabins, he tried to focus his thoughts entirely upon having miraculously found safe shelter for his son. For now.

As Rachel pulled into her aunts’ driveway and climbed out of the squad car, her stomach growled in eager anticipation of Lydia’s cooking.

On the way here, she had ticketed the Keim twins again. Those two boys had enthusiastically and single-mindedly embraced the worst of the Englisch world during their rumspringa.

She knew that their parents, good solid Amish farmers, were ashamed of the boys. Their grandparents were, as well. And yet since the twins were not yet baptized believers, the church could not discipline them with threat of the Bann. The whole community was watching and shaking their heads with dismay as the boys went on their merry and destructive way.

She couldn’t count the number of speeding tickets she had issued to them in the past two years. They had even spent several days in the county jail for drunk and disorderly conduct. Unfortunately, they had
liked
it there. Television and free meals. No farm chores. The county sheriff had released them early—not for good behavior, but because they were enjoying themselves too much.

In some ways, she understood their need for rebellion. Had her father not left the Amish faith, she would have had to. She was not a woman who was cut out for wearing dresses 24/7 or obeying without question the stricter tenants of the
Ordnung
—the rules each church district set forth to govern the dress and lifestyle of its members.

As much as she respected certain aspects of her Amish heritage, she could not imagine never having gone to high school or to the police academy. She could not imagine never watching a movie, listening to music, driving a car. Or carrying a gun.

Fortunately, she had not had to be the one to make that break. Her father had made it for her when he had chosen not to join the church. Since she was considered part of the Englisch world instead of being a rebellious Amish woman in need of discipline, she could be welcomed into her aunts’ home without her aunts being admonished by the bishop.

It was rare for an Amish family not to be large, but somehow big families had passed theirs by. Bertha, busy caring for others, had never married. Lydia, now widowed, had endured a succession of miscarriages, which had produced no living children. And Anna was, well—Anna was Anna.

Rachel’s father and mother had produced only one child—her.

Even though both her parents had been taken from her early, Rachel had never felt orphaned. Instead, she’d always felt as though she had three mothers looking out for her. In spite of what she saw and experienced as a cop, the world never felt like an evil place while she was sitting in one of their front porch rockers, helping shell peas or string green beans. And seeing Anna’s delight in a budding flower or a newly born calf was always a salve to her soul.

As she rounded the corner of the house, she stopped short. The sight of a small boy swinging from her old tire swing surprised her. Anna, beaming, was pushing him.

Rachel leaned against the tree and watched. “Who’ve you got there, Anna?”

“Bobby.” Anna stopped pushing to better concentrate on her words. “He wants the white kitty—so you can’t have it.”

The cherubic little boy was gorgeous. Curly blond hair, pink cheeks, innocent blue eyes.

She walked over and squatted to greet him. “Did you give the white kitty a name?”

His Dresden-blue eyes met hers as his feet dragged the ground to slow the swing. “Uh-huh. Gwacie.”

“Gracie?”

The little boy nodded.

“That’s a nice name. Why Gracie?”

“It’s my mommy’s name.” Bobby’s lower lip trembled. “She’s in heaven.”

Rachel and Anna shared a concerned glance over his head. Anna shrugged, letting her know that she, too, was ignorant about the child’s mother.

Lydia stepped outside at that moment. “Food is ready!” she called.

Anna helped the little boy out of the swing. “Come.”

He slipped his hand into Anna’s and glanced up at her with utter acceptance. Rachel had seen this before—small children always trusted Anna.

“Where is his father?” Rachel asked.

Anna pointed to one of the small cabins. “Bobby’s
daett
has no money.”

Rachel cocked an eyebrow. The cabins had no running water or electricity. The child’s father must, indeed, be down on his luck.

A screen door slammed and Bertha limped out of the cabin, leaning heavily on her walker. The stranger had to duck his head as he followed her. The doorways of the cabins were six feet high. Rachel judged the man to be nearly three or four inches taller.

Her practiced cop’s eye scanned and evaluated him in less than three seconds. Even dressed in ill-fitting clothes, she could tell that he was built like an athlete—someone who had obviously spent much time working out.

Many men developed that sort of muscle definition while in prison. They beefed up with weights out of boredom—or for sheer self-preservation. She hoped that was not the case with this man—her aunts’ first guest since she had exacted their promise to close down the inn. Based on that promise, Bertha must be of the opinion that this stranger had been sent by God.

Rachel had her doubts.

He wore torn jeans and a faded T-shirt and had wild-looking, dirty-blond hair worn down to his shoulders. He also sported a full, unkempt beard.

It was the beard that bothered her the most. Old Order Amish men with untrimmed facial hair were merely telling the world that they were members of their church. And that they were married. Non-Amish men who wore a full beard, in her experience, were frequently hiding something…or hiding
from
something. The psycho who had put her in the hospital had been heavily bearded. It made her a tad prejudiced.

The stranger had the same startling blue eyes as the little boy. Not a kidnapping, then, unless it was domestic. No markings on his face or forearms. She glanced at the webbing between his thumbs and fingers where gang tattoos were frequently placed. Nothing there. No earrings or visible jewelry. No piercings.

Her eyes fell to his shoes. Shoes could tell a lot about a person. What in the…?

This man, in worn clothing, who supposedly had no money, was wearing a pair of new Saucony ProGrid Paramounts—one of the most expensive tennis shoes available. She had longed for a pair herself.

“Hello, Rachel.” Bertha, who had made her way across the short expanse of yard, huffed from the exertion of it. “This is Joe Matthews. Joe, this is our niece, Rachel. She works for the Sugarcreek Police Department.”

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” he said.

Rachel caught his split-second sweep of her uniform as his hands curled into fists at his side. The man was visibly uncomfortable in her presence.

He had a deep voice, unaccented in an area where a Germanic lilt flavored many people’s speech. The polite ease of his words belied his rigid stance. He held his breath, as though awaiting her reaction.

She reached to shake hands with him and evaluated his grip. Firm handshake…but his palm had none of the roughness she associated with men who worked outdoors for a living.

“Glad to meet you. Um, ‘Joe’ did you say?”

He released his breath, almost on a sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”

The stranger looked her square in the eye and held it—a little too deliberately. Few people did that when they first met a uniformed cop, even those with a reasonably clear conscience. Her instincts went on full alert. This guy was hiding something, and it was her job to find out what it was.

“What’s your business here, Joe?” she asked. “Are you a tourist, or are you just passing through?”

“Just passing through. My truck broke down. I’ll be moving on as soon as I can get it fixed.”

“Uh-huh.” She allowed silence to settle over them. People with something to hide usually kept talking. Silence was something she had used many times to get people to reveal more than they intended.

Unfazed, he waited out the silence. It was impressive. And it was something else he might have learned in prison.

“What do you do for a living, Joe?” She watched his eyes as he answered.

“Construction.” He blinked a couple times as he answered, a tip-off to her that he might be lying.

Interesting.

“I hope you get your truck fixed soon, Joe.”

“So do I, ma’am.”

She decided that if this man spent the night, she would be sleeping in one of her aunts’ guest rooms. It wouldn’t hurt Joe Matthews—if that was his real name—to see a squad car parked outside this Amish home.

Lydia rang the dinner bell impatiently. Her food was ready, and no one had come.

“We should go in now.” Bertha began her slow progress toward the house and everyone followed.

When they arrived at the kitchen door, Joe politely stood back and held open the screen door, allowing Bertha, Anna, and Bobby to enter. All had to pick their way over a broken back step. Rachel made a mental note to fix it as soon as the Swiss Festival was over.

Joe waited for her to enter as well, but there was a long pause while she silently refused. She had absolutely no intention of allowing this stranger to maneuver himself behind her. Her hand lay lightly on the butt of her gun while she stood, feet planted far apart, and gestured for him to go ahead.

Reluctantly he entered, while she weighed her chances of taking him down if he tried something. Her estimation was that subduing Joe would be quite a struggle, if not impossible.

She deeply regretted her promise to Bertha to allow them to take in “angels unaware.” Unless she was badly mistaken, this man was no angel.

Her aunts seemed to be oblivious to the direction her thoughts were taking. Instead, they were acting as if they were delighted to have a table full of company again.

Much to-do was made over piling a bundle of old newspaper copies of
The Budget
on a chair to elevate Bobby. Joe was automatically given the position of honor at the head of the table. Rachel chose the seat at the far end, where she could observe Joe’s every move.

After everyone was seated, the aunts bowed their heads in their customary silent blessing.

The little boy, seeing the adult heads bowed, clasped his hands beneath his chin and began saying his own prayer out loud. “God, thank You for this food and my new kitty and for making my daddy stop driving. I’m tired of being in Daddy’s truck. Amen.”

Everyone’s eyes lifted in surprise—except Joe’s. He stared at his plate.

Lydia cleared her throat. “Do you like mashed potatoes, Bobby?”

“Are they like my mommy’s?”

“How is that?”

“With a pond in the middle.”

Lydia whisked the child’s plate off the table, built a gravy pond in the middle of the fluffy white mound, and set it in front of him.

“Is that all right?”

“Oh, yes!” He dug into the mashed potatoes with a spoon.

“Nau ess du.”
Anna added some pot roast and vegetables. “Eat.”

The child ate even the vegetables without protest. He seemed grateful for everything on his plate.

Joe closed his eyes as though trying to regain his composure after Bobby’s sad little prayer. Then he took a deep breath, shook out his napkin, and placed it on his lap.

Rachel was surprised by the elegance with which he used his eating utensils. She noted that he held his fork in his left hand and his knife in his right—a European style of dining in which most Americans were unpracticed. Definitely
not
a habit learned in prison.

It was obvious that both he and Bobby were hungry, but Joe took small bites and chewed slowly. She got the impression that he was forcing himself to hold back.

“We weren’t expecting a gourmet meal when we asked to pitch our tent, ma’am,” he said to Lydia when the silence had stretched out a little too long.

“Dank.” Lydia ducked her head. Compliments were something with which she had never been comfortable.

“This tastes better than McDonald’s,” Bobby said.

“High praise from this guy.” Joe tousled his son’s hair. A deep cough racked the little boy’s body.

“Is he all right?” Bertha asked.

Joe laid the back of his hand against his son’s forehead. “I think so. He’s had this cough for a couple of days, but no fever so far. We’ve been traveling with the windows down some of the time. I’m hoping it’s just allergies.”

Partially mollified, Bertha returned her attention to her plate but glanced often at Bobby.

“I don’t want to ride in the truck anymore, Daddy,” Bobby said.

“We’ll stop soon, son.”

“Can we live here?”

“This isn’t our home, Bobby. We have to move on.”

“I don’t wanna! I want to live here!” Tears began to course down the tired little boy’s face—much to the consternation of Lydia and Anna, who fluttered around, offering him everything from cookies to more mashed potatoes.

“Will you excuse us?” Joe said. “I need to talk to my son.” The aunts nodded in unison. He arose, took Bobby by the hand, and led him out onto the porch.

Rachel slipped over to the window. If Joe laid one angry finger on that sweet child, she’d have Social Services on him so fast it would make his head swim.

Instead, he sat down on the porch swing, gathered the sniffling little boy into his arms, and talked to him in a low voice. She couldn’t make out the words through the glass, but they sounded kind.