Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio (5 page)

“Rachel,” Bertha hissed. “Come away from that window. Give the man some privacy.”

Rachel backed away as Joe arose and headed toward the door.

“My son is very tired,” he said as he came through the door. “I think it would be a good idea if I put him to bed now.”

Lydia rushed off to gather two flashlights from the kitchen. Anna stuffed cookies into a baggie. Bertha hobbled to the gas-powered refrigerator and filled a thermos with cold water.

“I’ll carry those.” Rachel took the flashlights upon Lydia’s return. “Joe can take the cookies and the thermos. I’ll help settle them into the cabin.”

“That’s not necessary,” Joe said.

Rachel gave him the steely-eyed look that had cowed many a bad guy. “I insist.”

She could feel her aunts’ gaze behind her and could almost sense them begging her not to be rude as she followed Joe outside. She had no intention of being rude, but she did intend to be direct.

The walk to the cabin wasn’t long. “There’s the outhouse,” she said, pointing the flashlight at a small, narrow building off to the side. “And there’s a pump for water near the kitchen door if you need it.”

She flashed a light around the inside of the one-room cabin as Joe tucked Bobby into bed. Taking the second flashlight from Rachel, Joe handed it to Bobby to play with. The space was tiny but clean. One of the aunts—she guessed Anna—had put a small vase of wildflowers on the little table between the twin beds. Freshly washed quilts filled the small shelter with the smell of sunshine. For Bobby’s sake, she was glad that her aunts had made things nice.

“Thank you, Officer,” Joe said. “We’ll be fine now.”

“I want to talk to you outside for a moment.”

He glanced at Bobby. “Will you be okay by yourself, buddy?”

Bobby, enraptured with the flashlight, nodded.

“I’ll be right outside, son.”

As soon as the door closed behind them, Rachel let Joe know exactly what was on her mind. “Mister, I don’t know who you are or what your story is, but if you touch a hair on any of my aunts’ heads—if you so much as steal a petal from Anna’s flower garden—I’ll be on you so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”

Instead of shock or anger, there was an expression of stalwart acceptance on his face.

“I understand.”

“I’m not a person who makes empty threats.”

He sighed. “You don’t know me, Officer, and I don’t blame you for thinking the worst. But I’m no thief, and I would never hurt someone as kind and gentle as one of those ladies. You and your aunts can sleep easy tonight. There’s no reason to be afraid.”

Joe had the sort of voice that made a person want to trust him. But she didn’t. Not for a second. Ted Bundy had been a likable guy too, a real charmer—until he was arrested for serial murders.

“Actually,” Rachel said, “I don’t intend to sleep at all tonight. So don’t try anything, Matthews. My aunts may be innocent, but don’t make the mistake of thinking that I am.”

She had hoped her speech would intimidate him, but somehow it misfired. Instead of him being cowed, amusement flickered behind his eyes. “I’d never make the mistake of thinking you were innocent, Officer.”

Without waiting for a response, he stepped back inside the cabin and firmly closed the door in her face.

She stalked back to the house, her cheeks burning at his remark. How dare he turn her threat into a double entendre! She was definitely going to find out who this jerk was—and exactly what he was hiding.

Bobby refused to sleep in the bed the aunts had made up for him. After a dose of cough medicine, he’d opted to sleep on Joe’s chest instead. Joe didn’t mind. The feel of his son’s sturdy little body, the sound of his breathing, was a tonic for the soul. He had lost everything he valued in life except this sleeping child. His love for Bobby had been the only thing keeping him from losing his sanity during the past few months while his world fell apart.

Now, every breath he breathed, every step he took, was for his was son. Every bit of intelligence and strength he possessed, he intended to use to keep Bobby safe and to carve out some sort of life for him. It was all he had left to give. It was all he could figure out to do.

His own life, to all intents and purposes, was over.

As he struggled to sleep, his thoughts turned to Rachel. She was not as glamorous as his actress-wife, Grace, but in her own way, Rachel was an attractive woman. Straight, no-nonsense, shoulder-length brown hair. No makeup covering the freckles scattered across her sunburned nose. That nose, he’d noticed, was slightly crooked, as though it had been broken in a fight. And without intending to, he had seen that she had a figure nice enough to pull off wearing that off-the-rack policeman’s uniform of dark blue slacks and a light blue shirt.

It was her eyes that he recalled most vividly. They were alive with intelligence. He had watched them sum him up in a glance and then quickly narrow with suspicion. He respected her for taking his measure, for evaluating the potential danger of allowing him in her aunts’ home. He had watched every nuance of the evening reflect in those confident dark brown eyes.

In spite of her suspicion of him, he was impressed with her fierce protectiveness of her aunts
and
the direct way she had spoken to him when they were alone. She was a strong woman who would fight for her family and herself.

With all his heart, he wished his wife had possessed the suspicion and ability to engage in battle that he had seen in Rachel tonight. Maybe then Grace would have survived.

He would do his best to fly beneath Rachel Troyer’s radar until he could get out of here. The last thing he needed was to capture the undivided attention of a police officer—or anyone else, for that matter.

Bam! BAM! BAM!

In one smooth motion, Rachel slid her service revolver from the top of the bedside table, rolled out of bed into a semi-crouch, and aimed it at the door.

Then she woke up.

She lowered the weapon and cocked her head to listen. It wasn’t gunfire she was hearing. The sound that had triggered her combative reflex was a hammer slamming into wood somewhere outside the house.

She carefully laid the gun on the floor, sat back on her heels, and rubbed her hands over her face—shaken by the realization that she had been a hairbreadth away from blowing a hole through her aunts’ guest room door—with no knowledge of who, or what, might be standing on the other side.

She shouldn’t be trusted with a weapon.

She didn’t know how to live without one.

Bam! BAM! BAM!

She flinched at each sound, her temples throbbing in unison.

She had stayed up most of the night, watching to see if Joe Matthews would decide to take a midnight stroll to the house—but he had never left the cabin. Before dawn, once her aunts were awake and moving about, she had allowed herself a quick catnap.

BAM!

Who would be using a hammer this early in the morning? Glancing at her watch, she was aghast to see that it was almost eight. She had been asleep for a good three hours and was now late for work. So much for that catnap!

She decided to run past her house anyway. After sleeping in her clothes, a fresh uniform was a necessity.

Rising from her crouch, she gasped from the sudden pain in her back—another reminder of the battle that had ended her career as an inner-city cop in Cleveland. She had managed to lock that psychopath behind bars, but not before he had laid her out in the hospital for a month
and
sent her scurrying back to Sugarcreek afterward, where her biggest challenges so far had been traffic tickets, DUIs, and convincing Amish kids to keep their rumspringa parties in check.

Bam! BAM! BAM!

She glanced outside and saw nothing except the yard, the barn, and the rolling hills beyond. Shoving her face close to the window, she angled her eyes downward. The noise seemed to be coming from directly below her, but she couldn’t see who was making it.

Perhaps Eli had finished his milking and come to repair that broken step. If so, she would try to make it up to him. Now that she was once again living in Sugarcreek, her aunts were her responsibility, not Eli’s. He had enough to do in keeping his own farm running.

After the Swiss Festival was behind her, she would be able to spend more time here, get more done. She needed to trim the yard again, for one thing, and lug that heavy sign at the end of the driveway into the barn. The fact that she had not fixed that broken porch step yet shamed her. It should have been a priority. Her aunts couldn’t afford another accident.

Retucking her shirt and straightening her uniform, she finger-combed her hair and strapped on her utility belt. If Joe Matthews was still in residence after today, she would bring a change of clothes and come back tonight. There was no way she was leaving her aunts alone with him for any length of time. In fact, she intended to swing by the farm as often as possible today just to let him know that she was keeping an eye on him.

A lone bottle of aspirin sat on the dresser. Grabbing the glass of water she had carried up to the room last night, she tossed back a couple of pills. Too late, she remembered to check the date. Just as she had suspected—it was several months past expiration. Her aunts, bless their hearts, needed more watching with each passing year. She made a mental note to go through the rest of the house and toss any other expired medications as soon as possible.

As she clumped down the stairs, she saw that all three aunts were gathered around the kitchen window, craning their necks, fascinated with something outside.

“What’s going on?” Rachel rested her hand on Lydia’s shoulder as she asked the question.

Lydia moved aside. “Joe is fixing that bad step.” Her voice softened into wistfulness. “And Bobby is helping.”

“Joe is
nice!”
Anna said.

Rachel immediately saw what had so riveted her aunts’ attention. Joe, in jeans, T-shirt, and tool belt, would cause anyone to stare. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a man so perfectly formed.

Visions of the potential harm those muscular arms and hands could do swam in front of her. She had experienced firsthand the damage a man could inflict on a woman—even a woman trained in self-defense. Her precious aunts wouldn’t stand a chance. They couldn’t even call for help without first stumbling out to the phone shanty.

Unfortunately, there were some outsiders who were under the mistaken impression that the Amish had lots of money. She had overheard people say, resentfully, that the Amish
must
be rich because they didn’t have to pay taxes. She always spoke up when she heard that nonsense. She knew for a fact that they were required by law to pay all taxes except Social Security—from which they were excused because the Amish took care of their own.

If this homeless guy thought that her aunts were sitting on a pile of cash, they could be in terrible danger.

However, in spite of her distrust, she had to admit that father and son made an arresting picture. Bobby sat cross-legged on the porch floor with a crumpled paper sack in his lap, concentrating on handing his daddy one nail at a time. Joe thanked the child politely for each nail he accepted from his son.

Then she noticed that the red-handled hammer looked familiar. So did the handsaw. And the tool belt…

Rachel put her hands on her hips. “Who gave that man permission to use Dad’s tools?”

“I did.” Bertha pulled away from the window. “Joe offered to do some repairs to pay us for the use of the cabin. I told him to help himself to anything he needed.”

Rachel bit back a sharp retort. The aspirin was too weak to diminish her headache, and her irritation over her aunts’ gullibility rendered her nearly speechless.

Her dad’s tools were good ones. Expensive too. Frank Troyer had believed in buying the best he could afford and caring for his tools properly. They were stored away in the old workroom inside the barn. Now she was afraid that if she didn’t keep a sharp eye out, they would find their way into Joe’s possession when he left.

Rachel gritted her teeth with frustration and glanced at her watch.

“Look. I’m uneasy about this guy. Something is off about him. Trust me on this. Don’t let him back into the house unless I’m here. And please promise me you’ll ask him to leave after he’s repaired the steps.”

Bertha stumped over to the rocking chair and fell into it. “No,” she said.

“No?”

“I will
not
send that child away. You should not ask me.” She stared pointedly at the wooden plaque beside the door.

Rachel closed her eyes and willed herself to have patience with that “angels unaware” thing—again.

“At least promise you won’t let Joe move into the house while I’m gone,” she said.

“We promise,” Lydia said. “But will you get angry if we let Bobby play with your old toys from the attic?”

Angry? She was coming off as
angry
to her aunts? She was simply trying to protect them, for pity’s sake. Lydia’s comment hurt, and tears stung the backs of her eyes.

“Of course I don’t mind. Let Bobby play with anything he wants.” She grabbed her keys off the kitchen counter and headed out the door. “If Joe and his son are still here when I get back, I’ll be spending the night again.”

“That is fine, Rachel,” Bertha said calmly. “You know you are always welcome.”

She avoided the back step—and Joe—by stepping directly off the porch. Unfortunately, she misjudged the distance and landed in the middle of the flower bed. It had rained during the night, and the earth was soggy. Gathering her dignity, she extricated herself from the muddy soil.

“Have a good day, Officer.” Joe lifted her father’s favorite hammer in a wave.

Unable to speak past the lump in her throat, she ignored him. Even if he skipped town with her dad’s tools in his possession, she hoped the man would be gone before nightfall.

Of all the scenarios Joe had anticipated when he chose to leave his identity behind in LA, being broke was not one of them.

For the first time in years, getting ahold of some cash was a major issue. One option was to find temporary work in town. A few days of—what? Waiting tables at Beachy’s Country Chalet? A short-lived construction job?

Even assuming he could find work, what would he do with Bobby?

One thing he knew for sure: he needed to make himself invaluable to the Troyer sisters. He hoped that if he kept doing odd jobs for them, they wouldn’t kick him out quite yet. For now, they were his best hope of keeping Bobby fed and sheltered until he could figure out how to survive without being tracked down by the people determined to find him.

“Are you finished?” Bertha hobbled to the edge of the porch.

“Yes, ma’am. This is my last nail.” Joe gave it a whack and slid the hammer back into the leather tool belt.

She peered down at the newly repaired steps. “You know carpentry pretty goot?”

“My dad liked to build. He taught me the basics.”

“Ach.” She nudged Bobby with the walker. “Helping your father. That is how a boy learns.”

Bobby looked up at her with his innocent blue eyes. “Daddy says I’m a good helper-boy.”

“Da ayya lowb shtinkt,”
Bertha said with a smile.

“Excuse me?” Joe asked.

“It is an Amish proverb,” Bertha said. “It means, ‘He who praises himself stinks.’” She shrugged. “We try to keep our children from thinking too highly of themselves.”

“I see.”

Actually, Joe didn’t. It was his opinion that children needed every drop of confidence they could get. Fortunately, Bobby didn’t seem to have been affected by Bertha’s proverb.

Her eyes narrowed as she gave Joe an appraising look. “Wouldja mind trimming the yard a bit?”

“I’d be happy to.”

She smoothed her hand over Bobby’s hair. “You come with me, boy. Lydia has some toys you will be wanting to see.”

Bobby handed his father the bag of remaining nails and obediently followed Bertha inside. Just before the screen door closed behind them, Bertha called over her shoulder, “The fence rows could use a few whacks too. The scythe is hanging in the barn.”

Fencerows? Scythe?

It had not been his intention to spend the entire day doing odd jobs for the Troyer sisters. Not that he minded helping them out; they had been kind to him and he was grateful, but he needed to be finding a way out of this situation. And considering the suspicious nature of their niece, he needed to find a way out fast.

He considered various possible plans as he carried the hand tools back to the barn and put them away. None of the ideas worked for him.

It was quiet in the barn—and peaceful. It was also the first time he had been away from Bobby since they had begun their journey. He felt guilty over the momentary relief he felt at this short breather from his son and the constant little-boy questions. He loved Bobby desperately and completely, but the stillness inside that old barn was healing.

Dust motes danced in a slant of sunlight inside the barn. He remembered his father once saying that God was aware of everything—each speck of dust and grain of sand—even down to knowing the number of hairs on his head.

The silence and dignity of the old Amish barn enveloped him. It almost felt as though he had entered the sanctuary of a cathedral. He suddenly felt himself acutely missing the comfort of his father’s faith.

Although he had taught Bobby to say grace before meals, personal, heartfelt prayer was something to which he had allowed himself to become a stranger. Formerly wrapped up in his hectic schedule, there had never seemed to be enough time. And after Grace’s death, he had become so angry and hurt that he had rebelled against the very thought of a loving God who would allow such a tragedy to occur.

He knew better. Much better. He knew that Satan was also a factor in the world—one with which Joe had wrestled and lost.