Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio (7 page)

It had been years since he’d done any yard work. Back in LA, he’d had gardeners to do all that. But it was worth all the sweat and blisters to see Bobby so contented and happy. During supper, Joe got to hear about Bobby’s day and playing with Anna. His son showed him all the pictures he had colored. Anna wanted Joe to admire
her
pictures too, upon which he lavished praise.

It felt good to be part of a little community of gentle people, especially people who expected nothing more from him than repairs and yard work.

It would be nice to stay here awhile longer, but he was getting uneasy again. Rachel’s squad car had driven past the farm at what seemed like regular half-hour intervals all day.

“If you would like to stay a few more days,” Bertha said, “we would be glad to have you. No one is using those cabins.”

“I appreciate that, ma’am, but I’ll be moving on as soon as I can get my truck fixed.”

“Look, Daddy!” Bobby came running over to show off a multicolored construction-paper chain Anna had placed around his neck.

He lifted Bobby into his arms, being careful not to crush the chain. Bobby smelled like crayons, paste, and sunshine.

“You could walk into town and see the festival tonight, Joe,” Bertha commented. “Bobby would probably enjoy it.”

She was right. Bobby would enjoy the lights and music. As much as he appreciated the Troyer sisters’ hospitality, sitting in the dim light of kerosene lanterns all evening didn’t hold a lot of appeal.

“What do they have at the festival?” he asked.

Bertha picked up the schedule from the newspaper and consulted it. “Let’s see…it’s only six thirty. The firehouse will still be open for cheese sampling.”

“I’m stuffed from Lydia’s cooking. I couldn’t eat another bite.”

Lydia looked up from a new piecrust she was forming and smiled.

“There are several polka bands performing tonight,” Bertha read. “Oh—
here’s
something you might be interested in.”

“What’s that?”

“The competition of the Steinstossen.”

“Steinstossen?”

“‘Stone tossing,’” Lydia explained. “Men toss a big rock. Women throw one too.”

“How big of a rock?” Joe asked.

“Do you remember the weight, sister?” Lydia asked.

“Not exactly. It is over one hundred pounds. The women throw one that weighs less.”

“That’s it? They just throw a rock?” Joe said. “That seems like a pretty simple competition.”

“Some people take it very seriously,” Bertha said.

“Well, what do you say, buddy?” Joe asked. “Want to go to the festival?”

“Will we be gone a long time?” Bobby looked longingly at Anna, who, having been convinced by Joe’s praise that she was a talented artist, was busy coloring a new picture.

“Nope.”

“Will we come right back?”

“Absolutely.”

“And I will have an apple pie waiting for you,” Lydia said.

“That’s my favorite!” Bobby said.

“I guess we’ll go check things out then,” Joe said. With Bobby riding on his shoulders, he made the short walk to the village.

The sounds of the merry-go-round reached him first, and then he smelled the enticing aromas of fried onions and sausages. As he saw the strings of food booths, he was grateful they had just had a good meal; otherwise Bobby would have been begging for a taste of everything—which they could no longer afford.

Polka music filled the air as he asked directions to the Steinstossen event. He soon found a large paved rectangle with a white line painted across it and a sandpit at the far end. A crowd had gathered on blankets and folding chairs on the hill above. Several men were lining up to register for the event.

“Where’s the stone?” he asked a middle-aged man standing near him.

The man pointed to a large, oddly shaped rock. “There it is,” he said. “One hundred and thirty-eight pounds. It’s kept under lock and key down at the fire station all year long so no one can tamper with it.”

Joe took a closer look at the huge rock. He could see nothing all that special about it. “What’s the prize for first place?”

“For the men? Seventy-five dollars, but if a guy beats the record, he gets another hundred.”

One hundred and seventy-five?
That should be enough to pay for parts for the truck. Maybe he could barter some work around the garage to pay for the labor.

“You’re a big guy.” The man peered at Joe. “You thinking about trying it?”

“Maybe. What’s the record?”

“A local man threw it fourteen feet six inches back in 2005. The record still stands.”

Before his shoulder surgeries, Joe had routinely bench-pressed his body weight of 240 pounds. On good days, he could bench-press more. How hard could it be to toss a 138-pound rock a few feet?

He glanced at the men in line. Most were shorter and stockier than him. Some looked as though they would have trouble lifting it even a few inches off the ground. Unless he missed his guess, there were going to be a lot of sore backs tonight.

This could be his way out.

He queued up and registered for the event. The one thing in life he had always been able to depend upon was his superior strength and athletic ability. With any luck, he might excel in this sport, as well. The adrenaline rush from his desperation to get his hands on some cash wouldn’t hurt, either.

Rachel unlocked her front door and felt a measure of pride. This was the first real home she had ever owned. In Cleveland, unwilling to make a commitment to a mortgage, she had lived in a succession of rentals.

But not here. Sugarcreek was her home. Once she moved back, she had no qualms about signing the papers that made her the legal guardian of this two-bedroom, one-story cottage.

She tossed her keys onto the tiled kitchen counter and filled a watering pot at the kitchen sink. Growing up in her aunts’ home had given her a need for the presence of flowers.

The insides of most Amish homes were strictly utilitarian. Their lives, even down to the particular type of hardware allowed on their buggies, were unified and simplified by the rules laid down by their mutually accepted Ordnung—upon which each member had a vote.

But their flower gardens were their own to create, and they were magnificent. It was rare to see an Amish home without flowers and decorative wrought-iron trellises shouting out to the world the Amish woman’s love of color and beauty.

Carefully, she began the lengthy process of watering every living thing in her home. Many of her potted plants were cuttings she had taken from the flower gardens out at the farm.

It was so lovely here in Tuscarawas County. The tourists who made their pilgrimages here saw the small, rustic towns and rural back-road lanes and sighed with envy. They saw the ruddy-cheeked children dressed in simple Amish clothes and watched the Plain people driving their slow-paced buggies and thought that at least here, in this idyllic place, was peace and serenity.

To some extent, they were right. There was much peace here. But to some extent they were mistaken. Satan was alive and well, even here. There were problems creeping in. Problems that weren’t present when Rachel was growing up. Drug dealers had learned to target the vulnerable Amish teenagers during their wild rumspringas. Teenage drug and alcohol abuse was as great a worry to the Amish parents as it was to their television-watching Englisch neighbors.

The crime they did have was, for the most part, brought in by outsiders, people who thought they could put something past the Amish residents with their eighth-grade educations.

They were wrong, of course. The Plain people were plenty smart, but they
were
nonviolent, and those who were not sometimes took advantage of that fact.

Rachel was not at all nonviolent. Her philosophy was simple: she watched out for her own—whether protecting her township, her fellow officers, or her aunts.

Her father, Frank Troyer, had taught her to have respect for the Amish ways—but to be ready to fight if necessary. Tonight, with Joe Matthews still in residence, she would keep vigil out at the farm once again.

After caring for her plants, she tossed a few things into a canvas bag and locked the front door, grateful that she could leave with no more effort than the turn of a lock. There was little in her home she would be upset about if it were stolen, and she preferred it that way.

She did, however, allow herself one personal extravagance—her 1966 silver blue Mustang. It made her smile every time she drove it. In fact, one of her special pleasures was driving in the retro “Fabulous Fifties” parade of over five hundred classic cars that arrived in Sugarcreek each June.

As she pulled out onto the road, she wondered if Joe was any closer to leaving.

Speak of the devil.

Her foot came off the gas pedal as she spied a familiar-looking man with a small boy on his shoulders. Yep, it was Joe and Bobby. What were they doing in town?

Curious, she parked and followed Joe as he wove his way through the crowd. She was surprised when he stopped and registered at the Steinstossen pit. Then he found a place on the hill with the other spectators and settled down with Bobby to wait.

He was going to compete? That was interesting. Joe had the muscle mass to do well, but she knew it took more than sheer strength to heave that stone the distance it took to win. The rock was misshapen and hard to handle. It took some forethought as well.

The first man to throw was badly out of shape. He managed to get the rock up past his large belly and balanced against his chest, but when he tried to hoist it above his head, the rock slipped from his grasp.

There was a gasp from the crowd as the rock fell. Rachel took an involuntary step forward. She had helped put more than one Steinstossen contestant into an ambulance when the rock slipped. There had been plenty of concussions and broken feet in the past. Fortunately, this guy hopped out of the way a split second before the boulder thudded to the ground.

Apparently not willing to risk injury in trying again, he bowed to the crowd with good-natured humor and wandered off to be consoled by his buddies.

She saw Joe relax and lean back on one elbow.

The second man was short but built like an ox. He expertly grasped the rock, lifted it to his belly, then rolled it onto his chest. From there, he got a secure hold and lifted it high above his head. He wavered for an instant under the weight but then found his balance and ran toward the white line, heaving it as far as he could into the awaiting sandpit.

Rachel knew that most newcomers believed the Steinstossen event to be about brute strength alone. But she had watched it for years and knew that it took skill and expertise in addition to strength. Charging the foul line gave a contestant the impetus needed to hurl the stone far, but sometimes it was impossible for the runner to stop in time. There was a delicate balance to be maintained—running fast, but not so fast as to be unable to stop. Stopping before the foul line, but not so soon that the toss fell short. This man had done well.

Two auxiliary policemen watching the foul line measured the distance of the throw with a tape. Then they removed the stone with a dolly and raked the sand smooth as the announcer shouted out the distance. “Eight feet, ten inches.”

A respectable distance, but beatable. She saw Joe sit up and take the man’s measure.

Then, a local contractor, whom she knew to be well past sixty, took a try. In impressive shape for a man his age, he strutted over and picked up the stone. He was strong, but not strong enough to get the rock above his waist. He duck-waddled to the foul line and tossed it over. It landed mere inches past the line. He grinned and lifted clasped hands above his head in a mocking victory salute while the crowd applauded his game attempt.

One after another, the contestants fought the rock up their chests and above their heads, some tossing much farther than others. Some gave up and dropped the stone where they stood. Some were frustrated and disappointed at discovering they were not as strong as they thought. Others seemed surprised at how well they did.

At one point, the name of a distant cousin of Rachel’s was called. Even within a family of strong men, he was famous for his strength. With an air of indifference, he strode over to the rock, lifted it with apparently little effort, and hoisted it above his head without so much as taking a chest rest.

She knew that Joe stood little chance of beating him and was surprised that she felt disappointed at the knowledge. She supposed it was because she always tended to root for the underdog.

The cousin seemed bored with the event. His throw of thirteen feet seven inches was no record, but she doubted anyone here could beat it. He nonchalantly walked off the court.

Joe, having arrived only minutes before the final event started, was the last contestant to be called. He was making his way through the crowd, carrying his son, when he spotted her.

“Would you watch Bobby while I throw?”

“Sure.”

As Joe transferred the little boy into her arms, his hand accidentally grazed her bare skin. The sheer warmth of his touch unnerved her in a way she didn’t entirely understand. Trying to ignore her sudden physical awareness of Joe, she held Bobby close. As she did so, the little boy gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. The sweet gesture melted her. Bobby was adorable.

While Joe toed up to the stone, the little boy confided in her ear, “Miss Lydia’s makin’ apple pie for when we get home.”

Home?
Joe and his son had only been here one full day. Already the child was calling the farm “home”?

“Let’s watch your daddy, honey,” she said, pointing.

Bobby watched his father with interest. “My daddy’s strong.”

“Yes.” Rachel once again tried to dismiss from her mind the memory of Joe’s touch. “He is.”

Unlike most of the contestants, Joe squatted to grasp the boulder instead of bending over. Then he heaved himself up by his legs with the stone cradled against his chest. He hesitated a moment, gathering his strength as he got a better grip on the rock. Then he jerked the stone above his head in one smooth motion.

The veins in his forehead didn’t bulge at the effort like with many of the men. So far, he was managing to make it look fairly easy, but she could tell by the white around his lips that it was costing him to keep the stone balanced above his head.

He took one step backward and then plunged full force toward the foul line. She couldn’t help but admire the powerful way he moved.

She was afraid that, as a novice, he would make the mistake of stepping over the carefully watched line, but he didn’t. He stopped and cleared it with a clean throw that looked as though it had, astonishingly, flown even farther than what her cousin had achieved.

The crowd clapped and whistled their approval.

“Your daddy did good,” she told Bobby.

“I know.” Bobby was matter-of-fact, as though he were used to his father excelling. “Can we go home and have pie now?”

“In a minute.”

Rachel watched as Joe made his way back through the crowd to her while the judges measured his distance.

“Good job.” She transferred Bobby, being careful not to touch Joe as she did so. She noticed a few abrasions on his outstretched arms from the stone.

“Thanks. It was a little tougher than I was expecting.”

“Fourteen feet, six and a half inches!” the announcer called. “A new record!”

“You won!” Rachel said. “Congratulations, Joe. How in the world did you do that?”

“Probably because I need the money a whole lot worse than the other guys. I’m hoping it will be enough to put a deposit on that truck part,” he said. “I do plan on leaving as soon as I can.”

“Better go collect it,” she said. “I’m headed out to the farm now. I’ll drive the two of you back if you want.”

“Thanks.”

After watching Joe receive his prize money and accept congratulations from half the crowd on his record-breaking throw, Rachel led them to her car and strapped Bobby into the backseat of her Mustang.

“Nice ride,” Joe said as he climbed into the passenger seat.

She stroked the immaculate blue upholstery. “I try to take good care of her.”

Bobby coughed a deep, wracking cough, and she saw Joe’s fingers grip the door handle.

“That child needs to see a doctor,” she said.

“He’ll be fine.”

“Maybe.” She kept her eyes on the road as she pulled out onto the street. “What is your story anyway, Joe? Were you fired from your job or something?”

“I wasn’t fired.”

“Are you running from the law?”

“No.” He turned to look at her. “Do you think I would be sitting here with you if I were?”

“Then I suppose you wouldn’t mind letting me take a peek at your driver’s license.”

He rested his left ankle on his knee and draped an elbow out the open passenger window. “Have you seen me break the law in any way?”

“Not yet.”

“I was under the impression that I had a constitutional right not to be unlawfully searched.”

He was right, of course, but it irritated her that he was resisting her very reasonable request to see his driver’s license.

“And I have the right”—she lifted a finger—“no, I am compelled by law to call Social Services if I think a child is being endangered in any way.”

Joe sat up straight. “You would take my son away from me for not producing my driver’s license?”

“That wasn’t my point. I would take him away if I thought you were unable to care for him.”

“Daddy!” A sound of sobbing erupted from the backseat. “Don’t leave me!”

“I won’t leave you, buddy.” Joe reached behind the seat to pat and comfort his son.

Rachel cringed at the fact that Bobby had overheard her harsh words. She wasn’t used to being around kids. She had forgotten that they listened to everything.

Joe shot her a venomous glance after Bobby calmed down. “I don’t
have
a driver’s license. Someone stole my wallet. If I had it, and the money that was in it, I wouldn’t be stuck here taking charity from your aunts or busting my guts trying to throw a stupid stone.”

“Sorry.” She felt sick at having upset the child. “I didn’t realize Bobby was listening.”

“Obviously, he was.”

“You could have just told me about the wallet.”

“The last time I checked, a person in this country is innocent until proven guilty. I guess that doesn’t apply in your township?”

“I said I’m sorry.”