Where Grace Abides (26 page)

Doc frowned. “I'd not be telling you anything you don't already know if I said Beiler
wishes
he and Rachel were a couple. We've talked about that before.”

“Aye, we have,” Gant said nodding. “Rachel herself has told me enough to let me know Beiler's been fairly…insistent in his attempts to court her.”

“Then you also know she's not interested.”

“Not up until now.”

“You can't think she's changed her mind. That doesn't sound like Rachel at all. From watching her when Beiler is around, my impression has been that she doesn't even
like
the man.”

“But if she's still refusing his attentions, why would Beiler go to such lengths? If nothing has changed between them, then he has to know she wouldn't accept a gift of that nature from him.”

“I don't know the answer to that, but I don't believe for a moment Rachel has suddenly changed her feelings for him. Perhaps your notion is right—perhaps he simply wants you to
think
she's changed her mind so you'll stay completely away from her. But if that's the case…”

Gant could almost see Doc's mind working as his words drifted off. “If that's the case,” Gant repeated softly, “the only explanation
for it is that Beiler somehow knows I have feelings for Rachel, perhaps even knows I'd hoped to be converted to Amish myself so we could be married. But how would he know that?”

He waited, but when the other made no reply, he continued. “No one knew about Rachel and me except
Rachel
—and you and Bishop Graber. Now I hardly think Rachel would have filled Beiler in on the two of us, and I think I know you well enough to know you wouldn't have said anything to anyone. So then, given what you've told me about the Amish not discussing their relationships among their own, not even with family members, how could Beiler know anything about my feelings for Rachel? Why would he be suspicious of me? Surely the bishop wouldn't have said anything to him.”

“No, I hardly think so,” David said, trying to sound more convinced than he felt.

Given the suspicions that lately had been gnawing at him, it took a concentrated effort to keep an impassive expression, but he thought perhaps he'd pulled it off rather well when Gant said nothing more about the bishop.

“Well,
something
triggered Beiler's actions. He doesn't seem the type of man who'd act on impulse or a whim,” Gant pointed out.

David's mind raced even as he formulated a reply to Gant's statement. “I suspect it's just what you thought, that he was bent on making you believe he and Rachel are a couple. As to why he felt the need—” he lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug, “I've no idea. Sounds somewhat perverse to me. So—you're actually going to make the sideboard?”

“I am.” Gant's smile was anything but pleasant. “But you wouldn't want to know what I'll be thinking while I ply my carving knife.”

“No,” Doc said dryly, “I expect I wouldn't.”

“You're convinced that he hasn't won Rachel over, though?”

“I assure you,” Doc said, “I can't even imagine a situation where
that might happen.” And he couldn't. He desperately wished he needn't be furtive with his friend. It had already occurred to him that if Isaac Graber were no longer bishop, there might still be some hope for Gant and Rachel. He wished he could offer Gant that hope, but he simply
couldn't
violate his professional ethics, nor could he in good conscience go against the Amish convention of privacy—not even for his closest friend.

He was relieved to hear Gant change the subject. “Well, I've bent your ear enough for one night. I do thank you for letting me talk this through. Now I'm ready to give you a proper thrashing at the checkerboard.” He held up his cup. “If you have plenty, I wouldn't mind a bit more.”

Given David's churning thoughts, he didn't doubt but what Gant
would
thrash him.

Throughout the rest of the evening, he did his best to concentrate on the game, but his concerns about the bishop—and now this matter with Samuel Beiler's behavior—cluttered his mind with even more questions than had been there before.

As they finished up and Gant prepared to leave, David decided to pose a question outright, a seemingly innocuous one he hoped. He had witnessed for himself his friend's pain, both physical and emotional, and felt pressed to speak to the reason behind at least a part of that pain.

“About Rachel,” he said, choosing his words with care. “You haven't given up on her, have you?”

Gant was obviously surprised by the question but answered forth-rightly, “If you mean do I still have any real hope things will work out for us, well, no. Why would I?”

“You can't be sure of that. Things happen.”

Gant shot him a look that was pure skepticism.

“If something were to change,” David went on, “something unforeseeable right now—you'd still want to marry her, wouldn't you? Your feelings haven't changed—have they?”

Gant glanced away, turning toward the door as he shrugged into his coat. “No, my feelings haven't changed,” he said. “And they won't. I'd marry her in a shake if I could.”

He turned to face David again. “But I
have
begun to wonder if I'm doing the right thing—for Rachel and for myself—by staying here. It's hard, you know. Being this close to her but never being able to see her, at least not alone. I can't even be a friend to her, not really. It's just…
hard.
”

“I know,” David said quietly. “I went through a time—years actually—of loving Susan from a distance but not being able to do anything about it. I haven't forgotten the frustration and the anger.”

Something quickened in Gant's expression. “Yes, that's it—anger—the unfairness of it all! Sometimes I get so angry I think I'll strangle on it. It shouldn't be like this! We're right for each other—I
know
we are.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Sometimes I think I'll have to leave just to save my sanity. And maybe that would be best for Rachel too. She still has feelings for me, I can tell. Maybe if I'd just go away…”

He let his words drift off, his thought unfinished.

Gant wasn't the type of man to be consoled, not a man to warm to platitudes. But on impulse David reached to touch his arm, then dropped his hand away. “Don't,” he said. “Don't leave. Not yet.”

Gant looked at him. “The only thing that keeps me here is her. That and the fact that I told her once I wouldn't leave, that I wasn't going anywhere. Truth is I don't know if I
could
leave. But sometimes I think I
should.
”

“Listen to me,” David said, feeling compelled to speak out. “God has His ways of changing things—even lives. He can turn things around in a heartbeat, in a moment. We can't predict from one day to the next what He might do.”

Gant's eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to say, Doc?”

“Only this—if you love her, don't leave. Wait.”

David didn't know where the words came from. He wasn't an articulate man, never had been. Most of his thoughts he kept to himself. But suddenly it was as if a stream of words came pouring out of him, words he hadn't planned to say, words he hadn't even thought of before this moment.

“You've built a life here, man. People like you. They respect you. You have friends, a business, your work with the runaways—you have reasons to stay besides Rachel. Give this time. Trust God to bring about His will for you and for Rachel. If it's right for you to be together, somehow He'll make it happen. But even if you can never be together, you have a home here, if you want it. Don't go doing anything rash.
Wait.
”

It was the strangest feeling, the exhaustion that overtook him as soon as he'd said his piece. It was as if somehow the entire day had been leading up to this moment, and now that the moment had passed, he found himself completely depleted.

He became aware that Gant was watching him closely. He could feel himself flush slightly from the scrutiny, yet knew he'd said only what he must.

It was an awkward moment, finally eased by a typical touch of levity from Gant. “You can be a little strange sometimes, Doc,” said Gant.

“Yes, so I've been told.”

“No doubt. Well then, I'll think about what you've said tonight.”

“I hope you will.”

“Oh, I will,” Gant said opening the door. “You see, I've noticed that, even when you seem a bit wild-eyed, you're often right in what you have to say.”

With that Gant stepped outside and, with a wave of his hand, started down the path to take his leave.

 
31
 
W
HISPER OF
S
ECRETS

And men loved darkness rather than light.

J
OHN
3:19

L
ong after Gant left the house, David's thoughts refused to give him any peace. He finally fixed himself a cup of coffee and, moving his chair a little closer to the fire, sat staring into the gently lapping flames, letting his mind roam free.

More than anything else of an unpleasant nature that had come to his attention this day—including his own concerns for Bishop Graber and the difficult situation young Ellie Sawyer would seem to be facing—Gant's encounter with Samuel Beiler troubled him most.

When he was wrestling with his thoughts about the bishop earlier today, he'd felt the same distaste that too often accompanied any mention of Beiler. But Gant's account of the Amish deacon's visit to his shop and the reason for it had induced even stronger feelings.

He had long suspected Beiler of a behavior that, as a doctor and as a man, he abhorred. It was no secret to David, especially in his capacity as a physician to the Amish, that there were among the Plain community a few men—
very
few he believed—who routinely mistreated their wives and their children—some to the point of beating them. Such actions were never spoken of but kept veiled in a dark cloud of secrecy.

Because the Amish were such an isolated people, handling their own matters of conduct among themselves rather than bringing in the
Englisch
authorities
,
it was a behavior fairly easy to conceal. However, it could not always be kept hidden from their physician. Defying the importance that Plain People placed on privacy, on two separate occasions David had actually confronted husbands about this disgusting treatment of their wives and children. In both cases he had seen for himself the physical evidence of abuse and simply could not keep his silence.

In one instance he believed his interference had shamed the husband to the point that he discontinued the beatings. In the other case, however, the man was so furious with David he would no longer allow him to treat any member of his family.

He had absolutely no evidence that Samuel Beiler might be the sort of man who would beat his wife. But in the years that he had treated Martha Beiler and their children, he had seen signs in her that something was amiss. He'd heard it said about Martha that she was the “perfect” Amish wife, an example the younger wives should aspire to. Maybe so, but David had seen the way she looked at her husband on occasion as well as the way she shrank from close contact, and while she might have been a perfect wife, he had his suspicions that their marriage might not be so perfect.

Delivering their two youngest sons had been a devilishly frustrating task, made even more trying by Beiler's insistence on being in the birth room and the glowering frown he wore the entire time. Clearly Martha had not wanted him there, and although David probably wouldn't have resented the presence of most husbands during a delivery, the reality was that most husbands, including Amish ones, typically removed themselves, leaving the process entirely to David and sometimes a midwife.

He wondered, too, about Beiler's relationship with his boys. His impression of the younger two were that they behaved like inanimate wooden figures when their father was anywhere nearby. As for the
older one, who must be sixteen or so by now and in his
rumspringa,
well, David had to wonder if he might be a case of the apple not falling far from the tree. From what he had seen of the boy, he was a surly sort. Rumor also had it that he was a wild one and had a temper to be reckoned with.

In any event he had always been relieved that Susan's Rachel seemed to want no part of Beiler's attentions. He liked Rachel and respected her. He would have hated to see her involved with Beiler if he actually were the type of man David suspected he might be.

As for what Beiler might be up to with Gant and the business of ordering a gift for Rachel, well, it reeked of a certain territorialism that, if it didn't anger Rachel, would almost certainly embarrass her.

He could only hope it wouldn't come to that. Perhaps Beiler would realize before things went much further how utterly foolish it would be for him to try to stake a claim on a woman who didn't want him.

This whole business with Beiler, Gant, and Rachel sparked the uneasy thought of a spider that blindsides its prey—capturing by stealth and a web of deception what might be difficult, if not impossible, to secure in an open confrontation.

He shuddered and abruptly pushed to his feet. All this sitting around, fretting about this and that, one thing and another, simply proved that Susan was right. He worried too much about his patients and everything else. He needed to learn to think less and relax more.

He would start tonight by going to bed instead of upsetting himself any further. God willing, a good night's sleep would make a difference in his outlook on things.

If nothing else it might go far to alleviate the throbbing headache that had begun to form earlier in the evening.