That was the kind of man his father was.
The book included some stories of himself as a small boy. His father’s love for him had shown through, in spite of the rift now between them. He felt a pang as he pictured his father bending over a desk, penning page after page. How amazing that it had somehow touched the life of an old Amish bishop, and possibly in the very place Joe would soon be residing!
Joe knew that some people would call this a coincidence, but his father had never believed in coincidences. He had taught Joe that God watched over every aspect of the lives of those who served Him.
The problem was, both men, Abraham and his father, had lived lives dedicated to serving the Lord, filled with integrity and sacrifice.
And he…well, he hadn’t.
Joe put the book back in the desk, poured the white paint into a roller pan, and began covering the years of accumulated nicks and stains on the walls. He wished it were as easy to renew a damaged life as it was to repaint a stained wall.
Rachel yanked at her thick hair with the delicate hairbrush Lydia had left for her in the bathroom. Once again, she had spent the night at her aunts’. The problem was, it was no sacrifice to do so anymore. No sacrifice at all. For the past week, as Joe had worked on the daadi haus, she had found herself drawn to the farmhouse like a moth to light every free minute. She had tried to convince herself that she was merely coming over to help.
The fact was, she had never felt so conflicted in her life. There had been that moment when she and Joe were alone together in the daadi haus, when both of them had felt the electricity crackling between them. Neither had acknowledged it in any way. It was too bizarre to contemplate.
And yet, several times, as she cleaned the rest of the windows, or trimmed out the baseboards, or dipped the roller in the fresh paint, she had sensed Joe staring at her—but when she turned, he had immediately glanced away. Several times she had caught herself doing the same thing.
This could not continue. This could not be. He was a stranger, a drifter, a man without a past or a future. She wanted him gone.
No, she didn’t. Yes, she did. Didn’t she?
Her mind slowly revealed once again—as though pulling a jeweler’s polishing cloth away from a rare stone—that breathless moment when they had stood motionless in the kitchen, looking into one another’s eyes, nearly paralyzed by the unspoken and shocking realization that there was a powerful attraction between them.
Who would have guessed that simply cleaning a house together could have such an effect?
This was crazy. She had to put up her guard…defend herself against this guy’s charm. And his smile. And the kindness and understanding she read in his eyes.
She chided herself. She couldn’t let her attraction to him blind her to the need to be on her guard for her aunts. Regardless of Ed’s evaluation that Joe was simply a good man fallen on bad times, she still needed proof.
But his fingerprints had not been in the database, Kim had found nothing in her computer search, and the license plate had been a dead end. She had even attempted other calls to the used-car salesman who had lent Joe his truck, but his secretary kept saying he was out.
All she knew for sure was that men who lived decent, honest lives didn’t drive into a strange town with no job, no connections, no friends, and no money.
It was imperative that she keep reminding herself of this fact, or she would be a goner with one more look into those incredible blue eyes.
She gave up on her hair and laid the brush on the bathroom sink. Today she had been pressed into service yet again by her aunts. They were determined to help Joe put the finishing touches on the daadi haus.
He hadn’t asked for any help, but the aunts just couldn’t keep their noses out of his business. Having made him their personal project, they were bent on turning the daadi haus into a real home for him and Bobby.
The daadi haus was nearly finished and the aunts had been gathering many useful things together as a housewarming surprise.
She couldn’t wait to see the look on Joe’s face when Lydia, Bertha, and Anna took over his home today.
She found Lydia and Bertha in the kitchen, each armed with housekeeping paraphernalia.
“Is everything ready?” she asked.
“Just a few more things,” Lydia said. “Anna decided that her collection of seashells would look good in Bobby’s room.”
At that moment, Anna came down the stairs clutching an old shoe box. If Anna was giving Bobby her seashells, this was a serious sacrifice. She had gathered the shells on her one and only visit to see relatives in Sarasota, Florida, twenty years ago and had shown the shells to everyone who came to visit ever since.
Rachel knew that there were exactly 143 seashells. Everyone in the family had the number memorized, after hearing Anna count them over and over again through the years.
“Bobby and Joe are gonna be so surprised!” Anna jiggled the shoe box. “I can’t wait!”
“Me either.” Rachel meant it. She couldn’t wait to watch what happened today.
Joe met them at the door with a paintbrush in his hand and a bemused look on his face as they bustled in, carrying various boxes and bags. Bobby was delighted about having company and proceeded to jump up and down on the old couch as he screeched and made faces.
“Whoa, partner.” Joe laid the paintbrush on an old newspaper and grabbed his son in midair. “I don’t think the couch can take too much of that.”
Anna set her box of shells on the scarred coffee table and exclaimed, “We’re gonna make your house nice, Joe!”
Joe hesitated only an instant before he smiled. “Thank you, Anna. Is there anything I can help carry in—or is that it?”
Rachel crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. “Oh, there’s a lot more, Joe. They still have a ton of stuff over in the kitchen.”
“I don’t deserve such kindness.”
Strangely enough, he sounded as though he meant it.
“That’s exactly what I told them”—she softened her comment with a smile—“but they wouldn’t listen to me. Come help me carry the rest of it.”
She and Joe went for the final load while the aunts unpacked the things they had already brought.
In the aunts’ kitchen, Rachel picked up a box. “I’d appreciate it if you’d try not to hurt their feelings today. They have good intentions.”
“You still don’t get it, do you, Rachel?”
“Get what?”
“Those three ladies could hang pink polka-dot curtains in the living room and a giant velvet picture of Elvis on the wall and I’d still be grateful.”
“They’re Amish, Joe. They don’t do pink polka-dots or velvet Elvis pictures.”
“You know what I mean.”
Rachel searched his eyes one more time to see if there was a criminal behind the gentle voice and unruly beard. Ed was right. The criminal she had imagined simply wasn’t there.
From one box, Joe lifted a garish calendar imprinted with bright pink Victorian-style cabbage roses. He held it at arm’s length and gave her a lopsided grin. “Isn’t this a little fancy for an Amish home?”
“Pink cabbage roses are Anna’s favorite. The only wall decorations most Amish have are Scripture plaques or old-fashioned calendars. A few will hang jigsaw puzzles of farm scenes and landscapes when they’re finished working them.”
“If it makes Anna happy, I’ll go nail this up in the kitchen right now.”
“That would definitely make her happy.”
Through the open door, they heard Bertha singing a hymn.
“Let’s go see what the ladies are up to.” Joe’s eyes twinkled with amusement.
“Brace yourself. I overheard them making plans last night.”
“I can’t wait to see.”
As they entered the daadi haus, Rachel saw that one of Lydia’s handmade quilts had been spread over the old brown couch. It had transformed the couch into a work of art. She wondered if Joe had any idea what
that Amish quilt would be worth at auction. Probably not. She wasn’t entirely certain that Lydia did.
Cushions covered with the same pattern had been placed on the two armchairs. A wooden bowl of nuts and fruit sat in the center of the coffee table, along with several out-of-date but brightly colored and much-treasured Countryside magazines.
Through the kitchen doorway, she saw Bertha and Lydia absorbed in their transformation of that room. A plain dark green tablecloth had been laid catty-corner on the square Formica kitchen table. Green crockery from the aunts’ own kitchen was lined up on the counter. Bertha, seated at the table, happily threaded white curtains onto empty curtain rods.
She could hear Anna chatting merrily with Bobby in his room. Suddenly, as though Anna had told a joke, they heard Bobby belly laughing.
“Do you hear that?” Joe said. “I’ve gone far too long without hearing that kind of laughter coming from my little boy.”
“It’s a nice sound,” Rachel agreed.
They went back to Bobby’s bedroom and glanced in to see what was going on. Anna was dancing her seashells, one by one, across the shelves of a small bookcase.
“I’ll be right back.” Joe’s voice sounded raw and choked. To Rachel’s surprise, he abruptly turned and walked away.
Rachel followed and found him pacing in the yard outside.
“I thought nothing they could do would upset you,” she said.
“They are so kind and giving, sharing what they have with me, a stranger—they break my heart.”
“Which is why I’ve tried so hard to protect them,” Rachel said. “An unscrupulous person could destroy them.”
“The first night we met, I told you I would never hurt them. I meant it.”
“With all my heart, I’ve hoped that’s true.” Rachel sighed. “Look, Joe, it’s no secret that I’ve been less than thrilled with your being here…but helping you and Bobby is making my aunts happier than I’ve seen them in ages. I’m not going to mess with that. I don’t want you to either. So go hang Anna’s calendar, help Bertha put up the curtains, and tell them thank you when they’re finished. They believe they are doing God’s will.”
“I know.”
As she turned to leave, Joe put his hand on her shoulder. It was the first time he had done that, and she wasn’t prepared. Startling her into a combat reflex, she whirled into a crouch, her eyes snapping and her fists clenched.
“Oh, Rachel, I wasn’t trying to hurt you.” Joe drew his hands back, palms up. “I just wanted to say one more thing before we went inside.”
“Sorry.” She unclenched her fists and took a deep breath. “I’m a little jumpy these days.”
“For Bobby’s sake, I need this chance at building a quiet life. At least for a while. Please allow me that chance.”
Rachel chewed her bottom lip. “Tell me what you’re running from.”
“That would require trust, Rachel.” There was a deep sadness in his eyes. “And trust is something I’m very low on these days.”
“But I’m supposed to trust you.” Her frustration was intense. Didn’t he realize how completely trustworthy she was?
“I know it’s a lot to ask.”
Still unnerved by her reflexive reaction to his touch, she felt a strong desire to lash out at him. “I checked your prints.”
He cocked an eyebrow and waited.
“They came up clean.”
Joe nodded, as though he’d been certain they would.
“I ran your tags.”
A slow smile spread over his face. “How is Buzzy?”
“Less than communicative.”
“A good sort of friend to have.”
“How did you do that, Joe? How did you talk a used-car salesman into letting you drive a perfectly good truck off the lot that didn’t even belong to you?”
“I made a trade.”
“What kind of trade?”
“The kind that left him driving a vehicle worth ten times the one I borrowed.”
“Really?”
Joe crossed his heart. “Scout’s honor.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever.” She put her hands on her hips. “Okay. Treat my aunts right, keep out of trouble, and I’ll leave you alone.”
He grinned that killer smile again. “You don’t have to leave me alone.”
She looked him square in the eyes, determined not to acknowledge his attempt to flirt. She dare not let him see that she was weakening toward him. “Step out of line even once, and our agreement is off.”
His smile faded. “I wouldn’t expect anything less of you, Officer Troyer.”
Chapter Eleven
With the painting and cleaning completed, and with Joe and Bobby living comfortably in the daadi haus these past three days, Rachel had no excuse to spend her nights at her aunts’ home anymore. Her own house, which had once felt like a well-ordered sanctuary, now simply seemed vacant and empty when she went home to it. She longed for the farm, for the comforting companionship of her aunts, and—if she was being totally honest with herself—what she missed most was the presence of Joe and his sweet son.
Rachel was exhausted. Her day at work had been especially brutal. If ever she had needed to spend some time at her aunts’ farm, it was this evening. Deciding she had stayed away long enough, she drove over to check on how things were going with the aunts and their new handyman.
Spotting Joe on a ladder, scraping paint off the side of the farmhouse, gave her pause. It seemed strange, seeing a man constantly working around her aunts’ farm, but she had to admit—the farmhouse had been in dire need of a fresh coat of paint. Thank goodness he was the one doing it and not her. Scraping paint was one of those things that set her teeth on edge, like fingernails on a chalkboard to others.
“What are you doing?” she asked as she approached the porch.
“Building the Sistine Chapel. What are you doing?”
“Okay, so that was a dumb question. Sorry.”
“I have to admit,” he said, “I didn’t realize how tedious the prep work would be.” He glanced down from his perch on the next-to-the-top rung. “Can’t beat the view, though.”
“Is supper ready?”
“Close, I think.” He climbed down the ladder and laid the scraper on a windowsill. “Lydia kicked me out of the kitchen. She said she was making something special.”
“That’s Lydia for you.” Rachel grinned and leaned against the porch.
“Since Bobby and I now have a kitchen, I attempted to cook a meal at noon today.” He smiled crookedly. “Bobby brutally informed me that Lydia’s cooking tastes better than mine.” He placed the palm of one hand flat against his chest. “I was crushed.”
“Well, as you pointed out last night at supper, Lydia is a genius in the kitchen. After that comment, she’s probably half killed herself cooking for you today.”
“I hope not. For women their age, all three of them work too hard as it is.”
“I know. That’s why I was trying—until you came along—to make them give up the idea of running an inn.”
“I’m sorry about that. Bertha keeps coming up with more projects I need to complete before they open in the spring.”
“She’s almost eighty,” Rachel grumbled. “Any normal woman her age would be gearing down, not restarting a labor-intensive business.”
There was a pause as he studied her. “You sound worn-out, Rachel. Has something happened?”
The genuine kindness in his voice shattered her. She felt a lump rise to her throat as the tragedy of her day flashed through her mind.
His question made her wish she had someone with whom to share daily events—someone besides her aunts, whom she tried to protect as much as possible from the harsh realities of life.
“What’s happened, Rachel?” he prodded.
“A car wreck.” She stared down at her boots.
“How bad?”
“Bad.” The memory rose as bitter as bile. The child had been so terrified, so hurt. Rachel f
elt as though she’d explode if she didn’t talk about it to someone. “We had to life-flight a little girl to the Children’s Hospital in Akron.”
“Will she survive?”
Rachel shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“How old is she?”
“Three. Her parents didn’t have her in any kind of safety seat. She wasn’t even wearing a seat belt. They were just dumb kids themselves, and they were high on something. Neither of them was badly hurt, which I suppose is a blessing. Maybe if the little girl survives, they’ll decide to grow up and take better care of her.” Rachel rested her head against the porch column and closed her eyes. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with some people.”
His voice was quiet, intimate. “The people around here are blessed to have you watching out for them.”
She opened her eyes. “Thank you for saying that. Sometimes I wish I’d become, oh, I don’t know, a rocket scientist or a brain surgeon or something. You know”—she joked, wiping away a stray tear—“something easy.”
“You’d be miserable doing anything else for a living.”
“I don’t know about that. Sometimes I think I should quit my job and help my aunts run their inn.”
“Are you serious?” He looked at her closely. “They would be thrilled.”
“Can you imagine me making muffins for breakfast?”
“Actually—yes. I can.”
Wonderful smells wafted out of the window, and her stomach rumbled. Had she eaten any breakfast? No. Lunch had been a stray mint she’d found in her desk drawer. The only thing fueling her right now was black coffee. The caffeine and adrenaline were wearing off, and she was beginning to feel weak and light-headed.
“Where’s Bobby?” She sank down onto the top step.
“Holding court in the kitchen last I saw. Anna had unearthed an old wooden high chair, and Bobby was sitting at the table making a tower out of Dominoes.”
“It’s probably my high chair. I think it belonged to my father and aunts too. Bobby’s a little big to be using it.”
“Not when he’s pretending to be Anna’s baby doll.”
Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio Page 13
