Who I Am with You

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  By that time, Andrew hadn’t had to worry about banks closing either. He’d had nothing left to lose.

  A curse rose in his throat, but he couldn’t speak it. His upbringing wouldn’t let him, nor would his faith.

  My faith?

  He felt like a fraud, applying the word to himself. Part of him trusted God to see them through, but another part felt abandoned and betrayed. The rain fell on the just and the unjust, so he was told. Rain? This was more than rain. He was drowning. He was being washed away in a torrential downpour. Not to mention he was overwhelmed by self-pity. A disgusting habit of late.

  He set the bucket of eggs on the ground and walked to the corral that held four plow horses. Morning sunlight gilded their sorrel coats. One of them snorted at him.

  “All right. You’re next.” He tossed hay into the feed boxes. Then he leaned his forearms on the top rail and watched them eat.

  His thoughts returned to his wife. Why wouldn’t she see things from his point of view? He couldn’t go on living on this farm, depending on the generosity of his in-laws. He needed to find employment that utilized his education and skills. Sure, he could milk cows and collect eggs, but that wasn’t what he wanted to do to support his wife and child. He’d gone to college so he could leave the farm behind.

  But whenever he suggested that he should stay with his cousin in the Portland area while hunting for work, Helen burst into tears. She wouldn’t leave her mother, she said, and she couldn’t bear the thought of him going without her.

  “Be patient with her, son,” his father had told him. “Expectant women are emotional at times.”

  Emotional Andrew could handle, but Helen was being unreasonable.

  “Andrew.” His wife’s soft voice drew him around.

  He felt that tightness in his gut again. He’d promised to make her happy. She wasn’t.

  “I don’t want us to fight.” She took a few more steps toward him, drawing a robe tight about herself against the early morning chill.

  “I don’t want that either.”

  “I know it hasn’t been easy for you, these past few months.”

  “Or for you.”

  She offered the smallest of smiles. “Can’t you wait a few more months before you look for work elsewhere? Father appreciates your help here on the farm, and the baby is due at the end of summer. Please. Just give it until the end of summer. Until after the baby comes. Then, if that’s still what you want to do, we’ll go to Portland. All three of us.”

  If she’d continued to argue with him, he would have stuck to his guns. He would have insisted he widen his job search to bigger cities. But how could he resist her gentle plea? He couldn’t.

  “All right, Helen. We’ll stay put for the summer.”

  Chapter 5

  Ridley could have stayed at the house on Sunday. He was able to worship on his own. He could put a CD in the player in his mom’s kitchen and open his Bible and have church right where he was. And yet he found himself driving into Hope Springs, looking for the community church pastored by Michael Phelps, no relation to the Olympic swimmer. He chuckled at the memory. He hoped the pastor included the same kind of dry humor in his sermons. Ridley had come to Hope Springs to hide out, to get away from the press and the gossip, and now he was risking his much desired privacy for an hour or two with other believers. But he needed that hour or two. He knew he needed it.

  He managed to slip into the back pew of the sanctuary without making eye contact with anyone, but his luck didn’t last long. A man approached and introduced himself, shaking Ridley’s hand. More welcomes followed, but everyone he met seemed satisfied when he gave only his first name.

  The quaint church, circa 1930s if he was any judge of architecture, still had an organ, and a plump woman in a lilac-print dress began to play it, causing members of the congregation to scatter to their pews. Soon they were all standing, hymnals in hand, and singing one of his great-grandmother’s favorite hymns, “Morning Has Broken.”

  He grinned to himself, remembering the elderly woman seated in her recliner, eyes closed, palms up, greeting the day as she sang the hymn in her reedy voice. As a kid, he’d loved to spend a weekend with GeeGee Gwen. She’d been ancient—in her nineties—but sharp as a tack. She’d kept her wit right to the end of her life.

  He wondered what GeeGee Gwen would think of the predicament he’d landed himself in. What advice would she have for him if she were alive today? Maybe she would have told him to develop a thicker skin. He knew he was innocent of leaking information to the opposition campaign, and his actual integrity had to matter more to him than the lies of others. He knew he hadn’t betrayed Tammy Treehorn by exposing what she’d hoped to keep hidden. He couldn’t even blame her for wanting to keep it a secret, although anybody involved in politics had to know it was almost impossible to keep anything secret nowadays.

  With a small shake of his head, he shoved away the thoughts and concentrated on the words of the hymn. Eventually he would let himself analyze and decipher all that had happened in recent months. This was not the day or the hour.

  After the congregation took their seats again, Ridley let his gaze roam the sanctuary while someone shared announcements. He recognized no one but the pastor, of course. How could he? Then he realized he’d hoped to catch sight of his neighbor. Not a good impulse. But not surprising either. She’d stayed on his mind after their walk the other day. He supposed it was sympathy for her loss. He’d have to be heartless not to feel sorry for her.

  The offering basket came down his pew, pulling him from his wandering thoughts. After dropping in some cash, he focused his attention on the pulpit. It was easy to do since Mick Phelps preached a sermon that held Ridley’s interest through to the end. When the congregation rose to sing a closing hymn, Ridley sent up a silent thanks to God for drawing him into town. He’d needed this worship service even more than he’d believed.

  As he left the sanctuary, he shook a few more hands and acknowledged a few more words of welcome with smiles and nods of his own. He was already outside the church when he heard his name called, and turned.

  “Ridley,” Mick repeated as he hurried down the few steps toward him, grinning widely. “Glad to see you here.”

  “Glad I came.”

  “Listen, would you like to join my wife and me for Sunday dinner? It’ll be a quiet one. Just the three of us. Our daughters are visiting their grandparents in California.”

  Should he accept? As if to rescue him from making a wrong decision, his mobile phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. Only a few people had this new number. He held up the index finger of his left hand while reaching for his phone with his right. He felt a jolt in his chest when he saw who was calling: Selena Wright. Out of habit, he considered answering it. Then good sense took over and he hit Decline. His gaze darted back to the pastor and good sense triumphed a second time. “I’ll have to pass today. But thanks anyway.”

  “Sure thing.” There seemed to be real regret in Mick’s eyes.

  The pastor could probably become a good friend, given the right circumstances. Only these weren’t the right circumstances. Ridley wasn’t in the market for new friends. He’d been let down by people he’d thought were friends. Better not to take chances.

  Moments later, as he slid onto the driver’s seat of his Subaru, his phone vibrated again. He glanced at the screen. Selena again. She wouldn’t give up. “Hello.”

  “Ridley, it’s me. Selena.”

  “I know.” He almost asked how she’d discovered his new number. But then he remembered. He’d given it to her, about thirty minutes before she told him she never wanted to see him again. Why hadn’t he seen that coming?

  “Listen, I left my sweater at your house the last time . . . the last time I was with you. But my key to your front door won’t work.” She drew a breath, then demanded, “Where are you anyway?”

  “Out of town.”

  “Where?”

  He wanted to tell her it was none of her busines
s where he was, but he swallowed the retort, along with the anger that rose with it.

  After a few seconds of silence, she must have realized he wasn’t going to answer. “So how I do I get in?”

  “You don’t get in, Selena. You’ll have to wait until I’m back in town. I’ll make sure your sweater is returned as soon as possible.”

  She called him a name, and the phone went silent.

  Ridley dropped the offending object onto the passenger seat, then raked the fingers of both hands through his hair, pushing down his anger a second time. He could at least be glad he’d changed the locks on his house before leaving town. Not that he believed Selena had left her sweater there. Whatever her reasons for wanting inside, it had nothing to do with an article of clothing.

  He turned the key to start the engine, then drove toward home, thoughts churning once again.

  He’d first met Selena Wright at a party about seven months ago. A good friend of his next-door neighbor, Selena was pretty with a quick wit and a bright laugh. She and Ridley had hit it off at once. They both liked basketball, mountain biking, and technology, to name a few things they had in common. Ridley had assumed they would go on discovering similarities. Instead, differences had begun to crop up. He’d known, long before the disaster with the Treehorn campaign surfaced, that he and Selena weren’t going to be together for the long term. He’d known it was time to end their relationship. Still, he hadn’t expected her quick wit to transform into a razor-sharp tongue, cutting him to ribbons when he was down.

  Jessica left the kitchen, carrying a mug of hot cocoa in her right hand. Movement beyond the large living-room window drew her gaze in time to see a red Subaru pass by. Dust swirled down the road in its wake. Her neighbor, returning from town. She hadn’t seen Ridley since the day they’d walked together. It seemed they both preferred to keep to themselves when possible.

  “And in a statement from her campaign headquarters, Ms. Treehorn, after a lengthy silence, promised to hold a press conference later this week.”

  Sipping her cocoa, she looked toward the television in the corner of the room.

  “Our reporter asked if staff member Ridley Chesterfield, who has been accused of leaking the files regarding the pro-life candidate’s abortion, would be present at the press conference. The representative stated that Mr. Chesterfield no longer works for the Treehorn campaign and refused any further comment.”

  Jessica nearly choked on her cocoa when her neighbor—handsome, smiling—flashed onto the screen, standing beside the candidate. What on earth?

  Since the news clip was over, she turned and walked to her studio, where she sat in front of her computer and opened a browser. She typed in his name. Links to articles, blog posts, and news sites filled the computer screen. She clicked the first one and began to read.

  Halfan hour later, she twirled her chair away from the computer.

  No wonder her neighbor had preferred not to give his last name. She didn’t know the full story of what had happened inside the political candidate’s campaign—even she could spot the many holes in the reporting—and she wasn’t completely sure what Ridley’s role had been. But she knew the internet wolves were out in force, tearing to shreds whatever and whoever they could.

  KUNA, IDAHO

  Sunday, July 20, 1930

  Andrew was pulled from a dreamless sleep by a sound he couldn’t immediately identify. As he sat up, he heard it again. A groan, long and low. Predawn light filtered through the curtain, enough for him to see his wife, curled on her side, her face grimaced in pain.

  “Helen?”

  “Get . . . Mother.”

  He jumped out of bed, his heart racing. “Do you—”

  “Hurry.”

  Barefoot and wearing only pajamas, he dashed across the hall. “Mother Greyson.” He knocked on the door. “Helen needs you.”

  His mother-in-law answered within moments, clad in her nightgown, her graying hair disheveled. He’d never seen her wearing anything but a dress and sensible shoes, with every strand of hair in place. Her appearance seemed to add to the fear he felt.

  “Helen sent me for you. I think . . . I think she’s in pain.”

  Andrew saw alarm in Madge Greyson’s eyes before she brushed past him. He followed right behind but had barely reached the room he shared with Helen before Madge said, “Tell Frank to call the doctor.”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw his father-in-law hurrying toward the living room, pulling on his robe as he went. He turned to tell Mother Greyson so, but the words caught in his throat. The sheet beneath Helen, now exposed, was stained red with her blood. Panic clawed at his chest.

  “What can I do?” He hurried to the opposite side of the bed.

  “Pray,” Madge answered softly.

  He knelt on the floor and reached for his wife’s hand. “I’m here, Helen. Don’t be afraid. It’ll be okay.”

  She met his gaze. Her dark eyes were filled with fear.

  “It’ll be okay,” he repeated.

  She groaned again, a primal sound, coming from somewhere deep inside of her. Andrew hadn’t thought he could be more frightened. He’d been wrong. Her hand squeezed his, and it seemed she had the strength to snap his fingers in two.

  Frank Greyson appeared in the bedroom doorway. “The doctor’s on his way. What can I do?”

  “Put water on the stove to boil. The doctor might need it. And bring me some old bedding. There’s some in a box inside the shed to the right of the door.”

  Frank disappeared without a word.

  Andrew wished he’d been the one sent to boil water and fetch old bedding. Action would have been easier than kneeling here, helpless to ease his wife’s pain.

  The minutes passed like agonizing hours, but finally Dr. Russell entered the bedroom. Edmond Russell was a physician whose mere appearance demanded trust. A man in his late fifties, he had a full head of stone-gray hair. His beard was closely trimmed. Even in the middle of the night, he wore suit coat, vest, and trousers. His black shoes shone, as if he hadn’t walked across the dusty driveway to enter the Greyson house.

  The doctor took Mother Greyson’s place beside the bed. “What have we here?” He leaned over Helen.

  Her response was another long groan.

  “Can you do something to help her, Dr. Russell?” Andrew asked.

  The doctor looked at him. “I think it would be good if you joined Frank. Husbands are generally in the way at a time like this.”

  “It’s too soon for the baby to come. She’s not due for another two months.”

  “I know, son. I know. You go on now and let me see to your wife.”

  Reluctant to leave, yet reluctant to stay at the same time, Andrew joined his father-in-law in the living room. Frank’s expression mirrored the tumultuous feelings roiling inside Andrew. He sat on the sofa, neither man speaking. Andrew wanted to pray but didn’t seem to know how.

  “For we know not what we should pray for as we ought.” The whisper in his heart caused him to still. “But the Spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered.”

  His fears didn’t vanish—he could still hear the sounds of Helen in pain through the bedroom door—but the Bible verse did bring him comfort. It helped to know that the Holy Spirit was praying for Helen and their baby when he couldn’t find the words to do so himself.

  Just as it had been as they waited for the doctor to arrive, so now the minutes dragged as they waited for whatever news the doctor would bring them. Waited for it. Dreaded it.

  Daylight filled the living room by the time Dr. Russell appeared in the doorway. His expression was grim as he dried his hands on a towel. Both Andrew and Frank rose to their feet.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor said at last.

  Frank’s hand alighted on Andrew’s shoulder.

  “There was nothing I could do.”

  “The baby?” Andrew whispered.

  The doctor nodded. “Stillborn. He was too small to survive
outside the womb, I’m afraid.”

  “He.” A son. Andrew swallowed. “And Helen?”

  “She’ll be fine, given a little time. She’s weak from blood loss, but she is young and healthy. She’ll make a full recovery.”

  “May I . . . May I see her?”

  “Madge is attending to her right now. Give her a little more time, and then you may go in.” He shook his head slowly. “I’m very sorry, my boy.”

  Andrew sank back onto the sofa, a crushing weight pressing on his chest as he remembered his first reaction to the news that Helen was pregnant. He hadn’t been happy about it. He’d thought it a bad time for them to start a family. He’d hated the idea of moving in with his in-laws and being dependent upon them for the care of his family. And now . . . Now there wouldn’t be a baby.

  Guilt and regret washed over him, and he wept.

  Chapter 6

  Ridley watched dawn creep across the ceiling of the bedroom, as awake now as he’d been when he retired around midnight. He blamed Selena’s phone call for the sleepless night. For a few days, since his arrival in Hope Springs, he’d avoided dwelling on all that had happened in Boise. His former girlfriend’s call had opened the floodgates again.

  He’d taken a cut in pay to go to work as the IT specialist for the Tammy Treehorn campaign. It had been worth it because he believed in the woman. He’d been hired to make certain the campaign’s network was secure, that opponents or troublemakers of any ilk couldn’t hack into the Treehorn computers and devices. He’d done his job and done it well. His downfall had been blind trust. He’d assumed everyone was who they appeared to be and everyone meant what they said.

  “I’m an idiot.”

  Although disappointed by Tammy’s silence to the press—especially that she hadn’t spoken out in his defense—he sincerely hoped she would survive the tumult, that she would be able to rise above the disclosures about her past. If not this year and this campaign, then in the future. He hoped less positive things for Tammy’s aide, Rachelle Ford. His gut told him she had more to do with this mess than it seemed on the surface. In fact, he should have paid heed to his gut when she’d given him that laptop with instructions to recover the data from the hard drive. It hadn’t been an unusual request. He’d done the very same thing many times over the course of his career. But there had been something in her manner that seemed . . . off. If he’d questioned it . . .