Gathering Shadows

by Nancy Mehl

  Naomi came into the room, carrying a metal box. “Is this the one you mean?” she asked her husband.

  He nodded and held out his hands. After she gave him the box, he opened the lid and riffled through it. About a minute later, he pulled out a folded piece of rather yellowed paper. He opened it and perused it carefully.

  “Yes, this is it.” He handed the paper to Reuben. “We have this because Nathan and Anna were given several extra copies. They gave one to us for safekeeping, just in case anything happened to the original.”

  Reuben looked it over and his face fell. Then he handed it to me. It was a Certificate of Live Birth issued from Missouri seventeen years ago. A baby boy was born to Anna and Nathan Fisher. His name was listed as Elijah.

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  “I . . . I can’t believe it.” I didn’t want to cry in front of Samuel and Naomi, but I couldn’t help it. “I was so sure,” I whispered.

  Naomi got up from her seat and came over to the love seat. She sat down and wrapped her arms around me. “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. You must miss your brother very much.”

  I nodded but couldn’t respond. So everything that had happened was nothing more than a series of random events? Had I wanted so badly to believe I’d found Ryan that I’d twisted innocent coincidences into something sinister?

  “I’m sorry we caused you so much trouble.”

  “Nonsense,” Naomi said, still holding me. “You did the right thing. You needed answers. I hope we have given that to you.” She let me go and looked into my face. “Now you can go on with your life. Perhaps your search for your brother will continue, or perhaps it will stop now. You must decide. But God has set a path before you. I pray you will find it.”

  “Th-thank you.”

  She gave me one last hug, then went back to her chair. “I am glad we were here to help you.”

  “You’ve been wonderful,” Reuben said. “As soon as Wynter’s clothes are ready, we’ll get out of your way.”

  Samuel frowned. “You have called her Wynter several times, yet she calls herself Emily. I don’t understand.”

  I explained the difference between my real name and the name I used at the station. I wasn’t sure they understood, since television didn’t seem to be a part of their lives. I didn’t see one anywhere in the room. However, they seemed interested in the special I was working on and suggested a couple of other towns that might make good additions to our list.

  Before long, my clothes were dry. I went upstairs to change, laying the dress and slip on the bed. For just a moment, I sat on the bed and looked around the room. Once again I thought of my grandmother. With my mother’s delicate emotional health and my father’s drinking, visiting her had been my salvation. I felt safe in her house. I could still remember Sundays after church. She’d invite her brother and sisters over for fried chicken and conversation. All four elderly siblings, gathered around the table, talking about their lives when they were young, making each other laugh. They always treated me like one of the group. Great-Aunt Edna, Great-Aunt Minnie, and Great-Uncle Charlie. I missed them all so much. I gazed out the window to the fields of wheat and thought about the pain of saying good-bye to Ryan. Was it finally time?

  Feeling a sense of almost overwhelming sadness, I walked out of Naomi’s room, giving it one last look. Then I closed the door and went to find Reuben.

  “Again, thank you,” Reuben said to Samuel and Naomi as I came into the room. “We appreciate your hospitality.”

  “It’s no problem,” Samuel said. “I am grateful we were able to send you in the proper direction.”

  Naomi gave me a quick hug. “You will be in our prayers.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  Reuben and I left the house and got in the truck. The Fishers stood on the front porch and waved to us as we left. I watched them in the side mirror. Once they stopped waving, they turned to face each other. Naomi looked upset, flinging her hands around. Then she went into the house. Samuel waited a moment, looking down at the porch floor for a few seconds before going inside.

  Their actions seemed a bit odd. Maybe we weren’t quite as welcome as we’d thought. Frankly, I didn’t care what they’d said to each other. No more theories for me. All I wanted was to finish my interviews in Sanctuary, get out on the road, and complete the report. I missed Mr. Henderson. Except for a week’s vacation I’d taken between jobs, I’d never been away from him this long. I was certain Megan was taking good care of him, but I missed his soft nose touching my cheek in the morning—his way of telling me it was time to get up and feed him. Esther’s cats were certainly filling the gap, but as much as I adored them, they weren’t Mr. Henderson.

  I should have been missing my apartment as well, but since this trip, I’d started to wonder if the modern touches I’d so carefully surrounded myself with really expressed my true personality. Maybe when I got back, I’d start looking for a house. Something old, with character.

  “You’re being very quiet.”

  I jumped at the sound of Reuben’s voice. “Just thinking.”

  “I know you’re disappointed.”

  “Yes, I am. I thought I’d finally found Ryan.”

  “I don’t think you should give up. Who knows? He may still be out there somewhere.”

  “I’m not sure about that anymore.” I grunted. “Seems my father spilled his guts for nothing. I doubt he’ll be too happy to find that out.”

  “Well, at least you have the truth now. Maybe that will give you what you need to build a relationship with trust.” He looked over at me. “He loves you, Wynter.”

  “Maybe. I guess so. I wish he’d told me the truth a long time ago though. I could have handled it.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But he did what he thought was best for you and your mom.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t feel like talking about my dad.”

  “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

  I stared out at the rain-soaked fields as we drove past. The showers were lighter now but remained steady. “All the weird things that have happened since I got to Sanctuary. Once I began to wonder if someone was trying to keep me away from Elijah, things started to make a strange kind of sense. But now . . .”

  “Nothing makes sense.”

  I stared at him and nodded. “Who sent that note to Dad and why? And what do those clippings mean?”

  “I can’t explain the note,” Reuben said slowly. “But as far as the newspaper stories, maybe someone is simply trying to point you toward the person or persons behind the kidnapping of those babies. Maybe the whole situation with Ryan clouded the truth. The real story.”

  I sat up straighter in my seat. “You might have something there. I guess I need to take Ryan out of the equation.” Saying those words hurt, and my voice broke. But I was determined not to cry again, so I cleared my throat and continued. “When I get back to St. Louis, I intend to do some digging and see if I can find some additional information about these cases.”

  “When you get back to St. Louis?”

  “Well, yes. I’ve got to finish the interviews in Sanctuary, wrap up this story, and get back to work.” I studied him for a moment. “You know I have to leave. Right?”

  “Yes, I know. I just . . . I don’t know, I hoped . . .”

  “Reuben, I have feelings for you. I told you that. But I have to go home. My life is there. We’ll see each other. I promise.”

  “Of course we will,” he said quietly. “Maybe for a while, but eventually we’ll realize how different we are. That we aren’t looking for the same things in life.”

  “What did you think? That I’d quit my job and move to Sanctuary? And do what? Maybe it’s just me, but I didn’t see a television station anywhere. Or, for that fact, a television.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe you could write. Isn’t that what you said you really wanted to do?”

  “Do you know how few people ever get published? It’s a long shot at best.”

 
; “I know you can do it.” He turned his head to look at me. I was touched by the sincerity in his expression. “I happen to believe you can do anything.”

  “Oh, Reuben. Can you really see me in Sanctuary, writing suspense and mystery novels? Doesn’t really fit the ambience of your town, does it?”

  He smiled. “Maybe you could use a Mennonite town as a backdrop.”

  I couldn’t suppress a giggle. “Mennonite suspense. I can’t see it.”

  “Maybe that’s a dumb idea. But following your passion isn’t dumb.”

  “You could move to St. Louis.”

  He shook his head. “Hard to run a farm from St. Louis.”

  “You could do something else, you know.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “On the way back to town, I’d like to show you my farm.”

  I started to protest, but he held up his hand. “Ten minutes. That’s all I ask. It won’t put you behind that much on your schedule.”

  “Okay. But only ten minutes.”

  We drove on silently, the rain pinging off the roof and windshield. Somehow I felt disconnected. The whole reason for my trip to Sanctuary had been to find Ryan. Now that I knew he wasn’t here, it was as if I’d already begun to distance myself from the town and everyone in it. I didn’t belong anymore. There was no reason for me to stay once my story was complete.

  As we neared the road to Sanctuary, Reuben turned off on a road leading the other way. After a few minutes, a house came into view. An old Victorian, painted grayish-blue with white trim. Behind the house was a huge red barn. As we got closer, I saw horses grazing in a large fenced field. They were beautiful. Long faces and huge eyes. Arabians. I’d collected horse figurines as a child, always hoping that someday I’d own one.

  Reuben turned into a long driveway, surrounded on both sides by fields, their burgeoning crops glistening with rain. He pulled up in front of the old house and parked.

  “This is it,” he said.

  I could hear the pride in his voice.

  “This farm has been in my family for three generations. I grew up here and so did my father. Someday I hope to pass it along to my children.”

  “Is Maggie your only sibling?”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding. “But she never loved the farm the way I do.”

  Reuben got out of the truck and came around to my side. He opened my door and helped me out. I winced as I stepped down.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded. “I’m sore, but the bleeding’s stopped. I’ll be fine.”

  I looked at our surroundings. “This is incredible, Reuben.”

  “Something about this place captured my soul when I was a boy. I can’t imagine living anywhere else. This is . . . home.”

  The sound of barking came from somewhere, and suddenly a beautiful golden retriever came running around the side of the house. He jumped up on Reuben, getting mud on his jeans. He didn’t seem to mind.

  “I take it this is Lazarus?”

  Reuben laughed as he hugged the excited dog. “Yes, this is Lazarus.” When he told the dog to get down, Lazarus obeyed immediately and sat down at his master’s feet, his mouth in a wide grin.

  Reuben motioned for me to come closer. “Lazarus, this is Wynter.”

  I knelt down in front of him. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Lazarus.”

  The retriever put his paw out. I shook it, even though it was muddy. “You’re a very handsome fellow.”

  Lazarus wiggled up closer to me, and I put my arms around him.

  “He really likes you,” Reuben said.

  “I have the feeling he likes everyone, but thank you.”

  “You stay out here,” Reuben told him. “You’re too muddy. I’ll give you a bath tonight.”

  The dog seemed to understand. He followed us up the steps and onto the front porch, lying down on a rug near the door.

  “This is a wraparound porch,” I said. “My grandmother’s house in Springfield had one. Don’t see too many of them anymore.”

  As he reached into his pocket and took out a ring of keys, he smiled. “Maggie and I used to play on this porch. We’d run around on it until my mother couldn’t take it anymore. ‘You kids settle down right now,’ she’d yell. ‘Or I’ll give you something to run from.’” He chuckled. “Never could figure out what that meant. When I was older, I asked her about it. She just laughed and admitted that she had no idea. As long as it put the fear of God in us, she’d accomplished her goal.”

  “Does your mother live alone in Jefferson City?”

  He slid the key into the doorknob. “No, she lives with my aunt. She’s doing fine. As feisty as ever.” He opened the door and waved me inside. “I’ve tried to get her to move back in with me, but she won’t do it. She wants me to get married and thinks she’d be in the way. She’s very stubborn.”

  “So that’s where you get it.”

  He laughed. “I guess so.”

  He ushered me into a large room with incredibly high ceilings. A huge staircase with wooden railings led to the upper floors.

  “Let’s go this way,” he said.

  I followed him into another room with a magnificent wood-burning fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling oak shelves lined with books sat on either side. The windows in the room were huge. They began a few feet from the floor and stretched up at least nine feet. I’d never seen anything like them before.

  “What room is this?” I asked.

  “I use it as a library. I’ll show you the living room and the kitchen in a minute.” He pointed toward a massive desk that sat near the windows. It appeared to be mahogany with curved, carved legs and edges. “That desk belonged to my great-grandfather. He was a writer.” Reuben walked over to one of the bookshelves and pulled out an old leather-bound book.

  He held it out to me, and I took it. The spine was cracked, but otherwise, the book was in very good condition for its age. I could clearly read the title: A Wanderer’s Dream by Jacob King.

  “What’s it about?” I asked, slowly opening the cover. The yellowed pages inside spoke of age and gentle use.

  “My great-grandfather considered himself a wanderer through life. Not someone who made his home here, because his home was in heaven. The story is about a man who lost his way, who valued the things of life instead of life itself. He served his possessions instead of God.”

  “A cautionary tale, huh? How does it turn out?”

  Reuben smiled. “In the end he realizes what’s really important in life. People. His family. Not the pursuit of ambition.”

  I closed the cover and handed it back to him. “I’d like to read it someday.”

  He slid it back into its place on the shelf. “Sure.” His tone reflected his obvious skepticism.

  “For goodness’ sake, Reuben. It’s not like we’ll be on other sides of the world.”

  “Maybe so.” He shrugged, but it was clear he didn’t believe me.

  I walked over to the desk and ran my hand across the intricate carvings. Then I gently lowered myself into the old leather office chair. From that vantage point I could look out on the lush green fields. Just a slight turn of my head revealed the Arabians prancing in the rain.

  “This is the perfect place to write.” The words slipped out of my mouth before I realized I’d said them. I could feel myself flush with embarrassment. “I mean . . . I’m not saying . . .”

  Reuben walked slowly toward the desk and faced me. “Please don’t feel uncomfortable. You’re welcome to come here and write anytime you’d like.”

  I could see myself sitting here in this lovely house, surrounded by books, words slipping out through my fingers and onto a keyboard. Everything about this room inspired me. I reluctantly rose from the chair and followed him into a comfortable living room with another fireplace. The long windows continued there and into the formal dining room. Images I couldn’t control flashed in my mind. A family gathered around the table for Christmas dinner. Children laughing. A wife reaching under the table to tak
e her husband’s hand, each of them thankful for the blessings God had given them.

  The kitchen was a combination of old and new, perfectly blended. A built-in oven matched the historic charm of the room, while an antique stove, beautifully restored and gleaming, waited for boiling pots of soup and freshly baked loaves of bread. From there, we ventured upstairs to look at the five bedrooms. Two of them were empty and one held storage. The fourth was charming, with antique furniture and touches that seemed distinctly feminine.

  “This is my mother’s room when she comes to visit,” Reuben explained. “The bed, dresser, and rocking chair have been in my family for many years.” He ran his fingers across a gorgeous quilt that covered the bed. “My grandmother made this. She was a prolific quilter. You’ll find quilts in almost every room.”

  “It’s wonderful. I can almost feel the people who used to live here. My grandmother’s house was like this. Every time I went to stay with her, I felt . . . I don’t know. Like I was really home. As if the house where I lived with my parents was just a place I visited sometimes.”

  Reuben smiled. “I know what you mean.”

  “How could you? You were raised in this house.”

  “Although I loved the farm, I wasn’t always certain I wanted to live here. After college, I moved away. Went to work for a brokerage company in Des Moines. Made a lot of money. Had a nice apartment. Then my father died, so I came home.”

  “You gave up your career?”

  He nodded. “At first I rebelled against the idea. I mean, I had a great job and could buy whatever I wanted. I actually came back planning to suggest Mother sell the farm. But when I walked in the door . . .” He looked away. “When I walked in the door,” he said again in almost a whisper, “I knew I was home. I couldn’t see myself in Des Moines anymore. You see, ghosts called out to me. Not ghosts from the past. These were ghosts from a future that would never be if I walked away from this farm—from who I really am.” He turned to stare at me. “Does that make any sense to you?”

  “Of course it does.”

  He sighed. “I know not everyone is called to live on a farm in the country. If we all did that, our cities would be empty and—”