Books by Lisa Jones Baker
The Hope Chest of Dreams Series
Rebecca’s Bouquet
Annie’s Recipe
Rachel’s Dream
Secret at Pebble Creek
Anthologies
The Amish Christmas Kitchen
(with Kelly Long and Jennifer Beckstrand)
The Amish Christmas Candle
(with Kelly Long and Jennifer Beckstrand)
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
SECRET AT PEBBLE CREEK
Lisa Jones Baker
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Teaser chapter
About the Author
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Lisa Jones Baker
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
BOUQUET Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-4744-5
eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4745-2
eISBN-10: 1-4201-4745-5
To John Baker,
who grows the most gorgeous roses I’ve ever seen,
and who shared his gardening magazines
and his expertise to help me with this story.
And to Marcia Baker,
who makes her church’s garden and her own flower
gardens look like beautiful art.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve often heard that it takes a village to raise a child; however, it also takes a village to write a book! First and foremost, I thank my Lord and Savior for all that I’ve been given. I’m fully aware that the gift of publication comes from Him.
Huge thanks to my parents, John and Marcia, for their constant love and support, and for raising me in a loving, Christian home. My patient librarian/reading specialist mother listened to me read my nearly thirty books out loud without complaint. Warm thanks to my beloved friend in heaven, Gary Kerr, who made time to troubleshoot computer issues and story ideas at all times, day and night. His passing left a huge void in my life. To Beth and Doug Zehr, who do it all! Thank you to idea-filled Aunt Velda Baker, who has a keen ability to catch even the smallest detail. Talented Lisa Norato, true friend, confidante, and critique partner, has worked with me on numerous projects. Thanks to New York Times bestselling author Joan Wester Anderson, who helped to launch my writing career, and also to hundreds of writers who have helped me to hone my writing skills for nearly thirty years. Of course, I couldn’t go without crediting my Amish friend, who prefers to remain anonymous, but who answers questions and reads my books from cover to cover to check that my stories are consistent with Amish life in Arthur, Illinois. I have so much respect for you.
And I couldn’t forget the friendly folks in Arthur who have contributed in too many ways to list. To my friends and family, who were with me during my twenty-four-year journey to publication, and last but not least, huge thanks to agent-of-the-year Tamela Hancock Murray, brilliant editor Selena James, publicist extraordinaire Jane Nutter, and the great team at Kensington. Secret at Pebble Creek is for all of you!
Prologue
Years Earlier—During the Lifetime of Sam and Esther Beachy
Sam Beachy’s heart warmed as he added finishing touches to the beautiful piece of oak in front of him. To his right, a hope-chest lid he’d started rested on a felt cloth. To his left, another piece for a young grandma-to-be waited for completion.
Inside of his old barn in the quiet countryside of Arthur, Illinois, the bright July sunlight poured in through the open windows, enabling him to better scrutinize the detailed lines of his newest project.
He held his special work in front of him. Sam gingerly exchanged his carving knife for another tool from the worn holder and continued to hone the fine details.
For years, he’d etched pictures into hope-chest lids, and by now, the skill came so naturally to him, he could create depth to make his art appear real by using his knife and other tools at different angles.
Only this particular project wasn’t a hope chest. With a slow, steady motion, he ran a finger over the rounded, smooth edge. A squirrel quietly appeared next to Sam’s sturdy black shoes and stood on its hind feet, extended its front paws, and held them in a begging position. As Sam stared into two round, hopeful eyes, he laughed and stopped what he was doing.
“You think I was born to feed you, don’t you?”
As the brown mammal stayed very still, Sam got up from his chair, reached into the sack of treats that he kept next to him while he worked, plucked a lone pecan, and bent to give it to the small furry creature.
While two pigeons hovered at the top of the ladder leading up to the hayloft, the squirrel didn’t hesitate to accept the morsel before scurrying across the barn to the open doors, where he finally disappeared. The moment the beggar was gone, a loud whinny filled the air.
A few yards away, Strawberry, Sam’s horse, trotted into his stall, where he sucked up water from the deep metal trough. Afterwards, he threw back his head and clomped his hoof to an impatient beat.
Letting out a deep breath, Sam put down his work, got up, stepped to the animal’s stall, and gently stroked the long nose of his pal. “Strawberry, I know you’re lookin’ for Esther’s sponge cakes. But I don’t have any.”
He extended his fingers in front of him to show empty hands before dropping his arms to his sides. He touched the animal’s nose with his pointer finger. “Be patient. Esther’s making a fresh batch right now. Jetzt sofort.”
In response, the young standardbred nudged Sam’s chin with his nose. Sam caressed the long, thick, reddish-brown mane with his fingers until the horse closed his eyes.
Sam regarded the loving creature that had been named by his dear wife, Esther. The mere thought of Esther made his heart melt.
As he thought of the petite white-haired woman he’d known his entire life, emotional, joy-filled tears filled his eyes, and he blinked at the salty sting. “Pal, God blessed me with Esther, and do you know that next year we’ll celebrate sixty years of marriage? Sechzig.”
The only response was a shake of Strawberry’s head to get rid of some flies.
“I’ve made her something very special.” He lifted his chin a notch. The buzzing of flies was the only sound. “It’s going to be hard to keep the secret for nearly a year.”
He furrowed his brows while the horse brushed against Sam’s forearm where his
shirt sleeve was rolled up. “I know this might come as a surprise, but this time, it’s not a hope chest. But …” Sam let out a satisfied sigh. “It’s the most special gift I’ve ever made.”
The mouthwatering scent of Esther’s desserts floated from the open kitchen windows all the way to the barn. Sam’s stomach growled. But right now, there wasn’t time to think about food. Even if they were sponge cakes baked by the best cook around.
Whenever Sam focused on a project—and right now it was his hand-carved gift for Esther—his mind was one-track. He lived and breathed each special story that he captured on wood.
And right now, this present required serious thought. Where to keep it. What clues to write to help Esther find it.
And the hiding place wouldn’t be just anywhere. Nein. It would be at their special spot. Where Esther had agreed to spend the rest of her life with him. The place they called “their own.”
Sam dropped his arm to his side and shoved his fingers into his deep pants pockets. When Strawberry nudged him, Sam lifted his right hand and continued caressing the spoiled standardbred.
But as Sam stroked the long nose, his thoughts weren’t on the needy animal. Or the squirrels that counted on him for treats. Or his Irish setter, who kept Esther company while she baked. Or his next hope chest order.
“Esther.” A combination of great affection and emotion edged his voice as he said her name. A loud snort temporarily pulled him from his reverie, and Sam moved his fingers to behind Strawberry’s ears. The horse lowered his gaze to the cement floor and held very still.
Feeling the need to talk about his secret plan, Sam began thinking out loud. “Strawberry, I’m going to tell you something that no one else is privy to.”
Sam moved the toe of his left shoe up and down to a quick, excited beat. He could hear the long branches of the tall oaks brush the top of the building. In the background, chickens clucked. Through the open doors, he glimpsed horses in the distant field. He knew the man behind them being pulled on a small platform.
As Sam acknowledged his nearly six decades with Esther, he shook his head in gratefulness and squeezed his eyes closed to pray. “Dear Lord, I give You all the praise and thanks for my marriage, for our four sons who are with You, and even for our needy four-legged family members.”
He paused to clear the uncomfortable knot from his throat before lowering his voice to a tone that was barely more than a whisper. “Thank You for helping me to make my most beautiful carving for Esther. And denki for our special anniversary that we’ll celebrate next year. Amen.”
Fully aware of the beautiful day on the other side of the walls, he encouraged his furry friend. “Go on.” He patted him with affection. “Summer doesn’t last forever. Enjoy the day.”
Strawberry snorted, stomped his left front hoof twice, turned, and swished his reddish-brown tail back and forth while he trotted out the door leading to the pasture. Once he was outside, the uneven clomp-clomping disappeared.
Sam glanced at his worktable and smiled. He looked forward to seeing the look on Esther’s face when he gave her his very best work of art. But in order to keep his surprise, the knowledge of the hand-carved present couldn’t be shared with anyone.
Except for a spoiled horse who enjoyed sponge cakes. The corners of Sam’s mouth lifted into an amused grin.
He returned to his work area and lifted the newly finished piece so it was directly in front of him. While he drew it closer to his chest, he imagined Esther’s reaction to it. Because their anniversary was still months away, he’d hide it to ensure it stayed a secret. A warm breeze floated into the wide-open doors and gently caressed his fingers.
For a moment, the barn darkened a notch, but not long after, bright rays poured through the windows. Sam closed his eyes a moment to savor the gentle sensation. But his mind worked while he continued to plan his great surprise.
He straightened and pressed his pointer finger against his chin while he thought. He would write a note to Esther to remind her of his undying love for her. In the message, he’d hint about the present and where it was hidden.
Long strides took him outside where he glimpsed a jet’s trail of white. His gaze eventually landed on the hill and creek behind his home. Annie Mast and Levi Miller had coined the term Pebble Creek to describe the beautiful area. He shoved his hands into his pockets and parted his lips in awe as he marveled at the view.
I love my home. I treasure this land. One of these days, when Esther and I are with the Lord, I don’t know who will live here, but I pray that an extension of the Beachy clan will continue to carry on here. God has blessed me with kin, including my brother, who chose the Englisch life. But familie is familie, no matter where they live or what church they go to. And familie means love. Just like Pebble Creek.
Chapter One
What was she doing here? Warm sunlight turned to shade as Jessica neared the front door. She gently let go of her heavy roller bag and two smaller suitcases. Glancing from side to side, she paused to stretch her fingers and proceeded to dig in her handbag’s side compartment for the key to Sam Beachy’s home.
Smiling in satisfaction, she found the key and lifted her chin with newfound confidence. A breeze moved some loose hairs off of her shoulders, and she sighed in relief. It was a hot June afternoon, and she looked forward to turning on the air the moment she stepped inside.
She bent to unlock her great-uncle’s house. When the lock clicked, she slowly opened the door and paused a moment to swallow with sudden unexpected emotion.
As an uncertain knot stuck in her throat, she coached herself to stay calm; yet her heart pumped to a beat that was a combination of excitement and nervousness. Excitement because she had been told the house and the acres that surrounded it would bring a good price after some remodeling. Nervousness because it was necessary to stay here and get it prepared for sale until it was ready to list. Hopefully, that would only take four weeks.
Inside, intense heat made her hair stick to her neck, and she shoved back the thick mass. As she stared at the simple, tidy dwelling, she bit her lip and considered what had transpired over the past several days. So many things contributed to her being here. She was the sole heir to her great-uncle Sam Beachy’s estate, way out in the middle of nowhere. That’s what it seemed like, anyway. The actual address was Rural Route, Arthur, Illinois. She frowned, continuing to long for a breeze. But there was only a woodsy scent floating through the place.
Remembering her luggage, she pivoted, brought it in, and set her black designer bag in the narrow entrance on a small navy rug. She closed the door and locked it.
To her surprise, there was no dead bolt; Sandy, her real estate agent, had filled her in on this secluded area and insisted it was safe and quiet. Still, Jessica felt more at ease with the door double-locked. In St. Louis, no one was to be trusted. And since childhood, she had constantly watched her back. She’d had good reason to, but quickly forced the bad memories from her mind.
Finally, the disappointing reality set in. Of course, there’s no air. My uncle was Amish.
She proceeded to the light blue kitchen curtains, pulled them open, and fastened the corners to hooks. She continued to the living room to do the same. Even with sunlight coming in, she figured that the house couldn’t get much hotter.
But light made her feel secure. It always had. She brushed away a bead of sweat before it slid down her cheek, then stepped to the side window, where she saw the shiny black buggy parked next to the house. An orange yield sign decorated the back.
Bemused, she stared at the buggy for several long moments before heading outside to get a closer look at what must have been her uncle’s only mode of transportation.
She slid open the door of the buggy, stepped up, and took a seat. With great care, she sat on the front deep-blue, velvety-looking bench and glimpsed the small windows. Folded neatly beside her was a homemade knit blanket that resembled the covering on the sofa.
She took in the path that extended fro
m the side door of Sam’s house to the back. A different, wider path extended all the way to the barn. She viewed pastures on both sides and could barely glimpse a man standing on a narrow, wheeled platform, being pulled by four horses. She observed the team with interest, realizing that since the Amish didn’t drive vehicles, they most likely didn’t use tractors, either.
As the sun disappeared behind large, fluffy clouds, the light wind made the buggy creak. Her curious mind traveled at lightning speed as she imagined going places by horse and buggy instead of sitting behind the wheel of her new white Chevy Cruz.
The sun reappeared, and a tree branch moved gently against the buggy. She straightened, turned, and faced the modest-looking home, tapped the toe of her high-heeled pump against the floor, and scrutinized the dwelling.
Grateful that she didn’t have to hitch a horse to get around, she closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. I am here. There’s nothing to worry about, really. It’s just different than what I’m used to.
When she opened her lids, she realized that she could charge her cell phone in her car. She could brew tea on the propane stove, but she preferred sun tea. She thought of Sam Beachy and wondered about all the daily tasks he performed without electricity.
Jessica knew she was too curious about other’s lives. She tried not to appear nosy, but interesting people intrigued her. She figured that Sam deserved her full attention. What did I do to deserve such generosity? Uncle Sam, what were you like?
*
A couple of hours later, Jessica answered the knock on the door.
A fit-looking man of taller than medium height extended his hand, and she shook it.
“Eli Miller.”
“Jessica Beachy.”
A rough callus caressed her palm. Of course, his hands wouldn’t be smooth, working on houses all day. She also noted his suspenders, crisp shirt, and rolled up sleeves, revealing a set of strong forearms.
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