Sheltered Hearts (A Hidden Hearts Novel Book 2)

by Mary Crawford

  Tears slide down my face as I kiss my grandpa’s cheek and whisper, “I’m sorry, Grandpa, you were right — I should’ve listened.”

  “You were right too, Buttercup, they were your mistakes to make. I couldn’t live your life for you. I shouldn’t have been so critical. Believe it or not, I was a teenager once, too,” he responds, as he gathers me in a warm embrace.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” I confess as I pull away and try to collect myself. Mitch pulls a Kleenex out of my backpack and he hands it to me as Hope tries to nuzzle my hand.

  Grandpa gives him the once over with an openly skeptical gaze. “I see you still have boys following you around. Although, I can’t say I blame ‘em. You’ve grown up prettier than a speckled fawn under a rainbow. I just hope your choice in boys has gotten better over the years.”

  I’m not even sure how to respond to that. Part of it’s a compliment and part of it is meant to be a dig, but the part of it that is intended to be a dig isn’t even untrue, so it’s not even an insult — so I decide to go for straightforward.

  “Thank you, Gramps. I work hard every day to try to make you proud of me. My taste in men has improved dramatically — Mitch is among the best I’ve ever met. You two should get along famously. He reminds me a lot of you. He is compassionate and good through and through.”

  My grandpa looks at me with the sadness in his eyes as he responds, “Jessica, I know we battled something fierce back in those days, but I was always fighting for you, never against you. I was trying to help you fight against the notion that you weren’t worth anything and that no one loved you. Nothing could be further from the truth. Still, it wasn’t a message you were willing to hear back then. You were so desperate for approval, you were willing to look for it in the first fly-by-night boy who said pretty words to you whether he meant them or not. It was like watching my biggest nightmare come true. This Mitch-boy here is mighty handsome, I hope it’s not history repeating itself.”

  “I agree with you. Although Mitch is fun to look at, the situations are not similar at all. In fact, if I had to guess, I’d say that Mitch puts himself last in his life instead of first. He’s very good at taking care of everyone else around him. Let me formally introduce you, Mitch, this is my grandfather, Pastor Walter Walker. Grandpa — this is my… umm… f-friend, Mitch Campbell.” I stumble over the word. I’m not sure how to categorize our relationship myself, let alone explain it to my grandparents.

  “Mitch is a bookkeeper for the school district and he does search and rescue work. He also trains search and rescue dogs in conjunction with a local shelter in our area. That’s how we met. I helped rescue Hope here. She was in pretty bad shape a few months ago.”

  “That fine specimen of a dog was a rescue?” my grandpa asks incredulously.

  I nod somberly as I answer, “Yes, she had to have a couple of surgeries to correct what was done to her. Somebody actually set her tail on fire. Can you believe that?”

  My grandpa just shakes his head as he responds, “I can’t believe the things that people do to God’s creatures. It’s just pathetic.”

  I grab my grandpa’s hand and squeeze it as I press him, “Okay, Grandpa, I’m here. What’s really going on with Grandma? What’s important enough that you essentially called a big family meeting?”

  My grandpa squeezes my hand gently as he takes a deep breath and continues, “You know, I was never really able to sugarcoat things with you. You always did get to the heart of the matter. I’m just going to tell you straight-out.”

  Even though I’m only wearing jeans and tennis shoes, I sway a little when I hear those words. As a pastor, my grandpa has a flair for the dramatic. Therefore, it could be something relatively mild that he’s built up. Conversely, it could be something very, very serious — there’s just no real way of knowing. Mitch reaches out to catch me and places his arms around my waist to steady me.

  Mitch looks up at Grandpa and asks, “Sir, do you mind if I ask what you mean?”

  “Wilma used to be really active in all the church committees and goings-on, but lately, she feels so tired that she can barely pop a roast in the oven. She seems to forget her own shadow. It’s not like her at all. You know her. She won’t set foot in a doctor’s office. She just says it’s a symptom of growing older. I know that’s not true. I’m older than she is and I don’t have the same symptoms as she does and neither do any of my friends. I was hoping that maybe you could help persuade her to get herself to the doctor just to make sure that everything is okay. I don’t know what I would do if I lost her. She is my exhale to my inhale — one doesn’t happen without the other. I really believe that God created her just for me.”

  “I’ll take her to see Dr. Everett myself. Try not to worry about it, okay? If we’re all working on the same team, it should be easier. Maybe Grandma just has a lot on her mind or something. Hopefully, it won’t be anything serious,” I offer hopefully.

  As we drive up the bumpy drive in my grandpa’s old Suburban, careful to avoid the age-old ruts in the roadway, I notice a bunch of new fencing. “What happened to the Totter place?”

  My grandpa sits taller behind the steering wheel and grins slyly. “I bought it. Got it for a steal, too. Tom and Sheila were too busy thinking about vacations in Hawaii to worry about making sure they got top dollar for their property. They were just done being farmers. ‘O course I was more than happy to expand my land, so it worked out well for everybody.”

  “That’s great, Grandpa, but where did you come up with the money for this?”

  “Well, you know how your grandma used to think it was so funny that I had all those magazines on farming?”

  “That’s not quite the way I remember it; I remember her being frustrated that you would use your bath time as your own private reading sanctuary when we only had one bathroom,” I answer with a teasing grin.

  “That’s true enough, but all my leisurely reading eventually paid off. I became fascinated with all that organic stuff a few years back and started transitioning my fields, one at a time before it was trendy to do so. When the market became hot, I had a bunch of land ready to produce crops. I had already done a ton of research so, I knew all the right stuff to try and how to rotate the crops the correct way to make the land the most fruitful. Even though a lot of people tried it and failed, I was really successful my first go around. Then, this hotshot health food blog did a web article on me and my work with the men’s mission — you know the one I do with the prison ministry. Well, that got picked up by one of those viral websites and then it was all over the place and my daily scripture reading group picked it up and they started sharing it. It was like trying to control crabgrass after that. I’ve never seen so many messages on my Facebook. There were some mean ones for sure, but most of them were nice. A lot of people wanted to know where to get my produce. I even had one person from Guadalajara, Mexico ask me. Can you imagine? Of course, I couldn’t ship from our neck of the woods in Kansas all the way to Mexico. The produce wouldn’t stay fresh — I was flattered just the same.”

  “That’s very impressive,” Mitch compliments.

  “I got so much national attention, our local news station did a couple stories on my little farm. That led to the local health food store offering me a produce contract. It’s funny how God works it all out in the end. That’s how I ended up buying our neighbor’s farm. The only downside to that plan was I ended up with his not-so-smart donkey. That creature is as backwards as they come. He stands out in the rain and then when it’s sunny outside he goes in the barn and hides in the shade.”

  “What does Grandma think of all your newfound fame?”

  “She keeps quoting scriptures to me and reminding me that technically I’m retired from farming and I’m actually a pastor now. I can’t argue with her. She’s right, of course. But, there will always be a part of me that wants to go out there and work my fields. I hate that my body can no longer do what I love to do. At heart, even though I love being a minister,
I am still the farmer that gets up with the roosters and loves to feel the dirt fall through my fingers before I plant the seeds. I love to see the new growth of seeds and the anticipation before birthing season — it’s all very cyclical and predictable. I miss the rhythm of life and death, of renewal and hibernation.”

  “I know, Grandpa, but look at how you are using your knowledge to teach a new generation how to farm. Think about how many people you’ve helped through your prison ministries. Your love of farming is helping countless generations of people, even if you’re not directly driving a tractor. I’ve seen how you help people as a minister, that’s equally powerful, if not more so. I wouldn’t downplay that either.”

  My grandpa looks in the rearview mirror at Mitch as he comments, “See what I mean? Buttercup here always sees the best in everyone, even if they don’t always deserve it. It’s a rare gift to always see the most optimistic picture in every situation. If Jessica here believes you can conquer the world, hold onto that — because it’s a priceless gift.”

  I turn in my seat so that I can see Mitch’s response. He catches my eye as he smiles in the mirror at my grandfather and replies, “I hear what you’re saying, Mr. Walker. I feel pretty invincible knowing that Jessica’s cheering me on.”

  Something about his tone alarms me, “Mitch! You work in search and rescue. I don’t want you to feel invincible. I want you to feel calm, alert and very, very cautious.”

  Mitch’s eyes cut to me as he somberly replies, “Jessica, I won’t ever lie to you and tell you what we do is one hundred percent safe, because it’s simply not. I know that probably better than anyone since I lost one of my best friends in an accident at a rescue site. We use safety gear and we practice a lot. I don’t take shortcuts and I refuse to work with a team who does. That’s just not how I operate — but that’s the only kind of promise I can give you, Jessica, I’m sorry.”

  “I watch the news. I don’t think there’s a safe job out there now. Honestly, I worry about Grandpa too. Between the farming equipment and upset parishioners and protesters who may be trying to make political statements in the name of faith, I don’t know that any of us can truly be safe anywhere. Tristan and I were talking about this the other day. Believe it or not, he was teaching me about strategic ways to get out of a dark movie theater. I think it’s just an occupational hazard with him, you know. He and Isaac both live and breathe the security business. They’ve both seen and heard about more bad things than anyone deserves to know about in a hundred lifetimes. I don’t know how they absorb all that and still lead halfway normal lives. It must be really hard on Rogue and Rosa to help them slough off the pain of their jobs.”

  Mitch sighs deeply and says in a quiet, somber voice. “Jess, this really isn’t the place to have this conversation — but remember when I was telling you that I have some hard choices to make and regardless of how I make them someone is going to get hurt? Part of those hard choices is having to deal with what happens when a rescue doesn’t go well and what’s left behind. It’s not pretty for anyone, especially not the rescuers and first responders and their support system. Unfortunately, it’s often the people who love and care for the rescuers that end up paying the highest price and I’m not sure I’m willing to put you in that situation.”

  I DISCOVER SOMETHING VERY INTERESTING in this instant. Apparently, my words can actually impact atmospheric conditions — because as soon as I say those words, I swear the temperature in the SUV drops about thirty degrees even as all hell broke loose around me.

  “I’m of a mind to dump you off in the middle of my cornfield, Young Man. Just who do you think you are? Treating my granddaughter like that — if you were going to up and dump her like yesterday’s trash, why didn’t you do that in Flo-ri-da? I never did trust that place anyway! Why did you have to follow her home to do it?” Mr. Walker bellows, hitting the steering wheel for emphasis.

  At the same time, in a timbre so eerily quiet I almost miss them, Jessica’s words float by, “Just one time, I want to be important enough that someone stays.” The utter hopelessness and dejection in her voice makes the hair on the back of my neck and my arms stand on end.

  By now, Mr. Walker has caught his second wind and is about to unload with a second volley of verbal ammunition. I hold up my hand and sharply retort, “We can talk later, Sir.”

  He angrily throws his truck in park in front of an elegant farmhouse and turns to glare at me. He starts to speak but seems to think better of it when he catches a glimpse of tears rolling down Jessica’s cheeks. I tilt my head toward Jessica and nod tightly at him as I plead quietly, “Please, may I have a moment to explain myself privately? It’s a simple misunderstanding. I wouldn’t hurt her this way.”

  Mr. Walker runs his hand over Jessica’s hunched shoulder and advises, “The BB gun is behind the seat if you need it. It’s the one with the tricky trigger plate, so be careful.”

  Jessica’s head snaps up and her mouth drops open in astonishment. “Grandpa! You did not just tell me to shoot my boyfriend.”

  “To be fair, I didn’t say you had to. I just said the option is there if you need to.”

  I meet Mr. Walker’s gaze over the top of Jessica’s head and hold it as I reply, “I understand where you’re coming from. Your warning is received and understood. Trust me, it’s not needed. I didn’t come all the way here to break your granddaughter’s heart. It’s been a really long time since someone’s gotten as close to me as Jess has — I like and respect her a great deal. I’m trying to make decisions about my life, which make sense for both of us. My statement earlier today was about leaving my job, not leaving Jessica.”

  Jessica gasps and I watch with new dread as her eyes fill with tears again. Luckily, I stashed a couple of napkins from the plane in my pocket and I wipe the tears from her cheek as I murmur, “Red, you might want to stop crying before your grandpa decides to put some buckshot in my backend just on principle.”

  She takes the napkins from me and blows her nose before she gives me a teary smile. “If you don’t want a girl to break down into tears, you have to stop doing mushy things.”

  I look at Mr. Walker and shrug slightly as I raise an eyebrow in question. Finally, I look back at her and ask, “Mushy?”

  “Maybe not entirely mushy, maybe a little crazy and mushy at the same time but I’m going to give you the benefit of doubt and say you didn’t intended to come across quite so mushy —”

  Mr. Walker opens the SUV door and remarks, “I’m gonna let her explain woman logic to you, I’ve got chores to do and I’ve gotta check on the missus. Don’t stay out here too long, Buttercup, Wilma’s been waiting years to see you.”

  After he closes the door, I turn to Jessica and say, “Jess, I didn’t mean to upset you. I never intended to leave you. I need to make sure you know that I have the right priorities. Being a first responder is really hard on relationships.”

  “I understand that, but if you make your choice based on me, I’m no better than all of the other people who want something from you. It’s incredibly sweet that you want to, but that’s not right either. You have to make the decision based on what you want out of your life — not what I need from you. Does that make any sense? If you go to work every day, but it doesn’t make you happy — then I’ve sentenced you to a prison. I don’t want to ever be that person,” she reasons, as she strokes my cheek.

  I lean my cheek into her hand as I struggle with the questions swirling in my mind. “How can I not factor in the impact of my choices on you? That concept is absolutely ludicrous to me,” I argue.

  Jessica runs her fingers through my hair as she concedes, “I don’t know. There has to be some way to balance it all so that you don’t have to sacrifice who you are to keep me safe and I don’t have to pretend not to be scared to give you permission to be who you need to be.”

  Abruptly, Hope sits up in the backseat of the SUV and gives a sharp bark. This is such an unusual behavior for her that Jessica and I both turn toward the h
ouse to see what’s happening. Mr. Walker is jogging toward the car with an uneven gait. His face is red and his eyes are wide with fear. He’s holding his cell phone to his ear. In a flash, Jessica and I are both out of the car — yet even more surprising, Hope beats us both there and is sitting at Mr. Walker’s feet looking expectantly up at him.

  “Mr. Walker —” I start to ask

  “Walter. For Pete’s sake, call me Walter — Mr. Walker was my dad,” he snaps.

  “Walter,” I correct myself, sliding into my professional voice. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  He looks at me with watery eyes, which closely mirror Jessica’s in color. They look haunted with fear and worry. He seems a little stunned as he declares, “I can’t find Wilma.”

  Jessica catches his cell phone as he starts to stumble a little and I reach out to give him an arm to lean on. “Come on, Walter, let’s go inside and you can give me a few more details.”

  The first thing I notice when we walk into the house is the smell of cooking food. Actually, more accurately it’s the smell of overcooking food. Jessica runs ahead of me and takes a pot of potatoes off of the stove that are boiling over. She starts to put them in the sink but then changes her mind and takes them right out the back door. When she returns, she says to Walter, “Sorry, Gramps, I know mashed potatoes are your favorite, but those were beyond saving. They were pretty scorched.”

  “Were they burned black or just scorched?” I ask.

  “Well, the pigs won’t mind them, but they’re not edible for us,” Jessica clarifies. “I wouldn’t say they were black, though.”