by Lori Wilde
Then again, who did?
Shepherd snorted past the sentimental feelings. He parked the Jeep and got out. His pulse rate kicked up, and his stomach flipped over. He shouldn’t have stopped for that second cup of coffee.
Fallen leaves lay scattered across the lawn. A couple of the wet leaves wrapped around baby Jesus’s cradle. He didn’t know why he did it. To stall the inevitable? He limped across the yard. Removed the leaves from the cradle. Crumpled them into a damp ball and stuffed them into his pocket where he felt . . .
The key.
It was burning a hole in his pocket. The mystery intrigued him. What did the key open? What did it mean? Why was it so important to Clayton? These questions had circled his mind ever since Dr. Fox had given him the envelope.
Especially late at night when he couldn’t sleep.
He swallowed, let go of the leaves, and wrapped his fingers around the key. How was he going to start this conversation? Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Luther, you don’t know me, but I’m the reason your son is dead.
Dr. Fox’s words blistered in his head. It’s not your fault.
No? Then why did he feel so guilty?
Maybe this visit, hard as it might be, would ease his self-reproach. And he could let this go. Move forward. Maybe. It was a glimmer of hope in a year that had been pretty hopeless.
Shepherd eased up the steps to the wraparound porch. The weathered wood creaked underneath his weight. The front door, painted red and trimmed in white, welcomed visitors. Lace curtains hung in the window beside the door.
There was no doorbell. Only an iron door knocker. He lifted the knocker, and tapped it against the door. Rap-tap-tap.
Waited.
No answer.
In the backyard of the house next door, a dog barked at him, yip, yip, yip. He imagined this was the kind of place where neighbors were all up in your business.
He knocked again.
Nothing.
Shepherd dragged a palm down his face. Apparently, no one was home. He shouldn’t be surprised. It was the middle of the morning.
Maybe the pastor was at the church. He returned to the church. Killed the Jeep. Sat listening to the engine tick as it cooled. The woman’s delicate fragrance lingered in the air. He felt wistful and sad and then oddly hopeful again.
A few minutes later, he got out and walked the church grounds. Breathed, using the 4–7–8 pattern they’d taught him in therapy. A four-part inhale. Hold his breath to the count of seven. Followed by an eight-second exhale. Much as he didn’t want to admit it, the pattern did calm his swift pulse and loosen his stiff chest muscles. It was a godsend when he was in the throes of PTSS symptoms.
Maybe he would take Dr. Fox’s advice and sign up for a yoga class. He’d heard that yoga was as much about learning how to breathe as it was striking a pose.
Quieted, he rounded the side of the church and came upon a small cemetery.
Drawn by a morbid sense of curiosity, Shepherd pushed open the black wrought-iron gate. The rusty hinges creaked in greeting.
He wandered the perimeter.
Most of the graves were those of people who’d died during the settling of North Central Texas. But at the far corner of the square plot, Shepherd spied newer tombstones.
Fresh. White. Stark.
His blood chilled.
His heart wasn’t in this. His head told him to go back to the Jeep. But his feet beelined straight for the new graves.
Two white marble markers side by side. Even before he got close enough to read them, he knew that one belonged to Clayton Luther.
He limped closer. The pulse at the hollow of his throat jumped hard. His boots bogged in the damp earth.
Shepherd stopped, overwhelmed.
Read the name on the tombstone.
Sure enough, here were the remains of the naïve American kid who’d died far too young in Kandahar. Breaking all the rules and getting himself killed just to brighten some orphan’s day.
A hard shake of grief grabbed hold of Shepherd in sharp, jagged teeth. His vision dimmed and his chest squeezed.
He dropped to his knees beside Luther’s grave. Ignored the burst of pain shooting through his bad leg. Tucked his chin to his chest and bit down on the inside of his cheek. Tasted salt and blood.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “So damn sorry.”
A crow cawed overhead. An acorn dropped from a nearby oak. It hit the fence and skittered off into the grass beyond the cemetery. He raised his head, peered at the tombstone next to Luther’s. Realized the markers were almost identical.
Blinking, he read:
Samantha Wooly Luther, beloved wife of Clayton, devoted mother to Hunter.
Stunned, Shepherd stared at the engraving on the tombstone. The letters and numbers started to blur. Unshed tears filled his throat. How was it possible that Clayton’s young wife had died seven days after her husband?
Inconceivable.
His heart stuttered, fear jamming up his arteries, until he couldn’t breathe.
Life was damn unfair.
Grief and guilt mingled together. What had Samantha Luther died of? And what had happened to Clayton and Samantha’s son?
The ache inside him was unbearable. He tried the 4–7–8 breathing. It didn’t work. He couldn’t stop thinking about Clayton and Samantha, and how he’d ruined their lives.
Kids. Just kids, the both of them.
He dropped his head into his hands. Wanted to weep. Couldn’t.
A loud crack of a twig breaking snapped him alert.
He jumped up and spun around as fast as his bum knee would allow. Lurching and grabbing for his cane.
And came face-to-face with a man who looked the way Clayton Luther would have looked in thirty years if he had lived.
“There you are,” the elder Mr. Luther said, as if he’d just been waiting for Shepherd to appear.
Pushing against the ground with his cane, Shepherd straightened his spine. The cane’s tip sank into the moist earth, and he lost his balance. Would have toppled if Mr. Luther hadn’t grabbed his elbow.
The older man’s eyes were gentle and kind. He didn’t mention the cane or Shepherd’s unsteadiness. Just held him up.
Heat burned Shepherd’s throat. He hated looking weak. He stepped away from Mr. Luther and his helpful grip.
“Glad you finally made it,” Clayton’s father said.
Huh? Had Dr. Fox called ahead and told the Luthers that Shepherd was coming? What had he said?
“Don’t worry about being late. Everything happens in divine timing.”
Shepherd eyed him. Late? For what? Something was going on here. Cautiously, he waited, saying nothing.
“But where are my manners? Let me introduce myself.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Pastor Tom Luther.”
“Mark Shepherd,” he said, shaking the other man’s hand.
He studied Tom’s face to see if the older man recognized his name. He had no idea if the military had mentioned him when they’d told the Luthers what had happened to Clayton. Most likely not. The military stance on dissemination of wartime information was to reveal as little as possible. But Clayton might have written to his family about their friendship. Had he?
Tom’s expression didn’t change one whit. His smile stayed warm, still welcoming. “I am glad you’re here. Joe told me you were the best handyman he ever met.”
Shepherd frowned. “Joe?”
“Joe also said that you were modest, but there’s no need in hiding your light under a bushel, son.”
Son.
The word was a dagger straight to Shepherd’s heart. “Sir, there’s been—”
“Happy to have you.”
Obviously, the man had him confused with someone else. “Mr. Luther, I’m not—”
“Whole,” Tom Luther said, nodding at Shepherd’s cane. “That’s okay. We all have our difficulties. You come highly recommended, and I’m sure you’ll do a great job despite your challenges. Heck, I imagine you’ll wo
rk harder because of them.”
What was going on here? “A mistake’s—”
“Follow me,” Tom said. “I’ll let you see what you’re up against.”
“Mr. Luther.” Shepherd braced his cane against the sidewalk. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“I’m not here to judge you,” Tom said. “You’re welcome just as you are.”
“But—”
“Please.” Tom held up both hands. “You have nothing to explain. You owe me nothing. Whatever is troubling you belongs between you and the Lord.”
“I’m not—”
The pastor clapped his hands in a gesture so startling that Shepherd lurched backward. “You showed up. That’s all I need to know. God’s divine timing. Remember? You’re right where you’re supposed to be. Doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing. Believe it. I do.”
Tom beamed at him. “Now . . . this way.”
Bewildered, Shepherd tottered after the pastor. His knee throbbed from kneeling on the damp ground beside Clayton’s grave. He glanced back at the twin tombstones, felt his stomach lurch.
Pastor Tom tracked his gaze. He stopped. His smile faded, and his gray eyes misted. “That was my boy.”
Shepherd gulped, nodded, cut into pieces by the pain in Tom’s eyes.
“We lost him last year. He was military.” Tom scrutinized Shepherd. “Like you.”
Shepherd got that same weird feeling he had when the pretty brunette had jumped into his Jeep. Like he’d fallen through a portal to another dimension and ended up in the Twilight Zone.
Landed in a place where people believed in crazy things. Like divine timing and cookies that could predict soul mates.
“How do you know I’m military?” Shepherd asked.
“The haircut. Your bearing. Plus, I must confess, Joe told me. That’s why I’m so glad you showed up.”
“Because I’m military?”
An enigmatic expression crossed Tom’s face. “Among other things.”
Shepherd wanted to ask, What other things? But Tom Luther was still looking at the graves.
“Losing Clayton was hard enough.” The senior Luther blinked. “But when Samantha took her own life . . .” He pressed his lips together. “It was almost too much for us to bear.”
“She committed suicide?”
Tom put a hand to his mouth.
“How did you bear it?” Shepherd whispered.
“God got us through.” Tom pushed his hands into the depths of his pockets. “And of course, we had the boy to think of. That little ray of sunshine is the reason I’m still standing.”
Shepherd stared at Samantha’s tombstone. Thought about a young woman so heartbroken over losing her husband that she might have taken her own life. Left her small boy behind.
“She took too many of the sedatives the doctor prescribed to get her through the funeral.” The older man’s voice broke. “I like to think it was more accidental than intentional. Otherwise why didn’t she make provisions for her baby if she meant to do it?”
“I . . . I . . .” Shepherd had no words. He clamped his mouth shut.
The news was a blow. Clayton’s death wasn’t the only one weighing on his conscience. Now he had to add Samantha Luther to the list.
And their little boy.
And Clayton’s parents.
All permanently wounded because Shepherd had made an error in judgment.
Shepherd and the pastor inhaled simultaneously. It was a tandem sound of sorrow. Sharp and deep in the quiet morning.
He couldn’t let this case of mistaken identity continue. He had to come clean. Absorb the hatred he knew he would see in the older man’s eyes when he realized who Shepherd was. “Sir, this is important. I have something to tell you.”
“Come along.” Tom motioned with a crook of his finger. “Let’s see the church first. Let me show you what work needs doing. Then we can talk.”
Shepherd wasn’t sure why he followed. Why he didn’t blurt out who he was right then and there. Maybe it was Tom Luther’s kindness. Or maybe it was because he was searching for a gentler way to break the news to a grieving father. Or maybe the honest reason he kept his mouth shut?
He needed a place to be for the holidays, and Tom Luther was offering it to him.
But only if he pretended to be their handyman. No, he couldn’t do that. Shepherd might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar.
Tom stopped underneath the eaves of the back porch. Glanced up at the weathered, weakened wood of the overhang. The entire exterior paint job was peeling. Carpenter ants tracked inside the cracks between boards where the caulking had eroded.
“The wooden awning needs replacing before it falls in on someone,” Tom fretted, furrowing his brow and running a palm along his jaw. “Clayton used to do these repairs for the church. But now that he’s gone . . .” Tom cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as if he were gulping back a lump of tears. “I do what I can, but I’m no spring chicken. But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To fix things.”
Fix things.
That phrase resonated, plucking a chord deep within Shepherd’s chest. He could never make amends for leaving Clayton behind, but he could fix an overhang. He was good with his hands. Had aced woodworking in high school. Whittled as a hobby. He didn’t mind physical labor. Even with his bum knee, it shouldn’t take him more than a couple of weeks to repair the awning, do the caulking, and repaint the church.
Here was a plan. He could be their handyman, do the work, and confess after Christmas. When he thought about it, helping out was the least he could do for the loss of the man’s son. He didn’t expect forgiveness anyway.
“This way.” Tom opened the back door. “I’ll show you the rest of the work that needs doing and then you can get started tomorrow. You’ve had a long journey.”
He had.
Tom paused at the threshold, looked back at him. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re here.”
Fresh remorse rolled through Shepherd. He almost confessed then.
But the older man was bending over to show him baseboards that were pulling away from the wall. More cracks that needed caulking. Burned-out lightbulbs. Unbalanced ceiling fans.
“And if you could erect the nativity scene this weekend, I would be so grateful.” Tom Luther ran a hand through his thick silver mane. “I have a longtime parishioner in hospice and she needs my full attention these last few days. I don’t have the time, and my wife is pretty much confined to a wheelchair.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Shepherd said, because it seemed the right thing to say. He was lousy at comforting people.
“My daughter was going to put up the manger, but she’s got her hands full with our grandson. That little rascal keeps her on her toes.” Tom chuckled.
“Sure thing.” Shepherd nodded, getting sucked in.
Was he really doing this? Was it smart? Shepherd placed a palm to the nape of his neck, his conscience warring. On the one hand, he shouldn’t deceive the Luthers, but couldn’t this be a small way to start making amends?
And what happened when the real handyman showed up?
What then?
“You’ll get a small stipend for your breakfast and lunch on top of your salary,” Tom said. “But you’ll take your dinners with my family and me. We live in the green Victorian two doors down.”
Yes, Shepherd already knew that.
“Well.” Tom dusted his palms together. “I’ll let you look around. Tools are in the barn at the back of the property. You’ll find everything you need in there. Dinner is at six sharp.” His face brightened. “We’re having pot roast tonight. My favorite. You’ll love it. My daughter is a wonderful cook.”
“I’m sure she is,” Shepherd mumbled, because he didn’t know what else to say, and just like that, he’d committed.
Chapter 4
“Yoo-hoo, anybody home?”
Naomi was in the kitchen, cutting up potatoes for dinner. From her vant
age point, she could see her mother in her wheelchair in the breakfast nook. Mom was plucking dried leaves from the Benjamin ficus. The poor plant had gone into shock.
Two days ago, Hunter had decided to whack it with his toy plastic hammer. At the kitchen table, the boy colored in a Pokémon coloring book. He was humming and swinging his legs against the stool.
“Terri,” her mother called to their neighbor poking her head in the front door. “Come on in here.”
Raven-haired Terri Longoria strolled into the room. She carried a covered pie pan and wore a satisfied smile. Terri owned Hot Legs Gym and it showed. Tanned. Toned. Well muscled. She was still trim in her late forties. Her husband was the chief of staff at Twilight General Hospital. And they had a fourteen-year-old son, Gerald. Gerald was the talk of the town, praised for his talent in junior varsity football. A decade ago, Terri had appeared on a reality show called Fear Nothing. She’d gamely downed a bucket of earthworms to win ten thousand dollars. The stunt had earned her admiration from the town’s teenage boys, which she had to this day, but she did endure a lot of earthworm jokes.
She was also on the First Love Cookie Club’s charity ball committee with Naomi.
“I had some pumpkins from my fall garden that I needed to use up,” Terri said. “I spent the day baking pies. Brought one over for you.”
“Oh, thank you, Terri. You do know pumpkin is my favorite.” With a gnarled fist, Mom pushed the controls on her electric wheelchair and propelled herself into the kitchen.
“How sweet of you.” Naomi took the pie and set it on the counter. She was grateful for the dessert. She hadn’t had time to bake or pick something up from the store. She knew how blessed she was to have such good neighbors, and said a silent prayer. Thank you.
As Dad liked to say, divine timing.
Naomi put the potatoes in a Dutch oven, added enough salted water to cover the spuds, and put them on the stove to boil.
“You are so welcome,” Terri said. “I just wanted to drop off the pie and let you know everything is shipshape on the dance committee. If this event goes as well as planned, the club members want to make the ball an annual Christmas tradition.”
