Hannah didn’t want to dwell on Ethan and his death. She certainly didn’t want to think about Owen Esch’s death. They’d put all of that behind them. The Village had been peaceful for the last six months, and she preferred it that way.
Ryan and Georgia stood. He air-kissed her cheek and they continued to talk for a moment.
“Looks like they’re finished, and I can report to Amber that the rumor Ryan was here to lunch with Georgia was true. Let’s skedaddle before they have a chance to catch up with us at the register.” Reaching into her purse, Pam pulled out a couple of dollars for the tip and left it on the table.
They did skedaddle, but they didn’t avoid Ryan.
When they’d reached the register to pay, the checkout girl had run out of tape in her machine. Pam assured her it wasn’t a problem as the girl fumbled under the counter and began the clumsy process of putting in the new tape.
Hannah was drumming her fingers against the counter, and Pam was checking her cell phone for messages, when Ryan walked up behind them.
“Afternoon, ladies.”
Hannah stared at him and nodded, but didn’t speak. What would she say? Yes, good afternoon. It is a fine day, and by the way, we enjoyed snooping on your and Georgia’s lunch date.
Was it a date?
Pam looked Ryan up and down, but she also didn’t respond. The cashier finally had the machine working. Pam pulled out her Village ID, which was a mere formality. Everyone recognized her as the assistant manager. The girl wrote her ID number on the receipt and wished them a nice afternoon.
Ryan stepped up to the register and Pam moved to the side while she returned her ID card to her purse. They couldn’t help but hear Ryan say, “Here’s our receipt. Georgia had to attend to some business in the kitchen, but she signed the bottom. She said you’d know what to do.”
The girl murmured, “No problem,” but Hannah knew instantly that it was going to be a problem. Pam’s eyes had flashed as she straightened her posture and turned to Ryan.
“You must be Ryan Duvall. I’m Pam Coleman, the assistant manager here at the Village.”
If Ryan was surprised Pam knew his name, he didn’t show it. Instead he reached for her hand and shook it, smiling as if she had just made his day.
Ryan pushed a few wavy strands of black hair out of his eyes. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard great things about you.”
“You have heard things about me?”
“All the girls speak of you highly.”
“The girls?”
Ryan hadn’t realized he was backing himself into a corner, but Hannah knew. Pam’s voice was changing, morphing into something in between one of their preachers on Sunday morning and the stern Mennonite teacher who had taught Hannah in third grade. Pam’s change in demeanor wasn’t a good thing, but Hannah couldn’t think of any way to warn Ryan. All she could do was take a step back and exchange an anxious glance with the cashier.
“By girls you wouldn’t happen to mean the three women from the Village you’re dating . . . at the same time?”
“I didn’t—”
“Because where I come from, that’s just rude.”
“How did you—”
“And then you show up here and have Georgia buy your lunch? Men should buy the lunch. I might be old-fashioned, but I’m right.”
It seemed to Hannah that Ryan finally understood that he was struggling against his reputation. Instead of arguing, he stood silently, head bowed slightly, looking almost repentant and waiting for Pam’s lecture to run its course.
Fortunately for him, Pam was done. She made a “humph” sound and turned to Hannah. “Ready, dear?”
Hannah was more than ready. She wanted to be home helping her mother with the housework. She did not want to be in the middle of an escalating feud.
Unfortunately, Ryan was a slow learner, or maybe it was just his outgoing nature rearing its head. For whatever reason, he called out, “Nice to meet you both, ladies. It was a pleasure, and you both look stunning in your spring frocks.”
Hannah had to practically drag Pam out of the restaurant.
Pam was actually sputtering by the time they’d stepped into the afternoon sunshine. “Frocks? Did he actually say frocks? I chided that man and he told us we looked stunning?”
“I believe it’s only his way. He didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Oh, he meant something. He can give us that sweet I’m innocent and you are oh-so-special look, but it doesn’t work on this girl. I’ve learned to recognize a cad when I see one.”
“What is a cad?”
“A scoundrel, a rascal, a scalawag.”
“A Casanova?” Whether it was Hannah’s expression or her attempt to understand Englisch slang, she at least managed to calm Pam a bit.
But as they walked toward the parking lot, Ryan mercifully nowhere in sight, Pam scrunched up her face and refocused on the issue at hand.
“Oh, I’m glad you took me to meet him, Hannah.”
“I didn’t. Going to the restaurant was your idea.”
“And it worked perfectly. Now I know what we’re up against—good looks, witty remarks, and dangerous eyes.”
“Dangerous how?”
“Charm. He’s full of charm! But we’ll protect our girls. No worries there. I’ll speak with Amber as soon as she returns, and we’ll find a way to keep the likes of Ryan Duvall from messing with our employees. We’re actually doing him a favor. Playboys like Ryan? They could find themselves in a perilous situation.”
“Perilous? As in risky?”
They’d reached the Pumpkinvine Trail. Pam was about to turn back toward the offices, and Hannah needed to be on her way. But she couldn’t pull back the question, and she did want to know the answer if only to calm the worries that had begun to churn in her stomach.
“Have you never heard the quote, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’?”
“Nein. I haven’t.”
“Some English dude wrote it. By English I mean British, and he wrote it a few centuries ago. It’s in a play, and some crazy college professor of mine thought we needed to read it.”
“And what does it mean—this saying?”
“That Ryan Duvall should watch his back, or he could end up regretting his lifestyle. A woman scorned is a force to be reckoned with. Mr. Duvall wouldn’t be the first person to pay for their indiscretions.”
Hannah said good-bye and hurried away down the Pumpkinvine Trail, and as her tennis shoes slapped against the pavement, they beat a rhythm, a pattern to the words Pam had shared.
Hell hath no fury
Like a woman scorned.
Thirteen
Preston managed to pull the car to the side of the road before the sunshine and Indiana countryside faded completely from his consciousness.
Bogar crouched in front of him, wrapping a field bandage around his chest. Preston stared at the wall of the cave as Bogar worked. He didn’t remember being hit by shrapnel. Though the pain was excruciating, he was alive. He was grateful to still be breathing, but he understood there was no guarantee they would survive the next few hours. He found himself petitioning God. Within his heart he cried out for God’s mercy and protection. It was what his mother would have called a foxhole prayer. It was a last-minute, desperate place. He realized all those things, but in that moment he also understood that God held their lives in his hand.
Bogar was talking under his breath, but Preston couldn’t make any sense of what the man was saying. The words insurgents and Taliban fell around them, like shrapnel dropped onto a concrete floor. Preston tried to focus, to string the words together into a coherent sentence, a thought just out of reach, but he had no success. Looking down, he saw that his uniform was wet with his own blood.
The pounding of his own heartbeat had been throbbing in his ears. Slowly it receded, and he was able to hear and understand what Bogar was saying.
“Got you in the clavicle. Lucky.” Bogar continued to wind the bandage up and down and
around.
“Lucky?”
Bogar tapped Preston’s chest, the exact part where his heart was thudding like a train barreling down tracks. “An inch lower? Would have been good-bye, Preston. Yeah, I’d say you’re lucky.”
Preston nodded, and Bogar turned his attention to Frank.
“You okay?”
“Preston fixed me up.”
“Good.”
The reality and terror and memory of what was happening crashed in on Preston with full force. The attack, running after Frank, pausing to aim, and then searing pain.
“Did you get them, Bogar? Did you get any of them?” Preston heard the iron in his own voice. He wondered where that had come from. Just a month ago he’d been a scared kid, assigned to the northern province of Afghanistan. He was a member of the 503rd infantry regiment, and he was well trained, but a part of him was still a scared kid. He could see that now. What he couldn’t see is how they were going to get out of this cave alive.
Artillery and even RPGs continued to rain down on their position. Preston had the uncomfortable feeling of being a fish in a barrel. Sure, they’d found a place to bunker down, but how long could they hold the position? Every few minutes dirt and rock spewed outside the mouth of the cave. They could very easily be buried alive. It might be better to chance it on the outside, to make a run for the base.
“I fired a couple hundred rounds.” Bogar took a swig from his canteen, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Chances are I hit a few. I fired until my weapon went hot and jammed.”
“How many are there?” Frank had lost too much blood. He was barely able to keep himself in a sitting position, but Preston knew what he was thinking. He knew what the man wanted to do before he even said it.
Frank glanced at each of them and then toward the mouth of the cave. “My weapon still works. You set me up out there, position me just outside with my back against that large rock, and I can still shoot.”
Bogar shook his head. “There’s a hundred insurgents, at least. Maybe more.”
Preston tried to raise his right arm and found he couldn’t. It was as if a giant weight were holding it down. He could shoot with his left, but not as well.
Bogar picked up Frank’s weapon, checked it, then turned to Preston. “Stay with him.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Stay with him. That’s an order, soldier.” The smile from Bogar belied the tone in his voice. He outranked both of them, and he knew it. He was also in his element when in battle. Some primal, instinctive portion of his brain responded well to danger.
Preston nodded once.
Their eyes met, and then Bogar was gone, out the mouth of the cave.
Preston watched as he hunkered down by the large rock Frank had motioned toward. Bogar didn’t look back, didn’t say anything, merely stepped out into the afternoon light. He’d raised his weapon and was firing left to right in a wide arc when a bullet tore through his chest, throwing him back inside the cave.
Amber didn’t know what to do. She’d never witnessed someone having a flashback, but she had an idea that was exactly what was happening.
“Preston? Preston, can you hear me?” Amber crouched beside him. She’d jumped out as soon as the vehicle had stopped, running to the driver’s side of the car and opening the door. They had slid to a stop on the shoulder of the road. Preston had done his best to brake and steer before he disappeared to wherever it was he’d gone. Fortunately there were no cars around them. They were completely surrounded by row after row of corn.
“What . . .” Preston shook his head, but at least his eyes were seeing again. The blank, slack expression had been replaced by one she recognized—frustration, confusion, and a tinge of embarrassment.
A wave of relief passed over Amber. Her heart rate slowed and the panic that had been clawing at her throat backed away. But her stomach didn’t settle and her mind continued to chase multiple questions round and round. This day was not going well. First the day’s anonymous e-mail, then the possibly poisonous pie, and now a blackout with Preston. She wanted to go home and pull a quilt over her head.
Preston turned toward her, swung his legs out of the car, and tried to stand.
Amber helped him up. She made sure he was steady before she let go of his arm.
He leaned against the Beetle and stared out across the road, across the fields.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “Are you okay?”
He turned his head, looked at her briefly, and then glanced away.
“I’m fine,” she assured him. “And you don’t have to be embarrassed. You did a good job guiding the car to the side of the road.”
Preston could only shake his head and stare at the ground.
“It was another flashback, wasn’t it?” Amber faced the Volkswagen, placed her hands on it, and allowed the warmth to seep into her palms, into her consciousness. It was turning into a fine spring day, but as they’d rattled toward the side of the road a cold dread had seeped through her. One that had to do with what was happening back in Middlebury. It robbed her of her joy. She didn’t want to be in the middle of another investigation, and she sure didn’t want to be enduring a lunatic’s attention all by herself. How could things get any worse?
Were those feelings what Preston dealt with every day? How often did he suffer these episodes? “Was it a flashback?”
“Yeah.”
“Any idea what brought it on?”
“No.” He reached a hand up to the area between his neck and his shoulder, right along the breastbone. He touched it once as if he needed to make sure he was okay, then he stuck his hands in his pockets.
“You were telling me about your dog, Skipper. And then we started talking about mail—how you received your mail while you were serving overseas.”
“I guess.”
“That must be what did it.” Amber turned and rested her backside against the hood of the Beetle. “Does this happen every time you talk about the war?”
“No.” His mouth felt dry. “Do you have any water?”
“Sure.” Amber scooted around the front of the car, reached inside for her bag, and pulled out a bottle of water. “I haven’t even opened it yet. No danger of contagion from my germs.”
He made a valiant attempt to smile at her joke as he reached across the roof of the VW for the water, but soon a scowl consumed his expression.
“You shouldn’t be with me, Amber.”
“Fiddlesticks!”
“I’m dangerous. I could have killed us—”
“But you didn’t. You fought it, and you drove the car to the side of the road. You kept both of us safe.” When he didn’t respond, she walked back around the VW and put her arms around him. She stood there holding him in the afternoon sunlight, waiting to move until she felt the tension leave his arms.
Amber had never had a brother, and she didn’t think Preston had a sister. He’d confessed to her once that some days it seemed he could hardly remember his mom at all. Some days he had to pull out the photograph of her that he kept in his backpack to help him remember. As they stood there on the side of the road, the Indiana sun warming the tops of their heads and fields of green stretching out on all sides, she realized God had given him the sister he’d never had. And she’d been given the brother she had always longed for.
Amber didn’t speak; she only waited.
Finally, he patted her back and stepped away. “I’m good.”
“Then let’s go get your dog.”
“Maybe you should drive—”
“No. We’re not going to give in to this.” She went back to her side of the car, plopped into the passenger seat, and pulled her seat belt across her chest. He leaned into the VW and stared at her a moment, as if he was seeing something else. As if he wasn’t solidly in their reality yet.
Then he rubbed his hand across the top of his brown crew cut and lowered himself into the Beetle, buckling up and starting the ignition.
“But
Preston?”
“Yeah?”
“For the rest of the drive, let’s talk about the Colts or the Cubs.”
“Sports is good,” he agreed.
The rhythm of Amber’s heart settled into a regular pattern as they scooted down the road, five miles below the speed limit. She had always known that Preston dealt with demons from his past. He’d never told her specific details about the things that haunted him. She’d known about the flashbacks, though. He’d been abundantly clear before moving into the Dawdy Haus. In fact, he’d even printed out a list of symptoms for PTSD from a medical website and given it to her and Tate. She’d known, but knowing about something was very different from experiencing it.
She vowed to herself in that moment that she would see Preston whole and healthy again. Maybe the dog would do it. Maybe Zoey would. Or maybe it would be a combination of the people and things around him—the community God had placed him in. One way or another, she was not going to give up on this young man. He meant too much to her.
As did her friends.
She’d find a way to catch the numskull who was threatening her family—and Hannah and Pam were family. God wouldn’t give her more than she could handle with his help, even though she felt overwhelmed at the moment. She’d pray for guidance, and wisdom, and strength. Somehow, they would all make it through to the other side of this storm.
It was with that resolve vibrating through her heart that she pointed out their exit as they entered the outskirts of Fort Wayne.
Fourteen
Hannah was barely in the door of her house when her mother handed her a large covered casserole bowl, tucked inside a quilted casserole carrier. Hannah had made the carrier the month before, using leftover pieces of spring-colored fabric and mimicking a fence rail pattern.
“Take this over to Sarah. It’s a light chicken broth with some fresh vegetables. I tucked a loaf of fresh bread in the carrier too. Sarah had a treatment again today and can’t be feeling very well.”
“I go too, Hannah. Mattie go!”
Hannah sent a questioning look at her mother, who nodded her permission.
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