REDEMPTION
SHELLEY SHEPARD GRAY
Epigraph
The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed.
PSALM 34:18
Hope is the power that gives a person confidence to try.
AMISH PROVERB
Contents
Epigraph
One: The Return
Two: A Question of Conduct
Three: An Uneasy Acceptance
Four: The Celebration
Five: Excuses and Lies
Six: The Search
Seven: The Discovery
Eight: The Confession
Nine: The Apology
Ten: The Admission
Eleven: The Partnership
Twelve: The Confrontation
Thirteen: The Choice
Fourteen: The Remembrance
Fifteen: The Fulfillment
Sixteen: The New Plan
Seventeen: A Hero’s Welcome
Eighteen: Redemption
Epilogue
Author‘s Note
An Excerpt from Hopeful
One
Two
About the Author
By Shelley Shepard Gray
Copyright
About the Publisher
One
The Return
Holmes County, Ohio
October 1866
SOMEONE WAS IN her barn.
Under the pale light of a full moon, Sarah Ropp stood on the threshold of her back door and watched the flash of light that flitted through the slats of the barn’s siding like a hummingbird. Whoever was there obviously held a candle and was walking back and forth.
Or was, perhaps, searching?
The lump that had settled at the base of her throat fell to her stomach as fear reverberated through every last nerve. What if someone found the small amount of potatoes and carrots she’d carefully hidden away? Even the thought of losing her last bit of security scared her terribly.
That fear in itself was truly a little surprising. She’d begun to hide root vegetables in a small wooden crate in the barn after a band of soldiers had come through the previous fall and taken almost everything she’d had. Now that the war was over, she knew keeping food hidden away was irrational.
But memories of being alone, helpless, and hungry were embedded in her brain.
Three years ago, Daniel had gone to war and she’d been left to take care of the farm by herself. It hadn’t been easy, and on many days, she wasn’t certain if she was faring well or not. Most of the time she feared not.
But those concerns had to be tackled another day.
For now, she had to determine who was in her barn, and hope he or she didn’t accidentally set fire to anything while inside, exploring.
As the tiny light continued to flicker through the slats, she heard Mabel, her elderly dapple gray mare, snort in annoyance at the disturbance.
For some reason, that made her breathe easier. If the animals were afraid, they would be far more agitated. Perhaps it was merely some poor soul looking for shelter. Folks were desperate these days, and she didn’t blame them, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was all right with them taking shelter in her barn without permission.
That, of course, shamed her. It wasn’t the Amish way to be so unwelcoming or unforgiving toward her fellow man. A better woman would remember that all her belongings were the Lord’s first. She should want to share that crate of food. She should want to reach out to men and women in worse shape than herself.
Unfortunately, she just wanted the intruder to leave.
“Which just goes to show how much you’ve changed, Sarah,” she murmured under her breath. “You’ve become a stranger to yourself. You’ve become so alone and lonely that it’s a wonder you remember who you are when you awaken in the morning.”
As the words reverberated in her heart, that same desperate feeling she’d hugged close ever since Daniel had gone reared up again. The truth was, she doubted she’d ever be the woman she once was.
Still, that light continued to bob between the barn’s wooden slats. As if the Lord had grown tired of her hesitancy, the wind picked up, flattening her dress’s gray skirts against her body. For a split second, she gripped the door frame tightly, then let go.
After months and months of standing in the dark, it was time to move forward. She picked up her heaviest cast-iron frying pan from its usual spot next to the door. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was all she had. Daniel had taken their shotgun when he’d joined the war.
Cold dirt met the pads of her feet as she stepped forward, making her pause and almost turn back to slip on her boots. But she knew herself well enough to know that if she went back in the house, she wouldn’t come out again.
She kept walking.
Glanced at the pan she gripped. She doubted it would be much help if the intruder was a dangerous man intent on doing her harm.
But in a way, that was nothing new. In many ways, she’d been a victim of her circumstances for years now. She was an Amish widow living on her own, practically shunned by the rest of her community because her husband had decided to fight in the War Between the States.
After two years of receiving hastily written missives detailing prideful accounts of things he should not have been doing in the first place, she’d found his name on the published lists of the deceased. Though she didn’t necessarily miss him, she missed everything that could have been. If he’d lived, they could have had children, maybe. Perhaps, over time, they might have even grown to live in peace together.
But that hadn’t happened. When he’d left, she’d been forced to face the rest of their church community by herself. Most had thought Daniel never should have gotten involved in the Englischers’ battles. She’d privately agreed.
But she’d also been secretly glad he’d left.
Never had Sarah believed that he’d deserved to die, but he had been a difficult man to please. Most had known it. Since his death, most also expected her to live the rest of her life as his grieving widow.
But like the small amount of food that she’d carefully hidden in the barn, she also had dark secrets to guard. The darkest of which was that, in private, her husband had been a cruel, hard man. So much so that she’d feared his return. She’d feared that spending years fighting side by side with the English—firing weapons, and being among violence and depravity—would only make his dark demons worse.
As her steps quickened, the wind gusted again and she faltered against its strength.
It was time to gather her courage and investigate. “Got, stay with me, wouldja?” she whispered to the darkness. “I need your strength, for I’m sorely afraid that the last of mine was long used up.”
Melting into the shadows of a bright harvest moon, she continued her journey. The ground was already covered with morning frost; the icy patches made her legs tremble as the cold settled inside her skin.
And still she walked.
If the person inside was a killer, then what would be would be. The Lord was in charge of them all.
As stealthily as she was able, Sarah opened the door. The familiar heady smell of hay and horse surrounded her, easing her frayed nerves. But she sensed uneasiness, too, from Mabel.
The mare whickered in her direction.
The noise brought the intruder out of the shadows.
She barely had time to sense that he was large, clad in rough clothes. He had a dark beard. And a face that was at once harshly familiar and terribly strange. Suddenly, the match he’d been holding flickered out, shrouding them in darkness.
For a split second, she gripped the pan . . . though to do what with it, she didn’t know. Carefully, she set it on the floor, then stepped forwa
rd.
It seemed that the time for hiding had long since passed. Forcing herself to talk through her parched mouth, she called out, “Do you need help, sir? Do you seek aid?”
Only silence met her inquiry.
Her breath hitched as she waited and worried. Kept her eyes directly on the shadowed form next to Mabel. “Can you hear me?” she said, a little bit louder. Finally, she reverted to her comfortable Pennsylvania Dutch. “Can you understand me? Do you speak English or Deutsch?”
The span of a heartbeat passed. Another.
Her nerves frayed as her worst fears surfaced. This man was surely going to kill her after all. Obviously, he’d imagined the farm was abandoned, and she’d scared him.
Or perhaps he’d learned from the folks in the community that she was subsisting on the farm there. By herself. Some of the soldiers touring the area had shown her that some men preyed on weaker souls.
Perhaps that was what this man was doing.
She started to tremble. Closed her eyes and quickly asked the Lord to forgive her for her sins. The unmistakable sound of a match scratching against a post caused her to tremble. She opened her eyes just as he lit a candle.
The man raised his hand. She watched how the flame rose inch by inch, illuminating the man’s torso, shoulders, neck. His clothes were frayed and grayish-blue. Many times mended. Worn.
Then the flame reached his face. All at once, she spied scarred and puckered skin covering the left side. The skin around his lips and nose looked to have been pulled tight, making his features seem distorted.
Finally, she gazed into his dark eyes. They looked haunted and desolate.
And curiously familiar.
The rest of his skin was poorly healed and full of ridges and red welts. Forcing herself, she looked at him more closely. Noticed the way he seemed to favor one leg. Noticed how his hair was shaved close to his skull . . . but looked the color of fresh pecans.
“Sarah?” he rasped. His gaze direct and solid. Burning.
She gasped as her fears turned to reality. Clasped her hands together to try to prevent them from shaking.
It seemed her husband had returned from the dead.
She wanted to deny what she saw. She wanted to separate what her heart was saying and what her brain was telling her.
“Sarah, I’m back,” he said. Quietly. Not as if he anticipated a welcome. Instead his voice was halting, as if he were mentally preparing himself for her to run.
Almost as if he expected her to fear him. Only that made her believe what her eyes were telling her to be true.
“Daniel?” she asked. “Daniel? Is that really you?” Feeling foolish and hopeful and terribly, terribly afraid.
After another lengthy pause, he chuckled low. “I don’t know whether you’re happy or disappointed to see that I survived.”
She didn’t know, either.
Seeking comfort, she found herself gripping the edges of her apron, pulling it into her hands, feeling the soft cotton caress her skin.
He stepped forward, his gaze continually grazing her body, examining every inch. So intently, she could almost feel his touch. “Sarah,” he rasped. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
He almost sounded like he used to. He almost looked like he should have. But of course, this man was scarred.
But what confused her most was his manner. Gone was much of the arrogant pride. The bright physical presence that had always scared her.
Now, for some reason, he seemed kinder. Or, perhaps, more calculated? Daniel had often played a part, becoming the caring husband when others were in sight, only to mock her reactions when they were alone again.
Was that what he was doing now? Or had he changed?
Was it even of any significance? All that mattered was that he was now back and her life was no longer her own.
He would make sure of that.
As his flame continued to illuminate all the changes, Sarah felt her knees give. Her body sagged in disbelief as she plunged into darkness.
THE WOMAN HAD fainted. Standing over her, Jonathan Scott gazed at her prone form. Tried to match everything he was seeing with everything her husband had told him about her.
It was now obvious that Daniel had left much out.
Sarah Ropp was lovely. Lovely like a society lady’s thin china. Lovely like the pale pink roses littering a garden he’d once seen in Pennsylvania.
Lovely like the wishes he kept close to his chest and only prayed for when he was certain no one else was around.
In short, she was so much more than Daniel had ever revealed. It was obvious that for all of Daniel’s boasting and blustering, he had never truly realized the treasure he’d had waiting for him at home.
John didn’t care. Frankly, he didn’t even actually want to think about Daniel ever again. All he wanted to do was savor this moment.
He’d made it to her farm. And though he’d never intended to be discovered, she’d accepted him as her man.
And that, John reflected as he bent down and carefully swung her up in his arms, was half the battle.
The horse nickered behind him as he exited the barn and kept walking toward what was surely his new home.
Two
A Question of Conduct
“SARAH? SARAH, COME back to me now,” a hoarse voice murmured in her ear, just at the periphery of her consciousness. It sounded hoarse, raspy. And almost like someone she used to know.
And because of that, it was terrifying.
Hoping to escape, though her muscles and bones didn’t seem to show any signs of obeying her will, she moaned. Shied away from his scent.
The man inhaled sharply. Exhaled. Then spoke again. “Sarah, I mean you no harm. I . . . I promise you this.”
Muscles tense, she waited for him to change his mind. For him to call her hateful names. It seemed that neither her body nor her mind had forgotten anything about him. But all she now felt was peace. It mingled with the blessed silence, intertwined with the faint comfort of hope. Gradually, she became aware of the pillow under her head, the warmth of the room, and a dull pounding behind her eyes.
She blinked, trying in vain to diffuse the pain. Attempting to understand what was happening.
“That’s it. Easy now.”
Gentle fingers brushed her cheek. The touch felt soothing yet unfamiliar. Without thinking, she turned her face into it. It had been so long since anyone had touched her with kindness, and that, combined with the rough voice sinking into her consciousness, teased her memory. Sarah knew she should know that voice but it flitted and danced just out of her reach.
“Come on, Sarah. Don’t disappoint me now.”
That sounded more familiar. But the tone was wrong. It sounded light, almost teasing.
Almost kind.
She blinked again. Forced her eyes to focus and her mind to clear. Little by little, she became aware that she was lying on the settee in her sparsely furnished front room . . . and that the man—Daniel—was standing over her.
Her husband had returned.
“There you are. Feel better?” he asked.
She didn’t know. Panic mixed with a vague sense of wonder jolted her.
She had definitely not imagined that her husband had come back from the dead. He was here. He was real. As she stared at him, her eyes skimming the ragged jumble of scars on his left cheek and neck, she tried to find something in his face that was familiar.
She wasn’t sure if she could. Had she gone crazy?
Seeing her struggle, the man knelt beside her on one knee as he reached out and brushed his fingers against her skin. “Please, don’t be afraid,” he murmured, his voice so unfamiliarly gentle. “Sarah, yes, that’s it,” he cajoled. “Wake up now. I promise, you are safe.”
Safe? The descriptor wasn’t right. She’d never been safe with him.
As her mind cleared, she became aware of his scent, his warmth. His broad shoulders and thick arms. Though he was very thin, he still looked strong. Her skin tin
gled when his fingers gently brushed back a lock of hair from her brow.
Had Daniel ever touched her this way? Even when he’d come courting? She couldn’t recall.
Unable to help herself, she whimpered and shrank from him.
The man’s expression turned pained. After a ragged breath, he scooted away a good foot. Now he was too far for her to feel the warm brush of his breath on her skin—but not so far as to be completely out of reach. One of his hands hovered over her own, as if he was considering touching her again.
She braced herself. While his left hand was scarred, the skin on his right hand was blotchy and heavily calloused, his nails dirty. But that wasn’t what made her so nervous, of course.
After another seemingly endless second, his hand dropped to his side in defeat. “That’s all right. I know how I look. I . . . I know how my skin feels. It’s rough. I won’t touch you again. Just . . . please. Please don’t fear me.”
Was that an order? Was it a plea?
Did it matter? Her head pounded again in earnest. She ached for the numbing comfort of another faint, but it looked like her body was determined to remain conscious.
At her continued silence, he leaned back a bit. Giving her more room to breathe.
And to gaze at him once again. Shamelessly, she studied his features, tried to unearth her husband in them. But like his skin, her memories were ravaged from their three-year absence. It seemed distance and time’s passing had blurred the edges of her memory. Had Daniel truly looked like this man? Had she only imagined him being slimmer? His cheekbones less pronounced, his hairline a bit more receding? His brown eyes a slightly different shade?
For the first time, she wished she had a tintype of him. A black and white memento like she’d seen some of the English women carry with them.
Something to give credence to her memories.
Under her gaze, he sat stoically. Never flinching as she examined every ugly scar and wrinkle.
After several moments, in a voice that was increasingly strained, he whispered, “I know I look different.”
At last she found her voice. “ You do.” She hesitated, not wanting to admit the truth, that his battered body and face were almost painful to look at. “Almost unrecognizable.”
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