by DiAnn Mills
Hours after Jenny had walked home from supper without telling Grant good-bye, he still wondered why she’d left without telling him or Rebecca good-bye. He’d been busy with the children, but he’d have gladly walked her home. Perhaps Martha had upset her or she was concerned about the news of Turner heading to Ohio. Even now, Grant berated himself for his stupidity. Jenny needed to agree to stay here and marry him. He wanted to ask her tonight—this instant—but the words would flounder from his mouth like a fish out of water. She may very well despise him, but he thought he’d seen something akin to love in her eyes.
He crumpled another sheet of paper and tossed it into a metal can beside his desk. The receptacle was nearly full. Jessica’s journal tormented him worse than a case of chicken pox in July. Tonight he’d spent every spare minute searching its pages for the secrets hidden between its cover, and he’d become obsessed with finding the answers. Frustrated, Grant didn’t know if his fixation lay in finding the money itself or in the fact that Jenny had placed it into his hands, confident he could unravel it.
His mind lingered on Jessica’s instability. For certain, he’d not let a single symptom appearing in Rebecca slip by him. Lord, keep my little daughter safe and free from the demons that besieged her mother.
Grant opened the heavy double doors to his office and made his way through the darkened house to the kitchen. He refused to go to bed until he solved the riddle of the journal, but he needed some coffee to help him stay awake. His stomach ached from eating far too much licorice while he worked tonight. He, the doctor, should have shoved the bag back into his desk drawer. His lips were probably the color of coal. With a sigh, he rekindled the cookstove, and soon the fresh coffee’s nutty aroma filled the kitchen.
Mimi would be proud of me taking care of myself. His housekeeper had retired to her room shortly after the two of them had tucked Rebecca into bed.
His little daughter seemed troubled this evening. She said Aunt Jenny had gotten dirt in her eyes and it made her cry, so he and Rebecca prayed for her. To Grant, that explanation sounded like Jenny had been avoiding telling Rebecca the truth. What had happened to make her cry? He ran his fingers through his hair. Martha’s dislike for Jenny flashed across his mind. Irritated, he intended to speak to Martha in the morning—should have done so tonight. The woman may have escaped a tragedy, but that did not excuse ill treatment of Jenny. His Jenny. Shaking his head, he grasped the handle of the coffeepot with a towel and carried it back to his office.
Grant pulled the opened journal from the top of his desk and reread the last entry. Always his attention focused on this short passage. Surely her words of money for Jenny weren’t written to confuse her sister—or an ugly joke contrived during one of her maddening episodes. Well, he couldn’t discount the validity of Jessica’s words until he exhausted all of his efforts.
Flipping through the pages, he looked to see if anything was missing or torn. Every page appeared intact. The key to resolving the issue lay in mathematics, but what form or how?
Grant took a huge gulp of his hot coffee and sputtered as it burned his tongue. Upset with himself for not figuring out the code and upset with Jessica for creating it, he set the coffee down and pulled out a blank sheet of paper from inside his middle desk drawer. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes. What if he were a child playing school and fancied arithmetic? How might he present a numbered code to a younger sister?
First, he looked to see if Jessica’s birthday, January 22, 1870, corresponded to pages one, twenty-two, eighteen, or seventy in the journal. When Grant saw nothing that looked unusual, he released a heavy sigh.
In attempting to recall Jenny’s birthday, he remembered Jessica had written something special to her on that day. After leafing through several pages, he found the date: November 12, 1873. He turned to the matching journal entries of eleven, twelve, and seventy-three. But his hunch proved wrong.
He drummed his pen habitually on the desk, aggravated at his own inability to decipher Jessica’s code. Nevertheless, it challenged him, and he couldn’t put it aside.
Lord, if You want me to solve this riddle, please show me. I don’t know what to do with it. I’m frustrated, but I don’t feel that You want me to give up.
A thought occurred to him. Grant wrote the alphabet across the top of his paper. Beneath each letter he assigned a corresponding number, with the letter A receiving a one and the letter Z, a twenty-six. For the next hour he matched up Jessica’s name, Jenny’s name, Cleveland, Ohio, Kahlerville, Texas, and many other words and phrases that might provide a clue, but none of it made any sense. He found the letters could repeat themselves and yet form nothing sensible.
This idea isn’t any better than the others. I’m a fool to keep working. I should give up, at least for tonight.
Taking a deep breath, he studied the last page of the journal one more time and smiled at the mention of the lilac tree. It seemed to be a favorite childhood memory for both girls. He sat straighter in his chair. Unless Jessica wrote about it for a specific purpose. A renewed enthusiasm drove him back to the journal.
Grant copied “beneath the lilac tree” on a clean sheet of paper. He assigned the letters with matching numbers. His original method hadn’t made sense, just as before, but this time he couldn’t bring himself to destroy his work.
Beneath had seven letters. Page seven of the journal revealed nothing. Grant totaled the numbers given to each letter of the word. It added up to fifty-five. He turned to that entry. A tingle of excitement spurred him. The word first was underlined. Nervously, he totaled the numbers of the letters in the word the, and it equaled thirty-three. On page thirty-three he saw the word national with a distinct line under it. Lilac added up to thirty-seven, and on that page he saw the word bank in a different color ink. Taking a deep breath, he totaled the word tree, and on page forty-eight, Jessica had faintly selected Houston. First National Bank of Houston. Grant silently repeated, First National Bank of Houston.
“I’ve figured out the journal,” he whispered. “I can’t believe it, but this is the code.” Glancing at the clock on his desk, he saw the hour approached ten. Realizing the lateness required a certain amount of silence, he instantly hushed. His findings must wait until morning. Jenny would be so pleased. She had claimed he could decipher it, but he really had his doubts.
Thank You, Lord. He leaned back in his chair and allowed satisfaction to roll over him. Not that Rebecca would have money for her future, but that Jenny believed he could decipher the journal.
Grant lifted the coffee to his lips. Jessica’s method of concealing the money had been nothing more than child’s play. Yet both he and Jenny had found her code nearly impossible. Now, finding the name listed on the account should be easy, certainly simpler than where the money had been hidden.
Propping his feet on the desk, he felt decisively wonderful—and pleased. Turner had left town, and Jenny needed to stay. Perhaps she not only feared for herself but for her parents, too. Grant couldn’t offer her much of a future if he couldn’t place the root of her fears in jail. First thing in the morning, he’d visit Ben and Morgan. Hopefully one of them had turned up something on Turner. Afterward he planned to stop by the boardinghouse and present Jenny with the journal’s findings. The wording of a marriage proposal flashed in and out of his mind.
The sound of someone frantically shouting his name broke his reverie. Alerted, he sprang from his desk and took long strides toward the entrance of his home. This could only be an emergency.
Chapter 32
The pounding at Grant’s door sounded like someone was kicking it in. He flung it open to find Frank carrying the limp body of a small woman.
“Someone broke into the house while I was gone,” he said with a gasp. “She’s hurt real bad, Grant. Oh, dear God, please don’t take my Ellen.”
Grant reached for her, but Frank shook his head. “No, I’ll lay her wherever you want.”
Pointing to the examination table in his office, Gr
ant lit the lamps while Frank placed Ellen gently on the table. Her ashen face and faint breathing revealed the telltale signs of her attack. Who could have done such a thing? Purplish-blue finger marks pressed in around her throat, and her face was swollen and beginning to discolor.
Lord, it’s a miracle that she’s still alive. Touch her, I beg of You, with Your healing power. Guide my hands. Give me wisdom, and let all the glory be Yours. Amen.
“She’s a fighter,” Grant said. He carefully felt her bruised neck, face, and the back of her head. A large bump rose beneath his fingers but there was no blood. Had she fallen, or had someone struck her head? “We know God can pull her through this.”
Frank’s powerful chest rose and fell with the gravity of the situation before him. “It’s all my fault. I was a fool to leave a dog to protect her. She was no match for whoever did this.”
“You had no way of knowing.”
Frank buried his face in his hands. “The house was turned upside down by some wild man—like Mrs. Lewis’s.”
Suspicion stole inside Grant’s mind that Turner might have attacked Ellen, but he kept silent. “We’ll let Ben deal with it later. Right now I need Mimi.” He kept his attention focused on Ellen. “Would you go upstairs and knock on the second door on the right for me? And pray, Frank. Keep praying.”
“I am. I will.” His boots thundered on the steps, sure to wake the entire household.
But Grant didn’t have time to fret over trivial matters. Ellen’s unresponsiveness scared him. Who did this blared across his mind. An old customer who couldn’t bear the fact she’d married, or Turner? Before he could contemplate the question further, Frank bounded back down the stairs.
“She’s on her way. No matter what happens with my Ellen, I’ll always be grateful for your help.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pants pocket, he wiped his face and nose. “I’ll stand back in the corner and hush so you can tend to her.”
Soon Mimi appeared in the doorway wrapped in a long robe. “Grant, I’m here.” Her voice was strong, in control. Grant needed that right now. So did Frank. “What do you need for me to do first?” she said.
“Could you prepare the upstairs room? I’d like to get her into a comfortable bed as soon as I can. There’s not much I can do but treat her injuries.” He glanced into Mimi’s lined face. “I appreciate your getting up.”
“What’s happened?”
Martha’s grating voice served only to irritate him. How long before all the kids were up? He needed quiet to care for Ellen.
“Ellen Kahler was attacked at her home tonight,” Mimi said.
Martha sucked in a breath. “When will it end? One tragedy after another.”
“We need to let Grant do what he can for her,” Mimi said.
“Did she say who did this?” Martha said.
“She’s unconscious.” Frank’s voice was infected with anger and bitterness. “How could she tell me anything?”
“Frank, I never wanted this for her. Not Ellen,” Martha said.
Before Frank could respond, Mimi took Martha by the arm. “I need you to help me upstairs.” A moment later, the office door closed.
“Would you go after Ben?” Grant lifted Ellen’s arm. He feared it might be broken, but it was only bruised.
“All right.” Frank drew in a ragged breath. “Do you think she’ll make it?”
“That’s up to God.” Grant lifted his gaze to Frank’s face and reddened eyes. “I’m doing everything I can.” He focused on cleaning the cuts on Ellen’s face and throat.
“I think I’ll stop at the parsonage, too. Have to go right by there.”
“Good idea. We need everyone praying. Take my horse. It’s stabled in back.”
Once Frank left, Grant had time to think. He couldn’t do much more for Ellen than wait, but Frank needed things to keep his body and mind busy. He examined her again, still questioning if her arm had been broken. At least she’d not been molested, which minimized the probability of her past life being the motive for the assault.
Grant didn’t believe in coincidences. Until the journal had come into his possession, he wouldn’t have had such strong suspicions about Aubrey Turner. But now he felt strongly that one certain individual stood behind all three calamities—Mrs. Lewis’s death, the fire, and now Ellen’s attack.
Ben and the reverend arrived with Frank within the hour. The three men met in Grant’s office. The only sound was Ben’s hacking coughs, reminding Grant of yet one more critical situation.
“How is she?” Frank said. “Who would have done this?”
“No change. But she isn’t worse. I haven’t taken her upstairs yet.”
Ben coughed, then cleared his throat. “Hey, brother, do you feel like answering some questions for me? I remember you said she was at the house while you were working.”
“That’s right. And I’ll do anything to help find the one who did this.”
“I understand,” Ben said. “Have you made anyone mad or had problems at the store or the lumberyard?”
Frank’s misty eyes never left Ellen’s face. “No, business is good, and I haven’t had any trouble.”
Ben’s gaze darted about, appearing reluctant to ask the next question. He hesitated, paused, and began again. “Could a man from Ellen’s past have done this?”
Frank came out of his chair with both fists clenched, but Grant grabbed him. “He has to ask questions. It’s his job.” Grant turned his attention to Ben. “Although he could have waited on that one. If your investigation is going to upset Frank, then it can wait until morning. Ellen needs my full attention.”
“I’m sorry.” Ben pushed back his hat. “Just tryin’ to figure out why someone would’ve attacked her.”
“I want to know, too,” Grant said. “But not at the expense of my patient or Frank. If you’re going to ask any more questions tonight, make sure they’re reasonable. I have no intention of breaking up a fight between you two. Seems like I’ve done that most of my life.” He didn’t need to add his last comment, but exasperation ground at him.
Ben nodded. “I suspect you have. One more thing is puzzling me. What about General Lee? Why didn’t he attack the intruder?”
Frank closed his eyes. “The man shot him near the front door. That tells me he had to be someone who knew General’s fierce nature.”
“Mind if I stop in at your place and take a look around?”
“No, go ahead. As upset as I am, you probably should go on over to the house now.”
Hours later, Grant quietly closed the door to the room where Ellen slept and where Frank and the reverend kept a constant vigil. Descending the stairs, he mentally listed the items he needed to do first thing this morning. Ellen had made it through the night, and the worst was over. Every bone in his body ached after the all-night ordeal, but he praised God for bringing Ellen through her brush with death.
Anger and a yearning for revenge needled at him despite his oath to protect and preserve human life. He knew God reserved the right to judge men by their deeds, but Grant wanted the crimes of late ended.
He hurried through the house looking for Mimi. She’d been up most of the night with him, and soon Rebecca would be up and ready for the day. He’d already heard Martha’s boys. Wearily, he shook his head in an attempt to dispel a hammering pain across his brow. He didn’t dare consider rest until his errands were completed and Ellen had responded to his care.
Mimi moved slowly about the kitchen. She looked pitifully tired, her normally clear eyes clouded red and puffy.
“Thanks for helping me last night,” he said.
“Nonsense.” Already she had an apron tied about her chubby waist, and the aroma of biscuits rested pleasantly in the air.
He sensed a gnawing hunger, but food hadn’t made it on his list. “I take advantage of you far too often.”
“Helping you and caring for Rebecca gives me more joy than you’ll ever know. So you hush about it right now.”
“It’s still not r
ight. One of these days, I’m going to make all this up to you.” He hesitated. “I need to see Ben, then stop by the boardinghouse. I won’t be long, maybe an hour. Ellen is sleeping and shouldn’t stir for some time. Frank and the reverend are with her.” Guilt clung to him like flies on sugar for leaving Ellen if only for a little while.
She poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him. “I’m glad you’re on your way to see Jenny.”
“I’m hoping last night will prove to her the importance of moving into the parsonage.”
She sighed. “I don’t know what this town is coming to. With Mrs. Lewis’s heart failure and this horrible attack on Ellen, it’s simply not safe for any woman.” She wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron. “It’s downright frightening to think there’s someone living in our town who’s mean enough to harm defenseless women.”
Grant wrapped his arm around her shoulders, which were trembling from the weight of her anguish. “I’m sorry too, Mimi. If it makes you feel any better, I may have a lead, which is one of the reasons why I’m stopping in to see Ben. Frank needs to know there’s a suspect. It won’t undo what happened to Ellen, but we’ll all feel better when the man’s caught.”
“Has Ellen spoken yet?”
“No, and I don’t want her talking for a few days. We can communicate with her by writing notes. I’m sure she knows who attacked her. Frank says shotgun shells were strewn all over the floor. She must have tried hard to protect herself.”
“It’s a wonder their dog didn’t tear the person to pieces,” Mimi said and smoothed back her smoky-gray hair.
Grant hesitated. He’d rather Mimi heard the details from him than someone else. “Someone shot the dog. When Ben left here last night, he planned to stop by their house to remove the animal and the bullet.”
His housekeeper grimaced. “This is just so awful. And I thought Texas had settled down.” She took a handkerchief from her apron pocket and blew her nose. “I know God had His hand on Ellen last night. How else could she have survived what happened to her?”
“I agree. He brought her through a rough night.”
