A Rose Revealed (The Amish Farm Trilogy 3)

by Gayle Roper

  I glanced at Jake, and he smiled at me. I walked over to stand beside him. Absently we watched out the window as Ben squealed his wheels, leaving a totally unnecessary strip of tire behind. He flew down Beaver Dam Road to the stop sign—and drove straight through. He roared across Route 10 without the slightest pause and sped away.

  I stepped back as if I’d slammed into a brick wall. My hand went to my heart. I was back two years ago when he had roared away into the night in anger, the night someone ran that same stop sign in front of Jake and sent him into the skid that ended with his motorcycle on his back.

  The blood roared in my ears and spots danced before my eyes. I was sure I would faint. I bent at the waist, lowering my head with a groan. I was vaguely aware that Jake placed himself between me and the rest of the room where Mom was now talking with Lauren and Davy.

  Bands of anguish wrapped about my heart and squeezed the very breath from my body. No matter how much I longed to, I couldn’t avoid the truth. I had sent Ben away in anger two years ago. It was my fault he sped into the night. It was my fault he ran the stop sign.

  I was responsible for Jake’s accident!

  “No, Rose.” It was Jake, right beside me, his hand making comforting circles on my back. His voice was low and urgent. “You are not responsible. We don’t even know that Ben is. No one saw the car or who drove it clearly enough to identify him, not even me.”

  I stared at him, my eyes wide with horror. “But I—”

  “No, Rose. Even if Ben drove away full of anger, stop signs are still the law. Even if he were the one who ran it, it’s his fault, not yours.”

  I listened and tried to believe, yearned to believe.

  His eyes were intent and full of emotion. “Think about this, Tiger. Anyone who is cagey enough to pretend to throw away a ring is aware enough to stop at a stop sign.”

  I stilled as that thought wrapped itself around my trembling heart. “He did pretend, didn’t he?” I straightened partway. “He was aware.” I felt the pain loosen its claws and the stirrings of something like hope.

  “Rose,” Jake said softly. “Look at me.”

  I did so.

  “You are life to me, Tiger.” He gripped my hand. “You are hope and sunshine and all the good things I could ever think of. You couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”

  I put my arm about his shoulders and laid my cheek on his head for a brief moment. I knew what he said wasn’t true. I was hurting him just as he was hurting me even as we spoke, though not willfully. Nor with malice intended. And I knew what he was really saying with his lovely, poetic words. He was saying that he loved me.

  “I love you, too,” I whispered.

  He squeezed my waist and dropped his arm. I straightened and we turned to the room, smiles in place. Amazingly no one seemed aware that my world had stopped for an anguished instant or that Jake, my Jake, had had the understanding and wisdom to restart it. They included us in the conversation like nothing untoward had happened.

  “When are you guys going shooting?” I asked a short time later.

  “I don’t know,” Jake said. “Maybe we won’t go.”

  “What?” Davy and I said together.

  “You’re thinking about the hardware store, aren’t you?” I said to Jake.

  He nodded.

  “Even if Ernie were there, which we don’t know for sure, what could he do while I cut down a tree? Bomb the field? You guys go. Just don’t stay long.”

  Jake looked at me, obviously torn between wanting the time with Davy and wanting to be certain I was all right.

  “Go,” I said. “I’ll be upset if you don’t.”

  “Come on,” Davy said. “I want to see if that old shotgun of yours is any good. I haven’t gone after clay pigeons in a long time.”

  Jake nodded. “Okay, but we won’t be long. We’ll meet you at the tree farm.”

  I nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

  After Jake left, the house suddenly seemed much emptier. How can that be, I wondered, since he’s never been here except today? How could he so quickly imprint himself upon this room, this place?

  Dear God, how will I stand it when he leaves my life?

  “Come on, Lauren,” I said. “Let’s go cut the tree.”

  We pulled on our coats and gloves, and I got my father’s old bow saw from the basement.

  “I’ll be waiting,’’ Mom said. “And just think how easy it will be to set up the tree this year with that new stand. Jake was so wise to select one that will make the whole process easier.” And she smiled.

  I smiled back and thought that the man had already stolen her heart.

  It was most convenient having the tree farm close to us. We were there in less than ten minutes.

  “Hey, look,” I called to Lauren as we climbed out of Mom’s car. I pointed to her red coat, then to mine. “We’re twins!”

  “Red coats, green trees.” she smiled. “Christmas colors. How appropriate.”

  We climbed the slight hill with evergreens of varying heights and widths all about us. Stumps from trees taken in years past littered the ground. Family groups and couples were scattered throughout the trees, laughing, making or following their own traditions.

  “I’ve never cut a tree before,” Lauren said, giving a little skip. “I feel like I’m in a Christmas card, except there’s no snow.”

  “Thank goodness,” I said. “I’ve cut trees in snow, rain, sleet. It’s no fun, let me tell you.”

  “Dare I ask why you didn’t wait for good weather?”

  “Thanksgiving is tree-cutting day, whether I like it or not,” I explained. “Some things are not negotiable.”

  “This is two days after,” Lauren pointed out reasonably.

  “I was flat on my back with the flu yesterday and caring for Jake the day before,” I explained. “Even Mom has to accept illness.”

  We started looking over the trees, walking among them and around them, trying to decide how big they would actually prove to be when forced into a normal-sized living room. The open spaces and high sky made a true perspective difficult.

  “How about this one?” Lauren called. “It’s a beauty!”

  I walked around a couple of trees and found her admiring a glorious tree, all straight and full.

  “How tall are you?” I asked.

  “Five feet, six inches.”

  “The ceiling is about seven feet. That’s a little bit taller than your reach or mine. What do you think?” I stood on tiptoe and stretched. The tree towered above my fingers.

  Lauren made a face. “But it’s so lovely!”

  I recognized the same disappointment a shopper feels when she finds the perfect dress, only to discover it comes in every size but hers. I patted her hand. “There will be others.”

  We kept looking for that perfect tree, wandering about the field with no pattern in mind. Little by little the others found their trees and left. The afternoon moved into dusk, and still we looked.

  Lauren wandered down one path and I wandered down another. I found a likely candidate and walked around it several times. It looked good every time. There was one hole, but that would be the side that went against the wall. I stretched up on tiptoe and the height looked good. I’d have to clip the top a bit, but that would be all to the good. It was a bit scraggly up there, and the trim would tighten it up just right for the huge red bow Mom insisted on putting at the top.

  “Why not an angel like everyone else?” I used to ask before I learned that asking was useless.

  “Because everyone else has angels,” Mom said with her special logic. “Besides, bows cover up sparse tops very nicely.”

  I opened my mouth to call Lauren so she wouldn’t miss the glorious moment of felling the tree when I heard a garbled sound that froze my blood. It sounded like someone choking.

  “Lauren?”

  The only answer was the beginnings of a broken-off scream.

  My skin crawled, and I spun toward the sound. “Lauren?”


  I began to run in the direction I thought the noise had come from. The trees had the effect of misdirecting the sound. I ran through a cluster of trees, their branches slapping me in the face, their marvelous, resinous fragrance making a lie of the sudden crackle of danger in the air.

  I burst into a little clearing and saw two people struggling, one Lauren, the other the man from the hardware store, the one with the Michigan cap and sunglasses who had stared at me. He held her from behind, an arm about her throat. She was pulling at the arm, trying to loosen it so she could breathe. As I rushed toward them, he raised a piece of pipe above her head.

  “No!”

  He jerked at my shout and turned toward me as he swung. The pipe hit Lauren a sturdy blow on the back of the head, but it was nowhere near as hard as it would have been if I hadn’t called out and distracted him. She crumpled to the ground without a sound.

  I felt bile rise as I watched my new friend fall. I looked at the man in horror.

  “Who are you? What are you doing?” My speech was jerky and full of a mixture of fear and anger.

  He looked at me, then glanced at the woman at his feet and realized his mistake. From the back he’d seen a woman with short, curly brown hair, wearing a red coat, and he’d assumed he was seeing me.

  He swore and began walking toward me. He raised the pipe again, waving it angrily, and I saw red on it. Lauren’s blood.

  I backed up, my heart pounding, talking to him as I went. “You don’t want to hurt us.” I tried not to sound like I was pleading though, of course, I was. “There’s no reason to hurt us. We haven’t done anything to you.”

  “It’s your fault!” His face was contorted with fury. “You remember. I know you do!”

  “What? What do I remember?”

  I kept backing up, drawing him farther and farther from Lauren. I talked as I went, not so much to upset him or to get information from him as because I couldn’t keep quiet. It was a nervous reaction to an unprecedented situation.

  And suddenly it all came together, the pieces fitting into place as neatly and precisely as cut glass in a Tiffany lamp.

  My stunned expression told him the truth.

  “You remember! I knew you’d remember!”

  “Just this very minute,” I said. “If you’d let me alone, I probably never would have.”

  He came relentlessly at me, and I marveled at the effectiveness of his disguise, the Michigan cap, the wig, the false mustache. No wonder I didn’t recognize him at the store.

  “I’m going to kill you,” he announced. “I’m just sorry the first attempt didn’t work. Then you’d never have remembered.”

  “But I do remember. I remember that you had your sunglasses on when we left the house,” I said. “You had them on as we helped your mother down the steps and along the walk. You even had them on when I bent over to buckle her in. I remember because I was thinking how Sophie ought to have a pair, driving in the late afternoon like that. The setting sun can be blinding at times.”

  I backed into a blue spruce and jumped as its sharp needles penetrated my jeans and stabbed my neck. I glanced away from the danger long enough to find a way around the tree. When I looked back, he was much closer. I tried to concentrate on where I was and where help in the form of the checkout station was. I kept on talking.

  “Ammon had just climbed into the driver’s seat and was ready to insert the key. Suddenly you ran for the house, yelling about needing your sunglasses, the ones you had had on all along.” I looked at him with scorn. “You made it safely inside before the bomb exploded, Peter, the bomb that killed your own mother and brother.”

  “They wouldn’t help me,” he said, his voice a whine. “I’d borrowed money and they wouldn’t help me pay it back.”

  Somehow I didn’t think he’d borrowed from a bank. “Nasty guys, huh? What was it? Gambling? Drugs? Both? And how did you ever manage to get rid of that great fortune your mother told me about? Bad investments? Crackpot get-rich-quick schemes?”

  He didn’t answer, just pressed closer and closer. I continued to back away as quickly as I could. I felt my heel strike a tree stump, throwing me off balance. I struggled to keep my footing, but I lost my equilibrium and landed on my seat, jarring my teeth and knocking the breath from me. Peter rushed at me when he saw his opportunity, and I scrambled desperately to get out of his way.

  As he grabbed for me, I put my hands out to protect myself and saw with surprise that I still held my little bow saw. I slashed at the air with it. He ducked, then stilled, then grabbed. Next thing I knew, he and I were having a tug of war over the tool.

  He gave a great pull, and I let go. He staggered at the sudden cessation of tension, and I turned and ran. I tore through a cluster of evergreens and wiped at my face as branches and needles slashed across the tender skin. I didn’t feel the pain so much as I resented the temporary blocking of my vision.

  Dear God, help!

  I could hear Peter crashing after me. As I ran through another cluster of trees, I wished my barn jacket were a deep green instead of a bright red. I wished I knew where I was in relation to the parking lot and checkout. I wished I were at home with my mother.

  I burst into a clearing and there, a football field away, was the checkout. I ran as hard as I could toward it and the possibility of cars and people and help.

  I screamed as a large hand clamped on my shoulder, trying to drag me to a halt and pull me back into the trees. I dug in my heels and struggled against him.

  I grabbed at the buttons on the front of my coat, working them with desperation. The gloves made the precise movements hard. I jerked a glove off, pushed a last button through the hole and gave a mighty shrug. My coat slid free from my body, and I was no longer in Peter’s grasp. I ran for all I was worth. I heard him curse, and my back prickled as I waited for another heavy hand to fall on me.

  I saw a branch from a blue spruce lying on the ground in front of me. It was not very long, but it was sturdy and it had lots of needles. I grabbed the branch, held it tightly in both hands, and swung around with it extended as far as I could.

  God, give me strength!

  The branch caught Peter squarely in the face and upper body, the impact sending shock waves up my arms and across my back and neck. He screamed as the needles raked across his face, scratching and pricking and gouging. I gritted my teeth and swung again, my body shuddering when I made contact.

  I didn’t wait to see what the long-range effect of my attack was. I’d seen a green van pull into the parking area. I dropped the branch and ran toward it. I watched as it turned into the field and bounced toward me. Suddenly the van swerved and shivered to a stop. The sliding door flew open and Davy reached for me as Jake yelled out his window, “Get in!”

  I needed no second invitation. I threw myself at Davy and he hauled me inside. At the same time Jake leaned out his window, his target pistol extended, and yelled, “Freeze!”

  Davy leaped from the van, a shotgun aimed at Peter who stood bewildered, hands raised, Michigan hat lying on the ground as was the wig he’d been wearing beneath it. His false mustache had been knocked half off by the slash of the branch. The look of disbelief on his face was almost comical, except that nothing about Peter Hostetter and his selfishness was in any way humorous.

  Satisfied that Davy had things under control, Jake released his chair and came back to me as I sat on the van floor.

  “Are you all right, Tiger?”

  I looked at him and nodded. I was afraid to try to talk. I’d probably cry. Now that the crisis was over, my insides were quivering. He touched my cheek gently and then lowered himself to the ground as quickly as he could.

  “Get over here,” he yelled to Peter, waving his pistol menacingly. “And lie down right there.” He pointed and Peter dropped to his knees. “All the way. On your face! Put your hands together in the small of your back.”

  “Where’s Lauren?” Davy asked, his eyes still on Peter. “I thought she was coming with you.”
Just then Lauren staggered out of the trees, her hand to her head.

  “Lauren!” Davy blanched and dropped the shotgun. He ran to her, catching her as she fell.

  Dear God, let her be all right! Let her be all right, please!

  “Get the shotgun, Rose,” Jake ordered, pulling me back to our predicament. “Climb out here and hold it on him.”

  I climbed out of the van, shivering in the cold. I skirted Jake and Peter in a wide arc, moving first to grab my coat from the ground where Peter had dropped it. I shrugged it on and then bent for the gun. When I picked it up, I tried to look like I knew what I was doing. I aimed it at Peter and wondered what he’d think if he knew he was being held captive by guns loaded with blanks, if they were loaded at all, which they probably weren’t since the guys would have made certain they weren’t loaded when they left the firing range.

  I looked at Jake in question. “Now what?”

  “The police will be here momentarily,” he said.

  Peter groaned and dared a glance at me. He looked like he expected me to feel sorry for him and help him out. I narrowed my eyes and glared, and he blinked as if surprised.

  The guy doesn’t get it, I thought. He thinks for some reason that he can disregard the law, and people, even the people he’s tried to kill, will understand and make allowances because it’s him. I thought of Sophie’s smiling indulgence and how tragic it was that she had inadvertently contributed to making her son the unprincipled, horrible man he’d become.

  “It’s cold down here,” Peter whined suddenly, putting his hands beside his shoulders preparatory to pushing himself upright. “You could at least let me stand up.”

  Jake and I didn’t bother to answer. Instead Jake released the safety on his handgun with a loud click. With another disbelieving groan, Peter slid his hands down his sides and lowered his cheek to the ground.

  All the evil he has done, I thought, and it’s brought him nothing but shame and certain incarceration, if not death. He’s earned that groan and the many that are certain to follow.

  “How do the cops know to come?” I asked Jake.

  “We called 911 when we saw you being chased,” he explained.