Rachel’s father and mother had produced only one child—her.
Even though both her parents had been taken from her early, Rachel had never felt orphaned. Instead, she’d always felt as though she had three mothers looking out for her. In spite of what she saw and experienced as a cop, the world never felt like an evil place while she was sitting in one of their front porch rockers, helping shell peas or string green beans. And seeing Anna’s delight in a budding flower or a newly born calf was always a salve to her soul.
As she rounded the corner of the house, she stopped short. The sight of a small boy swinging from her old tire swing surprised her. Anna, beaming, was pushing him.
Rachel leaned against the tree and watched. “Who’ve you got there, Anna?”
“Bobby.” Anna stopped pushing to better concentrate on her words. “He wants the white kitty—so you can’t have it.”
The cherubic little boy was gorgeous. Curly blond hair, pink cheeks, innocent blue eyes.
She walked over and squatted to greet him. “Did you give the white kitty a name?”
His Dresden-blue eyes met hers as his feet dragged the ground to slow the swing. “Uh-huh. Gwacie.”
“Gracie?”
The little boy nodded.
“That’s a nice name. Why Gracie?”
“It’s my mommy’s name.” Bobby’s lower lip trembled. “She’s in heaven.”
Rachel and Anna shared a concerned glance over his head. Anna shrugged, letting her know that she, too, was ignorant about the child’s mother.
Lydia stepped outside at that moment. “Food is ready!” she called.
Anna helped the little boy out of the swing. “Come.”
He slipped his hand into Anna’s and glanced up at her with utter acceptance. Rachel had seen this before—small children always trusted Anna.
“Where is his father?” Rachel asked.
Anna pointed to one of the small cabins. “Bobby’s daett has no money.”
Rachel cocked an eyebrow. The cabins had no running water or electricity. The child’s father must, indeed, be down on his luck.
A screen door slammed and Bertha limped out of the cabin, leaning heavily on her walker. The stranger had to duck his head as he followed her. The doorways of the cabins were six feet high. Rachel judged the man to be nearly three or four inches taller.
Her practiced cop’s eye scanned and evaluated him in less than three seconds. Even dressed in ill-fitting clothes, she could tell that he was built like an athlete—someone who had obviously spent much time working out.
Many men developed that sort of muscle definition while in prison. They beefed up with weights out of boredom—or for sheer self-preservation. She hoped that was not the case with this man—her aunts’ first guest since she had exacted their promise to close down the inn. Based on that promise, Bertha must be of the opinion that this stranger had been sent by God.
Rachel had her doubts.
He wore torn jeans and a faded T-shirt and had wild-looking, dirty-blond hair worn down to his shoulders. He also sported a full, unkempt beard.
It was the beard that bothered her the most. Old Order Amish men with untrimmed facial hair were merely telling the world that they were members of their church. And that they were married. Non-Amish men who wore a full beard, in her experience, were frequently hiding something…or hiding from something. The psycho who had put her in the hospital had been heavily bearded. It made her a tad prejudiced.
The stranger had the same startling blue eyes as the little boy. Not a kidnapping, then, unless it was domestic. No markings on his face or forearms. She glanced at the webbing between his thumbs and fingers where gang tattoos were frequently placed. Nothing there. No earrings or visible jewelry. No piercings.
Her eyes fell to his shoes. Shoes could tell a lot about a person. What in the…?
This man, in worn clothing, who supposedly had no money, was wearing a pair of new Saucony ProGrid Paramounts—one of the most expensive tennis shoes available. She had longed for a pair herself.
“Hello, Rachel.” Bertha, who had made her way across the short expanse of yard, huffed from the exertion of it. “This is Joe Matthews. Joe, this is our niece, Rachel. She works for the Sugarcreek Police Department.”
“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” he said.
Rachel caught his split-second sweep of her uniform as his hands curled into fists at his side. The man was visibly uncomfortable in her presence.
He had a deep voice, unaccented in an area where a Germanic lilt flavored many people’s speech. The polite ease of his words belied his rigid stance. He held his breath, as though awaiting her reaction.
She reached to shake hands with him and evaluated his grip. Firm handshake…but his palm had none of the roughness she associated with men who worked outdoors for a living.
“Glad to meet you. Um, ‘Joe’ did you say?”
He released his breath, almost on a sigh. “Yes, ma’am.”
The stranger looked her square in the eye and held it—a little too deliberately. Few people did that when they first met a uniformed cop, even those with a reasonably clear conscience. Her instincts went on full alert. This guy was hiding something, and it was her job to find out what it was.
“What’s your business here, Joe?” she asked. “Are you a tourist, or are you just passing through?”
“Just passing through. My truck broke down. I’ll be moving on as soon as I can get it fixed.”
“Uh-huh.” She allowed silence to settle over them. People with something to hide usually kept talking. Silence was something she had used many times to get people to reveal more than they intended.
Unfazed, he waited out the silence. It was impressive. And it was something else he might have learned in prison.
“What do you do for a living, Joe?” She watched his eyes as he answered.
“Construction.” He blinked a couple times as he answered, a tip-off to her that he might be lying.
Interesting.
“I hope you get your truck fixed soon, Joe.”
“So do I, ma’am.”
She decided that if this man spent the night, she would be sleeping in one of her aunts’ guest rooms. It wouldn’t hurt Joe Matthews—if that was his real name—to see a squad car parked outside this Amish home.
Lydia rang the dinner bell impatiently. Her food was ready, and no one had come.
“We should go in now.” Bertha began her slow progress toward the house and everyone followed.
When they arrived at the kitchen door, Joe politely stood back and held open the screen door, allowing Bertha, Anna, and Bobby to enter. All had to pick their way over a broken back step. Rachel made a mental note to fix it as soon as the Swiss Festival was over.
Joe waited for her to enter as well, but there was a long pause while she silently refused. She had absolutely no intention of allowing this stranger to maneuver himself behind her. Her hand lay lightly on the butt of her gun while she stood, feet planted far apart, and gestured for him to go ahead.
Reluctantly he entered, while she weighed her chances of taking him down if he tried something. Her estimation was that subduing Joe would be quite a struggle, if not impossible.
She deeply regretted her promise to Bertha to allow them to take in “angels unaware.” Unless she was badly mistaken, this man was no angel.
Her aunts seemed to be oblivious to the direction her thoughts were taking. Instead, they were acting as if they were delighted to have a table full of company again.
Much to-do was made over piling a bundle of old newspaper copies of The Budget on a chair to elevate Bobby. Joe was automatically given the position of honor at the head of the table. Rachel chose the seat at the far end, where she could observe Joe’s every move.
After everyone was seated, the aunts bowed their heads in their customary silent blessing.
The little boy, seeing the adult heads bowed, clasped his hands beneath his chin and began saying his own pr
ayer out loud. “God, thank You for this food and my new kitty and for making my daddy stop driving. I’m tired of being in Daddy’s truck. Amen.”
Everyone’s eyes lifted in surprise—except Joe’s. He stared at his plate.
Lydia cleared her throat. “Do you like mashed potatoes, Bobby?”
“Are they like my mommy’s?”
“How is that?”
“With a pond in the middle.”
Lydia whisked the child’s plate off the table, built a gravy pond in the middle of the fluffy white mound, and set it in front of him.
“Is that all right?”
“Oh, yes!” He dug into the mashed potatoes with a spoon.
“Nau ess du.” Anna added some pot roast and vegetables. “Eat.”
The child ate even the vegetables without protest. He seemed grateful for everything on his plate.
Joe closed his eyes as though trying to regain his composure after Bobby’s sad little prayer. Then he took a deep breath, shook out his napkin, and placed it on his lap.
Rachel was surprised by the elegance with which he used his eating utensils. She noted that he held his fork in his left hand and his knife in his right—a European style of dining in which most Americans were unpracticed. Definitely not a habit learned in prison.
It was obvious that both he and Bobby were hungry, but Joe took small bites and chewed slowly. She got the impression that he was forcing himself to hold back.
“We weren’t expecting a gourmet meal when we asked to pitch our tent, ma’am,” he said to Lydia when the silence had stretched out a little too long.
“Dank.” Lydia ducked her head. Compliments were something with which she had never been comfortable.
“This tastes better than McDonald’s,” Bobby said.
“High praise from this guy.” Joe tousled his son’s hair. A deep cough racked the little boy’s body.
“Is he all right?” Bertha asked.
Joe laid the back of his hand against his son’s forehead. “I think so. He’s had this cough for a couple of days, but no fever so far. We’ve been traveling with the windows down some of the time. I’m hoping it’s just allergies.”
Partially mollified, Bertha returned her attention to her plate but glanced often at Bobby.
“I don’t want to ride in the truck anymore, Daddy,” Bobby said.
“We’ll stop soon, son.”
“Can we live here?”
“This isn’t our home, Bobby. We have to move on.”
“I don’t wanna! I want to live here!” Tears began to course down the tired little boy’s face—much to the consternation of Lydia and Anna, who fluttered around, offering him everything from cookies to more mashed potatoes.
“Will you excuse us?” Joe said. “I need to talk to my son.” The aunts nodded in unison. He arose, took Bobby by the hand, and led him out onto the porch.
Rachel slipped over to the window. If Joe laid one angry finger on that sweet child, she’d have Social Services on him so fast it would make his head swim.
Instead, he sat down on the porch swing, gathered the sniffling little boy into his arms, and talked to him in a low voice. She couldn’t make out the words through the glass, but they sounded kind.
“Rachel,” Bertha hissed. “Come away from that window. Give the man some privacy.”
Rachel backed away as Joe arose and headed toward the door.
“My son is very tired,” he said as he came through the door. “I think it would be a good idea if I put him to bed now.”
Lydia rushed off to gather two flashlights from the kitchen. Anna stuffed cookies into a baggie. Bertha hobbled to the gas-powered refrigerator and filled a thermos with cold water.
“I’ll carry those.” Rachel took the flashlights upon Lydia’s return. “Joe can take the cookies and the thermos. I’ll help settle them into the cabin.”
“That’s not necessary,” Joe said.
Rachel gave him the steely-eyed look that had cowed many a bad guy. “I insist.”
She could feel her aunts’ gaze behind her and could almost sense them begging her not to be rude as she followed Joe outside. She had no intention of being rude, but she did intend to be direct.
The walk to the cabin wasn’t long. “There’s the outhouse,” she said, pointing the flashlight at a small, narrow building off to the side. “And there’s a pump for water near the kitchen door if you need it.”
She flashed a light around the inside of the one-room cabin as Joe tucked Bobby into bed. Taking the second flashlight from Rachel, Joe handed it to Bobby to play with. The space was tiny but clean. One of the aunts—she guessed Anna—had put a small vase of wildflowers on the little table between the twin beds. Freshly washed quilts filled the small shelter with the smell of sunshine. For Bobby’s sake, she was glad that her aunts had made things nice.
“Thank you, Officer,” Joe said. “We’ll be fine now.”
“I want to talk to you outside for a moment.”
He glanced at Bobby. “Will you be okay by yourself, buddy?”
Bobby, enraptured with the flashlight, nodded.
“I’ll be right outside, son.”
As soon as the door closed behind them, Rachel let Joe know exactly what was on her mind. “Mister, I don’t know who you are or what your story is, but if you touch a hair on any of my aunts’ heads—if you so much as steal a petal from Anna’s flower garden—I’ll be on you so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”
Instead of shock or anger, there was an expression of stalwart acceptance on his face.
“I understand.”
“I’m not a person who makes empty threats.”
He sighed. “You don’t know me, Officer, and I don’t blame you for thinking the worst. But I’m no thief, and I would never hurt someone as kind and gentle as one of those ladies. You and your aunts can sleep easy tonight. There’s no reason to be afraid.”
Joe had the sort of voice that made a person want to trust him. But she didn’t. Not for a second. Ted Bundy had been a likable guy too, a real charmer—until he was arrested for serial murders.
“Actually,” Rachel said, “I don’t intend to sleep at all tonight. So don’t try anything, Matthews. My aunts may be innocent, but don’t make the mistake of thinking that I am.”
She had hoped her speech would intimidate him, but somehow it misfired. Instead of him being cowed, amusement flickered behind his eyes. “I’d never make the mistake of thinking you were innocent, Officer.”
Without waiting for a response, he stepped back inside the cabin and firmly closed the door in her face.
She stalked back to the house, her cheeks burning at his remark. How dare he turn her threat into a double entendre! She was definitely going to find out who this jerk was—and exactly what he was hiding.
Bobby refused to sleep in the bed the aunts had made up for him. After a dose of cough medicine, he’d opted to sleep on Joe’s chest instead. Joe didn’t mind. The feel of his son’s sturdy little body, the sound of his breathing, was a tonic for the soul. He had lost everything he valued in life except this sleeping child. His love for Bobby had been the only thing keeping him from losing his sanity during the past few months while his world fell apart.
Now, every breath he breathed, every step he took, was for his son. Every bit of intelligence and strength he possessed, he intended to use to keep Bobby safe and to carve out some sort of life for him. It was all he had left to give. It was all he could figure out to do.
His own life, to all intents and purposes, was over.
As he struggled to sleep, his thoughts turned to Rachel. She was not as glamorous as his actress-wife, Grace, but in her own way, Rachel was an attractive woman. Straight, no-nonsense, shoulder-length brown hair. No makeup covering the freckles scattered across her sunburned nose. That nose, he’d noticed, was slightly crooked, as though it had been broken in a fight. And without intending to, he had seen that she had a figure nice enough to pull off wearing that off-t
he-rack policeman’s uniform of dark blue slacks and a light blue shirt.
It was her eyes that he recalled most vividly. They were alive with intelligence. He had watched them sum him up in a glance and then quickly narrow with suspicion. He respected her for taking his measure, for evaluating the potential danger of allowing him in her aunts’ home. He had watched every nuance of the evening reflect in those confident dark brown eyes.
In spite of her suspicion of him, he was impressed with her fierce protectiveness of her aunts and the direct way she had spoken to him when they were alone. She was a strong woman who would fight for her family and herself.
With all his heart, he wished his wife had possessed the suspicion and ability to engage in battle that he had seen in Rachel tonight. Maybe then Grace would have survived.
He would do his best to fly beneath Rachel Troyer’s radar until he could get out of here. The last thing he needed was to capture the undivided attention of a police officer—or anyone else, for that matter.
Chapter 3
Bam! BAM! BAM!
In one smooth motion, Rachel slid her service revolver from the top of the bedside table, rolled out of bed into a semi-crouch, and aimed it at the door.
Then she woke up.
She lowered the weapon and cocked her head to listen. It wasn’t gunfire she was hearing. The sound that had triggered her combative reflex was a hammer slamming into wood somewhere outside the house.
She carefully laid the gun on the floor, sat back on her heels, and rubbed her hands over her face—shaken by the realization that she had been a hairbreadth away from blowing a hole through her aunts’ guest room door—with no knowledge of who, or what, might be standing on the other side.
She shouldn’t be trusted with a weapon.
She didn’t know how to live without one.
Bam! BAM! BAM!
She flinched at each sound, her temples throbbing in unison.
She had stayed up most of the night, watching to see if Joe Matthews would decide to take a midnight stroll to the house—but he had never left the cabin. Before dawn, once her aunts were awake and moving about, she had allowed herself a quick catnap.
The Sugar Haus Inn Page 4
