Sometimes, he said, a good cop had to know when to throw in the towel and concentrate on something else—like a case that actually had a chance of being solved.
With no crime on the books, she knew it was probably ridiculous to keep digging for answers to this puzzle. Most other cops would have lost interest in Joe Matthews long ago. But she wasn’t wired like most cops. She couldn’t let go. Somewhere, somehow, she would find the key to who he really was.
Unfortunately, her need to know had expanded completely out of proportion in comparison with her desire to protect her aunts. The man had begun to occupy nearly every waking thought. Something she had never experienced before.
She was searching for answers now…to protect her own heart.
Chapter 13
The carefully lettered homemade sign was staked on the edge of the Troyer sisters’ front lawn.
* * *
Fund-raiser Bake Sale
Today 8-2
Haitian Orphanage
* * *
The sign had required much discussion on the part of the ladies, as had every loaf of bread and every cake, pie, and cookie displayed on the new shelves Joe had created.
Even though the sign was now wet from an early afternoon rain shower and the words written in black Magic Marker had begun to blur, buggies and cars had arrived in a steady stream all day.
“How can such a small sign bring in so many people?” Joe asked Rachel when she arrived.
“Word spreads fast among the Amish,” Rachel explained. “Especially for such a good cause. And Lydia’s baking is legendary.”
“I’m a little worried about your aunts. They worked all day yesterday and were up long before dawn this morning.”
“I know. And here I had hoped they would slow down a little if they closed the inn. That was the whole point.” Rachel sighed. “Do you suppose there’s anything left in there to buy?”
“Last I checked, there wasn’t much.”
They entered the kitchen, which was still redolent of serious baking. The shelves were completely bare…and the sisters were ecstatic.
“Look at this!” Bertha dumped money out of a shoebox crammed full of crumpled bills. She gathered them into a stack, licked her thumb, and began to separate the bills into stacks. “Even if we take out the cost of supplies, I think we made enough.”
“Just imagine,” Lydia said, “all the things the girls will be able to make!”
“What about material?” Anna asked.
Lydia’s and Bertha’s mouths made perfect Os. “They will need material!” they said in unison.
“We could have another bake sale next week!” Lydia said.
Rachel started to object, but Bertha interrupted.
“Think of how much fun it would be for the girls to open up a big box of beautiful fabric.”
“Can it have flowers?” Anna asked wistfully.
Once again, Lydia and Bertha looked at one another—this time with narrowed eyes, as they considered. Only the Mennonites and Englisch people wore patterned clothing.
“Probably not,” Bertha said. “Flowered material is not Plain.”
Anna’s brow wrinkled. “The children are Amish?”
“No,” Bertha said. “They are just themselves.”
“They could have flowers,” Anna pointed out.
“Maybe a small, conservative print.” Lydia held her fingers close together.
“Maybe. When we have enough from our bake sales,” Bertha said, “I will call a driver and we will go shopping. Maybe my cast will be off by then.”
“Oh…” Anna clapped her hands in glee. “A Yoder Toter!”
“A Yoder Toter?” Joe asked.
“It’s what the Amish call the fifteen-passenger vans that local drivers use to transport Amish. They use them when they need to go farther than the ten or so miles a horse can take them,” Rachel explained. “Since so many Amish around here are named Yoder, calling those vans ‘Yoder Toters’ is kind of a local Amish joke.”
Joe was relieved that he wouldn’t have to drive Nellie for their shopping trip, but he was curious. “Isn’t a fifteen-passenger van sort of overkill for three people?”
“You don’t know the Amish,” Rachel said. “Bertha will make a few phone calls and tomorrow there will be another dozen Amish women going along. They’ll share the cost, everyone will bring snacks, and they’ll have a picnic in the van and catch up on family news while they drive around. It’s quite a party.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It is!” Lydia exclaimed.
Rachel smiled. “Want to hear another Amish joke, Joe?”
“Sure.”
“How many Amish can you pack into a Yoder Toter?”
“Beats me.”
“One more.” She held up a finger.
“I don’t get it.”
“You will when you see. The drivers charge by the mile. The Amish are frugal. They really pack those vans.”
Bertha folded the money and put it into her purse. “You are not angry with us for doing this, Rachel?”
“Of course I’m not angry, but I’m worried. You three worked yourself to a frazzle yesterday and today.”
“We enjoyed every minute.”
“I know you did, but—”
“You cannot wrap us up in cotton and put us on a shelf,” Bertha said. “I know you are trying to take care of us, but we have lived our lives by trying to be useful. When that possibility is gone, we will no longer have a reason to rise in the morning.”
“But I still worry about you.”
“You do not understand. Being trained as a seamstress can make the difference between life and death to a girl in Haiti. She can support herself with that skill. If one of us were to die while mixing enough pie dough to make that happen—what does it matter?”
“It matters to me,” Rachel said.
“This is not about you,” Lydia said softly.
What is it, Joe wondered, that creates such a strong work ethic in the Amish? He saw it even in old Eli, who was still trying to care for all those dairy cows when his strapping-strong sons and grandsons would have happily allowed him to rock on the porch all day long.
His heart went out to Rachel as she absorbed Lydia’s words. He watched as she bowed her head a moment. When she looked at her aunts again, there was a look of resignation on her face.
“You’re right, Lydia. It’s not about me. How can I help you make this happen?”
After helping her aunts tidy the kitchen and prepare for the next baking marathon, Rachel strode out to the barn and climbed the ladder to the hayloft. Since childhood, the hayloft had been her spot to contemplate, pray, or have a good cry. The huge, high window beckoned with a view of the valley that always inspired her. She sat down and scooted to the edge of the window, allowing her legs to dangle. Her heart was heavy, and she needed to unburden herself to Someone who would understand.
“Father,” she said aloud, “my aunts are driving me crazy. They act like I’m punishing them by trying to get them to slow down.” She stopped and contemplated her life. “My back still aches from the beating in Cleveland. Bertha allowed Joe to become a permanent resident—over my strong objections.”
She hesitated. “And while we’re talking, Father, what is it with Joe, anyway? I don’t even know who he really is, and yet I feel myself drawn to him. There is something about the way he talks and moves and cares for his child that keeps me awake at night, replaying it in my mind.”
She kicked her foot against the barn with her face lifted toward the sky in prayer. “I’m a mess, Father. And I’m really, really tired of being the responsible one around here.”
It had been too long since she’d prayed like this. It felt as though a weight rolled off her shoulders as she finished. She scooted backward and lay on the scattered hay of the loft, watching a wisp of a cloud drift over the brilliantly colored fall trees. It was so quiet up in the hayloft that she was startled when she heard voices below.
“Can we play now, Daddy?” Bobby asked, holding up a plastic baseball set. He had chosen it for himself with the small “salary” Joe had given him for being such a good helper.
The rest of Joe’s first pay from the sisters had gone into groceries and getting his truck fixed. He had given the mechanic a little extra to drive it to his house. With Rachel knowing he didn’t have a driver’s license, he wasn’t about to risk being caught behind the wheel.
Still, it felt good having the truck parked out front in case of an emergency. The horror of the night that Bobby had gone into a febrile convulsion lingered. He had never felt so helpless in his life.
He hadn’t yet figured out what to do about that missing driver’s license. How could he replace it without revealing his identity to the local DMV people?
“Come on, Daddy, pleeease?”
Bobby was acting like any other impatient four-year-old these days. He hadn’t sucked his thumb for over a week now. He was sleeping in his own room. There had been no potty accidents.
“Pretty, pretty, pretty please?”
Joe was delighted to see the healthy changes in his son. With Bertha’s permission, he had even allowed the white kitten a one-night sleepover in the daadi haus. So far, so good. In another week he would probably allow the kitten to move in with them. With the next paycheck, he could afford cat food.
“You got it, buddy.” He scooped up the little boy in his arms and ran into the pasture behind the barn, Bobby giggling all the way.
“Okay.” He set his son down with the barn as the backstop and placed the plastic bat in the boy’s hands. “Hold it like this.”
“Like this?” Bobby let the bat sag.
“Close.” He positioned the bat for Bobby again. “Here. Like this. Now stand right there, and I’ll throw the ball to you. When it comes, you hit it. Okay?”
“ ’kay.”
Joe threw, and Bobby swatted at the ball and missed. He threw again; Bobby missed again. Joe watched his son’s lower lip start to quiver.
“It’s hard the first few times, buddy.” He tossed it as slow and as straight as he could. Bobby missed again. “You have to keep trying. Nobody gets it the first time.”
“Not even you?”
“Not even me. It took me a long, long time to hit the ball the first time.” That wasn’t entirely the truth, but he didn’t want his little boy to get discouraged.
“ ’kay, then.” Bobby took another stance, swung, and missed again. He threw the bat down, dropped to the ground, and folded his arms across his chest. “I quit!”
“You don’t want to do that, son. Here, let me—”
“Hi.”
It was Rachel, perched above them in the upper window of the barn. His heart leaped at the sight of her.
“You look like a kid playing hooky.” He deliberately kept his eyes focused on Bobby. “Don’t you have to work?”
“Not this afternoon, but I should be leaving soon. There’s a baseball game I’m supposed to be at in a couple of hours.”
“Baseball? In the fall?”
“It’s something Ed cooked up. He’s talked some of us over at the police station, as well as some of the guys at the fire department, into playing against Sugarcreek’s Garaway High School baseball team. It’s kind of a community-relations thing. He thinks it’ll maybe create some bonds with the kids, make them realize we’re regular people and not just here to arrest them when they drive too fast.”
“My daddy’s the best baseball player in the world,” Bobby said. He had been distracted from his impending tantrum by the spectacle of Rachel appearing above his head.
“You don’t say.” She chuckled at the little boy’s boast. “Do you play, Joe?”
“A little.” He shrugged. “It’s been awhile.”
“I found out this morning that we’re short a player. It would help if you could step in.”
“I promised to play with Bobby.”
Bobby kicked his bat. “I don’t want to play ball. I don’t like it.” A thought seemed to strike him. “Will there be hot dogs at the ball game?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “If you can talk your daddy into playing, I’ll buy you all the hot dogs you want.”
“Yay!” Bobby danced in place. “Hot dogs, hot dogs, hot dogs,” he sang as he galloped off across the field.
“I’m coming down.” Rachel grabbed a rope tied to the gabled end of the barn and swung herself to the ground.
“Neat trick,” Joe said. “No Tarzan yell?”
“Not today. When I was ten, however, you would have been impressed.” She dusted her hands off on her jeans and picked up the toys Bobby had abandoned. “Maybe if he sees you on the baseball field, he’ll change his mind about liking the game.”
“I doubt it.”
“It doesn’t matter if you aren’t all that good. I’m sure the high school team will thoroughly enjoy beating us ‘old guys.’ I’d consider it a personal favor.”
Joe considered. It might be wise to do a favor for Rachel. Ever since she had helped him clean the daadi haus, she had seemed to soften toward him. Joe flexed his shoulder. It was feeling a little stronger. He should be able to throw a ball around. Of course, he would have to dumb down his game. A lot.
“Sure.” He took the ball and bat out of Rachel’s hand. “I’ll help you out.”
Rachel introduced Joe to the rest of the team, several of whom voiced gratitude that he could fill in.
Bobby tugged at her hand while Joe chatted with the men on her team. “Can I have my hot dog now?”
“Absolutely.” Although she would have preferred to stay and see how Joe got along with the other players, she bought Bobby his coveted hot dog, a soft drink, and some cotton candy, for good measure.
Then she sat him down beside Carol, a wife of one of the firemen who had a child near his age. They watched as Carol’s son shared a toy car with his new playmate. The two children immediately started creating tiny roads together in the graveled dirt.
“Who is this little guy?” Carol said.
“Bobby. His daddy is helping us out today.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Rachel said. “If he gets upset, let me know.”
“You bet.”
The men were laughing now. Apparently Joe had told a good joke. She hated that she had missed it. She was impressed that Joe had already been accepted by men she respected.
“Bobby’s fine,” she told him as she walked up to the group. “He’s playing with a new friend. I bought some cotton candy, but I’m afraid it’s going to get a little dusty before it’s consumed.”
“A little dirt never hurt anybody.” Joe took an awkward practice swing with a bat. “I’m afraid it’s been awhile since I played.”
“That’s okay,” Rachel said. “Just do your best.”
She left Joe to warm up while she approached their coach, Sam, who was a dispatcher for the fire department. Sam had once made it as far as a Cincinnati Reds farm team.
“Where did you find the new guy?” he asked.
“He works for my aunts.”
“Can he play?”
“I have no idea, but he was available.”
Sam watched Joe fumble a catch. “We’ll put him in right field, where he can do the least damage.”
“That would be my call too.”
“What part of the infield do you want?”
“Is second base okay? I’ll try to cover for Joe.”
“You got it.” He made a mark on a clipboard. “It’s going to be tough giving these boys a respectable game. I don’t know about you, but I could have used a little more time to get ready for this.”
“Yeah, but we’ll make them sweat a little.”
“What I wouldn’t give to be eighteen again.”
“Not me,” Rachel said. “It was tough enough going through that age once.”
Sam laughed. “You weren’t a guy.”
Chapter 1
4
The cop/fireman team won the coin toss and took the bat first. The high-school pitcher, a boy with red hair who looked a little like Opie from the Andy Griffith Show, had a great curve ball and struck out the first two team members.
“You’re up next, Matthews,” Sam called.
Joe grabbed the bat he had liked the least, toed up to the plate, and purposely swung wild on the first two pitches.
“That’s okay,” Rachel called. “You can do it, Joe. Just take your time.”
He glanced back at the dugout, where Rachel was trying to encourage him.
He didn’t want to embarrass her for inviting him to play, so he clipped the third pitch hard enough to make the ball wobble forward a few feet. The trick was to play just well enough not to disappoint but to hold back so that no one would guess his true skill level.
While the Opie kid scooped up the grounder, Joe’s toe touched base. A split second later, the ball hit the glove of the first baseman.
Rachel was up next. She connected with a line shot that took one bounce and hit the fence in right center. With Joe running ahead of her, she managed to pass third and tag back before the schoolboys threw it. In the meantime, Joe had slid into home. He gave her a thumbs-up as he brushed himself off.
“Beginner’s luck,” he called, pointing to himself.
The next batter struck out, causing the cop/fireman team to take the field.
“You’re playing right-center field,” she said as she handed Joe a borrowed glove. “There’s only one left-hander on the boys’ team. When he’s up to bat, move closer to the line.”
“Got it,” Joe said.
It felt good being on a ball diamond again, even though he couldn’t allow himself the pleasure of playing well. Actually, it felt good because there was no pressure to play well. At least not the kind of pressure he’d experienced in past years.
He checked to see how Bobby was doing. His son was happily playing in the dirt with another little boy with a vigilant mother watching over them.
The Sugar Haus Inn Page 15
