by B. J. Hoff
T h e R I V E R H A V E N Y E A R S
RACHEL’S
SECRET
BJ HOFF
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
All Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
Cover by Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc., Minneapolis, Minnesota
BJ Hoff: Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.biz.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
RACHEL’S SECRET
Copyright © 2008 by BJ Hoff
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hoff, B. J.,
Rachel's secret / B.J. Hoff.
p. cm. — (Riverhaven years ; bk. 1)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7369-2418-4 (pbk.)
ISBN-10: 0-7369-2418-3 (pbk.)
1. Amish—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.O34395R33 2008
813'.54—dc22
2008030794
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 / DP-SK / 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my family…
I thank my God every time I remember you.
—PHILIPPIANS 1:3
Contents
Acknowledgements
Book One
The Memory Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Fiction at its best from BJ Hoff…
Great reviews for BJ Hoff’s Mountain Song Legacy trilogy…
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As the Amish work in community to raise a barn, build a house, and supply the needs of their families and friends, so do the people who bring a book to its readers work in community.
It has been a very special blessing for me to work in community with Harvest House Publishers. More family than “company,” more friends than “associates,” and as much partners as publishers, the people who make up this remarkable team are among the most gifted, dedicated, and faithful folks with whom I’ve ever had the privilege of working. I owe you much, and I’m deeply grateful to every one of you.
Let me add a special note of thanks to Nick Harrison, my editor, who never ceases to amaze me with his seemingly bottomless well of patience and encouragement, a heartening love of a good story, and the unfailingly keen instincts and expertise that enrich that story in countless ways—most of which the reader may never be aware of, but for which this author is continually grateful.
To Janet Kobobel Grant, wise agent and faithful friend—thank you for all the things that, in the rush and clamor and “busyness of the business” too often go unsaid. I would never have lasted this long without you.
Special thanks to Dr. Richard Mabry for enlightening me about gunshot wounds and other medical issues.
And to my readers—for every note and email you’ve taken time to write…for every prayer you’ve offered in my behalf…for reading my stories and sharing my heart—God bless you.
THE RIVERHAVEN YEARS
Book One:
RACHEL’S SECRET
THE MEMORY BOOK
Fond memory brings the light of other days around me…
THOMAS MOORE
Amish settlement near Riverhaven, Ohio
November 1855
Every year at this time, Rachel Brenneman took out her book of memories. Memories of another cold, rainy November day three years gone.
Rachel’s memory book wasn’t stored in her chest of drawers but in her heart. She had heard that there were paper pictures some Englischers kept as memories—pictures taken by boxes called cameras—that captured the exact image of people and things, trapping them in a moment of time, so they could be looked at months or even years later.
This was a forbidden thing to the Plain People, of course. And yet what would it be like to have such a picture of her beloved Eli to gaze upon, rather than having to call forth the pictures stored away in her mind?
Not that she needed a piece of paper to remember her departed husband. His dear face was engraved upon her heart as clearly today as if he sat across from her, smiling, watching her mend one of his shirts or darn his socks. Yet at times she feared that one day the images now so vivid might fade and grow distant, making it more difficult to keep his memory close.
She was resolved that she would never allow that to happen. That’s why this yearly practice of deliberately setting apart a time to reminisce was so important. True, along with the achingly sweet and tender moments stored in her mind, there were other memories not so dear. Some were painful, even frightening. Rather than warming her heart, they threatened to break it. But she would continue this annual ritual of sorting through them until it was time to put them away for another year. This was her way, the only way she knew, to keep Eli close and honor his memory.
Now that her day’s work was finally done, the night growing late, the house hushed, she sat on a wooden chair at the kitchen table with a blanket wrapped snugly around her. The flame in the oil lamp flickered in the cold draft, dappling the table and the walls with shadows. In one hand she clutched the small, heart-shaped wooden box Eli had made for her hairpins. He’d made it “for pretty,” he’d said.
Eli had loved her hair. Most nights he would remove the pins himself and let it fall free and then commence to brush it for ever so long.
Memories…
With her other hand, Rachel smoothed the material of one of the few pieces of Eli’s clothing she had kept after his death, the dark blue shirt he’d favored for church services. The pin box and his favorite shirt—these were the most precious things she owned. Even though a Plain woman wasn’t to count any worldly item as a treasure, she could not look upon these things as anything but treasures.
The loneliness that usually closed in on her at this time of night was held at bay by the sweet warmth of her memories. She knew, if she were to get up and look outside, the darkness would be just as black as any other night. The November wind would be as raw as ever, carrying the familiar brackish odor off the river.
B
ut for these few moments, as she dusted off her memories and revisited the blessed hours she and Eli had once shared, she would not hear the wind or feel the cold or mind the solitary darkness. For now she would not bend beneath the heaviness of her grief, would not choke on the bitter taste of her loss, would not let the fear of the future—a future without Eli—leach into her pores and chill her hope like a merciless, debilitating disease.
For this time, at least, she would pretend the night that had shattered her life without warning, the night that had swept away her dreams, her hopes, her happiness like dust in a windstorm, had never happened. For now her memories would allow her to relive yesterday.
Reality would return soon enough with tomorrow.
1
STRANGERS AT THE DOOR
The night is long, and pain weighs heavily,
But God will hold his world above despair.
CELIA THAXTER
Gant was blind, and he was drowning.
He thought he was out of the water, but now he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t tell the river from the rain drumming down on him. The world had become nothing but a churning tide of red, a swirling veil of rain and river and hurt.
If he could fight his way out, break though the wall of water forcing him under, there was a chance he might still survive. Instead he went spinning, tossed farther out, away from land. He could feel his lifeblood draining out of him as weakness dragged him closer to unconsciousness.
He gasped for air but choked. His lungs caught fire, his heart exploded. The pain snaked its way up his leg, circling his thigh and hip, unleashing its venom in a quick, hot siege as it coiled upward on its relentless route to his brain.
He had thought death would be a gentler thing, quiet, even peaceful, not this freezing, stabbing assault. There was nothing now but the roar of the water and the steady ascent of pain—nothing but the numbing awareness that he was sinking into a mindless abyss. No strength left. Nothing but the weight of the water and the storm and the current pulling him below…
Fight. He should fight…else he would drag Asa under with him. And Mac…where was Mac?
“Captain! Can you hear me, Captain? Stay with me! You stay with me and Mac! You be all right now! We be safe. We got you now. We’re out of the water! Just the rain now, Captain, and we’ll soon be in a dry place. Look, look there—can you see? It’s the light and the candle. And the quilt. We found it, Captain! We at the station. We at the safe place now!”
Somewhere at a great distance, Gant could still hear the river running…heard a man shouting, a dog barking…
A safe place. But didn’t Asa realize? There was no safe place—not tonight.
Monday night, long after Rachel had finished preparing the food she would be taking to Maryann Plank’s wedding the next day, she lay wide awake and restless, trying not to wake Fannie, sleeping next to her.
She was glad for her nine-year-old sister’s company, glad their mother had agreed that Fannie could spend the night. They had had fun, the two of them, cooking and baking for the next day’s celebration and then playing some pencil and paper games until bedtime.
It was a comfort, having her sister’s warmth at her side. The bed Rachel and Eli had once shared seemed bitterly cold and too big by far even now, three years after his death. More than once she’d been tempted to ask if Fannie could live with her instead of at the family home, but that would leave their mother alone much of the time. For even though her brother still lived at home, he was gone more than he was there.
At nineteen Gideon was still in his rumspringa—his running-around years—and to their mother’s despair, he seemed to have little thought of joining the church and settling down.
Rachel worried about him too, but she was hopeful that Gideon’s good heart and personal faith would eventually win out. Surely it was only a matter of time.
In any event she didn’t feel right about depriving her mother of Fannie’s company for more than a night or two every now and then. Her father had been gone nearly seven years, but Mamma still missed him every bit as much as Rachel missed Eli. It would be selfish of her to inflict even more loneliness on her mother simply to ease her own. So after the wedding tomorrow, she would send Fannie back home.
The thought of the wedding stirred a sick feeling in her, a feeling she hated but couldn’t seem to control. She was happy for Maryann and John, of course. She wished them nothing but the best. But ever since Eli’s death, weddings were misery for her.
She was ashamed of this dark veil that seemed to fall upon her, shutting out the joy she knew she should feel when others found happiness together. She had told no one, not even her mother or her closest friend, Phoebe Esch, of this ugliness in her spirit. She forced herself to endure one happy event after another with a fixed smile, silently praying for deliverance from her inability to share another’s joy. She went through all the motions, helping to prepare food and offering her gifts and good wishes as though she were thoroughly delighted for the happy couple. But all the while, something inside her felt as if it were dead and cold.
As much as she disgusted herself, she tried not to imagine how this darkness in her soul must grieve the Lord.
He burst into their world like an injured black bear blown down from the mountain by a winter storm.
Rachel was on the verge of sleep when a pounding on the door jarred her awake. She bolted upright, and beside her, Fannie also sat up, her eyes wide and startled.
“Stay here,” Rachel told her as she shrugged into her dressing gown. Fumbling for the oil lamp, she lighted it and hurried downstairs.
When she reached the door, she hesitated, stumbling back a step when the hammering came again, this time accompanied by what sounded like the barking of a very large dog. The entire house seemed to shake with the racket.
Disoriented, Rachel still didn’t feel fear at this late-night intrusion. She was more alarmed by the thought that something had happened to Mamma or Gideon. Even so, when she saw that Fannie had followed her to the door, she flung out her arm and pushed her sister behind her.
“Who’s there?”
The pounding stopped, but no one answered.
“Who’s there?” Rachel called out again.
Another long silence. Then, “A friend of friends, ma’am.”
Rachel stared at the door. “What? Who are you?”
Again came the puzzling message. “A friend of friends.” The voice was deep, laced with a strange, unfamiliar accent. “My captain is hurt. We need help.”
Rachel glanced over her shoulder to make sure Fannie was safely behind her. Then, holding her breath, she opened the door.
A black man, slightly stooped from the weight of a white man slumped against him, faced her. Behind them, unmoving, stood an enormous dark dog, his tail held high, ears perked, watching Rachel closely.
The white man groaned. He looked to be barely conscious, held upright only by the companion at his side.
His right pants leg was soaked with blood.
“Please, ma’am. My captain is hurt bad. Will you help us?”
Rachel gaped at the two, her mind spinning. What had she opened her door to? She couldn’t think when she had last seen a man of color in the area. And the wounded man hunched against him—he appeared more dead than alive!
“What…what do you want?”
The black man looked confused. “We…I saw the light in your window. And the quilt on the line.”
“The light—” At her mother’s insistence, Rachel kept a candle burning on the table in front of the window every night. Her signal that everything was as it should be.
“A woman living alone, Rachel. It’s not so gut. If the light isn’t on, I’ll know to send Gideon to check on you…”
But the quilt? What about the quilt? She’d forgotten to bring it inside before the rain came, so she’d left it. But what did that mean to these strangers?
She knew she ought to be frightened. Yet something about the black man’s strong feat
ures, the steady look in his eyes, was reassuring, not threatening. And clearly his companion needed help.
Even so, what could she do? “I’m sorry…I can’t…let you in. You’ll have to wait outside until I fetch my brother. My family lives just across the field. You wait here on the porch, while I get my coat and go for him.”
“I’ll go, Rachel. I’ll go for Gideon.”
The small voice behind her reminded Rachel that Fannie was also to be considered.
“You’ll do no such thing! Not in this rain.”
But Fannie had already grabbed her coat from the peg on the wall. “I’ll just get my shoes!”
“Gideon might not even be at home—” Rachel protested.
“Ja, he is! He promised Mamma he’d stay in tonight because of the storm.”
Rachel couldn’t think what else to do except to let Fannie go for their brother. She couldn’t very well go herself, now could she, and leave her young sister alone with these two strange men? And that giant of a dog!
“All right, then—but run as fast as you can and bring Gideon right back!”
Fannie shot out the door, turning back just long enough to eye the men and the dog. “Let them in, Rachel! It’s awful cold. And let the poor dog in too!”
Rachel watched her take off across the field toward their mother’s house and then turned her gaze back to the two men. Fannie was right. She couldn’t leave the two men standing out in the storm any longer.
“All right, then, I suppose you’d better come inside. But I warn you,” she added quickly, “it will take only a moment for my brother to get here.”
“We mean you no harm, missus,” said the black man quietly. “I want only to get help for my captain.”
The dog came to the door, still watching Rachel. Then unexpectedly it turned, loped a few steps into the yard and stood watching Fannie as she crossed the field.
