Rebecca's Return (The Adams County Trilogy 2)

by Jerry S. Eicher

  She thought, lifting her head to study the light playing on the walls. Her heart hurt, but there were many who hurt worse. Of this she was sure. There were those with serious illnesses and in real trouble, living all over the world, and here she was, thinking the world was being unfair to her.

  “God,” she began softly, “sorry to bother You, and I’m sorry I was angry with John, but I still am, a little. I haven’t done everything right, but I’ve tried. Not that that’s an excuse, I know, but You seem to be helping me. I’m sorry if I’ve been wrong about that. And I’m sorry I’m so much trouble. You have a lot to do, I’m sure.”

  That’s a stupid prayer, she thought, getting back up on her feet and feeling nothing. That hardly got to the ceiling. Maybe I am nothing but a big mess. Maybe John has plenty of reason to be angry.

  She would tell John everything on Sunday night, and perhaps he would understand. The thought that John wouldn’t understand presented itself with clarity and forcefulness, but Rebecca vowed that she would still tell him anyway and then let things go.

  Life was simply getting much too complicated.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  John urged his horse up the hill, the clattering at the covered bridge still in his ears. His anger, now gone, was replaced with the fear of losing Rebecca if he carried on like this. How could he expect a girl to stick with him—love him—if he acted like he just had?

  Why did I get so angry? The question buzzed in John’s ears, making him feel dizzy. Embarrassment flowed through him as he remembered what just happened. He had let Rebecca see a side of him he hadn’t known was there…at least not to such a degree.

  How stupid and idiotic could I be, to lose control like that in front of her? What all did I say anyway? John shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. One thing he was certain, speaking in anger to Rebecca was not wise.

  Then why did I carry on so? It would be a wonder if she even went home with him Sunday night, let alone tell him about her past. What right did he have to even expect her to tell him after this?

  Halfway to the top of the hill, the open fields spread out around him. He felt, more than saw, the dim shadows of the trees recede, no longer hugging the edge of the road.

  She might well be hurt by my outburst. The thought pressed in on him. He felt satisfaction in the knowledge that, at least, he had cared enough to notice. Rebecca hadn’t always sounded hurt, he remembered. She had laughed at the start. How did she dare do that? Laugh at me, at my concerns? Was that not what she was doing?

  John felt anger rising again. He told himself that it was because he cared so much for her. Other girls might not have bothered him like this, but Rebecca he loved. He settled back into the seat of the buggy, letting the horse set its own speed on the uphill climb toward Unity.

  Love will triumph despite my anger, he told himself. It always does, doesn’t it? Especially when one has such an intense, deep love like I have for Rebecca.

  John slapped the reins absentmindedly, not really meaning it. The horse didn’t increase its speed but just kept its steady pace up the incline. It will all be better come Sunday. I apologized to Rebecca. That ought to count for something. Things might still get a little sticky when she tells me everything, and it better be everything. If we have to stay past midnight, she will tell me the whole story.

  John wanted to hear it all, every little detail of this Atlee and what he meant to Rebecca. The pain cut again, giving him pause. Did he really want to know what they had felt for each other? The thought of Rebecca’s fingers reaching for another boy’s hand made him shiver and hunch down a little deeper on the buggy seat.

  Perhaps she had done worse things. John envisioned Atlee as tall and handsome. He was confident as he reached out for Rebecca, a smile on his face, touching her gently, moving toward her. John’s anger flashed at the image. This would not be easy. Come Sunday he would have to find some way of controlling his feelings.

  He simply could not lose Rebecca. She meant too much to him. They would be so happy together at the farm on the hill. That was where he wanted to live his life with her, where he wanted their children to grow up, where he would love her as only he could. Better than anyone else. I simply cannot let her past stop us.

  Deeply he breathed in the night air. Sunday would come, and he must hear her out. She would explain it so that he could understand. This keeping of secrets must come to an end.

  That was how a man and wife were supposed to be. No secrets between them. It was only then that things would go the way they should. Without that, how could one trust another person?

  John’s father had said it many times. With his arms stretched toward heaven, he stood and preached between the kitchen and living room doors on a Sunday morning. “We are children of light. The Lord God says so Himself, thundering from heaven, from the throne of God. It is to this we are called. We must open ourselves to the light of the Word of God, to walk with open hearts, and let its light shine into every corner of our hearts. Only then can we be truly His children. In this we must walk as He Himself walked in the world.

  “All that is unholy walks in darkness. Hiding in the ways of the world. Hiding in the world’s excuses of why it loves its sin. We must leave sin and the excuses it brings and walk where God has called us to walk. Open before Him and each other. Those who want to hide from their brother do not walk in the light. We must not be afraid of what those of like faith see in us. To be afraid, to reject them, is to love the darkness.”

  Yes. Rebecca must come clean no matter how much it hurts her or me. I can take it. Somehow I will. By God’s grace I will.

  Ahead of him the lights of Unity were coming into view. It was late already. That is another thing that will have to change. On Sunday nights it is okay to be out late, but these irregular evenings will have to stop. Rebecca can simply not be the cause of this much stress and trouble. It is totally unnecessary and uncalled for. We will have to find a way of working out our problems some other way.

  If it were not for her, I would already be in bed, getting the rest I need so much. I would be preparing for what would no doubt be a full and busy day tomorrow at the furniture store. Other people depend upon me, and it is simply not acceptable to be tired and exhausted on the job.

  Just thinking made John even more keenly aware of how tired he was. His head ached. His muscles felt tense from the evening spent with Rebecca. He had been concerned before he left, but now he was exhausted.

  The horse snorted as the buggy came up the slight incline into town. Houses became visible, mostly because they had such bright lights coming from their windows. John heard a car coming up behind him but paid it no mind. His lights were on, and he was in town. There should be no problem with being seen. Besides, home was just ahead of him, not too far down the road.

  But the speed of the approaching engine startled him. Maybe some young boys out tearing around, trying to have their English fun.

  John was turning around in his seat to get a better look, when it hit him. He heard the sound of splintering wood and he felt himself flying off into nothing. Then it all went black.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Mrs. Richardson—Isabelle to those around town—lived down from the corner post office at the Wheat Ridge/Unity junction. She was sure she had just heard something hit her house with a thud. At eighty years of age, Isabelle doubted her hearing at times, but this had been pretty obvious. What made the sound even more suspicious, was the loud roar of an approaching automobile from the west, just prior to the sound. The roar sounded even louder afterward. Somebody was up to no good.

  Isabelle lived by herself, thankful she still could and hoping things would continue so for many years to come. She dreaded the day she would have to go to a nursing home. Her two children, Wallace and Beatrice, had tactfully brought up the subject several times, but Isabelle had told them “no” before they barely started talking.

  Wallace had only recently moved to Cincinnati with his wife and two children.
He had grown tired of the local options for his private law practice after graduating from Michael E. Moritz College of Law at Ohio State University. Apparently his feelings about his own abilities had been justified because Wallace had been hired on by Frost & Jacobs, which had a lot of growth potential—according to Wallace at least. Isabelle didn’t know much about such things and judged Wallace’s financial matters primarily by the car he drove. It was definitely larger and better looking than last time he was home.

  Beatrice, a deputy sheriff, still lived in West Union. She was married to her high school sweetheart, Andy, who never did or would amount to much in Isabelle’s thinking. Andy worked part-time as a mechanic at the Auto Sales place on 41. It was Beatrice who supported the family. Isabelle thought Beatrice might even make sheriff someday, but that was not a subject to bring up with Beatrice when Andy was present.

  Concerned by the sound she had heard, Isabelle walked to her front window and looked out. There was nothing to see. The night was clear but not too cold for this time of the year—chilly enough, though, to require a sweater if she stepped outside. That and the doubt that there really was something serious going on outside made Isabelle hesitate.

  If whoever was in the car had actually thrown something against her house, then it could well wait till morning to be discovered. She would report it then. If they hadn’t, she would be calling the sheriff’s department for nothing.

  Isabelle was concerned that Beatrice might be on duty tonight. Even if Beatrice wasn’t, someone would tell her about the call and subsequent visit required by a deputy, how her mother had called in about nothing, imagining things being thrown against her house just because a car went by too fast.

  Such a report would not bode well when the subject of the nursing home came up again. Mom’s hearing things, Isabelle could imagine Beatrice telling Wallace. Had to run a patrol out to satisfy her—all for nothing.

  No, Isabelle decided. It was time for bed, bump or no bump in the night. Yet stepping back from the window, the feeling of concern wouldn’t go away. An impulse compelled her to simply check outside. Surely she could do that.

  Hesitating, she thought the matter over carefully, finally gave in, reached for a sweater, and slipped it on. Her shoulders ached with even that slight effort. No sense in doing this at such an hour, she told herself, but she continued on anyway and opened the front door.

  With no streetlights to help, there was little that could be seen. What light came from her living room window cast its reach only a few feet into the front lawn. Looking up and then down the dark street, Isabelle could see nothing unusual, certainly no signs of lurking pranksters or automobiles that shouldn’t have been there. Checking her front yard and the sides of the house, nothing seemed to be amiss there either. Yet something had hit her house, the feeling more than the memory told her so.

  Glancing up, while standing there on the front porch, she saw lights playing on the horizon, coming from the east, bouncing along Wheat Ridge, and heading into town. This might help, she thought. Maybe I can see by the light.

  Waiting, she closed the front door behind her, checking the knob and making certain it was unlocked. Getting locked out of her own house wouldn’t be good news either when Beatrice and Wallace had their next discussion.

  The car was coming down the hill fast, slowing only slightly as it entered the little town. Surely not the same boys coming back to do further damage. Standing outside on her front porch, she was a handy target. Fear filled Isabelle, but she didn’t dare move now. That might only invite further trouble, if whoever this was saw her dashing into her house, perhaps falling down on her own front porch.

  Isabelle held still, after moving to stand close to the wall of the house. The headlights streamed down Wheat Ridge, lighting up her front yard. Her fear made her forget why she was out on the porch. Then the car passed, its lights dimly reflecting back. Suddenly remembering, Isabelle looked to see what might have been thrown into her yard.

  Little could be seen, but Isabelle was sure she saw something. A large object or at least a large bag was lying against the far wall of the house, near the corner facing Mr. Urchin’s yard.

  Everyone called him Bill, a nice enough fellow. He lived there with his wife, Eunice. Their children, like hers, were long grown and gone. He would see the bag come morning, Mr. Urchin would. Bill would be up early, walking over to see what the object was, knocking on her door for an explanation. An explanation she wouldn’t have.

  Sighing, the last of the light from the passing car’s headlights disappearing down Wheat Ridge, she opened her front door, stepped back inside, and headed toward the phone. There really seemed to be no other option. Calling it in might be problematic with Beatrice, but not calling it in could cause problems at the hand of Mr. Urchin. Added to that was a feeling Isabelle couldn’t quite shake. Something about the shape of the object against her house, seen so dimly in the car’s light, troubled her.

  She reached for the phone on the wall. Wallace had wanted to have a cordless model installed the last time the nursing home subject came up, but she would have nothing of that either. It smelled of coming doom, especially when Wallace had told her, “What if you fall down—the stairs maybe—a cordless phone might be closer. Now you have to reach all the way up the wall. That might be hard to do depending what happens.”

  “No,” she had said. And “no,” it would remain. Anything to stave off this approaching dread in whatever manner possible.

  Holding up the phone, its large numbers lighted, she dialed the number by heart. Sally, the night receptionist, answered, “Adams County Sheriff.”

  Isabelle cleared her throat, wishing all this wasn’t necessary. “Ah, Sally,” she half whispered, “I think something—a little bit ago—was thrown against my house. Sorry to bother you, but could you have someone drive by?”

  “Any idea who it was?” Sally’s voice sounded clipped.

  “No,” Isabelle replied, wishing again she was not making this phone call. Sally sounded just like Isabelle figured she would when a call came in from an old woman. So Isabelle added quickly, “Could you keep this from Beatrice? Maybe it’s nothing…But it made a loud noise.”

  “Have you checked outside?” Sally asked, ignoring the question about Beatrice.

  “Yes—I stepped outside the front door. There’s something there.”

  “I’ll send someone out, okay?” Sally responded, her voice not as clipped anymore. “We’ll see what it is.”

  “Could you keep this from Beatrice?” Isabelle asked again, her voice strained.

  “I can’t promise, Isabelle,” Sally said. “Beatrice’s on call tonight, and the deputy nearest you is the one that stops by.”

  “Okay,” Isabelle said in resignation. The world tonight seemed to be working against her. The walls of the nursing home were moving in closer. She could feel it all for sure.

  “Lord, help me,” she whispered, hanging the phone on the wall, reaching for her childhood faith in God. “You will have to help me. This may be a bigger cross than I can carry. Maybe You can take me home before they carry me to that place.”

  Struggling with her emotions, she walked into the living room to wait.

  In town Sally pressed the mike down. “Base one to mobile units. Possible disturbance reported in Unity. Anyone in the area?”

  “I’m near Manchester, down by the river.” The voice of young Tad Johnson, only on the force for a year, came back quickly.

  “Beatrice, where’re you at?” Sally asked into the mike, waiting for a response.

  When there was silence, Tad asked, “You want me to run up?”

  “Just a minute,” Sally told him. “It’s her mom. Might be best if she goes in.”

  “The old woman in trouble?” Tad asked, concern in his voice.

  “Sounded fine, but thinks someone threw something against her house.”

  “Any other reports from the area?” Tad asked the logical question.

  Sally didn’t ans
wer him, broadcasting more specifically this time, “Base one to mobile three. Base one to mobile three. Respond please.”

  “Yes, Sally.” Beatrice’s voice came through faintly, the static buzzing.

  “Where’re you at?” Sally asked. “You’re not coming through clearly.”

  “South of Cherry Fork,” Beatrice replied, her voice clearer this time. “Radio might be making trouble.”

  “Your mom called. Can you check it out? Thinks someone threw something against the house.”

  “Sure. You don’t think she’s imagining things?”

  “That’s why you’d better go,” Sally said. “Tad’s not as close either.”

  “On my way.”

  “Have Charley check the radio tomorrow.” Sally clicked her mike off.

  “Will leave a note on the dash when I come back in.” The transmission sounded weaker again.

  “You have your cell if it gives out?” Sally asked.

  “I do. I’m on 247 right now. Will let you know.”

  There was silence from the station as Beatrice drove north on the state road, wondering whether the radio had given out but deciding it likely had not. Sally kept her words to a minimum, calling only when necessary.

  So what is Mother up to? Beatrice wondered. Is she seeing things? It appeared as if she and Wallace might be right about the nursing home. Having an eighty-year-old woman living by herself, even in town, was no longer acceptable, if she was acting like this.

  This will certainly make the case easier with Wallace. If Mother is seeing things, imagining objects being thrown against her house in the night, then it is time Wallace and I take action. Now we will have solid reasons to back up our feelings. The sheriff department’s time can simply not be spent on imaginary things.