Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio (2 page)

“Yes, because I love you.”

Anna leveled a look at Lydia and Bertha.
“I
don’t want Rachel ’fraid.”

It was rare for Anna to take a stand. Rachel thanked God that she had chosen to do so now.

“I know Lydia’s not as strong as she used to be,” Bertha grumbled. “And Anna is taking heart medication now. I am not much use until this leg heals. I
know
we have slowed down—but what you are asking is a hard thing.”

“I know,” Rachel said. “I’m sorry.”

Bertha remained silent for a long time as everyone awaited her decision. Finally she released a sigh that came from the depths of her soul. “Even though it is hard to accept…you are right. We will close the Sugar Haus Inn to paying guests. We will accept the use of Victoria’s money. But I insist on one thing.”

Rachel’s heart grew lighter as she realized she might have won the battle. “What’s that?”

Bertha pointed to an old wooden plaque hanging on the wall beside the kitchen door. It had defined her aunts’ philosophy of life for as long as Rachel could remember. It read: B
E NOT FORGETFUL TO ENTERTAIN STRANGERS
:
FOR THEREBY SOME HAVE ENTERTAINED ANGELS UNAWARES
.
HEBREWS
13:2

“If
we have reason to believe that Gott Himself has brought a stranger to our door, we will not turn that stranger away.”

“But—”

“That is scripture, Rachel, and I will not compromise on doing the Lord’s will.”

Rachel respectfully bowed to the older woman’s convictions. She knew she had achieved as much as possible. Bertha was no pushover. The older woman had endured shunning in order to train as a nurse. She had worked in a Haitian orphanage for twenty years, until her parents had fallen ill. Then she had come home to kneel before the very Amish congregation that had banned her, asking for forgiveness and returning to the stricter religion in order to be allowed to care for her ailing parents—and Anna.

Bertha might be nearing eighty, but she had a spine of steel when it came to doing what she believed to be right.

Rachel pulled a savings passbook out of her back pocket and laid it on the table. “This should be enough to keep you comfortable for several months. Tell me when you need more. I don’t want you doing without a thing.”

“
Dank
,” Bertha said with dignity. “Thank you. Our church will be blessed not to part with alms for us, and we will be glad not to have to receive them. I will go to my room now, to pray over this.”

Doubt filled Rachel’s mind at her aunt’s words. “I thought you had already made your decision.”

“Yes, of course.” Bertha waved a hand. “We will do as you say. We will no longer give
The Budget
our advertising dollars, and you may take down the sign at the end of the road. But I will ask Gott to give us wisdom so that if there is a stranger He wants us to minister to—we will not blindly turn an
engel
away.”

“Agreed.” Rachel resolved to add her own prayers to Bertha’s—that there would
be
no more strangers, no more demanding guests. She believed in God, but she didn’t buy into the whole “angels unaware” thing.

Her aunts had earned a much-deserved retirement, and she was going to see to it that they got one. Whether they wanted it or not.

It had been miles since Joe Matthews had taken the time to truly notice his whereabouts. Images of the towns he had driven through during the past few months blurred together like a child’s sidewalk chalk sketch in the rain. If he didn’t start paying attention, he was afraid he would end up driving into the Atlantic Ocean with no memory of how he had gotten there.

He was fairly certain that he and his little boy, asleep in the booster seat beside him, were still in Ohio. He had a vague memory of driving through Columbus a couple of hours ago.

His back hurt from too much driving, his right shoulder ached from too many years of physical punishment, and his eyes were inflamed from the strain of watching mile after mile of road pass beneath his wheels.

Where was he?

A lone oak tree near the road beckoned, offering some shade from the unseasonably warm September sun. He pulled his blue Ford pickup beneath it, turned off the engine, and unearthed his dog-eared road atlas from behind the seat. As he studied the map, he rolled down the window to let in some fresh air.

Silence, in the form of a veritable ocean of ripe, golden cornfields, surrounded him. This was an alien land, a strange universe, the other side of the moon from his home in Los Angeles.

As the dappled shade of the giant oak played over his windshield, he glanced at his four-year-old son. The simple serenity of sleep on his child’s face clutched at his heart.

He, too, longed for rest—a short break from the reality that had been thrust upon him. Hoping for a catnap, he leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

Bobby immediately stirred. “Are we home yet, Daddy?”

The question felt like a knife twisting in his gut.

“Not yet, son. Try to go back to sleep.” He adjusted his headrest. Those few seconds of shut-eye had felt so good.

“I gotta pee.”

“Can it wait?”

“Daaa-ddy…” The little boy jiggled up and down. “I gotta go.
Bad!
”

Bobby did not have good bladder control, and the last thing either of them needed right now was a drenched seat. Joe sprang into action.

“Hold on, buddy.”

The long, straight road was empty as far as the eye could see. He ran with his son behind the oak tree and pointed him in the general direction of the cornfield. He had just pulled up Bobby’s minuscule jeans when he heard a vehicle approach. A low bass
thump, thump, thump
from the driver’s music grew louder as a bottle green truck with jacked-up wheels hurtled down the road. A blast of wind from the truck hit Joe in the face as it passed.

The monster truck seemed out of place in this lovely rural setting. As it whizzed by, two teens in the front seat made obscene gestures before roaring on down the road.

“I don’t like that truck, Daddy.”

“Me either, buddy.”

In the wake of the giant vehicle, it seemed strange to hear the gentle
clip-clop
of horse hooves. A black buggy with an elderly bearded man in a simple black hat, white shirt, and cloth suspenders drew up beside him. Unless Joe was mistaken, this man was a member of the Amish faith. Up until now, he had only seen pictures.

“Whoa.” The man pulled back on the reins and the horse pranced at the sudden stop. “Are you having
druvvel
—trouble?”

“No.” Joe laid his hand atop Bobby’s head. “My son just needed to use the bathroom.”

The man, who appeared as if he had time-traveled straight from the 1800s, nodded as though he found Joe’s statement to be profound. “Little boys—they are bad about not waiting. I had eight.” He frowned at the horizon where the truck had disappeared. “None turned out like them
dummkopps,
thank Gott! They almost ran me over.” His gnarled hands, holding the reins, were still shaking, as though he’d had a bad fright.

“I’m sorry.” Joe surveyed the fragile buggy. The old man had good reason to tremble. The buggy would stand no chance against a truck of that size. Or any size. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“It is Luke Keim’s twins.” The man shook his head in dismay. “They should plow a field in the hot sun all day. That would cool them off plenty goot.”

“Boys that age aren’t known for having good sense.”

The old man made a clucking sound in the back of his throat. “Their
daett
—their father—should have better control of his
shtamm
—his family.”

He peered at Joe’s out-of-state license plates. “You are a tourist?”

“I’m just passing through. How far is it until the next town?”

“You do not know where you are?”

“Not exactly.”

The Amishman pointed straight ahead. “Sugarcreek—two miles that way.” He slapped the reins against the front of his buggy. “Giddyap!” The buggy abruptly veered back onto the road.

Joe scratched his head as he watched the horse trot down the road. His meager store of knowledge about the Amish came entirely from the movie
The Witness.
It felt surreal to be nearly blown off the road by a souped-up truck one moment and discussing potty breaks with an Amishman the next.

Wait a minute.

Joe mentally rewound and replayed their brief conversation. Had that man said
eight
sons? As he buckled Bobby back into his car seat, he tried to imagine raising that many children—and couldn’t. It was taking everything he had to care for
one.

As many times as Bobby had asked if they were home yet, Joe had asked himself the same question. He didn’t know the answer, but he
had
to believe that there was a place of sanctuary for them somewhere. His son deserved a better life than this. Bobby needed home-cooked meals, his own bed, and friends to play with.

The question burning a hole in Joe’s heart was—where?

Rachel was fighting a losing battle.

Kim Whitfield, a new police academy graduate, was putting in volunteer hours manning the Sugarcreek Police office—and Kim liked to chat.

Unfortunately, her presence was driving Rachel straight up the wall.

Normally, Sugarcreek’s five full-time and five auxiliary police officers were well able to deal with the everyday problems that arose in this rural township, but the week of the famous Swiss Festival was another thing altogether.

Years ago, the local cheesemakers had joined forces with local winemakers to create a fall festival that would attract new customers. Their plan had worked even better than expected. Thousands of tourists now descended on the picturesque town every fourth weekend after Labor Day, tasting and voting on the various cheeses and local wines. They danced the polka and participated in the parades and other events—and strained the small police force to the limit.

Unfortunately, in addition to the responsibilities of the Swiss Festival, Rachel also had a pile of reports to finish. In her universe, desk work ranked somewhere below locking up drunks and cleaning out the squad car. However, she definitely needed to get her desk cleared before the crunch of the Swiss Festival hit with full force on Friday morning.

As she worked her way through the stack, Kim wandered over to peer curiously at the report she had just finished.

“A DUI?” Kim asked.

“Yes.”

“But…it says here that the DUI was a horse and
buggy.”

“Uh-huh.” She really didn’t want to be drawn into a conversation right now. There was way too much work to do.

“How could you even tell the driver was drunk if he was driving a horse and buggy?”

“The horse ran a red light.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Maybe the driver just wasn’t paying attention.”

Rachel turned around to look at Kim. It was obvious the girl wasn’t going to leave her alone until she got the whole story.

“You’re right. The driver
wasn’t
paying attention. He was passed out dead drunk on the seat. The good horse was taking him home. Unfortunately, the horse didn’t know enough to stop at a red light. Both the horse and the driver could have been killed.”

“You mean, the driver was
Amish?”
Kim was not from Sugarcreek. Her voice told of her disbelief. Like many outsiders, she seemed to be under the impression that all the Amish lived unwavering, righteous lives—as though old-fashioned dress and transportation somehow made them immune to human failings.

“The buggy driver was an Amish teenager enjoying his
rumspringa
a little too much.”

“Rumspringa?”

“It’s their ‘running-around’ time, those years when Amish young people want to taste the outside world before settling down and becoming faithful members of their church.”

Kim chomped a piece of gum as she thought this over. “I always thought they just grew up and turned into carbon copies of their parents.”

“Some do. A few go off the deep end, but some don’t go through rumspringa at all.” Rachel turned back to her work.

“Being a cop here is different from other places, isn’t it?”

“People are people no matter where they live,” Rachel said. “They all struggle with problems. We’re lucky in that Sugarcreek inhabitants are just a little nicer than most.”

“I like it here.”

“I’m glad, but I need to get these reports finished….”

“I won’t bother you anymore.”

“Thanks.”

Unfortunately, Kim just
had
to talk. She immediately began a running commentary on the tourists walking past the police station’s street-level window.

“Whoever told
that
woman she looked good in shorts should be shot.” Kim blew a bubble and snapped it. “And those shoes. Hello! Four-inch heels were never meant for a woman her age.”

Rachel glanced out the window. The woman Kim was targeting couldn’t have been a day over thirty—her own age. Kim seemed competent enough, and she had gotten high marks from the academy, but the girl’s mouth was getting on her last nerve. Having her working here was turning out to be a whole lot more bother than being shorthanded.

“Um—I’m trying to concentrate here,” Rachel said pointedly.

“Oh.” Kim whipped around, her long auburn hair flipping over one shoulder. Her big brown eyes were round and innocent. “Sorry.”

Rachel felt a stab of remorse. The girl really did mean well. It had been unprofessional to snap at her. Kim had done nothing wrong.

“It’s just that I have all this work to do and…”

The phone rang and Kim answered, her eyes still glued to Rachel as though she were trying to puzzle out why Rachel was annoyed with her. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand.

“This lady says she’s your aunt Lydia. Do you want me to tell her you’re not here?”

“Why on earth would I want you to do that?”

“I don’t know.” Kim shrugged her perfectly toned twenty-two-year-old shoulders and made a face. “Because she sounds, like, you know, really
old?
”

Rachel tried to excuse the girl, but the comment bugged her. Kim was from an upper-end suburb outside of Cleveland and had no idea how hard it had been for Lydia to gather enough courage to walk out to the phone shanty, unlock it, and dial the number to the police station. The shanty, the phone, and the answering machine were Bertha’s province. Lydia used it only in emergencies. The last time she had done so had been the day Bertha had fallen down the stairs.

Something was wrong. Rachel just knew it. Her pulse raced as she reached for the phone. “Lydia? What’s happened?”

“Rachel?” The elderly woman’s voice quavered. “Is that you?”

“Yes, Lydia—it’s me.”

“I am making your favorite foods for our
ohvet essa,
our evening meal. Will you come?”

Her heart ached at the uncertain tone in her aunt’s voice. Lydia
did
sound old. “Of course I’ll come. Thank you so much.”

Lydia, unused to phone etiquette, hung up awkwardly and abruptly.

The invitation struck Rachel as sad. Normally she was a frequent guest at her aunts’ table. They seldom called to formally invite her, but she had been so involved in preparations for the Swiss Festival that she had not seen them for over a week. With no guests to care for and all their Amish relatives preoccupied with harvests and canning everything from apple butter to piccalilli from their orchards and autumn gardens…they were probably feeling a little abandoned right now.