Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio (9 page)

Bertha leaned forward. “You think I do not know what it is like to be the object of another’s curiosity?” Her eyes were blazing. For a moment, he got a clear picture of the fierce young woman who had faced down thieves in order to protect the orphan children.

“When my father died, Englischers took forbidden pictures of our people. When my uncle Isaiah was hurt in a buggy wreck, Eng-lisch passersby grabbed pieces of the broken buggy for souvenirs.” She settled back again. “As individuals, we may not be as famous as you are, but we deal with intrusiveness every day of our lives. For us, just to go to town for a spool of thread during tourist season means stares and Englisch children pointing at us. This is our life too, Joe.”

He felt chagrined. These peaceful people endured more prying into their day-to-day lives than he had ever realized. “How do you stand it, Bertha?”

“God gives us strength,” Bertha said. “And once people look their fill, they grow bored. They see that we are not so interesting after all, but just people living our lives. Then they leave us alone and we buy our spools of thread in peace.”

“You are a wise woman, Bertha.”

“No.” She waved a dismissive hand. “But I have lived longer. Now we must decide what to do with you. Do you have a plan?”

“Not really, but a roommate from college has an old hunting cabin in West Virginia. Up in the mountains. He told me a long time ago that if I ever needed to get away, it would be available. I’ve been thinking of going there when I get my truck fixed.”

Bertha thought this over. “It would be better for Bobby if you stayed here.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Why?”

Joe hesitated. “Because of Rachel.”

“Ah yes. Our Rachel. She is a suspicious one, that girl.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Do not judge her too harshly.” Bertha shook her head. “She has been through much.”

Joe found himself more curious about Rachel than he would have guessed a mere twenty-four hours earlier. “In what way?”

“She lost her mother when she was young, and then there was her father, my little brother….” Her eyes took on a faraway gaze. “He was always fascinated with guns. Even as a boy, he was constantly out in the woods target practicing with our father’s hunting rifle.”

“Your people own
guns?”

Bertha looked surprised. “Of course. How do you think we protect our livestock from predators?”

“I had no idea. Please go on.”

“After Frank chose not to join the church, he became a policeman, but he worried about keeping his weapons in the same house as his little girl. Children are fascinated with forbidden things, so as soon as he thought she was ready, he brought Rachel out to the farm and did target practice with her, over and over. Lydia and I grew tired of hearing the shots.”

“Rachel wanted to do this?”

“Oh yes. She was a natural. On her eleventh birthday, she and her father went to the bank for money to celebrate. A man was robbing the bank when they entered. My brother went for his gun, but the robber was faster.”

“I am so sorry, Bertha.”

“Rachel was standing next to her daett when he was shot. It is not something a young girl—or anyone—should ever experience.”

For the first time, Joe got a glimmer of why Rachel was so serious and grim. Now he knew. She, too, had experienced the evil that resided in the world.

“People who were there at the bank,” Bertha continued, “said that as her father went down, Rachel bent over him. They thought she was bravely trying to protect her father with her own body, but when she stood back up, she had both hands wrapped around his revolver—and it was cocked.”

Joe swallowed. “Go on.”

“She pointed the gun straight at the robber, even though he already had a gun. They said her hands were steady and her finger was on the trigger, but tears were streaming down her face.”

“Oh, Bertha.” He knew at that moment that he would never look at Rachel in the same way again.

“The bank robber didn’t know what to do. Having a little girl in a frilly, pink birthday dress pointing a handgun at him was not something he had anticipated. A male customer tackled him from behind while he hesitated.”

“What about Rachel?”

“One of Frank’s deputies had to talk to her for a long time before she handed the gun to him.” Bertha shook her head. “She never wore pink again.”

“I see.”

“I also see, Joe. I see your kindness toward us and your love for this child. I think you are a good man who needs our help. You are welcome to share what we have for as long as you need to stay.”

Her words were like a gift. Who would ever have believed that his shattered faith in mankind could be resurrected by an elderly Amish woman?

“Thank you. That means more than you can know.”

Again she waved that dismissive hand, as though her offer were of no importance. “You are welcome. I will deal with Rachel.”

The wind-up clock in the kitchen chimed four o’clock.

“I promised Eli I would help him with his milking this morning in half an hour.”

“That is most interesting.” She peered at him over her glasses. “Eli is fussy about who touches his cows. Have you ever milked before?”

“No.”

She chuckled. “Then you will be learning much. Help me get this big boy back onto the couch. I will stay with him while you help Eli. I think you will be needing some breakfast before you leave. I will show you where things are.”

Quietly, Rachel crept back upstairs in her stocking feet. The house was sturdily built. Long-gone Amish carpenters had seen to that, and the stairs did not creak. She was especially grateful now for those ancient carpenters, because she did not want Joe and Bertha to know that she had been listening.

Unfortunately, after coming downstairs to use the bathroom, she had heard only a few snatches of their conversation—something about a murder and the child being in the house with his mother.

She now had something to go on. A partial story to research. License tags to trace. And the water glass that Joe had held to the little boy’s lips. It was in a plastic bag now, readied for fingerprinting tomorrow morning.

She had the tools to discover the true identity of the man her aunts were so innocently harboring.

“Das iss goot.” Eli nodded his approval of Joe’s full pail of foaming milk.

Joe felt as proud of his accomplishment as if he had won a trophy. Spending the early morning hours helping Eli milk the cows had proven to be a study in humility. If he had a shred of pride left after everything he had been through during the past few days, it would have dissipated the moment he walked into this Amish farmer’s barn.

He had never felt so clumsy and less skilled in his life. Manually milking a cow was no walk in the park. Had there been machinery involved, he might have been able to redeem himself, but Eli milked the old-fashioned way—head against the side of the cow and hands on udders that had been soaped and rinsed off in early-morning darkness dispelled only by lantern light.

Eli had been in high good humor as he instructed Joe in the fine art of milking, watching with a solemn expression that occasionally slipped into a goofy grin while Joe repeatedly and unsuccessfully tried to coax a stream of milk into a pail. Once he had achieved a minimal amount of success, Eli had proceeded to strip the milk from three cows to every one of Joe’s.

It was becoming apparent that Eli did not need the help as much as he needed the company
and
the entertainment that watching a novice provided. Joe figured he had inadvertently become Eli’s own private Saturday morning cartoon show.

It didn’t bother Joe in the least. He had received enough public adulation to last him several lifetimes. The realization that he was giving the old Amishman so many reasons to chuckle into his beard had pleased him.

And yet there came a moment when he finally figured out how to make the milk ring in strong streams against the inside of the metal bucket. The chore settled into a peaceful rhythm as he watched the fresh, pure milk rise in the bucket.

The sounds of the farm awakening around him had the soothing impression of classical music, as the patient cows munched their fodder and the roosters at both Eli’s and the Troyer sisters’ farms competed in an early morning crowing contest. The sound of horses’ hooves clip-clopping down the road as Amish men and women went to work created a sort of counter-beat to the barnyard symphony.

Eli had splashed part of Joe’s earlier milking into a round pan that was immediately ringed by a barn cat and her six kittens. Joe was surprised to hear the tiny kittens growling at one another as they lapped the warm milk. One by one they staggered off, drunk on the richness of fresh milk.

Joe suspected that this was an early morning ritual between farmer and cat, as he watched the mother feline contentedly cleaning her bemilked whiskers as her comically satiated babies, their bellies distended and drum-tight, flopped down in the loose hay and promptly fell asleep.

Eli forced a crumpled twenty-dollar bill into Joe’s hand as soon as they finished the milking, processed it, and cleaned up. Joe knew he hadn’t been worth even that. He knew Eli was simply being kind.

“Tomorrow morning, jah?” Eli said.

“You still want me?”

“Oh, sure.” Eli nodded emphatically. “Many hands make quick work.”

“Clumsy hands make
long
work.”

“Maybe not so clumsy tomorrow.”

“I’ll be here.”

The sun had just begun to rise as they left the barn. Eli blew out the lantern. “Do not come too early. Remember, I like to sleep late.” Eli jauntily walked toward his house, chuckling over his joke.

Walking home was a pleasure. Joe stopped for a moment to breathe in the unpolluted air while he admired the silent beauty of the sunrise. Everything felt so fresh and clean this morning. No LA smog. No traffic. Even with little sleep, it had been a long time since he’d felt so alive.

He knew they would soon have to leave this place, but his desire to get back on the road had dissipated in the short amount of time they had been here.

When he entered the kitchen and found Lydia bustling about, fixing a second breakfast for him, it felt strangely as though he were truly coming home.

“Watch me, Daddy!” Bobby ran through the kitchen wearing nothing but underwear. He climbed onto a kitchen chair and prepared to jump off. “I’m Superman!”

“Off the furniture, buddy.” Joe looped an arm around his son’s stomach and flew him around the kitchen. Bobby stretched his arms straight out and made swishing sounds with his mouth.

The medicine and the God-given healing properties of a child’s body had worked an overnight miracle. Bobby’s fever was gone and he was now practically bouncing off the walls.

With a start, Joe realized that Bobby had awakened to find him gone and had been okay with that fact. Apparently
very
okay.

Lydia, in her neat prayer kapp and long lavender dress, flipped bacon with a nonchalant air as though she were quite used to having small children flying through the air. He supposed she probably was, after having run an inn for so many years.

“Boo!”

This time, Joe had the presence of mind to gasp and pretend to almost drop Bobby in surprise, before he turned around to discover Anna. “Goodness, Anna. You scared me!”

She clutched both hands behind her back and rocked back and forth on her bare feet, beaming with delight at the success of her joke.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lydia nodding with approval at his reaction. “Breakfast will soon be ready,” she said.

Joe set Bobby on the floor. “Let’s go get your clothes, buddy. I think we’ll give Lydia and Anna a break from Superman.”

“’kay.” Bobby whooped and galloped into the living room, now pretending to be a horse, until he weakened and allowed Joe to put on his clothes and tennis shoes. The medicine was good, but it was apparent that the little boy hadn’t completely recuperated yet.

Joe had a strange feeling when he reentered the kitchen. Breakfast was waiting on the table, but all three aunts were looking at him with overly bright eyes. They kept glancing at one another, as though sharing a great secret.

After a silent prayer, in which Joe participated by thanking God in his heart for this wonderful—if temporary—home, Bertha passed him a dish of crisply fried potatoes. “We have been talking…”

Anna put a couple of slices of bacon on Bobby’s plate, and Lydia poured Joe a cup of coffee.

“…and we have a business proposition for you,” Bertha finished.

Lydia passed the cream. Anna clasped her hands beneath her chin and waited.

“You do?”

Everyone wore serious expressions. Even Bobby knew something was up and looked from one adult to another as he munched his bacon.

“We happen to know of a job opening,” Lydia said.

“I’m listening.” Joe’s voice was cautious.

“It is time we hired some help around here,” Bertha stated.

Anna nodded happily. Lydia watched him over the brim of her cup of coffee.

“We’re offering you a job,” Bertha said. “Here. Helping us. We would like to reopen the inn next spring, but there are many repairs and much cleaning that must be done. Our home needs to be painted. We can no longer take care of the yard. I need a new clothesline.”

“You could live in the
daadi haus
—the grandfather house.” Lydia’s voice was eager. “It was where our father lived for many years.”

“The salary won’t be large,” Bertha continued. “But it would be enough to live on and…”

Anna bounced up and down in her seat as she finished her sister’s sentence. “Bobby can stay!”

It sounded wonderful to him after the long, lonely weeks on the road. “Are you women serious?”

“Yes,” Bertha said. “As Rachel has pointed out to us many times, we are not as strong as we used to be.”

Joe toyed with his fork. “Eli told me this morning that his eight sons have given him thirty-four grandchildren and ten great-grandchildren. Why would you hire me, a stranger, when you have relatives who would help you?”

“You are right,” Bertha said. “We have many people, and they would help. But all who are old enough to be of any use have their own homes and families and jobs. More importantly”—she placed both hands flat on the table and leaned toward him—“the day you arrived, I was in my bedroom praying that Gott would allow us to show His love to one more stranger before we died. When Eli knocked on our door and I saw you and Bobby in his buggy, I knew that Gott had brought you to our door, Joe.”

“All that happened was that my truck quit and Eli was kind enough to pick me up. I doubt God had anything to do with it.”

“Gott created the world.” Bertha cocked an eyebrow. “You think He cannot break a truck motor?”

Bobby, who had been helping himself to one slice of bacon after another, understood at least part of what the ladies were saying. He stopped eating, climbed onto his father’s lap, put both hands on the sides of Joe’s face, looked him directly in the eyes, and said, “I don’t want to ride in the truck anymore, Daddy.”

Joe’s heart shattered. The three women had no idea how long he had been dragging his son around the United States and how tired he was of it.

Despite his misgivings about spending even one more day in the same town as the lovely, suspicious-eyed Rachel, he silently bowed to the Lord’s sense of humor. Becoming a handyman to three Amish women and an old dairy farmer would never have occurred to him as an option for his life—but it was looking pretty good at the moment. He had no transportation. He had no money. Unless he resorted to crime—or called Henrietta—his choices were practically nonexistent.

One thing that was
not
an option was going back to LA and the life he had once lived. He simply couldn’t take it anymore, and Bobby couldn’t either. In his estimation, every normal, nontraumatic day his little boy could spend with these gentle women was a godsend.

Flashes of
The Witness
came back. Being deep in Amish Country had thwarted the discovery of Harrison Ford’s character by the bad guys, at least for a while. Perhaps it would confuse those who were trying to find him, as well.

“I appreciate the offer, ladies,” Joe said. “More than you know. Thank you. I’ll try to do a good job.”

“Of course you will do a good job. What else would you do?” Bertha frowned. “Bobby, do you not want some scrambled eggs to go with all that bacon?”

Bobby accepted a spoonful of eggs, but his mind was on more important things. “Can I keep the white kitty cat now, Daddy?”

“Maybe.”

“You will need to get the daadi haus ready,” Bertha said. “It has long been sitting empty. There will be much work.”

Rachel entered the kitchen at that moment. “How’s Bobby this morning?”

“Much better,” Joe answered. “Aren’t you, buddy?”

Bertha glanced disapprovingly at Rachel.
“Da kee shvans is immah shpoht!”
she said.

“What?” Joe asked.

“Bertha just told me that the tail of the cow is always late.” Rachel made a wry face as she helped herself to a cup of coffee. “It’s something Amish mothers say to children who come straggling in.”

“Do you want some breakfast?” Lydia asked.

“Sorry, I can’t stay,” Rachel said. “Bertha’s right. I
am
late.” She shot a glance at Bertha. “Although I don’t think that exactly makes me a cow’s tail.” She took a sip of her coffee. “What was that I heard you saying about a job, Bertha?”

“We have hired Joe to be our handyman.” Bertha’s voice had steel in it, daring Rachel to disagree. “He will be moving into the daadi haus.”

Rachel nearly choked on her mouthful of coffee. She carefully set the cup down on the counter. “You did
what?”

Anna whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. “Rachel’s mad.”

Kim was hard at work on the computer when Rachel came in from overseeing yet another fender bender. These roads were not meant to handle the heavy traffic of the Swiss Festival. And the fact that it was a gorgeous fall Saturday with the clarity that came after a thunderstorm had brought people out in swarms.

“Did you find anything about Joe Matthews?” Rachel asked.

“Sure,” Kim said. “There are
hundreds
of Joe Matthews in the United States. Take your pick.”

“Try in Texas. That’s where his tags are from. We really need to find this guy.”