Rebecca's Return (35 page)

“Sharon can help—if I do—or one of the other women close by. We’ll be okay.”

“You sure?”

Miriam nodded, letting the reins out on the horse. “Thanks anyway. Tell Rebecca he’ll be okay.”

“I will,” Mattie said, stepping back as Miriam took off.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FOUR

T
he breakfast dishes were long done and the table cleared, but Rachel had been unable to concentrate on the day’s work in front of her. There were the Sunday pies to bake, the dough already prepared and spread out on the counter. There was bread to be made for the weekend, which she still needed to stir or it would never be finished baking by evening.

If that wasn’t enough, the mending pile had grown larger than she liked. Even with only the three adults, such things had a way of collecting. Its menacing presence now lay in the sewing room. And though the baby’s expected birth was still months away, the coming event pulled at her like an undertow, staking a claim for its share of her thoughts.

Yet with all the work to be done, her mind simply wouldn’t stay on the tasks. Her eyes constantly strayed to the kitchen window, checking up on what Reuben was doing because he left the house so abruptly.

It had been an hour since Reuben had returned from the back field, where he had been tending the cattle. If he followed his normal routine, he would be coming in any time now, as it was a little past noon. What had gotten into the man this morning, she had no idea. She had never seen him quite so…well, determined, and it was disturbing to Rachel.

Will he actually go and venture into a new business? A goat business?
Although she thought it only natural the answer would be
no,
something about the whole thing made her nervous. Surely Reuben would soon be in for lunch and apologize for having scared her with such foolish talk and perhaps, for even daring to think of jeopardizing the little money they had. Yes, an apology was in order. And when it came, Rachel would accept it, and her world could return to normal, as it was supposed to be.

He’s coming now,
she thought, her heart lifting at the sight of the barn door opening. She was at the point of leaving the kitchen window to prepare food for his lunch, when the corner of her eye caught something unusual. Reuben was leading the driving horse out with him.

She stopped—startled. Reuben had no business with a driving horse because he had no place to go. She knew his business and his schedule. There was no place he needed to be today other than home. Why then was Reuben bringing out the horse, all harnessed up? And what was he planning on doing about lunch? Never had she known him to willingly miss lunch for any reason.

Now frozen in place, she watched as he walked toward the single buggy, pulling on the bridle lines, as if he was in a hurry.
This must be serious indeed.
The thought rushed into her mind, then froze into an icy crystal on her brain. Laying there, its weight became immense, its coldness numbing her head and creeping down through her body.

Reuben paused at the buggy and reached down to pick up the shafts, lifting them high over his head. For a moment she thought his eyes had found her, but then she knew they had never stopped long enough to look. With a deft movement, he brought the horse under the shafts, attached the tugs, and to her great horror, got in and drove out the driveway.

Has the man gone crazy?
No, something else was going on, something so fundamental and profound that it shook her world to the foundations.

It has to do with the money.
She just knew it. Did Reuben know enough to be dangerous to her if he was going to the bishop?
Is that what Reuben is doing?
In desperation she ran the scenario through her mind.
What does Reuben know?

He knew her anguish and distress over losing the money. He knew how badly she wanted it back, but that couldn’t be held against her, she decided. He also knew she had tried to get her brother in trouble for breaking the church rules, but that had amounted to nothing. Even if Reuben told the bishop of the connection her tattling had to the money, it would likely produce more smiles of sympathy than condemnation.

No, she decided, Reuben didn’t know enough to be dangerous. Her pie dough forgotten, she watched the last of his buggy disappear into the distance, turning west and out of sight. It was then she realized Reuben’s destination. She knew it with great certainty, her heart pounding with the thought. Reuben was going to make good on his threat.

If he was going to Milroy, he would have gone south. Because he had not, then Rushville must be where he was going. Rushville had many things, all of which—as far as Reuben was concerned—would require the surrey to bring them back. No, Reuben wasn’t going to the feed mill or any farming supply store. Reuben was going to the bank. He was going to borrow money.

She turned from the kitchen window, her movements slow, her heart numb. How could the man risk the little they had on his crazy scheme of raising goats? This was what he was going to do, she was certain. Nothing else made any sense.

Reuben was going to take the little equity they had in the farm and invest it in goats. And a gamble it was. She was certain it was just as much a gamble as those taken by any Englishman in the gambling halls. Reuben’s actions were disreputable and dishonorable, even if he was a deacon and even if the bishop backed up his plans. That the bishop would do so, she was sure.

The thought burned in her, filling her with anger. This was why Reuben would not come in for lunch. He was afraid to face her, afraid to tell her he was going to borrow on the farm. The farm she had made the extra payments on, skimping and saving.

He, with all his high airs about being a deacon, a servant of the Lord, a man’s man, had sunk to using his wife’s money—the equity in the farm—for his own purposes.

With a flourish, without even having to think about it, she flipped the dough into the pie pans, expertly cut the edges off, added the filling, and shoved them roughly into the oven. Adjusting the heat on the oven, she saw the whole thing clearly. Reuben would fail.

It was up to her, as it always had been, to find an answer. But what was that answer to be? She had already tried everything she knew and had been thwarted at each turn.
Am I to be doomed to failure, the money which belonged to my family lost forever?
She felt fear running through her at the thought.

There is no answer,
she finally told herself.
There never was, and now we are to be turned into a goat farm. A deacon and now a goatherd. How fitting an ending to our miserable lives.

And I am going to help him,
the thought presented itself.
I suppose so,
Rachel sighed.
I suppose so, if we don’t all starve.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FIVE

J
ohn was barely awake when a nurse he hadn’t seen before positioned a lunch tray across his bed.

“Time to eat,” she said cheerfully. “Doctor said to give it a try. If you feel up to it, that is.”

He gave no response, his eyes taking in the sight of the offered portions.

“It’s not home cooking,” she said with a smile. When John didn’t reply, the nurse said, “I’ll leave it then. Be back in a little bit.”

With that the nurse was gone. John continued to look at the food without interest. There was something missing but what? It was standard food—the little glob of white mashed potatoes, the small bowl of dark gravy, the corn on a white plate, the piece of roll in the corner. A small piece of meat, presumably a hamburger.

Then it occurred to him what was missing. It was the smell…or rather the lack of it.

His instincts were to test it, to touch it with his fork—like he would at home—to smell the simmering gravy, to breathe in, even before it reached his lips, the rich earthy aroma of fresh mashed potatoes.

Without thinking he tried using his right hand to reach for the plastic utensils on the tray. He tried hard to make the arm move, every instinct feeling like it should work, but nothing happened.

The terror of his paralysis struck him afresh. This was no dream, as he had started to think. Faint memories of his mother—from long ago it seemed—played in his mind. She was going to take him home, he thought she had said, but then there had been nothing all day. She had also said Rebecca would be coming, had she not?

The light coming through the window beside his bed was dim. In front of him, the plate of food confused him. Was it lunch time or supper? John tried again to move his hand, frustration filling him at the continued inability, fueling not anger but despair.

His emotions spiraled downward.
You can use your other hand,
he heard his mind telling him. John heard, but the solution repulsed him, the implications obvious. There would be a need to accept, or at least to acknowledge, his right hand as useless.

This he rebelled against.
Rebecca won’t marry a man with a useless right arm.
He wasn’t sure whether he said the words aloud or not. He only knew they rang in his ears, in his being.

“She won’t,” he said, this time hearing the words come out in a rough whisper.

He tried again to reach the fork, setting his eyes on the white piece of plastic, willing with the full strength of his body and mind. But there was nothing. No movement. No feeling. Only a void, a chasm he could not cross.

His head fell back against the pillow, the softness of it folding around his head, inviting him to go back even further, to allow his body to sink into its darkness.

A cripple,
the thought screamed through his brain.
A cripple who has lost what I loved the most.
He saw, as clear as if Rebecca had been there, her eyes, their tender gaze falling on him. He felt her fingers in his, the softness of their touch caressing his hand. The agony of the memory brought a groan from the depths of his chest.

In his despair, he threw his left arm in the air as if to ward off the evil that had befallen him, to drive it away with the only action available to him. He hit the tray of food in his outburst, causing it to teeter on the extended arm. It began to slide away from his control and possibly dump its contents all over his legs.

His mind stopped, like an object shot in midair. The tray became the urgent matter. It was going to fall if he did nothing.

The time before he made up his mind was negligible. He saw clearly that he could stop the falling, but did he want to use his left hand?

He knew there was time given to decide, but not to waver. He reached for the tray, deciding not from any noble impulse but from a deep compulsion within him. Lifting his left hand, he grasped the edge of the tray with his fingers, his lips opening in a great cry of agony.

Pain rose not from his body but from his mind, from knowing that he had accepted, from knowing he had gotten around the injury without being made whole first. He had not chosen to be a cripple, but he now chose to live with it. He pulled the tray back onto the extended arm, the sound of his voice filling the room.

He didn’t hear the footsteps, just the door as it burst open with great force. The nurse was already inside by the time it was half opened. “Mr. Miller,” she said, stopping short, taking the situation in with one long look. “Whatever was that?”

He studied her, knowing his eyes must be wild, but he was not about to tell her anything. “My tray was sliding off,” he said, his voice coming out a little louder than he intended.

“You weren’t trying to throw it away, were you?” she asked, giving him a long hard look.

He shook his head firmly. “I caught it with my left hand,” he said, as if that explained everything.