Rachel's Rescue Read online

  The counselor they’d forced him to talk to in prison seemed to be appalled at the idea of a child being locked out of a house in the wintertime. Carl supposed it was a terrible thing for his mother to do, but he’d sometimes been grateful for the safety and privacy he’d found there as a child. Worse things happened to small boys in his neighborhood when men came to visit single mothers. Much worse things than shivering beneath a porch and hugging a stray dog or cat.

  Carl accepted the fact that he was a bad man. He was a murderer and a thief. But he wasn’t quite as bad of a man as some who shared this prison with him. Carl didn’t hurt children, and he didn’t hurt animals. That was his code. He had never broken it, and he despised people who did.

  Chapter 3

  “Bobby!” Rachel paused in the act of setting one of Aunt Lydia’s apple pies on the long makeshift table. “Get down from there!”

  Her six-year-old stepson was an adventurous little guy whom she loved dearly, but the skeleton of the new one-room schoolhouse her Amish friends were building today was entirely too enticing to a small boy. Bobby needed to realize that the new structure was not a playground for him.

  Compared to the obedient Amish boys pounding nails beside their fathers or the little Amish girls helping their mothers put lunch on the table, Bobby was entirely out of control, which was embarrassing. The child had more energy than he knew what to do with. Joe could usually keep him in check, but her…not so much.

  Her husband had been gone for two weeks, which felt like forever—not only because she was entirely responsible for Bobby while her Joe was away, but because she missed him so badly. Their marriage was all she had hoped for and more, but she was worried about his trip to California. He had seemed preoccupied and worried before he left, but when she had asked whether anything was wrong, he smiled and reassured her that everything was fine.

  Their phone calls since then had been unsatisfactory. He’d said they would talk in depth when he got home. She hoped that was not as ominous as it sounded.

  Joe drove around the curve in the road and up the long driveway of the Sugar Haus bed-and-breakfast and was surprised with the most remarkable sight one could see in Tuscarawas County. Amish carpenters were swarming over the new frame of a building.

  Rachel had recently informed him over the phone that her aunts had donated an acre of their farm for the new Amish school building. Apparently, the men of their church had decided not to waste any time.

  He parked his car near a line of black buggies in the pasture behind the aunts’ house. There was no reason to lock it. A theft within this group was not something he worried about.

  Joe knew many of the Amish carpenters now, and he was familiar with how the Amish parochial school system worked. Most of the materials for the school would be donated. The rest would come straight out of the Amish settlement’s pocket. Some would come from fund-raising dinners.

  Even though they paid public school taxes like all other property owners, the Amish also built, furnished, and staffed their own schools with no help from the government. That meant they also had no interference from the government, which was exactly the way they wanted it. They were free to choose their own books and set their own curriculum.

  The Amish were the first to admit that they were a flawed people, but Joe had found much to admire in them. He was grateful to live in a community where the bonds of family and community were valued and supported.

  As he got out of the car and approached the group, he saw Rachel pulling Bobby off one of the roughed-in windowsills. Typical. His son could grow up to be a mountain climber or a circus performer if his recent behavior was any indication.

  Dozens of barefoot Amish women bustled about not far from the construction, setting up a potluck dinner on long tables made of boards and sawhorses. Some worked while carrying a baby astride their hip. He wondered if they ever worried about stepping on a nail in the soft spring grass while so near a construction site, but they seemed unconcerned.

  Aunt Bertha was at the center of it all, directing where to set the plates and desserts. She reminded him of a traffic cop, as she gestured here and there. As one of the oldest women of her church, she was respected…and obeyed. He was too far away from her to hear what she was saying over the general buzz of conversation and occasional shouts from the men, all accompanied by the pounding of nails and the sound of handsaws rasping through lumber, but he knew it would be said in her usual no-nonsense way.

  Aunt Anna, Rachel’s third aunt, helped also, by lending her excitement and joy to the gathering. At the moment, she was standing in the middle of the food preparations, smiling and nodding happily. Born with Down syndrome, Anna was cherished among the Amish as one of “God’s special children.” She had always been loved and gently cared for by her family at home. It had resulted in a sunny disposition in which she simply expected the best of everyone…and was rarely disappointed. He always found it hard to be unhappy while in the presence of Anna and her appreciation of life.

  The loss of the aunts’ original farmhouse B & B at the hands of an arsonist had been the hardest on Anna. For a long time, she could not wrap her mind around the fact that the familiarity of her home and possessions was gone. It was impossible for someone so tenderhearted to understand the kind of evil that would cause someone to deliberately try to hurt them.

  Being Amish, the sisters had no insurance on their ruined house. That would be considered a lack of faith in God’s ability to provide. Instead, whenever there was a fire in the Amish community, the family paid what they could, the rest of the money was then contributed by other church members, and the labor was donated. So there had been a similar scene here a couple of years ago when Joe helped Amish carpenters rebuild the sisters’ home.

  There were a few areas in which the Amish excelled, and taking care of one another in an uncertain world was one of those ways.

  “Joe’s here!” Anna trilled happily. With no responsibilities to tend to, she was the first to spot him.

  Rachel stopped trying to coax Bobby out from under a table and stood straight and still, waiting. Instead of her Sugarcreek police uniform, she wore a long, flowing blue dress. Her dark hair was unbound, and she was barefoot like the rest of her Amish relatives and friends. She was a beautiful woman in any circumstance, but today she looked especially lovely. His heart ached with love and gratitude the moment he saw her.

  She did not come running toward him as many Englisch women might do when their husbands came back from a long journey. Nor did she embrace him when he reached her. The Amish seldom displayed affection in public, and despite having chosen not to join the church, Rachel still had absorbed many of their culture’s traits.

  He often enjoyed a private chuckle over the polite physical distance Amish couples kept from one another while in public. Were it not for the multitude of children running about, one would never suspect them of being the romantic and passionate people they were.

  “Hello, Rachel,” he said. “Are you and Bobby doing okay?”

  “Never better,” she said. “It is good to have you home.”

  The only physical sign of affection she gave him was to reach out and squeeze his hand. But her eyes danced with the light of welcome, and he saw knowing smiles on the faces of the women working beside her. His and Rachel’s great love for one another was no secret—especially since it had developed under the watchful and amused eyes of the entire community.

  “You must be hungry,” Aunt Lydia said as she placed a masterpiece in the form of a cherry pie on the table. “You will eat with us, jah?”

  Joe blinked back tired tears of relief and gratitude. It was so good to be home. How lucky could a man be?

  He knew the answer his Amish friends would give him. They would tell him that there was no such thing as luck. That having his truck break down outside Sugarcreek two years ago was no accident. They would say it was God’s will.

  Considering all that had transpired since then, he was inclined to agr
ee with them.

  “I would love to join you, Lydia. That pie looks amazing.”

  Lydia’s smile of pure joy at having him back went straight to his heart.

  “Daddy!” Bobby crawled out from under the table and came running. There was no holding back for Bobby. His son nearly knocked him over with his enthusiasm. Joe scooped him up and closed his eyes while he savored the feel of his little boy’s arms around his neck.

  “Have you been a good boy while I’ve been away?” Joe asked.

  Bobby glanced around at the other adults with a worried expression, as though he were afraid someone would tell on him.

  Rachel smiled. “A few bumps along the way, but he tried hard to be a good boy.”

  “A few bumps along the way?” Joe tickled Bobby’s belly, making him giggle. “Knowing this little guy, I’ll just bet there were.”

  He wished he could put an arm around Rachel and draw her to him, but he knew it would embarrass her. He ached for a kiss—and he knew she did too—but there would be time for that later.

  Just then, Bertha began ringing the dinner bell to signal that it was time to put down the hammers and saws and come to the table. The men left their work and began to wash up at the old-fashioned outdoor water pump, some sticking their entire heads beneath it and then shaking off the water from their beards and hair.

  After everyone had assembled and quieted, one of the bishops, Samuel Yost, called for silent prayer. The moment he nodded and said “Amen,” the eating and passing of food began in earnest along with the hum of talk. The Amish were devoted to food, conversation, and one another. They especially loved learning details about each other’s lives.

  “Bertha says you went west to finalize the sale of the house you left behind in California when you came here?” In addition to being a bishop, Samuel was one of the community’s more experienced builders. He shoveled a large forkful of food into his mouth upon asking the question.

  It seemed strange to Joe for a bishop to be nearly his own age. But godly behavior counted more in the selection process of Amish bishops than the number of years one had lived on the earth.

  “I did.”

  “And did you get a good price for it?”

  He could depend on the Amish to have no problem asking for details. There were few secrets between them.

  “No,” Joe said. “When the negotiations were over, I barely broke even.”

  Samuel looked at him, head tilted, concerned. “There is something wrong with the house?”

  “No. It is a good house.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “People tend to shy away from homes where murder has occurred.”

  “Ach!” the bishop exclaimed. “I am so sorry for my words, Joe. I did not heed my own counsel to think ten times before speaking. My curiosity was that of a carpenter’s. I thought there might have been some repairs needing to be made.”

  “There is no need to apologize. I understand your interest, and I had a caretaker who kept the house in good repair.”

  “In spite of the earthquakes and fires we hear about, making living in that country dangerous?”

  “Yes, in spite of those.” Joe was not surprised at the question. California must, indeed, seem like an entirely different “country” to this Ohio carpenter. And a frightening one.

  The bishop changed the subject. “The Englisch schools will be letting out for the summer before too long. You will be without work?”

  “For awhile.”

  “This coaching you do, it pays well?”

  Joe smiled and shrugged.

  Actually, the part-time job he held of coaching at the local high school didn’t pay well at all. In fact, it was somewhat embarrassing how little he was making. Money hadn’t been a problem when he had first accepted the position. He coached for the love of the game and for whatever he could accomplish with the kids. And he was grateful for the chance.

  However, now he most certainly was not a rich man, and there weren’t a lot of good-paying jobs available for an almost-over-the-hill ballplayer. At least not in Sugarcreek.

  A bite of fried chicken so tender it nearly melted in his mouth made him feel infinitely better. The financial sacrifice of living here had payoffs that were impossible to put a price on. Rachel and Bobby were happy here. Being part of a community that truly cared about him, instead of the baseball legend he used to be, mattered to him. And then there was the food!

  Jeremiah Miller, a man always ready with a joke, joined in on Joe’s conversation with Samuel. “Perhaps you should become a farmer, now that you are out of work!”

  “I’ve been thinking about buying a farm,” Joe said with a straight face. “After all, if you make a living at it, Jeremiah, how hard can it be?”

  “This Englischman makes a good point.” The bishop slapped his knee and laughed. Then he sobered and nodded toward Rachel, who was fixing a plate for Bobby now that the men had gone through the line. “I hear Rachel is still working at the police station. You should find a steady job so she can stay home and train up Bobby in the way he should go. It is not wise to allow your wife to continue working a job better suited to men.”

  And that was one of the downsides of being part of an Amish community.

  The idea of a wife who continued to work outside the home after marriage and children was an alien concept. A husband who allowed it could easily lose the respect of the others, no matter how far and fast he might have once been able to throw a baseball. The fact that Rachel was working as a cop made it even harder for them to accept.

  They weren’t particularly impressed with his former job, either. The Amish loved to play baseball, and they were good at it. Girls and boys alike played hard during recess at school, and there were often pickup games after a picnic or during youth outings. But the idea of a grown man making a living at playing a game struck most of them as exceedingly odd.

  “I agree. You should tell your wife to quit her job,” Peter Hochstetler, sitting next to the bishop, apparently felt no reluctance to offer his opinion. “Rachel is not so young anymore, but I think you can still get many children off her.”

  The comment sounded crude even to Joe’s ears, which had heard the worst that the locker room had to offer. But this earthiness was also a part of the Amish psyche. These were not a people who pretended that sex did not exist, except for the caution of keeping their young children from too much knowledge. The Amish were a practical people, and the mating of farm animals and people were an accepted and acknowledged part of their world.

  Joe deflected the comment with a joke. “I think I’ll let one of you tell Rachel what she can and can’t do—especially while she’s wearing a gun.”

  This, as he had intended, brought on hoots of laughter. They knew and loved Rachel despite often shaking their heads over her choice of profession. On the other hand, on the rare occasions when they needed to talk to a police officer, Rachel was the one they preferred. Her ability to speak and understand Pennsylvania Deutsch, their mother tongue, had been a great boon to the relationship between the Amish community and Sugarcreek’s small police force.

  “Her skill with a weapon might come in handy when you buy that farm,” Jeremiah joked. “She can shoot the animals that come to steal the prized hens from the henhouse you will no doubt build.”

  “He should become a dairy farmer instead, I think,” Samuel suggested. “After a few months of getting up at four in the morning to milk, he might run back to his baseball playing real quick.”

  “No, he should raise chickens,” Peter insisted. “Lots and lots of chickens. Shoveling chicken manure would strengthen that bad shoulder he got by pitching too many baseballs.”

  “Come over to my farm,” Jeremiah said. “I will teach you how to plow your fields with my team of six horses. It is not hard.” He flexed massive shoulders that Joe knew had been hardened by long hours in the field. “Not hard at all.”

  “Whatever you do”—Jeremiah chuckled—“don’t invest in s
heep.”

  “That is a true statement,” Peter said sadly. “Whatever you do, don’t raise sheep.”

  “Why?” Joe asked curiously.

  “Someone spray-painted Peter’s in the middle of the night,” Samuel said.

  “Why on earth would they think that was a good idea?” Joe responded.

  “I think some Englisch people got bored,” Peter said. “My sheep did not mind looking like a rainbow, but it ruined much of the wool. Yes, you should definitely not raise sheep.”

  The good-natured ribbing continued, and Joe enjoyed the camaraderie. Being teased meant that he was accepted by these good people. Had they not liked and trusted him, they would have eaten in silence while he, an Englischman, tried to make awkward conversation in their midst.

  Then, over Samuel’s shoulder, he saw Rachel glance up from where she was tucking a napkin beneath Bobby’s chin. Their eyes met and held, transfixed, as the men’s voices faded into the background and Joe’s heart leapt at the sheer wonder of being married to this woman.

  He had loved his deceased wife, Grace, and always would, but there was room in his heart to spare for Rachel. In fact, his longing for her was so great at this moment that it stole his appetite. He forced himself to swallow the last bites of food and then rose and took his empty plate to the team of women who were chatting and washing dishes at a mobile sink. Most of the women chose to eat only after the men and children had gotten their fill. Bobby sat at a table with many other children. With his son happily engaged and everyone else busily eating and talking, he and Rachel could have a few moments of relative privacy. He walked toward her and she met him halfway.

  “I missed you,” he said in a low voice.

  “And I you.”

  Leaning close so that only she could hear, he commented, “Peter seems to think that though you are no longer young, I can still get several children off you.”

  “What?” Rachel’s head whipped around to look at Peter, who was oblivious to their conversation.