Cross My Heart

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  Any stability experienced during Ben’s childhood had been because of his grandparents, especially his grandfather. Their farm had been a safe haven for him. He’d loved it there as a kid. He loved it there now. But he’d never in his wildest dreams expected Grandpa Grant to give him the farm.

  “Sell it,” his mom had shouted at him over the phone that morning. “Do you know what that land is worth?” When he’d repeated the same thing he’d said to her every time she brought it up, that he wasn’t going to sell, that’s when she’d called him stupid—for the umpteenth time—and hung up. It was a scene they’d been playing out for months.

  Ben had done plenty of dumb things in his life. Keeping the farm wasn’t one of them. He knew that in the deepest part of his soul.

  He slowed the truck and turned onto his property, seeing it through the haze of happier memories. He’d spent countless weekends here in his boyhood. And years ago, after his stint in juvie, Ben had lived with his grandparents for a while. That time had given him the roots he’d needed later—too many years later, sadly—to get his life back on track. He could never thank God enough for what he’d found on this farm.

  The house was small by anybody’s standards. A small kitchen, small living room, small bath, and three small bedrooms on the ground level with an attic room above. His great-grandfather, for whom Ben was named, along with his two brothers, Oscar and Andy, had used that attic bedroom during the thirties and forties. In the decades since, the kitchen had been modernized, and the house was now heated by natural gas rather than wood or coal. And yet whenever Ben stepped through the door, he felt transported back in time. It seemed to him he could hear the voices of his ancestors who’d lived there, even those he’d never known.

  He parked the truck beneath the carport, but instead of going into the house, he strode toward the barn. Dusty, his yellow Lab, followed close at his heels. There were no horses or cows in the barn or in nearby pens or pasture, no chickens in the coop. There hadn’t been any livestock on the farm since a good five years before his grandfather gave him the place, and Ben looked forward to watching the barnyard come to life again. Horses for the therapy sessions, of course. Maybe a cat or two for the barn and even some chickens in the coop again.

  Dusty trotted off, exploring, and when he returned, he had a large stick in his mouth. Ben took the stick and gave it a good throw. The dog raced after it, mindless of the heat of the day. Ben, on the other hand, was ready for a cold drink in the air-conditioned living room.

  “Come on, boy. It’s too hot to play fetch.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Ben sat on the sofa, a glass of cold diet soda in his hand. As he sipped the drink, his thoughts returned to Ashley Showalter. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been the woman who’d stepped down from that ladder upon his arrival. Her light-brown hair had been caught in a ponytail, but enough strands had pulled loose to give her a delightfully disheveled appearance. Her face had glistened with perspiration. Slender as a reed, she hadn’t looked strong enough to carry boards up a ladder or to hammer those same boards together into a shelter. Apparently looks were deceiving.

  He sure hoped she would call him soon, because something inside of him said she was the right person to help him make the Harmony Barn happen.

  Monday, September 4, 1939

  Andrew Henning was in the Kuna Feed and Seed when he learned Britain and France had declared war on Germany. He’d been expecting other nations to declare war ever since the Nazis had invaded Poland three days earlier, but when he heard it, it still caught him by surprise.

  “Mr. Finkel warned us this’d happen,” Andrew’s oldest son said. Sixteen years old and several inches taller than his father, Ben wore a conflicted expression, a cross between righteous anger and anticipation. “When the Nazis marched into Austria, he said it wouldn’t end there. And then they took Czechoslovakia, and nobody did anything to stop them. Mr. Finkel told us the Nazis wouldn’t stop until they overran everything.”

  “You’re right. He warned us.”

  The Finkels had purchased the property across from the Henning farm three years earlier. Jewish immigrants from Germany, Hirsch and Ida Finkel had often expressed their concerns for what Hitler meant to do in Europe. And it had been happening as the Finkels predicted, step by step.

  Ben lowered his voice. “Will America join England and France? Will we go to war, too, Dad? We can’t stay out of it now.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” He reached out, intending to ruffle Ben’s hair, the same as he’d done for years. Then he thought better of it and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder instead. Ben was approaching manhood at a rapid rate. If America went to war, he would soon be of age to serve in the military, and given his personality, he would be among the first to volunteer.

  “Dad?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Is there any chance I could go to college?”

  The sudden change of topic caused Andrew to frown in confusion, especially this particular topic. From the time Ben had come to live with Andrew and Helen at age nine, the boy had struggled with his schooling. The primary cause was disinterest, not because he wasn’t smart enough to excel. And now he wanted to go to college?

  Ben’s expression was determined. “I want to be a pilot, and I found out yesterday the Army Air Corps Training Center requires a couple of years of college or three years of technical education before a guy can join. I’m gonna have to do one or the other.”

  Andrew felt his stomach sink when he heard the words “Army Air Corps.” He knew exactly what his son would want to do once he became a pilot. And despite the many politicians who preached isolationism, Andrew didn’t think Americans could remain aloof to what was happening in Europe. His neighbors had made him aware of too much to believe it. He’d read a quote, attributed to the Irish statesman Edmund Burke, that said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men should do nothing.” It was a statement that kept running through his mind lately. Would he want America to continue to do nothing? Even if doing something meant risking his son?

  “Dad?”

  He gave his head a shake. “Sorry, Ben. I was thinking of something else. Army Air Corps, huh? Becoming a pilot. You caught me by surprise.” He cleared his throat as he tried to focus his thoughts. “College is expensive, and you know we don’t have much extra cash, even with the economy improving. You’d have to bring up your grades if you want to go to college, and you’ll have to get a job. Not just now but while you’re in college. That means going to classes, doing your studies, and holding down work at the same time. It’ll be tough. You’ll have to want it bad.”

  “I do want it bad.”

  “You’ll have to be willing to stick with it, no matter what.”

  “I will.”

  Andrew believed him. Ben had always been tenacious. In addition, he’d always been protective of others, especially his younger siblings. He cared about people, and he was a boy who kept his word. Boy? No, he wasn’t a boy any longer. Not really.

  Andrew released a breath. “Then we’ll try to figure out how to make it happen. No promises, but we’ll do our level best.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I’ll do my part too. I promise.”

  Silently, Andrew prayed that he wasn’t making a bad decision. One that would cost his son his life.

  Chapter 2

  The following Saturday, Ashley followed the instructions she’d received over the phone from Ben Henning and arrived at his property a little after one o’clock. So much of the farmland in the Treasure Valley had disappeared to urban sprawl, thanks to Boise being among the fastest-growing cities in America. But for now, this farm was what Ashley imagined the entire valley had looked like fifty years before. In fact, it looked like what she would want for herself, if wishes came true in this world.

  The small house was white with yellow trim, and a tall weeping willow would shade the west side of it in another hour. The barn was large and sturdy in ap
pearance. It had been painted red at one time, but over the years the boards had been bleached by the weather. Beyond the barn stood a couple of fenced paddocks, and past those the fields were green with alfalfa. Along both sides of the driveway, lava rocks had been used to make low fences. Knowing this area as she did, she suspected she would find more of those rocks around the place.

  The yellow Lab that had accompanied Ben last week ran off the porch and waited for Ashley’s truck to roll to a halt. Before she got out of the pickup, Ben appeared in the house’s doorway. He waved to her.

  “You found it,” he called as he, too, came off the porch.

  “Not hard. Your directions were clear.”

  “Good.” He looked down at the dog, seated nearby. “This is Dusty.”

  “Hello, Dusty.” She leaned down to pat the Lab’s head, and he gave her one of those looks, an invitation to go on petting.

  “Come on. I’ll show you around.”

  They turned in unison. Ben’s first few strides were longer, but he quickly shortened them to match hers.

  What do you know? An honest-to-goodness gentleman. Ashley’s mom said gentlemen were a dying breed. It was nice to know she was wrong in this instance.

  When they reached the barn, Ben swung the big door open, flooding the interior with sunlight. “There are three stalls in here now.” He moved inside. “I thought I could build three more on that side of the barn. So there’d be room for a total of six horses. In time, I’d like to build bigger stables so we can add even more horses.”

  Ashley followed him inside. It was obvious the barn hadn’t been used in a long while. Dust lay in a thick layer on every surface. There wasn’t any hay or straw on the floor, only more dust. The workbench was free of tools. The feed boxes inside the stalls stood empty. She put a hand on one of the stall posts and gave it a push. It didn’t budge. Not so much as a wiggle.

  “Nice and solid.” She turned to face Ben. “Ought to work well for your purpose.”

  He motioned with his head. “Have a look out here.”

  She followed him. When she’d pulled into the drive, she hadn’t seen the round pen or the corral to its right, as they’d both been hidden by the barn.

  Ben leaned an arm on the top rail of the corral. “Nice setup, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.” She moved to stand beside him. “You might want to open up more pasture so you won’t have to rely so much on hay.”

  “I thought that too. More pasture, more horses.” He smiled that appealingly crooked smile of his. Ashley’s mind went suddenly blank, and her stomach tumbled.

  A moment later Dusty slipped his head beneath the hand at her side. She was grateful for a reason to look down at the dog. She needed the distraction to get control of herself. She might like what this guy planned to do with this farm. She might even want to help him accomplish it. But that was all she wanted. She wasn’t about to be taken in by his—or any other man’s—charm.

  “I promise you, Ashley, whatever horses come here to stay, they’ll have good care.” Ben’s voice was low and serious.

  She drew a breath and looked up. “I believe you.”

  “So, you’ll help me?”

  “I think so. Tell me more about what you’ll need. The other day you said something about leasing horses?”

  Ben turned his back to the corral fence and leaned against it. “Yeah. Some therapy programs lease a horse for a year at a time. Give it a home and food and veterinary care. Whatever it needs. Maybe the owners believe in the program and it’s their way to help support it. Or maybe it keeps a family from having to sell a horse when they’re going through a rough patch. Anyway, it’s a win-win.”

  “Another way of rescuing horses,” she said, more to herself than to him.

  “I’m curious. What got you into that? The horse-rescue business, I mean.”

  “Short answer, my very first horse is the reason. I saved up and bought Gus when I was sixteen. I loved him. But he was older and not up to long, hard trail rides. The kind I wanted to do. So eventually I sold him and bought a younger horse.” She frowned. “Later I found out Gus had been mistreated and left to starve. He was a good horse. That shouldn’t’ve happened to him. I want to do what I can to keep it from happening to others. I can’t save them all, but I can save one or two at a time. Like you heard, I’m part of a network of people who rescue horses before it’s too late. And I’m working on becoming a charitable organization. That way I can accept tax-free donations.”

  “Seems we both want to be in the rescue business.” There was understanding in his blue eyes, giving weight to his words.

  “It would seem so.”

  “I think working together could make us both more successful with our endeavors.”

  * * *

  Ben knew Ashley would help him, perhaps even before she realized it herself. Still, he sensed some lingering reluctance as well. He wondered why. He didn’t think it had anything to do with the idea itself.

  They started walking toward her pickup, Dusty running ahead of them. “I wrote down the information about my vet and the counselor I’ll be working with.” He pulled the folded three-by-five card from the back pocket of his Levi’s. “I told them you might be calling.”

  “I will.” She took the card.

  He watched as she got into her truck and drove away. Then, whistling a tune, he went into the house. From the bookshelf he pulled a notebook and set it on the kitchen table. He sat and began to thumb through the pages, stopping occasionally to look at notes he’d written over the past months as his vision for this farm and the equine therapy program had taken shape.

  Leaning back in his chair, he remembered telling Ashley that he knew the front end of a horse from the back end. In fact, he’d done plenty of riding with his best friend, Craig Foster, when they were boys. And those hours on horseback had been a time of peace and comfort, long before he experienced the benefits of equine therapy for himself. If only the two of them had kept riding horses instead of doing their best to get into every kind of trouble they could imagine—stealing, smoking, drinking, speeding.

  Drinking and speeding.

  He closed his eyes, not wanting to remember the sound of grinding metal, not wanting to recall the taste of blood in his mouth and the twisted shape of his friend as they’d lain in the wreckage. But the memories of that awful night were there anyway. Thirteen years and gallons of alcohol hadn’t erased them. He doubted he would ever escape them.

  He tried to summon some Bible verses, something that reminded him of who he was in Christ, but the dark, familiar whispers pushed them out. He was the reason Craig had spent the last thirteen years in a wheelchair. His stupidity. His recklessness. God had forgiven Ben for what he’d done, but Craig hadn’t. And Ben couldn’t forgive himself either. Not until he’d done everything possible to make it up to his friend.

  His stomach still in knots, he got up and went to the bookshelf again. This time he brought his great-great-grandfather’s Bible back to the table. Once there, he ran his hand over the cover before opening it to the title page.

  To our beloved son,

  Andrew Michael Henning,

  on the occasion of his graduation

  from the university.

  Follow God and you will never lose your way.

  Papa and Mama

  Kuna, Idaho

  May 1929

  From the moment his cousin placed this Bible in his hands, Ben had felt a connection with it and with his great-great-grandfather. He couldn’t explain it. The feeling was simply there. Sometimes it seemed as if his inspiration for the therapy barn hadn’t been able to solidify until this holy book had come into his possession. There was no real reason to think so. No specific verse stood out. Neither did any of Andrew Henning’s handwritten notes that Ben had read. And yet he felt the two—the Bible and the inspiration—were linked in some way.

  “God, open more doors. Help me know the steps to take next. I need Your guidance.”

 
; The prayer seemed to ease some of the tension in his gut. He closed the Bible’s cover, his gaze lifting to the clock on the wall, and he realized he was late. With a sigh, he got to his feet and took the keys from a nearby corner table. Before going out the door, he patted Dusty’s head. “Stay in where it’s cool, boy. I won’t be very long.”

  The drive to the retirement community, a trip Ben made at least once a week, took about twenty minutes. At first he drove through farmland. Crops. Dairy cattle. Horses. But that soon gave way to subdivisions. Upscale subdivisions filled with large homes, private parks, and walking trails. It made Ben wonder where all these people worked. He’d heard there wasn’t enough housing for all the people moving into the area. And while growth had served his construction firm well, it saddened him to see the farmland continue to disappear.

  When he arrived at his destination, his grandfather stood outside his bungalow, waiting as his overweight black-and-brown dachshund sniffed the front lawn. Grandpa Grant waved as Ben got out of his truck.

  “Hey, Grandpa.”

  “You missed lunch.”

  “I know. I lost track of the time.” He strode toward the older man. “Miss Showalter came to check out the farm.”

  “And?”

  “I think she liked what she saw.”

  “Good. Good.” Grandpa patted Ben’s shoulder. “Let’s go inside. Come on, Chester.”

  The dog trotted up the sidewalk to the front door of the house, and the two men followed. After Grandpa opened the door, Chester made a beeline for the water bowl.

  “Are you thirsty too?” his grandpa asked Ben.

  “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

  The two men settled in the living room, Ben on the sofa and his grandfather in his overstuffed chair, his feet up on an ottoman. Ben couldn’t remember a time that the chair and footstool hadn’t been a fixture in his grandparents’ home, although the upholstery had changed a couple of times in Ben’s memory. But it was still hard for him to picture his grandfather in a retirement community instead of at the farm.