Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio

by Serena B. Miller

  “Nope. It was like talking to a wall. When I tried to get some personal information out of him, he clammed up. Said he had a customer and hung up.”

  “Tough luck.”

  “I suppose. It would have been even tougher if I had found out the vehicle was stolen. I’m not wanting to tell my aunts the man they just hired is a bad guy. I just want to make absolutely certain he’s not.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “I need to get over to the Swiss cheese judging in a few minutes.” Rachel checked her watch. “I think I’ll check in with Ed first.”

  She stuck her head inside the police chief’s office. “Have you gotten word about those fingerprints?”

  “Not in the system.” Ed Spencer looked up from his desk. “Sorry about that. I know you’re disappointed.”

  Ed was thin and of medium height—which was why criminals tended to underestimate him until they were facedown on the ground. He was a good boss and a better cop, and Rachel respected him.

  “There’s no need to be sorry, Ed. Joe’s prints not being in the system is a good thing.”

  “You think?”

  “It proves that the man living at my aunts hasn’t been arrested.”

  “It also proves that he’s never applied for a government job or gotten a driver’s license in Texas, California, or Florida, the three states that require fingerprints.”

  No Texas driver’s license? Interesting. Joe had driven to his car dealership buddy’s from some other state. Eliminating those three states narrowed it down a little. Only forty-seven to go.

  “Are you done with the man, Rachel?”

  She moved from the doorway into Ed’s office. “I’d like to know who he is and where he came from.”

  “Maybe he’s Joe Matthews, like he says. A decent man who’s down on his luck. A lot of good people are having a hard time these days.” He fiddled with a pencil. “Have a seat.”

  She slid into a chair.

  Ed dropped the pencil, clasped both hands, put them behind his neck, and leaned back. “Do you know what the difference is between being poor and being homeless, Rachel?”

  “No.”

  “It’s family.”

  She had to acknowledge the truth of that statement. After she had been released from the hospital in Cleveland, she’d sheltered with her aunts until she had recuperated enough to hire on with the Sugarcreek police force a year and a half ago. What if she’d had no one?

  “Maybe this guy is just a decent man who doesn’t have anyone he can turn to,” Ed said.

  “But he’s hiding something. There’s something off with him, Ed. I can feel it.”

  “‘Off’ as in being a psychopath, or ‘off’ as being half a sandwich short of a picnic?”

  “Neither.” Rachel drummed her fingers on her knee. “If you cut his hair, dressed him in a business suit, and put him in a boardroom, he’d dominate the meeting. He has a presence about him that simply doesn’t fit someone who is in his present circumstances.”

  “You’re impressed with him?”

  She glanced down at the floor. “How can I be impressed with someone who is living off the charity of my relatives?”

  “I thought you told me that he’d been doing work around the farm. That doesn’t sound like a man looking for a handout. It sounds like your aunts have simply worked out a barter arrangement. The Amish do it all the time.”

  “He is a hard worker,” Rachel said reluctantly.

  “You’re dogging a man who has done nothing illegal, is taking care of his child the best he can, is trying to pay your aunts back with repairs around the farm, and whose only crime is that his truck broke down in a strange town and he doesn’t have the money to repair it.”

  “It’s not quite like that.”

  “It’s exactly like that. What’s really eating at you, Rachel?”

  “Nothing. I’m just trying to do my job.”

  “There’s more than that going on.” He sighed. “Okay. We’ve tiptoed around it ever since you got here. Are you ready to talk about what happened in Cleveland?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “You saved the life of a woman and her three children.”

  “I screwed up.”

  “That’s how you see what happened? A screw-up?”

  “I should have called for backup earlier. I shouldn’t have tried to deal with the situation alone.”

  “You made a judgment call. None of us can read minds.”

  “I lost control of a situation.”

  “You fought a mentally ill man three times your size and gave his wife and children time to escape to safety. You could have been killed, but you protected them anyway.”

  “I could have handled it better.”

  Ed arose and walked over to a bookcase beside his desk. He returned with a framed picture of a man in uniform and handed it to her.

  “Your dad was the best cop I’ve ever known. He hired me fresh out of the academy because he saw something he thought he could use.”

  She traced her father’s face with her finger.

  “I chose you for this job out of twenty-four other qualified applicants. All of whom were bigger than you.”

  “And male.” She pointed out.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t tell me you hired me because of my dad.”

  “I did, but not for the reasons you’re thinking. If Frank Troyer were alive, he’d have my hide if he thought I put you on the police force simply because you were his daughter.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “Frank always said there were four kinds of people who go into law enforcement. Some crave the power over others they think the job entails. Some want the respect they think comes with the uniform. Some simply like the adrenaline rush of chasing down bad guys—they think it will make them feel like heroes. All are eventually disillusioned. But there are the others—the fourth kind—who simply have a heart for protecting the weak and the helpless.”

  He took the picture from her and set it carefully on his bookshelf. “You were born with that kind of heart, just like your dad. That’s the reason I hired you.”

  It was true. That’s all she had ever wanted—to protect the weak and helpless. Even if it had meant drinking her dinner through a straw in the hospital for a month while her broken jaw healed.

  “You’re a good cop, Rachel. One of the best. But I’m worried about you. A person needs some balance in life. You can’t be a cop twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You have to hang up your gun from time to time and just be a person, or you aren’t going to last in this job—even here in Sugarcreek. You’ll burn out. I think you are already beginning to.”

  “I have my aunts.”

  “But do you have any friends your own age? Do you have any hobbies? Any other interests? Do you ever just let down and go to the movies or bowling or, I don’t know, church activities of any kind?”

  “I have a good life.”

  “You need more in your life than a gun and a badge.”

  “No offense, Ed, but what can it possibly matter to you what I do when I’m not at work, as long as it isn’t illegal?”

  “Because I drove out to the farm and visited with your aunts. I talked to Eli. Met Joe. Watched him interact with his son. He seems like a decent man to me. Eli likes him. So do your aunts. I think you’re seeing boogeymen where there are none. I think part of it is because of what happened in Cleveland and part of it is because you never, ever, unclench your emotional fists. You see danger everywhere you look. That’s not healthy. You have to realize that sometimes all you’re looking at are people just getting by the best they can.”

  His words hit her like a slap. “I don’t know how else to be.”

  “Then you’d better learn.” Ed picked up the papers he had been working on. “Because I wouldn’t want to let go of one of the best cops we’ve ever had.”

  Chapter Eight

  The milking went quicker the second day. Lydia awoke i
n time to stir together some oatmeal for him and then sat on the front porch to listen for Bobby in case he happened to awaken. With Bobby feeling better and the weather mild, Joe and his son had spent the night in the cabin. It was a relief to no longer be camped out in the aunts’ living room.

  Joe, pleased at his growing proficiency in milking, found Bobby still asleep when he returned from Eli’s. Grateful for the chance of a quick catnap, he lay down beside his little boy.

  It was the bell that awoke him from his second slumber. A church bell rang out over the hills and valleys of Sugarcreek, and he realized with a start that it was Sunday.

  He lay in bed, thinking about the days when getting up and dressed for worship was as natural to the rhythm of his life as breathing. His mother and her two boys would walk the short distance to meet their father, who would invariably already be at whatever African church he was in the process of establishing.

  In spite of having an advanced degree in Bible, his father had always deliberately preached on a level that a child could understand. Even when Joe had been quite small, it had never been a chore to listen.

  That is, not until the day Joe had informed his dad that he had chosen a different path than the Bible degree his father had sacrificed to pay for in the States. His father had dreamed of a father-and-son mission team.

  Joe had a very different plan.

  There had been harsh, hurtful words. Joe waited for his father to apologize. His father waited for Joe to apologize. There were over three thousand miles between them—and telephone service in the African bush was spotty. By the time Joe contacted his father about his marriage to Grace, the rift was permanent. His father had been quite vocal in his disapproval of Joe’s alliance with a Hollywood actress who was not a Christian.

  Joe had been resentful of his father’s judgmental attitude toward a woman he’d never met. His father had too forcefully reminded him of the biblical warning against being unequally yoked with unbelievers.

  Suddenly his father’s religion had seemed antique and of no use in Joe’s modern and affluent world.

  They had no more contact until Bobby was born. Joe had sent pictures of the newborn who bore his grandfather’s name, hoping it would soften his father’s attitude toward him. A Bible inscribed with Bobby’s name had traveled the miles between them—a sample of his father’s idea of an appropriate baby gift. There had been no letter or note. Just that small, hand-tooled, leather Bible sitting on Bobby’s little dresser like a visible accusation.

  Grace had been puzzled by it all. In her world, people did not care who married whom. And they seldom gave Bibles as baby gifts. Joe had known it was his father’s private way of reminding him where and to whom he belonged. His father could hardly breathe without preaching the gospel. Virtually anything else was a waste of time to Dr. Robert Mattias. Joe seethed at the judgmental implication.

  Now he was glad he had chosen, at the last minute, to stuff Bobby’s Bible into the duffel bag. For some reason, the presence of that small leather Bible was a comfort to him.

  The bell continued to ring. Bobby awoke and blinked at him from the other cot.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Joe said. Then he realized that those were exactly the same words that had come out of his own father’s mouth every morning.

  Bobby scrambled out of bed, ran the few steps between them, and snuggled into Joe’s arms. His sturdy little body warmed Joe’s heart.

  “Are you hungry, buddy?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Joe chuckled. “Are you even awake yet?”

  Bobby sat up and cocked his head to one side. “What’s that sound, Daddy?”

  “It’s a church bell.”

  “Why is it ringing?”

  “To tell people it’s time to get up and go to church.”

  “Are we going to church?”

  Joe hesitated. “Do you want to?”

  “My friend Ricky goes to church. He gets cookies.”

  Joe searched his mind for a Ricky in Bobby’s life. If he wasn’t mistaken, he was one of the little boys in Bobby’s play group back in LA.

  “Not today, buddy.” In spite of teaching Bobby to say his prayers, he had never actually taken him to church. Grace had not seen any use in it, and there were always schedule conflicts. Besides that, it was awkward and embarrassing to attend worship only to be asked to sign autographs.

  Bobby’s lower lip protruded.

  It occurred to Joe that he wouldn’t have to worry about being asked to sign autographs now. He could enter a church and be completely anonymous. A powerful longing to once again participate in worship grew within him.

  Perhaps he would just go and find out where that bell was coming from after all.

  Rachel heard the church bell while she was getting ready to take a shower in her aunts’ downstairs bathroom. She picked up a straight pin lying on the rug and deposited it into the trash can before she stepped into the stall. From painful experience, she was now always on guard for those things.

  The water was sluggish, the aunts depending on gravity-fed water, but there was enough pressure to help wake her. She lathered with the handmade, sweet-smelling glycerin soap her aunts had bought from a local woman—reminding herself as she did so to buy some for own home. Now that she had her mother’s money at her disposal, she could afford a few small luxuries.

  Then she realized that she had finally come into her trust fund and the best luxury she could come up with was some homemade soap. Maybe Ed had a point.

  As she rinsed, she felt hope rising. Today was her first day off in two weeks. The Swiss Festival was over. It was a beautiful day—a perfect day to do something wonderful.

  The problem was, now that Joe was taking care of the farm, she couldn’t think of a single thing to do—except go back to work.

  That was just sad. Ed was right. She needed to get a life. A friend. A hobby. A…

  The church bell kept ringing.

  Hadn’t Ed said something about church? Before her mother’s and then her father’s deaths, they had always gone as a family to the very one that was now ringing the bell.

  Something stirred within her. There was nothing to keep her from attending worship. Even as a child, she had felt cleaner and happier on Sundays. If she hurried, perhaps she could make it to the service.

  As Rachel headed out the door, she passed Lydia, who was reading the latest copy of Keepers at Home, an Amish homemaking magazine.

  “Where are you off to, Rachel?”

  Rachel halted, her hand on the doorknob. “I thought I might go to church this morning.”

  “That’s nice. Joe and Bobby just left for church. Maybe you could pick them up.”

  “Maybe.”

  “We will be leaving soon too,” Bertha said from where she was sitting near the window. She had a thick copy of The Budget, the world-renowned Amish newspaper published right in the heart of Sugarcreek, in front of her.

  “Where are you going?” Rachel asked.

  “Eli is taking us out see Daniel’s Katherine. She has felt poorly since the baby was born. Lydia baked more apple pies last night for her family.”

  “That’s nice. Have a good time.”

  “We will.” Both Bertha and Lydia went back to their reading. Sunday, a day of rest, was one of the few days in which they indulged in the various magazines and papers that came into the home.

  Knowing Joe was also going to church dampened Rachel’s enthusiasm a little, but she braked the Mustang when she saw him walking down the road with his son and a Bible in hand.

  “Need a lift?”

  Joe had brushed his long hair into a low ponytail and looked neater than she had yet seen him. He was dressed in a white shirt that defined his broad shoulders and dark jeans. Bobby had on a little blue shirt and khaki pants.

  Joe stopped. “Where are you headed?”

  “Church.”

  “Us too!” Bobby jiggled up and down.

  “He thinks they give out cookies,” Joe
explained.

  “If he gets Marge Jones as a teacher, he just might,” Rachel said. “I had her when I was a kid. She was the best Sunday school teacher in the world.”

  A cloud passed over Joe’s face. “I’d prefer to keep him with me.”

  “They won’t tear him out of your arms, Joe.”

  “I know that.” The cloud disappeared, replaced by a killer grin. “Are you, by any chance, headed to the church that was ringing that bell?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “We’d appreciate a ride.”

  “Well, seeing that I still have Bobby’s booster seat in my car,” she said, smiling, “get in.”

  It seemed strange to enter the church of her childhood with Joe and Bobby beside her. Of course, it would have felt strange entering alone too. All in all, she was grateful to have some company—even if it was the mysterious Joe Matthews and his son.

  There was only one song book in their pew, which forced her and Joe to share a copy. Joe surprised her with his good voice and familiarity with the hymns. When the preacher spoke, she noticed that Joe didn’t fumble with the pages, instead turning to the cited biblical passages with no hesitation. This was not a man walking into church for the first time.

  After services, as she spoke with people, she kept an eye on Joe—and was impressed that he seemed totally at ease. More at ease, perhaps, than herself. The man’s manners were flawless.

  She was a little surprised to discover that Joe was such a social creature. He genuinely seemed to enjoy talking with the church members. Because of this, she and Joe were among the last to leave.

  “I enjoyed that,” Joe said as they left the building and walked toward the car.

  Rachel pulled the car keys out of her purse. “I would never have picked you as a churchgoer, Joe.”

  “Haven’t been, for way too long.” He buckled Bobby into his booster seat and climbed in. “By the way, where are your aunts?”

  “This is a no-church Sunday for them.” Rachel checked for traffic as she got into the car and backed out of the parking lot.

  “A what?”

  “A no-church Sunday. The Amish only have church every other week.”