A Hopeful Harvest (Golden Grove Book 1)

by Ruth Logan Herne

  I’m here. Checking east of the house.

  Would Cleve have wandered onto Glenn Moyer’s land? Why would Cleve—Jax stopped himself right there. Better than most he understood the futility of applying rational thought to irrational people. Cleve might have gone in any direction, depending on his state of confusion. He followed the fruiting trees to the end, then came back in the next row. He couldn’t assume that Cleve wasn’t one row over just because he didn’t answer his call, because a dementia patient didn’t always react the way a normal person would.

  He was on the third row when he heard another searcher’s voice. That meant their comb of this end of the orchard was almost over. He got to the end of the trees. Thickening brush lay ahead as Little Fork Creek traveled toward the river below. In an arid land, the availability of water from the dams, creeks and rivers had allowed farmers and ranchers the chance to turn a dry valley into a fruit grower’s paradise. He spotted one of the bus drivers emerging from the adjacent row. Sammy raised his hands and indicated his watch. “No one’s found him, but we’ve got to get back to the bus garage. The buses pull out in fifteen minutes.”

  “We’ll call for help, Sammy.” Jax indicated the orchard with a thrust of his chin. This would be so much easier with four-wheelers or golf carts around, but the O’Laughlins had none of that here and it would take hours to get some from CVF. Hours they didn’t have. He texted Libby, Drivers have to leave. Time for a Silver Alert?

  She texted back quickly, Just called it in.

  Let me know when the sheriff arrives.

  Will do.

  He stuck the phone away, walked back into the orchard, then paused, conflicted.

  He scanned the area around him.

  Nothing.

  He called Cleve’s name several times.

  Still nothing, but as he started toward the orchard again, something held him back.

  He walked toward the creek, yelling for Cleve. The beautiful day surrounded him. Fair sky spread in all four directions, the clear air laying groundwork for the projected cold overnight temperatures. Was Cleve strong enough to withstand a freezing night? More important, was the old fellow dressed warmly enough to be out in sixty-degree weather, let alone the midthirties?

  He called for Cleve repeatedly as he combed the thick growth along the creek. Right about now he could use a dog at his side. Flint had been an amazing tracker, a great dog, but even a family pet would be better at threading its way through the stand of creek brush than he was.

  CeeCee would come home to fear and commotion. Libby’s poignant words had hinted at past chaos in their lives and what little kid needed that?

  He paused again, indecisive. He’d gone well up the creek and uncovered nothing. He stared hard through the brush, through the grasses, through the trees. The calm day gave the illusion of visibility, but army training had heightened the reality of search and rescue. It didn’t take much for a person to fade into the obscurity of thick cover, and he was only one man hunting for a needle in a sixty-acre haystack, and that was only if Cleve didn’t go off O’Laughlin land.

  Libby’s text pinged him. Sheriff is here.

  Intuition told him to keep looking. Common sense said they’d need to join forces with the sheriff’s department.

  He started toward the house once more. The beautiful day mocked him. He’d been down this road with Grandma Molly. He knew the risks firsthand. They should have locked the doors, and if that didn’t work, then they could have installed passkey locks. And why was cleaning up a kitchen more important than watching a fragile, elderly man?

  His instincts suddenly stopped him in his tracks.

  This was army training, tried-and-true. His brain alerting him to something he’d seen but missed.

  He walked back toward the creek. He stared up and down, back and forth. No bit of color broke the haze of greens, golds, browns and tan. No thread of fabric clung to the brushy branches twining to and fro in some spots and leaving wide-open access areas in others. He studied the creek, wondering what had put his senses on high alert, and then he saw it.

  Rustling leaves.

  On a clear, calm day with scarcely a breath of wind, the leaves on the lower side of the thick creek bed were moving.

  He pushed that way, calling Cleve’s name. It wasn’t easygoing at first, but when he finally broke through to the creek’s edge, there he was, facedown, half his aged body submerged in the cold, running creek while one hand batted back and forth at a thin, low branch.

  “Cleve!” He raced forward, drew the elderly man up and out of the water, then grabbed his cell to text Libby. I’ve got him. He was in the creek. Bring the truck and have an ambulance waiting. Facing north I’m at three o’clock from the last row of Granny Smiths.

  I’m on it.

  Short minutes later he heard the rumble of the truck engine. But he didn’t wait. He’d stripped the old man’s pants off and had wrapped him in his flannel, then bundled him over his shoulder in a rescue carry.

  Libby and two deputies met him as he came through. “We’ve got him, Jax.” Tug Moyer reached out. Tug’s partner, Lorenzo, shifted more of Cleve’s weight. “Let’s get him out of here. Fire and rescue should be on scene momentarily.”

  Libby climbed into the truck bed and the two deputies helped Jax settle Cleve onto the hard surface. “If you go around the Galas, there are fewer bumps,” Libby instructed him. “But you still have to go slow.”

  One of the sheriffs draped a warming blanket over Cleve, then they both climbed into the back of the truck, leaving Jax to drive.

  He didn’t want to think they might have been too late. Cleve’s skin was cold. So very cold. And his eyes had wandered, then closed as if the incident had worn him out. He was edging the truck around the last row of trees as CeeCee’s school bus pulled up and Rescue One turned into the drive. Sweet little CeeCee got off the bus to what had to be the worst scene imaginable. And when she jumped into his arms while the rescue workers worked on her ailing grandfather, Jax wanted to be able to offer words of reassurance and comfort, but Jax had absolutely no idea what to say, because if he’d gotten back to the farm ten minutes sooner—

  The ten minutes he’d spent kissing Libby Creighton...

  He might have spared them all.

  Chapter Eleven

  She’d been kissing Jax while Gramps had stumbled into the creek and nearly died.

  What was the matter with her?

  Libby put her head into her hands as she sat in the small ER waiting room.

  She knew better. Sure, it would be easy to put the blame on Jax for being absolutely marvelous and wonderful and appealing. And kind and compassionate.

  Don’t forget incredibly handsome.

  It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She’d broken the promise she made to Grandma, the one that said she’d take care of Gramps. Epic fail.

  And she’d broken the promise she’d made to herself, to stay away from romance and all its potentially disastrous results so she could put CeeCee first.

  “Please tell me you are not sitting here blaming yourself for this, Libby Creighton.” Mortie’s voice drew Libby’s head up as the kindhearted nurse settled into the seat next to her. “I do believe we just had a talk about Cleve’s impish tendencies, and how this was the most dangerous phase yet. Which means I should have had you put different locks on the doors to make it harder for him to slip out, and I should have done that when that windstorm blew through. I am so sorry, Libby.” She drew her brow down, contrite. “Jax called me and said he’d go ahead and get it done if it was all right with you.”

  He’d texted her, asking permission. She’d ignored the texts on purpose because she’d already let him too far into their lives. And yet, this was something that needed to be done. Was she going to let foolish pride and guilt get in the way? No.

  She nodded. “Yes, it’s fine. Act
ually...” She took a deep breath, swiped her eyes and blew her nose on the clutch of tissues in her hand. “It would be a great help.”

  Mortie texted Jax, then put the phone away. People lined the walls of the waiting room, and the back-to-back double row of chairs along the middle was full. Almost everyone had a phone in their hand.

  Not Mortie. She touched Libby’s arm, closed her eyes and prayed in a low, crooning voice.

  A couple of people glanced their way, then went back to their own lives.

  “Lord, You delivered us into good hands, stable hands, educated hands. We ask that You bless those hands working on our beloved Cleve. Help him to know our love and feel our devotion through these works of mercy. We ask this in the name of our sweet Lord, Jesus.”

  Gert Johnson came in then. She crossed the room quick and firm, the way she always moved, crouched down and bundled Libby into a big hug. “I am so sorry, sweet girl. So sorry. I wish one of us had seen him trekkin’ that way, but it’s deceivin’ how thick and broad that apple foliage can be. How’s he doin’?” Sympathy warmed her honey-brown eyes as she clutched Libby’s hands in hers.

  “Holding his own,” Libby replied. “They’re warming him with heated blankets and a saline solution. He’s sound asleep and he looks so tired.” Tears filled her eyes as she fought what she didn’t want to say. “Maybe too tired.”

  “Oh, child.” Mortie slung her arm around Libby. “There’s no rhyme or reason with this disease and it’s a hard road to choose when we ask for the Lord’s help. What exactly do we pray for? Living brings a long and painful walk, but when we’re not ready to say goodbye, the suddenness of loss hits us hard. I can’t say I know which is better, so I leave it to God and I help and pray.”

  “Like you always have. Both of you,” said Libby. “From the time I was little, you two have stood beside me and encouraged me. And I’m blessed to have you here now.” She reached out for a group hug, then stopped.

  Her heart stopped, too, as if it just couldn’t go on beating anymore, until it rebounded in a clench of anger. There, a dozen feet away, was her mother. Standing there. Watching them. And she had the audacity to look sad, as if any of this mattered to her. What a joke.

  Gert spotted Dianna, then stood up.

  Mortie did, too, but she didn’t look nearly as surprised. She reached a hand toward Libby.

  Libby ignored it. Head high, she walked straight across the small but full waiting room and confronted the woman who dumped her all those years ago. “Get out of here.”

  Dianna Creighton flinched. Then she looked to Mortie for help.

  Libby turned back to Mortie. “You called her?”

  “I had to. Your grandfather’s wishes. He wrote it in the instructions he has with his DNR. He didn’t want anyone to go to extraneous means to keep him alive but he said he wanted one last chance to see his daughter before he went home to Jesus.”

  His daughter.

  Libby’s heart clenched. So did her gut.

  After all these years, and all the bitter disappointments, Cleve still longed for that final moment with the woman who shamed her parents, hurt neighbors and friends, and used Libby as a pawn to try to get money out of Grandma and Gramps.

  Her stomach heaved.

  Prickles of cold raced up her back despite the warm room.

  There were three people she never wanted to see again: her abusive ex-husband and her parents.

  Her throat went tight. Her hands grew clammy. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Come on, baby.” Gert took her arm. “Let’s you and me take a nice walk around the hospital. Mortie’s got this.”

  “I’ll text you any changes.”

  She couldn’t answer Mortie. Not with knowing she’d brought Dianna there intentionally. And would Gramps even know her if he woke up?

  Maybe. Maybe not. And when had she moved close enough to get here within a couple of hours? She’d been content to imagine her mother still in Southern California, although there’d been no contact in years. She could have been living nearby all along and Libby wouldn’t have known it.

  “Funerals and weddings, darlin’.” Gertie clung tight to her arm as they made their way down a hall leading to the main lobby. “It’s like the Lord Himself gives us opportunities to make peace at the times when folks gather. Of course, I’ve been to a couple of both where that particular notion didn’t go well, but if your grandpa wanted a chance to make peace or offer forgiveness, he should get it because who wants to go home to the Lord with that weight on the soul? Not when sweet Jesus Himself told us to forgive seventy times seven.”

  “Gertie, I hear you.” Libby knew the drill, and she believed, but when faced with a wealth of past emotions, it was a whole other story. “I know the rightness of it from God’s vantage point, but the minute I saw her I wanted to have a knock-down, drag-out fight. I didn’t want to forgive. I just wanted her out of my life like she did to me when I was twelve years old. So how do I shove all that aside? And how did she get here so quickly?” she wondered aloud. “That means she lives close enough to have made peace whenever she wanted. But she didn’t.”

  “Maybe she couldn’t.” Gertie spoke softly as they passed a group of medical professionals. “It takes courage to go face-to-face with our indiscretions. So maybe she moved close enough to be on hand if needed, or to keep an eye on things and not intrude.”

  “The mother I know wouldn’t do that.” Discretion and compassion had never been part of Dianna’s makeup. “Except I don’t really know her at all because she tossed me aside once my usefulness ran out. You’re giving her way more credit than she has ever deserved.”

  “Then we pray, Libby.” Gert squeezed her arm lightly. “Not just for her, but for us, for us to deal with all those old feelin’s. I know what you came from.” Gert paused and faced her fully. “I know what I saw when I picked up a little girl from the Elm Street apartments. Unwashed. Uncared for. Unfed, likely as not, which is why I made sure my little basket had those crunchy bars you liked so well, and the fruit snack packs. And when I did see your parents, they were either hungover or gettin’ ready to be hungover. I understood full well because my mama was the same way. Too busy livin’ on the edge to take care of two kids.” She looped her arm through Libby’s again. “You and me, we moved on. Folks called me self-made but I told them it wasn’t up to me. It was me and God, 24/7.”

  “You paid it forward by your kindness to me. And probably others.”

  “When I was hungry, you gave me to eat.” Gert paraphrased the Lord’s words in a warm voice. “So here’s what you need to do. You don’t owe anybody a thing. You don’t owe that woman back there the time of day if it will bring you down because you need to be on your game for Cleve, for that farm and especially for CeeCee.”

  Gert’s words surprised her. And then she went on to explain.

  “But you do have to respect your grandfather’s wishes. He’s stood by you with lovin’ care for a long time and I know they would have stepped into that bad situation you had in Seattle if they’d known. For a man to harm his wife goes against everything we’ve ever been taught, and your grandma cried many a tear over that when you got here. She had no idea that was going on.”

  “I was good at fooling people. Until the end,” Libby said softly. She didn’t revisit that last year of a horrible situation often, mostly because she couldn’t believe she let it go on for so long. The shame of that bit deep. “And then there was no possibility of fooling anyone.”

  “Why we feel the need to hide our wounds and mistakes is a problem,” Gert said firmly. “Abusers are good at what they do. They’re good at separatin’ their victims from family and friends who will disapprove or ask questions. Carolyn realized that once you were back here, but when you didn’t come back for visits or holidays, she thought you’d just turned your back on them.”

  “Like my mother
. Only I’m nothing like her.”

  “And that’s what caused her deep regret,” Gert explained. “Because she knew that, but she took a burn when you wouldn’t bring CeeCee to visit, like it was an insult to her and Cleve. She died still asking God’s forgiveness for not gettin’ herself involved sooner.”

  Poor Grandma. Taking the weight of Libby’s bad choices on her shoulders when she’d warned Libby to think twice about her choice of husbands. Her warnings had just made Libby dig her heels in further.

  She understood things better now. A year of therapy painted a clearer picture. The younger Libby had been so desperate for love that it was easy to ignore the warning signs.

  Young and foolish. But not anymore. “I don’t think I can forgive her, Gert.” It was a rough admission because her faith embraced mercy and unity.

  “Well, that’s between you and your mom and God, but that’s not our focus right now, is it?”

  It wasn’t. Her focus was giving Gramps the best final days or weeks or months as God allowed. “No. So I’ll play nice for Gramps’s sake. It’s funny that she didn’t show up when Grandma died, isn’t it? ”

  Gert clucked her tongue to the top of her mouth. “Well, your grandma was not one to be easily snowed and her tongue got tart towards the end.”

  “And I expect she didn’t leave any such note for Mortie, because if she had, Mortie would have followed through.”

  “As she should.”

  Her heart had calmed down.

  Her throat wasn’t tight anymore and she didn’t feel like retching.

  She’d handle this for Gramps’s sake because she loved him and respected his wishes. “I wish he’d warned me.”

  “Well, I can tell you why he didn’t, most likely,” Gert declared. “Why have you worryin’ about a confrontation in advance? And why make you fret because who was to say Dianna would show up? No, he kept it to himself so that you could be at peace, Libby. Because he loves you that much.”