Love’s Journey in Sugarcreek
Rachel’s Rescue
Serena B. Miller
Contents
Quote
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Author’s Note
Love’s Journey in Sugarcreek: Love Rekindled (Book 3)- Sample
Also by Serena B. Miller
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 by Serena B. Miller
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Find more books by Serena B. Miller at SerenaBMiller.com
Find her on Facebook, FB.com/AuthorSerenaMiller
Follow her on Twitter, @SerenaBMiller
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The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental.
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
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Scripture references are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (kjv). The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan.
Most foreign words have been taken from Pennsylvania Deitsh Dictionary: A Dictionary for the Language Spoken by the Amish and Used in the Pennsylvania Deitsh New Testament by Thomas Beachy, © 1999, published by Carlisle Press.
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Front cover photo by Doyle Yoder and DYP inc.
DYPinc.com - Used by permission.
Author photos by Angie Griffith and KMK Photography
KMKphotography.com - Used by permission.
Cover & Interior design by CJ Technics
Published by L. J. Emory Publishing
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact L. J. Emory Publishing, [email protected]
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ISBN: 978-1-940283-24-1 (Print Version)
ISBN: 978-1-940283-25-8
To Steven
“To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.”
Lewis B. Smedes
Prologue
Fifteen minutes before the organist began the traditional “Bridal Chorus,” Aunt Bertha asked Rachel point-blank whether she was carrying a concealed weapon.
Rachel couldn’t lie. She lifted the skirt of her white floor-length gown and revealed the leg holster and .38 Glock she had hoped to keep hidden. If there was one thing in which Rachel believed, it was to be prepared to defend herself and those around her at all times.
“Rachel Troyer!” Bertha clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Wearing a gun to your own wedding! You should be ashamed!”
To an outsider, Bertha, with her sensible black tennis shoes, homemade navy blue dress, and gray hair peeping out from beneath her black bonnet, would seem to be just one of the many elderly Old Order Amish women who lived in the Sugarcreek, Ohio, area. An outsider might assume that Bertha spent her days quietly baking pies, sewing quilts, and having gentle conversations.
Anyone who assumed that would be sadly mistaken. Having recovered from the broken leg she had sustained last year after falling down the stairs of the bed-and-breakfast she and her sisters ran, Bertha still did most of the outside physical labor around the family farm. She seldom baked pies or quilted, if she could get out of it, and she was not necessarily gentle in her speech. The old woman had a will of iron and bossed people around if she felt they needed it. Rachel often thought that in another place and time, Bertha might have made an excellent general.
“I’m a cop, Aunt Bertha,” Rachel said. “That’s what cops do. We carry weapons. Sometimes we even shoot them.”
It was an old argument never completely settled. Her aunt had been disappointed when Rachel chose not to join the Old Order Amish church, but she was truly appalled at Rachel’s choice of profession. Pacifism had been deeply embedded in the Amish psyche for over five hundred years. Bertha had no problem giving someone a tongue-lashing if they needed it, but she would rather die than raise a hand against another human being. From Bertha’s point of view, having a handgun strapped to one’s person was on par with wearing a rattlesnake.
Rachel, on the other hand, made her living by wearing a gun and chasing bad guys.
Well, actually, there weren’t a whole lot of “bad guys” in Sugarcreek, a small village that sat at the edge of Ohio’s Amish Country. Her job as a policewoman tended more toward giving a stern lecture to an intoxicated Amish teenager poorly driving the family buggy. However, if a bad guy ever showed up, she was ready for him.
Still, even she had to concede that being armed during her own wedding might be a bit much.
That was the reason, as Rachel held Cousin Eli’s arm at the end of the church aisle, that she felt a little naked even though she was wearing a gown that consisted of approximately seven yards of white satin.
Joe waited for her at the end of the aisle. He was a handsome man with dark hair, still built like the world-class athlete he had once been. Beside him was his little son Bobby with his sweet face, curly blond hair, and big blue eyes. She loved both of them more than life, and in a few moments, she intended to say the words that would make them her own.
As the beginning strains of the wedding march began, she vowed that she would protect her new little family with every breath, every prayer, and every ounce of strength for the rest of her life. She would be the best mother and wife. With adorable Bobby and his amazing father for her to love, how could she possibly be anything less?
Chapter 1
One year later…
Joe Mattias’s car, a silver S8 Audi with the ability to go from zero to one hundred miles per hour in 8.5 seconds flat, was presently crawling along at the blinding speed of four miles an hour. The black Amish buggy directly in front of him swayed from side to side as the horse labored up the steep hill.
He had carefully chosen thi
s vehicle three years earlier while his first wife was still alive. It had been the perfect car for taking Grace to one of her red-carpet events, stopping by McDonald’s with Bobby, or outrunning paparazzi.
It would take only a second to pass the slow-moving buggy, but he couldn’t risk doing so. The chances of meeting another car were too great. The roads in Tuscarawas County, Ohio, were hilly, curvy, and increasingly unsafe for the Amish buggies that stubbornly shared them with their impatient non-Amish neighbors as well as the sometimes-careless tourists who flooded the countryside each spring and continued to crowd the area until the snow flew.
Although he had lived here for nearly two years, Joe still marveled at a belief system so strong that it caused people to put themselves and their children at risk rather than succumb to the temptation of owning a motorized vehicle.
He just didn’t get it. A car would have protective air bags and seat belts and a steel frame. A buggy had nothing to protect its occupants except too-easily-crushed wood. To him, the choice was a no-brainer. To them, it was a matter of faith. If it was God’s will that they made it home safely, they would. If it was God’s will that they endured a tragic accident, then that was to be accepted as well.
It was a fatalistic mentality, but one the Amish had clung to for generations. Joe respected his wife’s relatives, but he did not understand them. All he knew was that he had determined to never be a cause of the pitiful wreckage that sometimes occurred in an area where cars, trucks, and Amish buggies shared the road. He loved these gentile people and would not allow his desire for speed to cause such a tragedy.
It took a lot of patience to live in Amish Country, but it was worth it. He would gladly trade time plodding behind a buggy in this beautiful countryside versus getting stuck in LA traffic, an experience which had been a daily routine when he’d played for the Dodgers. Therefore, he fidgeted, eager to see his family but forcing himself to follow the sedate black buggy until they topped the hill and he could pass safely.
He rolled down the window to enjoy the mild spring weather and then passed the time by communicating with the three adorable children peeking out at him. Joe waved, and a ruddy-cheeked boy about his son’s age shyly waved back. The boy’s two smaller sisters, both with white-blonde curls escaping from black bonnets, followed their big brother’s example.
Joe made the peace sign, which they copied—the little girls putting hands over their mouths and giggling. Then he waggled his fingers on the steering wheel and they waggled their fingers back, enjoying the game of mimicking the silly Englischman in the car behind them.
He gave them the “live long and prosper” Vulcan hand sign from Star Trek, which was a momentary challenge to them before they mastered and exhibited it along with reserved smiles. The children each appeared to be about a year apart from the next in age. Stairstep children, common among the Amish.
The exchange made him miss his son. It wouldn’t be long now. The four-hour flight to Columbus from LA and the two-hour drive from the airport to Sugarcreek was almost at an end. He was almost home. He couldn’t wait to find out what wonders had happened while he was gone. It seemed as if there was constantly something new and exciting for Bobby to share with him. New piglets…new kittens…pears ripe for picking, found in the old orchard behind the Sugar Haus barn. Life was a constant source of wonder to a small boy who now spent a great deal of time on a farm.
Not only did Bobby have Rachel’s Amish aunts’ farm to explore, but he was also welcome at Eli’s, their cousin who owned the small dairy farm next door. Eli had raised several fine sons and did not seem to mind answering a six-year-old’s stream of questions. Eli, a widower who now lived alone, seemed to welcome Bobby’s constant chatter.
There were many things Joe regretted in his life, but choosing to raise his boy within the loving circle of Rachel and her Amish relatives was not one of them. During his recent stay in LA, his longing to get back to Ohio was so strong that it surprised even him. His West Coast friends could tease him about living in flyover country all they wanted, but he didn’t care. He knew where he belonged and, best of all, he knew to whom he belonged. Despite the personal troubles he had discovered in California, the feeling of getting closer to the people he loved most in the world was intoxicating.
The horse and buggy topped the hill and Joe saw a straight stretch with no other cars coming. He carefully pulled around the buggy, giving it a wide berth so as not to frighten the horse, and then he sped up as much as was safe on this road. It was hard to hold back. He had been gone for two weeks, and those two weeks had felt like an eternity.
Memories washed over him as he entered Sugarcreek and drove past the giant cuckoo clock in the middle of town. The waiting tourists snapped pictures as the wooden doors opened and a small band of wooden characters come out of the clock playing polka music to celebrate the fact that it was noon.
Had his truck not chosen to blow a head gasket here two years ago, he would have passed through without ever facing the flinty-eyed stare of Rachel, the beautiful Sugarcreek cop who had not been pleased to discover that a penniless stranger and his son were staying with her three elderly Old Order Amish aunts in their farmhouse bed-and-breakfast.
Nope, he had definitely not impressed her. He’d been a rough-looking stranger deliberately dressed as if he had crawled out of a Dumpster. No ID. No money. She had not bought his truthful tale that his wallet had been stolen. He had been as determined to hide his real name from her as she was to discover it. They’d had quite a clash of wills until Rachel learned his true identity…and became his greatest ally.
Those weeks of hiding from the media after his first wife’s murder—unable to access his bank account or cash in on his fame while struggling to keep his little son safe from the nation’s prying eyes—had taught him a great deal about priorities.
Many people spent their lives wishing for fame and fortune. Too many of them believed that the only thing standing between them and a perfect life was to have plenty of money and admiration. He had experienced both in abundance and knew firsthand that it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. His own experience showed that fame and fortune did little except put a target on a person’s back…and on the backs of their loved ones.
Yes, it took patience and grace to live in Ohio’s Amish Country, especially when sharing the road with horses and buggies, but that patience and grace was always returned. He loved Tuscarawas County and the eccentric and loving Amish people who lived here. If Joe had his way, he would never leave again. The only problem now, after what he had discovered in LA, was finding a way to stay.
Chapter 2
Carl Bateman was a bad man.
He knew this because his mother had told him so each time she’d locked him out of the house when he was a child.
“Don’t, Mama, please,” he’d begged the first time she shoved him outside. It was January, he was eight, and his clothes were not warm enough to withstand the freezing cold blowing through the inner-city streets of Columbus, Ohio. “Why’re you doing this?”
“Because you’re a bad boy!” she’d shouted as she slammed the door shut. He heard the lock snap into place.
For several minutes, he’d stood shivering on the rickety doorstep, alternately pounding on the door and begging to be let back in. He was desperate. There was no place to go. No one to take him in. And though he was a child, he knew instinctively that it would not be smart to go to the neighbors. At least not their neighbors. There was no telling what might happen to him if he tried knocking on someone else’s door in this neighborhood.
The wind whistled around the corners of the small house, chilling him to the bone.
“Please, Mama! I’m cold!”
The door didn’t open. Instead, seeping through the cracks, he could hear her voice and one of her male visitors. They were laughing, and loud music was playing on the radio.
Just then, a dog darted beneath the wooden porch steps. Carl had noticed the shaggy old thing skulking around
the neighborhood. It didn’t seem to belong to anyone. He’d seen it eating out of an overturned garbage can, bolting down part of a discarded pizza so old that even he wouldn’t have touched it, and Carl loved pizza.
With nowhere else to go and no better ideas coming to him, he too crawled beneath the porch—where it was still cold, but where the wind wasn’t quite as bad. The dog didn’t seem to mind sharing its space with a small boy. It even licked his face a couple of times that night as though to comfort Carl, which was more tenderness than his own mother had ever shown him. He never forgot that bit of canine kindness. They didn’t exactly keep each other warm, but they did keep each other from freezing to death. Together, they survived the night.
His mother had money the next day when the man left. She seemed surprised to see her son crawl out from beneath the porch but smiled brightly and let him back inside the house. That morning she took him to a warm diner and they ate their fill of ham and eggs as though nothing had happened.
That was the first he suspected that his mother wasn’t entirely right in the head. He was too young to put words to it, but he began to expect of her a certain pattern of cruelty countered by an effusive, giddy, forthcoming kindness. It was part of his world, and since she blamed his “badness” for the cruelty she inflicted—and because he was only a child with no other template against which to compare his experience—he accepted her reasoning.
He was a bad boy…and he had grown up to be a bad man.
After that first night, he was careful to keep a couple of ratty old blankets tucked under the steps. He never could tell when she would take it into her head to kick him out. Stray cats and dogs became his salvation as a heat source in the dead of winter. They appreciated the bits of food he gathered in hopes of keeping the animals loyal to his cave-like sanctuary beneath the porch.
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