Sweet Sanctuary

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  © 2013 by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2013

  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—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6097-0

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Scripture quotations marked NIV are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  All other Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.

  Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.

  For Kaisyn Faith

  Right now you are so at peace in your little world. As you grow, and your “world” becomes larger, may you always find your peace and security in the arms of Jesus.

  “From the ends of the earth I call to you,

  I call as my heart grows faint;

  lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”

  Psalm 61:2, NIV

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  A Note From the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  1

  QUEENS, NEW YORK

  JULY 1944

  Micah Hatcher scanned the letter a second time, his pulse beating at twice its normal rhythm. A joke . . . This has to be a joke. Yet there was nothing funny about it.

  Someone bumped him from behind, and he apologized, moving away from the rows of mail cubbies to lean against the opposite wall, where he wouldn’t block the foot traffic. Half the population of Queens seemed to be retrieving mail right now. He scratched his head, trying to understand why this letter had come to him.

  He checked the signature. N. Allan Eldredge. Scowling, he pressed his memory. Eldredge . . . Eldredge . . . The name seemed familiar. Then he slapped his forehead, remembrance hitting like a wave.

  Lydia Eldredge. The nurse from Schofield Station Hospital. The one who had left Oahu early because of a mysterious emergency. An emergency that was no longer a mystery, thanks to the letter.

  Micah’s gaze dropped to the letter again. Yes, now he understood. Small wonder Lydia had been in such a hurry to get back to the States—halfway through her tour of duty, as he recalled. He released a huff of disgust. He knew Lydia had been rather . . . well, flighty . . . and somewhat self-centered. But despite Lydia’s faults, he would never have taken her for a liar. How could she make up such drivel about him? He didn’t have time for this kind of nonsense now—not with Jeremiah depending on his help.

  Tucking his other mail into his jacket pocket, Micah left the crowded lobby and plunked down on a wrought-iron bench outside the post office. With the noonday sun heating his head, he flattened the letter against his pant leg and read it once more. Slowly. Concentrating on every word and searching for hidden meaning between the lines.

  Dr. Hatcher,

  I am sure by now you feel certain that your responsibility has been fully avoided, and this letter has come as a surprise. It has taken me some time to locate you. But this is a matter of extreme importance. A child’s life has been impacted. As the child’s grandfather, I cannot allow him to grow up wondering why his father has chosen to abandon him.

  Therefore I request that you honor your responsibility toward your child. He and his mother are living with me in Boston. I will allow you two weeks to contact me. If by the end of that time, you have not chosen to honor your duty to your son, I shall be forced to take legal action. I assure you I have the wealth and influence to see that you do not continue to neglect your responsibility. I encourage—no, I insist—that you come with all due haste to Boston to settle this matter in an honorable fashion.

  N. Allan Eldredge

  “My son?” Micah muttered, his frustration growing. He had no son—it was impossible! Why on earth would Lydia tell her parents he had fathered her child? He folded the letter and shoved it roughly back into its envelope.

  Going to Boston wasn’t out of the question, he realized. It would be at least another three weeks before his brother’s package arrived in New York. He could spend some of his hard-earned money on a train ticket and be there in less than two days. But to go might acknowledge the accusation held merit, which was ridiculous. Still, could he allow this farce to continue? And what of this boy—Lydia’s son? He must be between three and four years old, certainly old enough to understand a father’s absence. What had the child been told?

  The questions tumbled in Micah’s head as haphazardly as a tumbleweed blowing across the Texas prairie of his childhood. And then another childhood remembrance—a welcome one—intruded. His mother’s voice tiptoed through his mind: “Son, whatever comes your way, the good Lord knew it was comin’ and has a solution in mind. Trust Him to guide you.” The letter might have caught Micah by surprise, but nothing came as a surprise to God.

  Right there on the bench in the open, he closed his eyes and communicated silently with his Heavenly Father. He offered the situation into God’s keeping, and a feeling of peace settled in his heart. “Thank You,” he whispered, opening his eyes and focusing once more on the busy noonday traffic. He’d made his decision, and he trusted it was the right one. He would travel to Boston, confront Lydia and her parents, and insist that she tell the truth. Micah was not the father of this child. A twinge of sympathy pinched his conscience for the little boy, but it was not his responsibility no matter what Lydia’s father might think. The sooner the man realized it, the better off they would all be. Especially Micah. Being caught up in his brother’s travails was responsibility enough.

  He pressed his hands against his thighs, pushing himself to his feet like an old man. The situation left him feeling much older than his thirty-six years.
But hadn’t the burden he and Jeremiah carried aged them at least ten years for each of the past two? Another deep sigh set him in motion toward his small, lonely apartment. He’d make a couple of phone calls and arrange for a temporary replacement at the clinic. He couldn’t hand off the other responsibility. He’d have to be back to take care of Jeremiah’s package himself. But as soon as possible he’d knock on Lydia Eldredge’s door and bring an immediate end to this nonsense.

  Micah thanked the taxi driver with a generous tip and a smile before slamming the door. The taxi departed, leaving him standing on the cobblestone street of Boston’s prestigious Back Bay neighborhood outside a tall, narrow, ostentatious brownstone crunched side-by-side with several other tall, narrow, ostentatious brownstones. Micah whistled through his teeth—apparently Mr. Eldredge had been accurate in his description of his wealth.

  Micah stepped onto the ridiculously tiny yard fronting the house, and not until he was nearly to the steps leading up to double front doors did he see the small boy, crouching in the shadows next to a bush under an overhanging bay window. Micah stopped, staring. This, then, must be the child in question—the one Lydia had said was his son.

  Micah froze in place, observing the silent child. The little boy hunkered on his heels, his bottom hovering above the neatly trimmed grass, his elbows tight against his ribs and his hands clasped in front of him. His hair—dark and soft-looking—curled upward at his collar and around his ears. He was obviously intent on something in the grass, his face studious even in shadow.

  Curiosity overwhelmed Micah, and instead of climbing the stairs he crouched beside the boy. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

  In slow motion, the child placed one finger against his own lips. “Shhh. Bug.”

  Micah peered into the sparse blades and spotted what held the child’s attention. A shiny black beetle dug busily in the dirt between the boy’s feet. Micah’s lips twitched.

  The child peeked sideways at Micah, his thick lashes nearly shielding his brown eyes from view. With a stubby finger, he pointed at the beetle. “I named him Buggy. I’m gonna keep him for a pet, if Mama will let me.”

  “Buggy is a good name.” Micah looked the boy over. He was a handsome lad, small but sturdy, with soft features and expressive eyes. Micah recalled Lydia had brown eyes, but other than that he didn’t see much resemblance between the child and his mother.

  “Think he’d be happy in a shoebox? That’s all I got to put him in.” The little boy turned his gaze fully upward.

  Somehow it pleased Micah that the child trusted him enough to ask his opinion. He scratched his head thoughtfully, considering the boy’s question. “We-e-e-ell,” he finally answered while the child waited patiently, still unmoving from his position, “seems to me that bugs are happier when they’ve got some grass an’ dirt to scurry in. A shoebox seems a rather gloomy place to live.”

  The child’s face fell. “You mean he’d be sad in a box?” He looked wistfully at the beetle, his fingers working up and down against his knuckles. “I don’t want to make him sad. It’s not fun to be sad.”

  Micah wondered briefly what sadness the child had experienced to make him so empathetic to a simple beetle. “Most creatures are happier in their natural environments.”

  The little boy wrinkled his forehead. “Nat’ral en—en—what?”

  Micah stifled a chuckle. “Natural environment,” he repeated, enjoying this exchange more than he could understand. “You know, the place where God planned for them to live.”

  The child nodded with a serious expression, then stated, “You talk funny.”

  Micah laughed. “I do?”

  The little boy nodded, making the lock of hair falling across his forehead bounce. “Yes. Your voice goes like this—lee-uv. How come you don’t say ‘live’ like I do?”

  Again, Micah scratched his head. He exaggerated his southern twang just for the boy. “Well, I reckon because my natural environment was Texas when I was growin’ up. Most ever’body there talked just like me.”

  The boy’s eyes danced with glee. “Lahke,” he repeated, mimicking Micah’s accent. “Lahke tha-et.” He grinned, dimples appearing in his apple cheeks. “I lahke the way you talk.”

  Micah felt smitten. What a charming little boy. Whoever his father was, the man was certainly missing out, not being a part of the child’s life. Micah stuck out his hand. “I’m Micah. What’s your name?”

  The boy placed his moist, grubby hand into Micah’s. “Nicholas Allan Eldredge the Third. Mama calls me Nicky.” He leaned toward Micah, cupping his hand next to his mouth as if telling a secret. “I’m small for my age.”

  Micah struggled against a chuckle. He forced a serious look. “Hmm, let’s see. Stand up for me, partner.”

  The boy straightened, revealing one untied Oxford and two sagging socks. Micah looked him up and down, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Well, now, Nicky, ’pears to me you’re just about right. Your feet reach the ground an’ everything. That’s about all a boy could want.”

  Nicky laughed, his face crinkled with delight. “I like you.”

  The compliment warmed Micah right down to the soles of his feet. Whoa, be careful. This one could grow on you. Micah straightened, too, his height much greater than young Nicky’s. The little boy tipped his head back and looked up at Micah, a grin still dimpling his cheeks.

  Micah realized he needed to get down to business. “So, partner, is your mama inside?”

  Nicky nodded. “Uh-huh. And Grammy and Poppy.”

  Micah assumed those must be Lydia’s parents. It was good they were all here—he could get this situation righted with everyone all at once. “Could you show me?”

  Suddenly Nicky’s mouth dropped open and he clapped a hand to his cheek. “My bug!” He fell to his knees, his fingers parting the grass blades in a frantic search.

  Micah dropped to one knee to search, too, but the beetle was gone. He looked at the bereft child. Two plump tears hovered on Nicky’s lashes. They nearly broke Micah’s heart.

  “He left.” The boy’s chin quivered. “And I was gonna make him my pet. Not in a shoebox.” He placed one dirty hand on Micah’s upraised knee. “I was gonna build him a little fence out here so he could be in his nat’ral en—envire—” He huffed. “You know, where God planned him to be. Right out here in the grass and dirt.” A huge sigh heaved Nicky’s narrow shoulders. “But now he’s gone.”

  “Aw, don’t be sad.” Micah wrapped his broad hand around Nicky’s sweaty neck. “You know, Buggy probably went on home to his mama. He’s probably tellin’ her right now, ‘I met me a boy who was real nice an’ let me come home again.’”

  Nicky tipped his head, considering this. “You think so, Micah?”

  Micah liked the way his name sounded on the child’s lips. “I do.”

  Nicky stuck out his lower lip, his eyes on the grass. Then he nodded and stood up. “I want him to happy. He’s prob’ly happier with his mama than he would be in a little fence all by himself.”

  “Good boy.”

  Lydia had done a fine job with Nicky. He was articulate, obviously bright, polite, and kindhearted—a wonderful little boy. For the second time Micah warned himself: Be careful.

  Nicky reached out and grabbed Micah’s hand, tugging. “Come on, Micah. I’ll take you to Grammy and Poppy.”

  Micah rose slowly, his knees popping.

  Nicky smirked. “Poppy’s legs do that, too. But you’re not old like Poppy.”

  Micah certainly felt old some days. But somehow this child had lightened his heart, taking years away. He smiled, sending Nicky a wink. “Let me give you a word of advice there, partner,” he said as the boy led him toward the stairs. “Don’t tell your poppy he’s old. Most folks don’t like to be reminded of that.”

  Nicky’s shoulders lifted in a carefree shrug. “Okay.” He released Micah’s hand to scamper up the steps. Micah followed more slowly, using the hand rail. Nicky waited beside the door, clutching the door handle and bouncing o
n his toes while he waited for Micah to catch up. But before Nicky could turn the knob, the door was pulled open from the inside, and framed in the doorway stood Nicky’s mother.

  Micah stopped, one foot on the last riser and one on the porch floor, as Lydia’s gaze met his. She scowled momentarily, as if trying to place something, and then her jaw dropped in shock. Her hand flew to her chest and color climbed her cheeks.

  Micah took the final step onto the porch, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Hello, Lydia.”

  2

  MM-Micah?” Lydia stared, unable to believe she wasn’t imagining his presence. On the island of Oahu four years ago, this man had flooded her dreams, but when she’d left the army base she’d assumed she would never see him again. What brought him to Boston? How had he found her?

  “That’s right,” Nicky chirped, swinging his arms and smiling up at his mother. “He’s Micah. And he’s my friend. Micah-my-friend. And he talks lahke thee-us.”

  Though aware of Nicky’s words, Lydia felt strangely distanced from them. She placed a trembling hand on her son’s head, her gaze never wavering from Micah’s. “That’s nice, Nicky.”

  Micah took another step forward. “May I come in?”

  “What? Oh! Yes, certainly.” Lydia stepped back, heat searing her face. She gestured jerkily for him to enter. “Please . . . come in.”

  Nicky darted through the long corridor, calling, “Grammy! Poppy! We have comp’ny!” The child disappeared around a bend, and Micah looked after him, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

  Lydia used two hands to close the door and stood with her palms pressed against the solid wood, hoping to gain strength from the sturdy oak. If she were to make a list of the people least likely to show up on her doorstep, Dr. Micah Hatcher would top the list. Having him so near, after the years that had passed since they’d worked together at Schofield Station Hospital, completely disoriented her. Her knees quaked. Her body tingled with awareness. And her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Which was just as well, because she had no idea what to say.

  She turned to find Micah waiting patiently behind her, hands still in his pockets, his face expressionless. “I suppose you knew I’d come.”