by Ruth Reid
“Let’s get you out of here.” Mr. Lambright guided her toward the door.
As desperate as she was to leave the police station, she wasn’t convinced leaving with him was the right thing to do. He brought trouble in one form or another every time he was around. First when he showed up at her home and later at the hospital. She paused at the entrance. “Do I have to go with you?”
A hint of dejection, or perhaps confusion, registered on his face. He released her elbow. “Nope. Do you have someone to call?”
“Jah.” She scanned the room for a pay phone, being sure to avoid eye contact with the other patrons. The tightness in her lungs eased and she exhaled slowly. The only phone was mounted on the far wall, but it was in use by a young woman wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, fringed cut-off jeans, and flip-flops. The woman’s ponytail wagged back and forth as she shouted profanity into the receiver.
Mr. Lambright cleared his throat. “You can use mine,” he said, digging his hand into his pocket and retrieving a cell phone. He pushed a few buttons and handed her the phone with the number pad lit. “You’ll get better reception outside.”
“Danki.” She hadn’t used a cell phone before. She walked outside into the blazing hot sun, staring at the number pad on the phone, unable to recall the last two digits of Cora’s number.
“There she is,” someone called out.
In a matter of seconds, a horde of reporters rushed toward them, snapping pictures, thrusting microphones in front of them.
“Is it true that you nearly beat your child to death?” one reporter shouted.
Mattie gasped.
Mr. Lambright clamped her shoulder with one hand, tucked her under the crook of his arm, and used his free hand to shield her face. “Don’t respond.”
“How do you call yourselves peaceful people? Are the beatings everyday occurrences in your society?” One reporter edged up beside her. “At least tell us if women and children are held against their will.”
“Don’t listen to them.” Mr. Lambright pressed her firmly against him, tucking her head under his chin.
Mattie closed her eyes and trusted her rescuer to lead her to safety. He broke through the pack, telling the reporters to step aside while keeping her under guard until they reached his car.
He aimed a clicker at his car and unlocked the door. She dropped into the passenger seat and ducked as camera flashes fired.
“I’m sorry about all that,” he said, sliding behind the wheel.
They were several blocks down the road before she sat upright in the seat. “Did you know they were waiting outside the police station?”
“No.” He shot her a sideways glare, brows furrowed. “I would have asked for an officer to assist us had I known.”
“They asked how often I beat mei sohn.” Her stomach sickened.
“They’re just trying to flare your anger—get you riled up.”
“They did!”
He glanced in his rearview mirror. “It’s probably going to get worse. There’s a news van following us.”
Mattie craned around in the seat. “What should we do?” She turned back, wide-eyed.
“I have a full tank of gas and get better mileage than that news van.” At the intersection of Colby Road and Lakeview Drive, Bo turned in the opposite direction of her settlement.
“Where are you taking me?”
He looked again in the rearview mirror. “You don’t want them camping out on your doorstep, do you?”
“No, but . . .” She bit her lip.
“I’ll turn around if you want me to.”
She shook her head. The last thing she wanted was a mob of reporters badgering her and the other members of her settlement. “No, please don’t. I suppose you’re right, Mr. Lambright. Taking an alternate route is probably for the best.”
“Call me Bo, okay?”
“Mei friends call me Mattie.” She wouldn’t exactly call Bo a friend, but at the moment, she had no choice but to trust him. She looked over at him. “How is Nathan? Is he out of the hospital?”
His jaw went slack. “Your son is still in critical condition.”
“No one would tell me anything at the hospital or the police station,” Mattie whispered. She shifted on the seat and adjusted the folds in her dress.
“He’s a sick kid.”
“Vomiting and fever? Maybe the medicine was wrong.”
His jaw twitched and he tugged at his shirt collar. He checked the rearview mirror again. “The van is pulling off the road.”
She situated herself to see out the back window. “Jah, they’re turning around. Do you think he received the wrong medicine?”
“Are you asking if I think he had an allergic reaction?” He used a calm tone, but his wrinkled forehead said different.
“It could have been that, right?”
“Mattie”—his attention shifted back and forth between the road and her—“it’s much worse. He’s hurt—badly.”
She listened for Bo’s tone to turn accusatory as the police officer’s had, but he said nothing for several miles. He turned off the road prior to the covered Waterston Bridge, taking the gravel road to the right, which led to the picnic area near the river. He parked the car under an elm tree and rolled the window down. “Earlier today it looked like it might storm.”
Mattie leaned forward. Except for a red pickup truck, the lot was empty. “Why are we stopping?” Her voice quivered.
He smiled. “You don’t have to worry. I just wanted to kill a few minutes to be sure the news van doesn’t double back around.”
“Oh.” She settled against the seat.
He swatted a mosquito, then another one. After chasing another one into the crevice between the windshield and dashboard, he rolled up the window. She could have told him the river was a breeding ground for the bloodsucking insects. Mosquitoes were always bad here.
Mattie wrung her hands. She’d never been alone with an Englischer—at least not in a parked car at the foot of the river. She’d heard stories about some of the youth spending late hours here on their rumschpringe. They weren’t stories she wanted her name associated with. “We don’t have to stay here too long, do we?”
He smiled. “No.”
“Gut, I need to get home to Amanda.” Grace would have taken good care of her daughter, but it gnawed at Mattie how her child had witnessed the police officer taking her away.
His smile went stiff, then dropped completely. “Your daughter isn’t at home.” He eyed her closely. “She’s been placed in the custody of Child Services.”
“She’s nett with Grace?” Tears pricked her eyes. She hadn’t wanted to believe the police officer when he told her Amanda had been taken away. She thought it was their way of pressuring her into a confession—a sick tactic using her child.
“She’s been placed in a foster home . . . temporarily—a good home. Didn’t your lawyer tell you any of this?”
“Nay,” she squeaked. “The police officers . . .” Her body shuddered and she wrapped her arms around herself.
He leaned forward and redirected the air vent, then lowered the fan. “The police officer told you about relocating Amanda?”
“Jah, but they said a lot of things that weren’t true.” Her voice hardened. “They said I beat mei sohn with a broomstick. I didn’t. They twisted the words in the Bible about sparing the rod and they made me feel like I was . . . like I was a monster.”
“I don’t believe you’re a monster.” He awkwardly patted her hand, then returned his to the steering wheel. A long stretch of silence fell between them.
“How is Amanda doing?”
“She’s . . .” His hand tightened on the steering wheel. “She’s . . . okay.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. “You hesitated. She’s nett okay.”
“Excuse me.” He leaned across her, then retrieved a small package of tissues from the glove box and handed it to her. “Your daughter is being well cared for, I promise you, she is.”
Mattie removed a tissue from the container and blew her nose. “She doesn’t know Englisch.”
“I know.”
“Who’s going to tuck her into bed at nacht and rock her back to sleep when she wakes up and panics because I’m nett there?”
“Kids are more resilient than we think.”
Was that supposed to make her feel better? She didn’t want her daughter conforming to the world—not to any of it.
He turned his attention to the road. “I think it’s safe to head back.” He pulled out of the parking lot and stopped as a car sped past. “We’ll take Waterston Bridge back to your place.”
“Will you take me to the hospital instead? I’d like to see mei sohn.”
His chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh. “Mattie, I’m working on obtaining visitation rights for you, but I haven’t made headway.” He pulled onto the highway.
Mattie hadn’t driven under the covered bridge since it’d been restored. The bridge’s wooden slats and support beams had been replaced by steel. Entering the covering, the steel grates hummed, vibrating the car as they drove through to the other side.
They reached the turnoff leading to her settlement in a matter of minutes. But once they made the turn, news vans came into view. Parked along the roadway were numerous vehicles that made it almost impossible to pass, yet Bo skillfully maneuvered the car down the long narrow driveway.
“Who gave them permission to be on mei land?”
“Do you have No Trespassing signs posted anywhere?” He stopped the car next to the house.
“Nay.”
“I’ll inform them they’re on private property.” He reached under his seat and removed an umbrella. “Stay put. I’ll come around and get you.”
Under different circumstances, she would prefer to see herself inside, but she’d already experienced how cruel the reporters’ comments could be.
He opened the umbrella as he neared her side of the car, using it to shield her from the parade of questioners. This time the questions were not only aimed at her, they were directed at Bo as well.
“Mr. Lambright, what does your mother, Judge Nettleton, think about your involvement with an accused child abuser?”
“No comment.”
The reporters stopped at the foot of the porch steps as she and Bo hurried up them.
Fortunately, the house was unlocked and she didn’t have to fumble with keys. She turned the handle and gave the door a push with her hip. Once they were inside, she latched the dead bolt, then faced Bo. “Your mother is a judge?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Bo went to the window in Mattie’s sitting room and shut it, then closed the curtains. The room darkened like a cave. “You’ll probably want to light a lamp or two,” he said, moving into the kitchen and doing the same with those windows and curtains. “It’s going to be stuffy in here with the windows closed, but I think you’ll have more privacy.”
Mattie struck a wooden match and lit the wick of the oil lamp on the table. It offered just enough light to be able to see a few feet away.
“You didn’t answer mei question. Is it true your mother’s a judge?”
“She was. She’s retired from the bench.” He hung his head. “And yes, I did ask her to pull some strings with the judge overseeing your case.” Hopefully those favors were in motion prior to the media frenzy. Otherwise Mattie might not see her children for weeks if the file went to the bottom of the pile. He hadn’t expected the reporters to associate him with his mother so easily since she went by her maiden name professionally. Then again, she was running for a county commission seat and that subjected her family to public scrutiny.
Mattie lit another lantern. “Did she help get me out of jail?”
“No, that was going to take too much time. I put my boat up as collateral to get you out.” He smiled. “So remember, you promised you wouldn’t skip town.”
“You did that for me? Why?” The lines around the corners of her mouth creased slightly with a smile, but quickly faded.
He wished he understood the deeper reason why he couldn’t walk away from this case—from Mattie and her children. But he couldn’t shake the niggling in the back of his mind that the dreams had something to do with her. He studied her a moment. Most women in her position would crumble under the pressure. He admired her strength—her faith. He wished he could say he’d believed her all along, that he had no doubts. She’d fooled him once . . . No, he had to go with his gut. “I believe you.”
Her mouth dropped open as surprise, maybe shock, registered on her face. Then she set the lantern on the table and wiped her hands on the sides of her dress. “I don’t suppose you should leave right away. Unless, of course, you wish to brave the crowd.”
“Not really.”
“I, ah . . . I could make some kaffi or tea, whichever you prefer. Although I should warn you, without the windows open it’ll get hot in here.”
“Either would be great.”
She quickly moved over to the cast-iron stove where she opened the side door, then wadded up pieces of newspaper from the stack next to the woodbox and placed them and several thin slabs of kindling inside.
He came up beside her. “Would you like me to get the fire started?”
“That isn’t necessary. I do this every day.” She added more wood.
He would have built the fire first before loading that much wood. When she bunched up more newspaper and jammed it between the slabs, he had to ask. “Aren’t you worried about creosol buildup with so much paper in there?”
She looked up from the stove. “Like I said, I do this every day.”
Bo raised his hands in the air. “Okay, it’s your stove.” He peered up at the smoke-stained ceiling near the pipe.
“Are you inspecting mei haus again, Mr. Lambright?”
“Sorry.” He smiled. “And it’s Bo, remember?”
Mattie pointed at the table. “You can have a seat if you wish,” she said, her voice a little rushed.
Bo hadn’t meant to make her nervous. He pulled a chair out from the table and sat. The topcoat of polyurethane on the oak table made it shine. It would have taken several hours of sanding to get this fine finish. Something he knew a little about—or used to. He hadn’t worked on a wood project in several years. The chair felt comfortable, sturdy. In the chairs he’d built, he used dowels where these had slats for backs. All in all, this was some of the finest work he’d seen. He scanned the room. The cabinetry was handcrafted knotty pine. The wooden countertops weren’t fancy like the granite slabs sold commercially. He liked the plain style. It reminded him of the kitchen in the house where he grew up.
Mattie adjusted the damper on the stove. The scent of burning wood stimulated memories of coming in from chores to the tantalizing aroma of fried potato pancakes cooked on a woodstove. But those days were gone. The room quickly turned hot with the windows closed. He removed his handkerchief and dabbed it over his forehead.
“Would you like honey with your tea?”
“Sure.”
Mattie brought the cups to the table, then went back for the jar of honey and spoons. She sat down but only for a second before she bounced up and went back to the counter. “I’m nett sure how stale these are.” She set the jar of cookies on the table. “I made them a few days ago.”
“My mamm—mom—used to put a slice of bread in the jar with the cookies to keep them moist.” His words ran together, seeing her brows raised and her tea bag suspended midair over her cup. He shrugged. “I’m not sure why that is. Osmosis maybe.”
She lowered the tea bag into the cup of hot water with noticeable hesitation, then with a slight shake of the head, set the spoon aside and smiled. “I’ll have to try that with the next batch.”
He stirred a spoonful of honey into the tea. He hadn’t thought about homemade cookies in a long time. For that matter, he hadn’t been jolted by this many childhood memories since the accident. He passed the jar of honey to her. “Do you make your own honey?”
>
“Well, the bees make it, but jah, I raise bees.”
He reached for a cookie. “How many hives do you have?”
“Ten. What kind of strings did you try to pull with the judge?”
He smiled. “I asked for an emergency order to grant visitation with your children. I should be getting a call shortly.” He patted his pocket. Empty. “Do you still have my phone?”
Her jaw dropped. “I left it in the car.”
“That’s okay.” He pushed away from the table and stood. “I’ll be right back. Don’t eat my cookie.” He winked.
She blushed. “I won’t.”
Bo readied his key fob before going outside. The reporters’ questions started immediately. He opened the car door and grabbed his cell phone, jogged up the porch steps, and stopped. “If I could have your attention,” he said, addressing the cluster of men and women. “You’re on private property, and the owner requests you leave.” He turned and opened the door.
“Thank you for saying that to them,” Mattie said the moment he stepped inside.
“No problem. I’ll call their corporate offices if they don’t vacate the premises.” He wiped his shoes on the rug, something he failed to do when he first arrived.
“Oh, don’t worry about your shoes. Do you think you missed the call?” She nibbled on one of her fingernails.
He looked at the phone screen to see if he had any missed calls. “Nothing yet.”
Mattie frowned.
“We’ll hear something soon.” He slipped his phone into his pocket. “You didn’t eat my cookie while I was outside, did you?”
Her eyes widened and she shook her head, turning toward the kitchen.
Bo returned to the chair and dunked the peanut-butter cookie into the honey-flavored tea. “Mmm, good.”
“Nett too stale?”
“Not when you dunk it.” He pushed the plate closer to her. “I’ll share. Have one.”
“That’s awfully kind of you to share.”
He grinned. “You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve had homemade cookies.”