by Leanna Ellis
“Which brother?”
“Jacob. All right? Jacob!” Samuel lifted his voice to the rafters, and it came back to him, repeating his brother’s name.
“Yes, it happened before. Back in Pennsylvania when your brother…and then six months ago again. That’s when Rachel’s husband died. And now here.”
Samuel stood and began pacing forward and back. Eventually he stopped and stared out the barn opening. “Okay, so what are we going to do about it?”
It wasn’t what Roc expected. “You’re going to do what your father tells you. And tomorrow, when my friend gets here, you and your folks are going to pack up and leave. Until it’s over.”
Samuel shook his head. “I can stay and fight.”
“With what? A pitchfork? No. You have to—”
“I’m strong. And I know how to shoot.”
Roc couldn’t help but smile. “You do?”
“Sure. Used to go deer hunting, remember?”
Roc had to admit it was tempting to have another pair of eyes, another weapon. But this wasn’t deer hunting. Deer didn’t shoot back. And they didn’t bite. Roc wouldn’t risk Samuel’s life. The best place for Samuel and his folks was as far from here as possible.
“So why here?” Samuel asked. “Why our family? Does it have something to do with my father…Jacob?”
Roc wasn’t ready to cross that line yet. He’d given Samuel enough of a warning. Trouble was on the way. But he wouldn’t completely ignore Jonas Fisher’s wishes either. Not yet. Not unless it had to be done.
***
Two days of phone calls and cryptic messages let Roc know Roberto was getting closer. Roc could use someone to spell him for sleep. He’d hardly slept the last two nights, propped in a chair beside the window. He’d kept watch while Rachel slept, her hand always against her belly, as if she was reassuring herself or her baby.
One night he’d dozed, his chin crashing forward, and he’d jerked awake, his hand going for the Glock.
“Roc,” Rachel had whispered.
He’d given himself a shake. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Come to bed.”
He sat up straighter, fought the urge to close his eyes. His muscles felt stiff and kinked with knots. “I’m fine.”
“You’ll be too tired to fight if there is ever a fight.”
“There will be a fight, Rachel, and I promise I’ll be ready.”
She got out of bed and came to him, tugged on his arm. “You need rest. Let God and his angels protect us for the rest of the night.”
He’d frowned, unable to put his faith in something unseen the way she could.
But now tonight, as he sat in the swing on the back porch while the women cleaned the kitchen, with the moon full and the sun not quite settled in its bed, the wind grew still. All was silent except for the occasional cricket chirping or bullfrog croaking. A firefly glowed nearby then extinguished. A bird flew from the barn toward the neighbor’s silo. It seemed too calm.
With his stomach full from Sally Fisher’s potato rolls, along with a juicy pot roast and all the trimmings, he felt his eyelids drooping. When he heard the creak of the back door, his eyes jolted open. Rachel stood in the doorway, frozen, as if caught.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Am I a prisoner?”
He frowned and pushed to his feet.
“I need to stretch my legs a bit.” Her hand fluttered at the edge of her belly, as if she were indicating the baby was at fault.
“You feeling okay?”
“Just restless.”
This waiting was killing him too. But tomorrow Roberto would be here, and they could put his plan into action. Then a sinking suspicion warned him of a different kind of trouble.
“Is it the baby?”
“We’re both fine. Will you come with me or wait here until I return?”
He pushed up from the outdoor swing, another creation of Jonas’s deft hands. The strain of waiting and watching was beginning to show in her eyes and the pinched corners of her mouth, but amazingly, she remained calm and steadfast.
“Where are you wanting to go?”
“Just down the road a bit.”
“Rachel—”
“It’s perfectly safe.” She showed him a flashlight. “For when it gets dark.”
“How do you know it’s safe?”
“I don’t. I just…it’s as safe as we are here.”
“We’d be out in the open.” His gaze scanned the tops of the trees as well as the dips and rises in the land, which kept him from seeing too far in any direction. It created a haven and a hazard.
“Do you think that matters much to Akiva?” she asked.
A cough inside the house alerted them that they were not alone in their conversation. It might be nice to walk and be able to talk just between them. And maybe a few minutes’ walk would help wake him up. Roc held out his arm to her, and she slipped her hand through the crook at the elbow. Together, they walked down the back steps and toward the narrow road adjacent to the Fishers’ front yard.
For a few minutes, their footsteps were in sync, their strides matching, the crunch of Rachel’s tennis shoes and Roc’s work boots in rhythm. The sun slipped behind a hill, and shadows crept across the road. Roc flicked on the flashlight, placing the rounded light ahead of Rachel’s footsteps.
How far they’d come in understanding, reading, and finding comfort in each other. He would lay down his life to protect this woman. Was it simply his honor and duty, or was it something more? He suspected his determination to see her safe was more than duty.
Of course, when he killed Akiva, he would have to take Rachel home. And then what?
And then nothing!
Ultimately, they were on different paths. When all was finished here, he’d take her home to Pennsylvania and leave her with her family. There was more he had to do…more vampires to hunt and kill. This job would never be over. This was his life now. And it was no life for a woman. Especially not for Rachel, who would have a baby.
He had come a long way in his grief to even consider opening his heart to someone other than Emma. And in its own way, it did please him. But even so, his journey from here on out would have to be a lonely one. And one day, it would end badly for him, the way Ferris’s life had ended. A vampire would get the best of him. Death was his destiny. Not love.
Suddenly, Rachel’s hand tightened on his arm, and her footsteps slowed.
“What is it?” He glanced around, but there wasn’t much to see—shades of gray and black. The moon cast pale light over the fields and fencerows. A crop of corn rustled in the slight breeze, the leaves waving at them as they passed. There were no headlights or traffic lights out here, and so the dark was deep and absorbing
She looked at him, and he could see the moonlight reflected in her eyes, which glinted with excitement. “Do you hear it?”
He listened, his ears straining, and he could make out a deep, rhythmic droning.
She quickened her pace. “Come on. It’s a barn singing.”
“What do you mean?”
She laughed and tugged on his arm. “You’ll see.”
He kept pace with her until they had a dark structure in sight. Outside the barn, several buggies stood idle, horses quietly grazing. Light flickered in the windows, gas lanterns he supposed. As they got closer, the droning became words, but words he couldn’t understand. He supposed they were singing in German or Pennsylvania Dutch or whatever it was they spoke.
Rachel walked purposefully toward the barn, as if she had the intention of joining them, but he pulled her back.
“We can’t go in there, Rachel.”
“Why not?”
It took her only a moment before understanding glinted in her eyes. T
hey did not belong. Or at least he didn’t. And it would be difficult to hide his English ways in such close proximity to so many Amish.
Still several yards away from the barn, they stood together, listening, and his hand sought hers. “We can stay here and listen, if you’d like.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she looked away from him, toward the light of the barn. He suspected she missed her home, her family. She missed the Amish ways, her district’s activities, her friends, and most especially, her husband.
He understood, for he missed his own way of life. The New Orleans he’d grown up in. Being on the force. His friends. And most of all—
But everything had changed when Emma died. He’d never again fit into his group of friends. They were sympathetic, and yet they couldn’t understand what he felt. Or he didn’t believe they could. And now he was even more of an outcast. A wanted man. A killer.
There was no going home…no going back now.
For a long time, Rachel stood beside him, her eyes closed, her body swaying with the slow, rhythmic voices that ranged from bass to soprano. Her lips moved silently, as if she was singing along with them in her head.
“What are they saying?” he finally asked.
She blinked and kept her gaze on the barn. “It’s an old hymn based on scripture from the book of Matthew. ‘For the Son of man has come to save that which was lost. How think ye? If a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray? And if so be that he find it, verily I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep, than of the ninety and nine which went not astray.’”
Her voice broke at the end, and tears once again filled her eyes. He covered her hand upon his arm, trying to comfort her. She looked downward, and he couldn’t tell if she was crying more, fighting the tears, or simply looking at their joined hands. He felt helpless to console her. But finally, she placed her other hand over his, until their hands made a tower on his arm. Then she looked up at him, and a tear toppled over and slid down her smooth cheek.
He didn’t know what to say, what to do. “I’m sorry, Rachel.”
“Don’t you see? That song…that verse is about me. I am…was that lost sheep. And I came home. I thought I could make everything better, fix everything I had done wrong in New Orleans by living right. By doing the right thing. By marrying Josef.” Then she shook her head. “But it only made things worse.”
“You can’t blame yourself for Josef’s death.”
“Of course I am to blame. And I had hoped the good Lord would forgive me. But I fear He has more punishment in store. I deserve it. But”—her voice broke—“I’m awful afraid He will allow my baby to die. And I cannot bear it. I cannot—”
He wasn’t sure who moved first, whether she leaned toward him or if his arms went automatically around her. But he held her, and she buried her face against his chest.
He sheltered her against his body and whispered fiercely, “I’m not going to let that happen.”
Maybe it pitted him against the Almighty. So be it. Was her God a god of vengeance seeking revenge on an innocent? Roc didn’t know the answer, and he didn’t much care. But he wanted to remove Rachel’s guilt. And he wanted to protect her.
With a current of fear churning in their depths, her blue eyes sought his. “How can you stop it?”
“I will.” He cupped his hands around her face. Her tears dampened his palms, and conviction gripped his soul. “It’s not your fault, Rachel. You couldn’t have done anything to warrant what happened to your husband.”
“Then why do you blame yourself for your own wife’s death?”
Her words scalded him, and he released her. Guilt was why he’d come here. At least originally. But now, his motivations had deepened. “Because I could have done something.”
And he was the only one who could do something to save Rachel. And he would. He would.
“How?” she asked, not with a challenging attitude but one of innocence.
“I could have gotten there sooner…I could have—”
“No, Roc.” She touched his face, her palm covering his jaw where he’d let his beard grow. “You couldn’t have saved her. You can’t be everywhere at all times. It’s impossible.”
“So I’m not allowed to blame myself, but you can?”
“Exactly.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “If I hadn’t married Josef in my sad effort to make things right, if I hadn’t used him in an attempt to”—she shook her head—“then he’d still be alive.”
“Rachel, really, I doubt you did anything that—”
“Oh, Roc…the things I have done…and seen…with Jacob.”
“What did you see?” His instincts went on full alert. What had they seen? What had they done together? Was there something she knew that might help them now? He gave her shoulders a slight shake. “Tell me, Rachel. What did you see?”
“He…Jacob was fascinated with New Orleans, the culture, the debauchery. Eventually he took it even further, learning about voodoo and the occult. He said it was just for fun, and maybe it was at first. But it wasn’t fun.” Her eyes glazed as if she was seeing the events unfold again. “The things they did. Horrible things. And I was so afraid.”
Her chin jerked upward. “I left him…Jacob, then. I took a bus and went home. I didn’t think I’d ever feel clean again.” She chafed at her arms, her eyes filling again. “Why won’t you tell me what happened to Josef? How he died?”
“I told you, it won’t make any difference—”
“What if someone told you your wife died but not how? How would you feel?”
He churned it over for a few minutes, and finally he said, “A vampire killed him. Drained him of blood. And then I killed her.”
She blinked slowly then nodded. “Thank you.” The words were but a whisper. Her throat worked up and down and her features pinched in her valiant effort to stop the tears. But tears emerged and trailed down her pale cheeks. She looked up at the dark sky and wept. Her shoulders shook with the tremors of her sobs.
He pulled her against him, cradled her against his chest. She clung to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and held onto him as if he could save her. If only that were true.
When she finally looked up at him with those tear-swollen eyes, he didn’t think or question; he simply bent his head toward hers and kissed her damp lips. She tasted salty and sweet from the cinnamon-sugared baked apples they’d had at dinner, and he had the strangest feeling she was somehow saving him.
Stunned by the jarring need, he set her away from him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…I’m no good. Not for you…not—”
She cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing his lips. “I think we’re more alike than you want to acknowledge, Roc. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. Things I’m ashamed of. Things I wish I could erase. But I can’t. I tried to forget what I saw in New Orleans, tried to hide within a quiet Amish life with Josef, but I think I was wrong to do so. God had a different plan for me, but I wasn’t patient enough to wait. Maybe now he’s given me…and you”—she dipped her chin and took a shuddering breath—“a second chance.”
Roc’s heart thumped heavily. He doubted God thought about him at all. He remembered going as a boy to a chapel of some kind with his mother. The ornate woodwork, the spires and vastness of the sanctuary, the Latin words spoken by the priest, the formality and tradition all making Roc feel small and insignificant. All these many years later, he still felt small and insignificant in the eyes of God.
He saw things simply too: black and white. Good and evil. He had one job—to protect Rachel and her baby. And he would do it with or without God’s help. Even if it killed him. And it just might. But death—floating down the river of souls and getting lost in the depth of eternity—seemed ea
sier than believing he could have saved someone and failed. He couldn’t live with that guilt again.
Not because he loved Rachel. No, of course not, and she didn’t love him, either. She was scared and clinging to the nearest lifesaver she could latch onto. But he wasn’t one to scramble for safety. He preferred being adrift. Because loving someone, needing someone, depending on someone would be the ruin of him. Protecting Rachel now was simply his job.
“Look, Rachel, when this is all over, I’ll take you home to Pennsylvania, to your family. Where you belong. But then I have another job. I have to hunt down more like Akiva. And I will. And you’ll have a baby to raise. You have a life to live.”
“But, Roc—”
“We’re too different, Rachel. You have a faith I can’t understand. It’s just who you are. How you were raised. My mother said her prayers, clicked her beads, which helped squat. I can’t take that leap.”
She reached for him, but he took another step back.
“Let’s get back to the house.” His voice sounded gruff. He aimed the flashlight back the way they had come. “Tomorrow, this will end. And you will go home with your baby. Then I will be just a distant memory, like a fading nightmare.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
When they reached the house, Rachel went upstairs to bed, her feet sounding heavier than usual. After watching for the lamplight in their room to flicker on around the edges of the shade, Roc sat on the swing and listened for any unusual sounds. He watched for anything that caught his eye. But mostly, he sat and tried not to think about Rachel.
The crunch of a footstep brought him to his feet, and he reached a hand inside his black coat.
“It’s okay, Roc. It’s me.” Samuel came into view. He held out a brown bottle. Roc released his Glock and smoothed his hands down his thighs as he settled back into the swing. Then he took the proffered root beer with a nod of thanks. Samuel sat on the upper step, leaning his back against the porch railing.
Roc studied the bottle. “I haven’t had root beer since I was a kid.”