A Time to Heal

by Barbara Cameron

  "But he didn't do it!" Hannah repeated. "It isn't his fault I got hurt."

  Sighing, Phoebe nodded. "But he blames himself. I think you have to be prepared for him to stay away." She smiled. "So I guess you know what you need to do, don't you?"

  "Get better and get out of here," Hannah said slowly. "And then I want to go see Christopher Matlock. I have a few things to say to him."

  "Gut," said Phoebe and she smiled.

  Hannah lay against her pillows, closed her eyes, and let exhaustion overtake her. It seemed no matter how much she slept, she needed more. She was beginning to despair that she'd ever go home.

  The air in the jail felt cold and dank and, if she were fanciful, smelled of despair.

  Hannah was glad she'd never done anything to land herself here. A jail officer sent her through the security checkpoint and then made her take off her sling to check that she wasn't carrying weapons.

  "Hey, Bill, she's okay," another officer called over. "She's a victim. It was in the news last week, remember?"

  "She could be here to hurt him," Bill said, not impressed.The other officer rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. When's the last time you heard of an Amish person who did something criminal?"

  "Never make assumptions. There's always a first time." The officer showed no expression as he glanced up at Hannah. "No offense, ma'am."

  "None taken," she said, awkwardly sliding the sling over her arm again.

  "The D.A.'s gonna have a cow," she heard one of the officers say as she walked away.

  "Why's that?"

  "You remember . . . it's that forgiveness thing they do."

  Malcolm Kraft waited behind a glass window, one of a long line of them. People who had been arrested sat on one side and visitors sat on the other.

  He looked different than the last time she'd seen him. He'd been so consumed with anger at Chris—and mad at her for interfering. The ball cap and sunglasses had obscured much of his face and his eyes, but there had been no hiding the deadly intent of the man—especially when she saw the gun in his hands.

  She'd been afraid of him then. Maybe not enough, she thought now, as her arm ached and she cradled it against her in an effort to get comfortable.

  Now, he sat with his shoulders slumped and his face took on a pained look when he saw her. With some reluctance, he picked up the telephone as she sat and lifted the one on her side to her ear.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked, his tone unfriendly.

  "Thank you for seeing me."

  He sighed and wouldn't meet her eyes. "I almost didn't.They told me it was you again and not—" he stopped.

  "Your wife?"

  His eyes finally met hers and she saw defeat. "I don't blame her for not wanting to have anything to do with me. I don't deserve her or my son after what I did."

  A shaft of pain lanced through Hannah's heart as she thought about his little boy.

  "Look, I'm really sorry for what happened. I didn't mean to hurt you."

  "But you brought a gun to hurt Chris."

  He nodded.

  "Why were you not in prison? The article I read said you were in prison."

  "My lawyer got the verdict overturned." When he saw her frown, he explained, "They decided I wasn't guilty."

  "But you are."

  He glanced around, then leaned forward. "You trying to get me to say I did it? Well, I won't. I'm not giving anyone a chance to prosecute me for that again."

  "That's not my intention," she assured him. "But it seems like you got a second chance," she said slowly.

  He shrugged. "Yeah. I guess. So why are you here?"

  Reaching into her purse, she withdrew the article she'd printed that day at the library. She folded it so that the photo of his little boy, Jamie, was the only thing that showed, and she held it up so he could see it.

  His face crumpled and he began crying. "Why are you doing this? "

  "I don't want to hurt you, Mr. Kraft. I want to know why you were so angry with Chris that you forgot this little boy who needs you."

  He raised his eyes and wiped away tears with his knuckles."Like my wife is ever gonna to let me near him again." He stood. "I'm sorry for hurting you, but if you don't mind, I'm going back to my cell now."

  "Mr. Kraft! Don't hang up!"

  When she saw him stop, she took a deep breath.

  "If you got another chance—"

  "A third chance? Yeah. Right!" He started to hang up the phone again.

  "What would you do with it?"

  "People don't get those."

  She nodded. "Maybe some people don't. Would you be able to remember what's important this time and do the right thing?"

  He must have sensed that she was serious because he sank into his chair. "What are you talking about?"

  Hannah shifted in her chair. Her arm throbbed. Maybe Jenny was right. She'd said it was too soon to be out doing this, but when Hannah insisted, she'd driven her there in the buggy.

  "I forgive you for hurting me," she said quietly. When he went still, she nodded.

  "People don't do that. You got hurt because of me. Why would you do that?"

  "Because if I don't forgive you, how can I ever expect God to forgive me?"

  "Like you ever do something you need to be forgiven for!" he said, his laughter disbelieving.

  If he only knew . . . Hannah had been guilty of discontent, of feeling unhappy with her life. Maybe that wasn't on the same level as what he'd done, but that was beside the point.

  "It doesn't matter," she told him. "We don't believe in judging."

  "You're saying you can sit there hurting because of something I did and you can forgive me?"

  "Yes," she said simply. "I already have."

  "Mr. Benton?"

  The assistant district attorney looked up at Hannah, ran his hands through his thinning hair, and gave her a baleful look.

  "Yeah?"

  "Hi, I'm—"

  "I know who you are," he said, standing. He waved at the chair before his desk. "And I know why you're here."

  "Really?"

  He sighed heavily. "Yeah. I hear things. And going by my past experience with the Amish, you're here to tell me you don't want me to prosecute Kraft."

  Hannah nodded.

  The assistant district attorney sighed again, shuffled the papers on his desk to find a file, and pulled it out.

  "Ma'am, this man set fire to your brother's barn, which injured one of his workers; poisoned the horse belonging to the elderly woman you live with; and shot you, seriously injuring you."

  "Yes, I know that," Hannah said calmly. "But I don't want to press charges. I understand I have that right."

  "You do, but I can also prosecute a crime that others witnessed, even without your permission."

  Chris. He'd witnessed her getting shot. Hannah sighed inwardly. She didn't think she had a chance of convincing him not to prosecute Kraft after all he'd been through with him.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am," the man continued. "But I'm not willing to let someone like that waltz out of jail and do more harm to our community. It's been my experience that the Amish have been reluctant to prosecute for religious reasons. Attempted murder's a much bigger deal than vandalism or petty theft."

  "But I don't want to press charges," she said again.

  "It's one thing for your brother to refuse to prosecute Kraft for setting fire to the barn, but I don't understand why you and Eli Yoder won't go after him for injuring both of you— especially you."

  He got up and walked to the coffeemaker on a side table."Can I get you some?"

  "No, thank you."

  He seated himself again, took a sip of the coffee, and made a face that indicated it tasted bitter.

  "Is this man intimidating you? Has he contacted you to talk you out of pressing charges?"

  "No."

  She watched the man rub his temples as if he had a headache. It wasn't her intention to stress him, but this was important. She didn't intend on changing her mind. She was
n't about to see Kraft get locked away again when there might be a chance for him to salvage his life.

  He tapped his pen against the file that sat on the desk before him and tried to look stern. It didn't work, in Hannah's opinion.

  "I have a report in here from the doctor who operated on you. He said your injuries were life-threatening, that your blood loss led to shock and heart arrhythmia."

  "I know all that. The doctor told me."

  "Then how can you think Kraft shouldn't pay for doing what he did to you?"

  She sat up straighter. "I'm not against prosecuting Mr. Kraft because I'm not aware of what he's done here, but there has to be an alternative to incarceration, some middle ground we can reach."

  "You're asking me to—"

  "I looked into it, and there are some programs where he can get probation and counseling. And if he violates any of the conditions of the probation, he suffers the consequences."

  They stared at each other for a long time.

  Finally, the man sighed and shook his head. He reached for a folder and pulled out some forms. "Okay, this is what I'm willing to do."

  If he stayed here a hundred years, Chris didn't think he'd ever understand the Amish.

  "You have to talk to Hannah!"

  Matthew looked up from forking hay into a barn stall."Why?"

  "I just heard that she's not pressing charges against Kraft."

  "It's not our way."

  "But he shot her!"

  "I'm well aware of that."

  Chris paced. "She could have died."

  Matthew winced. "I'm well aware of that too."

  "I thought she'd bleed to death before I could get help for her." He felt sick at the thought and sank down onto a hay bale.

  His glance went to the loft. Everything had changed from the time he'd climbed up there, fallen asleep, and awakened to find Hannah's wide eyes staring at him. She'd been shocked to find him there, and the surprise had caused her to lose her footing.

  He remembered how it had felt to see her fall, to grab at her and feel her hand slip in his before he could grasp both of hers and lift her up. It had taken quite a while for his heartbeat to steady after he hauled her over the edge of the loft and made sure she was okay.

  He hadn't been the same since.

  This Plain woman, so different from any woman he'd ever met, had intrigued, puzzled, and annoyed him beyond measure. He'd been in a state of anxiety the whole week she recuperated in the hospital and only when he saw her being brought home—pale, her arm in a sling—had he begun to relax.

  And now she wanted to let out the man who had hurt her, almost caused her to lose her life?

  Matthew laid his hand on his shoulder. "I know it's hard for outsiders to understand. But in my opinion, it's probably the central, most important tenet to our beliefs. It doesn't mean we forget what's been done to us. But we remember that we don't have to understand God, just to trust Him and have faith in Him."

  "I always wonder why God lets bad things happen to good people. Why would God let somebody hurt someone as good as Hannah?"

  "Maybe because God Himself doesn't judge someone as bad—so why should we? I don't really know why. But I know that she truly can't be hurt by anything that happens to her."

  "If that's true, how come she's got her arm in a sling?"

  He heard the bitterness in his voice and got to his feet. "I'm sorry. I'm just angry that this happened."

  "Angry at yourself or angry at God?"

  Startled, Chris stared at him. "A little of both, I guess."

  "I don't see how you could have prevented what happened.God allows for free will—for people to do things even when He probably wishes they didn't. And can you blame God when we don't understand why He allows things? He has His reasons and our job isn't to question Him."

  Chris paced the barn again. "I tried to get her to leave, but she came back. She came back and put her buggy right in front of Kraft."

  Matthew folded his arms across his chest and studied Chris. "I didn't hear all this before. I thought she just got in the way."

  "Oh no," Chris said, spinning to glare at Matthew. "That crazy sister of yours decided she'd stop him from hurting me."

  "She must love you even more than I thought," Matthew murmured, looking thoughtful. "Jenny said so, but I didn't believe her. Don't know why," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and giving Chris a sheepish grin. "She's always right."

  Then his grin faded. "So now you have a lot of forgiving to do, eh? Kraft. Hannah. God. And yourself."

  Chris slid his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Yeah."

  "You could talk to the bishop, you know. He helped me a lot when I felt angry at God."

  "You were?"

  "Isn't everyone at some point in his life? I experienced such anger when Amelia suffered such a terrible illness, enraged that He took her home to be with Him when we loved and needed her. I shouldn't have been left by myself to raise our kinner. They shouldn't have lost their precious Mamm. Ya, I was angry. It took a long, long time and a lot of talking to the bishop to get over that."

  Chris thought about how he'd been so angry with God when he watched buddies get hurt and sometimes die during his tour. He'd been angry and hurt when his superiors and the men he served with didn't back him up to see that Kraft got prosecuted. All of that was bad enough.

  Then, with a week to go before he got out, he'd been hit with a roadside bomb. Now he figured any woman would run screaming if she saw the scars on his body in the daylight.

  Joshua ran into the barn. "Daedi! Aenti Hannah needs help—"

  Chris felt his heart jump into his throat. "What's wrong? Has he come back?"

  "What . . . who?"

  "The man who shot her." His voice rose. "Has he come back?"

  "Nee." Joshua looked from Chris to his father and then back at Chris. "There's no man. She just wants Daedi to come over and help move something."

  He turned to his father. "Hannah says Phoebe's going to do it if you don't get there quick!"

  Matthew thrust the hay hook at Chris and hurried out of the barn, muttering about some women taking on more than they should.

  Chris's heart settled back down where it should be. He finished Matthew's task, then fed the horses. Joshua followed behind him, giving the horses fresh water to drink.

  "You need to go see her."

  "She doesn't want to see me."

  Chris avoided Jenny's eyes and wondered how he'd allowed himself to be trapped into talking to Jenny. When she'd asked him to help her carry the refreshment tray back to the house, he'd been suspicious but didn't know how to refuse.

  Then, when they reached the porch, she indicated that he should sit in a chair, then drew another chair over and sat beside him.

  "She does."

  Chris drained the glass of iced tea and set it down on the table beside him on. "She can't possibly want me to visit her after I was responsible for her getting hurt."

  "That was Kraft's fault, not yours. I know you care for her— I saw that. And she cares for you too."

  His heart leaped at the thought, but just as quickly he tamped down his feelings and shook his head. "It doesn't matter.How could that work with our differences?"

  "Which differences would those be?"

  He stared at her as if she'd grown three eyes. "Religious, cultural."

  Her gaze went to the fields, and he looked in the direction she did and saw Matthew.

  "It's worked well for us," she said slowly, and she looked at him again. "I'm not saying it hasn't been hard adjusting sometimes even though my grandmother was Amish and I visited during some summers."

  She smiled and set her glass on the tray. "Matthew was the boy next door I had a crush on and never forgot."

  He watched her absently rub at a faded scar on her hand.It no longer felt strange to see this woman he'd seen at the veteran's hospital wearing Plain clothing, doing chores around the farm, and stealing time to write while the children—her childr
en now—were at school.

  "Not everyone was accepting of our getting married," she told him with a smile.

  They looked at each other and at the same time said, "Josiah."

  She laughed. "Yes. Apparently you and I are in a unique society for his . . . mistrust. But he's grown to accept me even if he doesn't approve of me. It'll take time for him to accept you."

  "You act like I'm staying."

  Getting to her feet, she reached down and patted his cheek."Yes, because even though you're a man, I think you're smarter than that."

  "Hey!"

  She stopped at the door and turned around. "Look, I shouldn't have teased you. It's scary loving someone. But do you really want to walk away from Hannah without even trying to see if it'll work?"

  She didn't wait for him to answer.

  Good thing, he thought, because he didn't know what to say.

  Hannah sat with her quilting circle, trying to stitch a section of the Sunshine and Shadow quilt she'd started for Chris before she was shot.

  It was fortunate that she was right-handed and it was her left arm that had been injured. But the awkwardness and occasional pain shooting down her arm as she worked didn't make things easy.

  She didn't know why she was still working on this. Why should she give him a quilt when he wouldn't visit her—even now when only a field separated them?

  The other women had offered to help her complete it, but she always finished what she started. First, she'd finish the quilt.

  Then she'd have a talk with him and he'd hear how she felt about him not coming to see her.

  Then she thought, why not now? The time was right—right now!

  She marched to the door.

  "Hannah? Where are you going?" Phoebe called to her.

  The other ladies looked up from their quilting.

  "I need to go next door for something. I'll be right back."

  She found Jenny in the kitchen, sitting at the table, writing on a big yellow pad.

  "Well, hello! Are you through with the quilting already? I can fix us some tea—"

  "So what does 'sweetheart' mean?" she asked without preamble.

  "You know what it means."

  "Tell me."

  "Okay. It's a term someone uses when they love you."