I can deny it to myself no more. I love her. Dear God, I love her so much my heart is near exploding with the exquisite joy and fear I feel. It must radiate from my eyes when I look at her, and she must surely guess. But soon I’ll put words to my feelings, and she will know.
Hanna’s stomach clenched pleasantly, the way it used to whenever Micah was near. She longed to hear the words from his lips. She longed to say them in return. His desperate prayer for forgiveness surged to mind. He needed to know. He needed to know he was forgiven.
She twisted in bed, putting her feet on the floor. Only then did she realize it was two forty-five. She slumped in disappointment. Everything in her wanted to go to him, bang on his door, wake him up, and tell him. But common sense took hold. It was the middle of the night, for goodness’ sakes. She lay down and cradled the journal to her chest. Morning would come soon enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It seemed only moments later that she woke to the warm sun peeking through the drapes. Water dripped from the eaves outside, a sure sign the warmer temperatures were melting the roof snow.
The awareness of last night’s decision had not left her even during sleep. She slipped from beneath the covers, feeling at peace about the choice she’d made.
In her eagerness to see Micah, she skipped her shower and simply washed her face and combed her hair. After brushing her teeth and dressing in jeans and a sweater, she grabbed the journal and walked toward Micah’s room. Renewed hope put a spring in her steps, and soon she stood face to face with the wooden door.
She tapped lightly, then glanced at her watch. It was not yet eight o’clock, and she hoped he was awake. Tendrils of apprehension wove through her body, centering in her stomach where they knotted uneasily. Silence filled the hallway, and she strained to hear sounds of movement behind the door.
Maybe he was still in bed. Or in the shower, or shaving, like last time. Had it been just yesterday that she’d walked in and caught him unaware? It seemed like weeks ago, so much had changed in her heart. She knocked firmly and crossed her trembling arms, hugging her waist.
Nervous energy danced in her feet. Where was he? Was he avoiding her? She couldn’t blame him.
“Micah?” She called loud enough for him to hear behind the doors.
Silence met her beckoning. Where could he be?
The snow—he’s probably clearing the drive. She turned and scurried down the hall and into the lodge. Once there, she pulled aside the drapes and peered out. Her ears perked for the sound of the blower, but she heard nothing.
A clatter of pots and pans came from the kitchen. She followed the sounds, hoping to see Micah, but when she swung the louvered doors open, Gram was setting a pan on the stove.
“Good morning,” Gram said.
“Morning. Have you seen Micah?”
Her grandmother raised her brows. “No … why?”
Hanna wondered at the stilted caution in Gram’s voice. “I need to talk to him, but he’s not in his room. I can’t imagine where—”
“Oh my.” Gram’s wrinkled fingers covered her lips.
Trepidation poured like hot wax through her veins. “What is it?”
“Oh my. Oh dear.” Gram’s hand slid up to cover half her face as her eyes closed.
Hanna forced a note of patience in her voice. “Gram? What’s wrong?”
She opened her eyes, revealing sad regret. “Oh, Hanna, last night he was packing—he must’ve left earlier this morning—I tried to—”
Chills of dread pumped through her veins. “Why didn’t you—” She stopped the accusation and breathed deeply.
“I didn’t want to meddle. I didn’t think you’d want—” Her eyes glazed over.
Hanna felt a stab of remorse and took Gram’s hand. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blame you. Do you know where he was going?”
Gram shook her head. “He wouldn’t say. I asked, but he wouldn’t say.”
Hanna’s gaze darted helplessly around the cubicle. She had to find him. But how? She didn’t know any of his friends.
His foster father. She rushed to the office, leaving Gram to follow, and unlocked the door. She searched through the filing cabinet for the paper he’d scrawled on when he’d first arrived. That’s when she remembered. She’d tossed it out when she’d searched through her files. Her fingers stilled over the file tabs.
“What is it, child?”
She shut the drawer in a slow, decisive move. “I thought I had his foster father’s number in his file, but I don’t. Wait a minute. Natalie knows Jim. She’s seeing him for counseling.” Hanna punched in Nat’s number, and her sister answered the phone. Natalie had Jim’s work number, but he wouldn’t be in the office when the roads were barely passable. She called the number anyway, but it was just as she figured. Despair settled over her like a lead blanket. If Micah didn’t want to be found, he’d make sure he couldn’t be tracked. She met her grandmother’s gaze. “How am I going to find him?”
Micah walked up the steps to the building’s glass door. His feet felt heavy, as if weighted with sand. His fingers curled around the New Testament in the pocket of his coat, giving him a dash of comfort.
He walked with deliberate steps to the front desk. The man was filling out a form and continued doing so for what seemed like minutes. His thin salt-and-pepper hair swept across his scalp in a poor attempt to disguise a bald spot.
Finally he looked up. “Can I help you?”
Micah cleared his suddenly dry throat. His gut tightened in a hard knot, sending tremors of fear through his system. “My name is Micah Gallagher. I’d like to turn myself in for a crime I committed eight years ago.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“I was going to tell him I forgive him, Gram,” Hanna said.
Gram drew her into a warm embrace. “I’m so sorry. Oh, why didn’t I tell you last night? All this could’ve been avoided.”
“It’s not your fault. The way I’ve acted the last two days, it’s no wonder you thought I wouldn’t care. I did want him to leave.”
Gram pulled back. “We’ll find him somehow.”
She didn’t know how. For the past two hours, she’d searched the files of her mind for ideas and had come up empty.
The phone rang, and Gram answered. It had been ringing steadily all morning with former guests who wanted to ski Teton Pass and potential guests who had seen their magazine ad. She should feel pleased that Higher Grounds was going to survive, but her sorrow at losing Micah coated everything with despair.
Her heart felt like it was in pieces. Micah was gone, and he didn’t even know that she loved him. He thought she despised him. A heavy weight settled inside her, and she blinked back tears. She walked to the window and squinted at the glaring, white world. That was the worst of it. He was out there somewhere thinking he was beyond forgiveness. She’d read it in his eyes, in his posture over the past two days. And she’d let him think it. She’d wanted him to think it.
She swallowed around the achy lump in her throat. What would he do? Where would he go? She remembered she owed him three paychecks, and regret swelled within her. She closed her eyes. Why did it take so long to see the truth? To see that he’d changed? Why had it taken the horror of his past to shove her into the place of forgiving? It had been eight years ago. He hadn’t even known her. He’d been drunk. He’d been abused. Who’s to say that she wouldn’t have done something just as despicable if her circumstances had mirrored his?
She, who’d been raised in a loving, Christian family. How could she even fathom the effects of an abusive childhood? Who was she to be the judge and jury of his actions? God was the only One qualified to do that, and He had forgiven Micah.
“Why did it take me so long?” she muttered to herself.
“To forgive?”
Hanna jumped. She hadn’t heard Gram’s approach. She nodded, aching in the marrow of her bones. “I thought I was over it years ago. I thought I had forgiven my attacker.”
Gram
shook her head. “I’ve been praying all these years that God would bring you to a place of forgiveness and peace.”
How had Gram known when she hadn’t known herself? Well, I guess your prayers were answered. In an awful, harrowing way, she added silently. Please, Father, help me find Micah or bring him back to us.
The phone trilled in the distance. Gram went to answer it.
“Hanna, it’s for you. It’s a Sergeant Whitco from the police station,” Gram whispered.
Hanna sighed. Now that the snow had cleared, they must want her to fill out a formal complaint against Devon. She didn’t feel like dealing with it right now.
She took the phone from Gram. “This is Hanna Landin.”
The sergeant introduced himself. “Ms. Landin, you filled out a formal complaint about eight years ago against a man who assaulted you. Do you remember that?”
Her attention blurred at the unexpected topic, then snapped into focus. Every nerve in her body tingled with awareness. “Yes—I mean—yes, I remember.”
“This may come as a shock, but we’ve apprehended the perpetrator.”
“What?”
Gram turned at her tone.
He cleared his throat. “Actually, what I mean to say is, he turned himself in.”
Her head buzzed with confusion. “What do you—who turned himself in?”
“The man who committed the crime. Or so he says.”
Her mind spun as he went on about the unusual nature of the situation. What would drive a man to turn himself in after eight years? Your anger. Your judgmental attitude. Your unforgiveness. Dear God, was he trying to punish himself—trying to earn forgiveness? Her heart ached.
Silence filled the lines, and she realized belatedly he’d asked her about pressing charges. “No! No, I don’t want to press charges.”
A long pause filled the line. “Ms. Landin, I know it was a long time ago, but—”
“No,” she said, as firmly as she could. “I won’t press charges.”
“We can set up a meeting with a victims advocate if you like and—”
“That won’t be necessary.”
She needed Micah to know that she forgave him, that she didn’t want him punished anymore. The sergeant was saying good-bye, and she muttered good-bye in return before she placed the receiver in the cradle.
Still in shock, she told Gram what had happened. Then it hit her. “He’s there, at the police station.” She had found him. Or rather, God had found him, and she could go to him and tell him everything.
She slipped on her boots and grabbed her coat. Turning, she snatched the journal off her desk. “I’ve got to catch him before they let him go.”
“Drive carefully,” Gram called before the door slammed behind her.
The van started reluctantly after sitting in the cold for three days. She maneuvered it out of the lot and onto the slick driveway, her whole body trembling with anxiety.
Micah’s shirt clung to him, producing a sticky layer of heat under his coat, but he couldn’t summon the will to remove it. His heart beat erratically under his clothing, and his legs felt weak and shaky, either a reminder of the breakfast he’d skipped or a hint at his emotional condition.
He saw a poster of wanted criminals, and he scanned the black-and-white photos. He was no better than they were. Hadn’t he committed a crime and evaded the police for eight years? Hadn’t he victimized an innocent woman and left her wounded? Remorse filled him, eating away at the soft coating of his heart. He tasted the pain—relished it.
His future stretched before him like a dark, dirty corridor. He hadn’t forgotten what the inside of a jail cell looked like. But he needed to pay for his crime. Maybe then he would feel forgiven; maybe then he would forgive himself.
When a bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck, he shrugged out of his coat, letting it fall behind him on the metal chair. The door opened, and he looked up hopefully at Sergeant Whitco. Micah searched the man’s face. When Micah had given the sergeant his reason for being there, he’d looked at him suspiciously. Micah knew Whitco had thought him a nut case. One of those attention-seekers who confesses to crimes he didn’t commit. If only that were true. But Micah had known the officer would change his mind when he checked the files.
The officer dropped a folder on his desk and seated himself across from Micah. His eyes had lost that suspicious look. Accusation and distaste had taken its place. It was there in the slightly curled-up corner of his nose, in the hardened jaw and rigid posture. He knew Micah was just what he’d said. Micah shifted in his seat and focused on the cluttered desk. It had been a long time since his presence had evoked disdain. He liked it even less now than he had then.
Micah wondered what would happen next. Would a court date be set in which Hanna would testify? He hoped she could be spared that. Surely, with his pleading guilty—
“I looked in the files for information on the crime to which you admit, and the original statement of Ms.—the victim—concurs with the information you’ve given us.”
Micah waited, wanting to search the officer’s eyes for more information, but unable to look at him directly.
Whitco leaned his elbows on the desk, and Micah felt his probing eyes. “I just got off the phone with the young woman.”
Micah’s heart lurched, and he looked at Whitco. He hadn’t known they would contact her so soon.
“Contrary to my recommendation, she refuses to press charges.” The sergeant folded his hands on top of the manila folder. He seemed disappointed.
Anxiety pressed on his chest, squeezing and wrenching. “What does that mean?”
He shrugged. “Unfortunately, it means you’re free to go.”
Micah’s head tipped forward. “But—I’m turning myself in. I committed a crime—”
“Son, the DA is never going to pursue this kind of case without the victim’s cooperation.”
Dismay settled over him, mingled with a pinch of relief. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, and he used it to organize his thoughts. “But this is different. I’m turning myself in—that doesn’t happen every day—”
“Not on my shift.” The sergeant gave a wan smile.
“There must be something on the books, some way around this …”
He narrowed his eyes as if trying to figure Micah out. “Am I to understand that you want to be arrested?”
“That’s why I came.”
“Well, yes, I know, but—” He stopped and shook his head. “Apparently the young lady is past this—issue—or else she doesn’t want to relive it. That’s not uncommon; most rape victims don’t even report it.”
Micah closed his eyes, his hope dwindling fast. Then an idea formed, and he grabbed on to it like a lifeline. “Maybe you could go see her.” He leaned forward, clutching the desk’s edge with his fingers. “Don’t you have some kind of counselor or something? Someone who can—”
Whitco was shaking his head. “I already offered that.” Confusion coated the man’s eyes as Micah saw him spot the WWJD bracelet he always wore.
In that moment Micah let all defenses down. He had nothing to hide. All pride had perished long ago. Please God. I want this. I want to make it as right as I can.
Whitco’s chair creaked, and Micah blinked to see him leaning back in his chair, his chin nudging upward as if he’d just figured Micah out. “You’re a Christian.”
Micah’s brows drew together.
“I saw your bracelet.” The sergeant drew in a deep breath and let it out in one whoosh. “I get it. You did something wrong before—and now you want to pay for it.”
“It’s more than that …”
“Maybe it is, but you’ve got to get over it. I can’t arrest you; the victim doesn’t even want me to. She’s beyond it; now you need to get beyond it too.”
The man didn’t understand. He couldn’t possibly. Micah stared at a V-shaped scar on the oak desk. Where would he go now? What would he do? How could he get on with his life when his crime hung over h
im like a black thundercloud?
Sergeant Whitco’s chair scraped across the floor as he stood. He extended a hand.
Numbly, Micah stood and took it.
“Good luck, son. Sorry I can’t help you.”
Micah turned mechanically and left the building. His cycle stood right where he’d left it, with two bags piled on its back. He remembered Hanna helping him fix it. He remembered Hanna clinging to his back as the wind ruffled their hair.
He remembered Hanna’s expression when he’d told her who he was. The disbelief—the refusal to believe. Then the horror, the hurt, the anger that raked over her features. Her eyes turning an intense green with splinters of gold fire. Her skin stretched taut across her cheekbones.
He peeled out of the lot, giving no thought to direction. His heart pressed against his rib cage with the heavy load of guilt. Memories flashed like lightning in his mind. Hanna retching from the shock of his confession, Hanna singeing him with her eyes as he stoked the fire, Hanna staring in revulsion at his disfigured flesh.
He drove aimlessly, the pictures scalding him like acid. Why couldn’t he escape the guilt? God had forgiven him. Why couldn’t he forgive himself?
He hadn’t known where he was headed until his cycle pulled to a stop alongside the road. He dismounted, tugged off his helmet, and scanned the place. A canopy of pine needles sheltered the white ground. The sun moved behind a cloud, casting a shadow over the area.
His feet moved forward, toward the place. He trudged through the shin-deep snow without a thought. He didn’t feel the cold wetness against his ankles. He didn’t feel the wind’s chill on his skin. He felt only the driving need to get there.
The ground sloped suddenly downward, and his feet stopped. A picture flashed into his mind. Something he’d forgotten until now. It had been dark. The landscape had been painted in dark shades of gray. He hadn’t seen the gully, and they’d fallen down it, rolling and twisting until they’d jammed against a tree. His hand had slipped off her mouth, and she’d screamed in the dark.
He could hear it even now. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out, but it replayed in his mind like a haunting nightmare.
Mending Places Page 27