The Sugar Haus Inn

by Serena B. Miller

  BAM!

  Who would be using a hammer this early in the morning? Glancing at her watch, she was aghast to see that it was almost eight. She had been asleep for a good three hours and was now late for work. So much for that catnap!

  She decided to run past her house anyway. After sleeping in her clothes, a fresh uniform was a necessity.

  Rising from her crouch, she gasped from the sudden pain in her back—another reminder of the battle that had ended her career as an inner-city cop in Cleveland. She had managed to lock that psychopath behind bars, but not before he had laid her out in the hospital for a month and sent her scurrying back to Sugarcreek afterward, where her biggest challenges so far had been traffic tickets, DUIs, and convincing Amish kids to keep their rumspringa parties in check.

  Bam! BAM! BAM!

  She glanced outside and saw nothing except the yard, the barn, and the rolling hills beyond. Shoving her face close to the window, she angled her eyes downward. The noise seemed to be coming from directly below her, but she couldn’t see who was making it.

  Perhaps Eli had finished his milking and come to repair that broken step. If so, she would try to make it up to him. Now that she was once again living in Sugarcreek, her aunts were her responsibility, not Eli’s. He had enough to do in keeping his own farm running.

  After the Swiss Festival was behind her, she would be able to spend more time here, get more done. She needed to trim the yard again, for one thing, and lug that heavy sign at the end of the driveway into the barn. The fact that she had not fixed that broken porch step yet shamed her. It should have been a priority. Her aunts couldn’t afford another accident.

  Retucking her shirt and straightening her uniform, she finger-combed her hair and strapped on her utility belt. If Joe Matthews was still in residence after today, she would bring a change of clothes and come back tonight. There was no way she was leaving her aunts alone with him for any length of time. In fact, she intended to swing by the farm as often as possible today just to let him know that she was keeping an eye on him.

  A lone bottle of aspirin sat on the dresser. Grabbing the glass of water she had carried up to the room last night, she tossed back a couple of pills. Too late, she remembered to check the date. Just as she had suspected—it was several months past expiration. Her aunts, bless their hearts, needed more watching with each passing year. She made a mental note to go through the rest of the house and toss any other expired medications as soon as possible.

  As she clumped down the stairs, she saw that all three aunts were gathered around the kitchen window, craning their necks, fascinated with something outside.

  “What’s going on?” Rachel rested her hand on Lydia’s shoulder as she asked the question.

  Lydia moved aside. “Joe is fixing that bad step.” Her voice softened into wistfulness. “And Bobby is helping.”

  “Joe is nice!” Anna said.

  Rachel immediately saw what had so riveted her aunts’ attention. Joe, in jeans, T-shirt, and tool belt, would cause anyone to stare. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a man so perfectly formed.

  Visions of the potential harm those muscular arms and hands could do swam in front of her. She had experienced firsthand the damage a man could inflict on a woman—even a woman trained in self-defense. Her precious aunts wouldn’t stand a chance. They couldn’t even call for help without first stumbling out to the phone shanty.

  Unfortunately, there were some outsiders who were under the mistaken impression that the Amish had lots of money. She had overheard people say, resentfully, that the Amish must be rich because they didn’t have to pay taxes. She always spoke up when she heard that nonsense. She knew for a fact that they were required by law to pay all taxes except Social Security—from which they were excused because the Amish took care of their own.

  If this homeless guy thought that her aunts were sitting on a pile of cash, they could be in terrible danger.

  However, in spite of her distrust, she had to admit that father and son made an arresting picture. Bobby sat cross-legged on the porch floor with a crumpled paper sack in his lap, concentrating on handing his daddy one nail at a time. Joe thanked the child politely for each nail he accepted from his son.

  Then she noticed that the red-handled hammer looked familiar. So did the handsaw. And the tool belt…

  Rachel put her hands on her hips. “Who gave that man permission to use Dad’s tools?”

  “I did.” Bertha pulled away from the window. “Joe offered to do some repairs to pay us for the use of the cabin. I told him to help himself to anything he needed.”

  Rachel bit back a sharp retort. The aspirin was too weak to diminish her headache, and her irritation over her aunts’ gullibility rendered her nearly speechless.

  Her dad’s tools were good ones. Expensive too. Frank Troyer had believed in buying the best he could afford and caring for his tools properly. They were stored away in the old workroom inside the barn. Now she was afraid that if she didn’t keep a sharp eye out, they would find their way into Joe’s possession when he left.

  Rachel gritted her teeth with frustration and glanced at her watch.

  “Look. I’m uneasy about this guy. Something is off about him. Trust me on this. Don’t let him back into the house unless I’m here. And please promise me you’ll ask him to leave after he’s repaired the steps.”

  Bertha stumped over to the rocking chair and fell into it. “No,” she said.

  “No?”

  “I will not send that child away. You should not ask me.” She stared pointedly at the wooden plaque beside the door.

  Rachel closed her eyes and willed herself to have patience with that “angels unaware” thing—again.

  “At least promise you won’t let Joe move into the house while I’m gone,” she said.

  “We promise,” Lydia said. “But will you get angry if we let Bobby play with your old toys from the attic?”

  Angry? She was coming off as angry to her aunts? She was simply trying to protect them, for pity’s sake. Lydia’s comment hurt, and tears stung the backs of her eyes.

  “Of course I don’t mind. Let Bobby play with anything he wants.” She grabbed her keys off the kitchen counter and headed out the door. “If Joe and his son are still here when I get back, I’ll be spending the night again.”

  “That is fine, Rachel,” Bertha said calmly. “You know you are always welcome.”

  She avoided the back step—and Joe—by stepping directly off the porch. Unfortunately, she misjudged the distance and landed in the middle of the flower bed. It had rained during the night, and the earth was soggy. Gathering her dignity, she extricated herself from the muddy soil.

  “Have a good day, Officer.” Joe lifted her father’s favorite hammer in a wave.

  Unable to speak past the lump in her throat, she ignored him. Even if he skipped town with her dad’s tools in his possession, she hoped the man would be gone before nightfall.

  Of all the scenarios Joe had anticipated when he chose to leave his identity behind in LA, being broke was not one of them.

  For the first time in years, getting ahold of some cash was a major issue. One option was to find temporary work in town. A few days of—what? Waiting tables at Beachy’s Country Chalet? A short-lived construction job?

  Even assuming he could find work, what would he do with Bobby?

  One thing he knew for sure: he needed to make himself invaluable to the Troyer sisters. He hoped that if he kept doing odd jobs for them, they wouldn’t kick him out quite yet. For now, they were his best hope of keeping Bobby fed and sheltered until he could figure out how to survive without being tracked down by the people determined to find him.

  “Are you finished?” Bertha hobbled to the edge of the porch.

  “Yes, ma’am. This is my last nail.” Joe gave it a whack and slid the hammer back into the leather tool belt.

  She peered down at the newly repaired steps. “You know carpentry pretty goot?”

  “My d
ad liked to build. He taught me the basics.”

  “Ach.” She nudged Bobby with the walker. “Helping your father. That is how a boy learns.”

  Bobby looked up at her with his innocent blue eyes. “Daddy says I’m a good helper-boy.”

  “Da ayya lowb shtinkt,” Bertha said with a smile.

  “Excuse me?” Joe asked.

  “It is an Amish proverb,” Bertha said. “It means, ‘He who praises himself stinks.’ ” She shrugged. “We try to keep our children from thinking too highly of themselves.”

  “I see.”

  Actually, Joe didn’t. It was his opinion that children needed every drop of confidence they could get. Fortunately, Bobby didn’t seem to have been affected by Bertha’s proverb.

  Her eyes narrowed as she gave Joe an appraising look. “Wouldja mind trimming the yard a bit?”

  “I’d be happy to.”

  She smoothed her hand over Bobby’s hair. “You come with me, boy. Lydia has some toys you will be wanting to see.”

  Bobby handed his father the bag of remaining nails and obediently followed Bertha inside. Just before the screen door closed behind them, Bertha called over her shoulder, “The fence rows could use a few whacks too. The scythe is hanging in the barn.”

  Fencerows? Scythe?

  It had not been his intention to spend the entire day doing odd jobs for the Troyer sisters. Not that he minded helping them out; they had been kind to him and he was grateful, but he needed to be finding a way out of this situation. And considering the suspicious nature of their niece, he needed to find a way out fast.

  He considered various possible plans as he carried the hand tools back to the barn and put them away. None of the ideas worked for him.

  It was quiet in the barn—and peaceful. It was also the first time he had been away from Bobby since they had begun their journey. He felt guilty over the momentary relief he felt at this short breather from his son and the constant little-boy questions. He loved Bobby desperately and completely, but the stillness inside that old barn was healing.

  Dust motes danced in a slant of sunlight inside the barn. He remembered his father once saying that God was aware of everything—each speck of dust and grain of sand—even down to knowing the number of hairs on his head.

  The silence and dignity of the old Amish barn enveloped him. It almost felt as though he had entered the sanctuary of a cathedral. He suddenly felt himself acutely missing the comfort of his father’s faith.

  Although he had taught Bobby to say grace before meals, personal, heartfelt prayer was something to which he had allowed himself to become a stranger. Formerly wrapped up in his hectic schedule, there had never seemed to be enough time. And after Grace’s death, he had become so angry and hurt that he had rebelled against the very thought of a loving God who would allow such a tragedy to occur.

  He knew better. Much better. He knew that Satan was also a factor in the world—one with which Joe had wrestled and lost.

  The slice of sunlight illuminated a stack of hay bales in the center of the barn. As though his legs had a will of their own, he approached the bales and kneeled in the loose straw and dust scattered across the floor. As he leaned his elbows on a hay bale and bowed his head, the sliver of sunlight warmed his shoulders like a grace note from God.

  He had no words. He could form no prayer. Instead, he simply rested in God’s presence, acknowledging the fact that he was totally beaten and had been for a long time. As he knelt, absolutely still, communing silently with the God he had once served, a gentle warmth began to fill him, thawing areas of his heart he had not realized were frozen. It was the first relief he had felt since he had discovered his wife’s broken body.

  With renewed inner strength he arose, determined not to worry, at least for now, about the future. He would concentrate on the task at hand—cleaning out Bertha’s fencerows—while trying to allow God to lead the way. His own original plan, to hide himself and his son away by constantly traveling upon the back roads of America, was not working out particularly well. He hoped God had a better one.

  He found an old-fashioned scythe hanging from a nail beside the workbench. The curved wooden handle came nearly to his chest. He carried it outside and took a few awkward swipes at some weeds near the barn.

  “That is letz—wrong.”

  He was surprised to discover Eli watching him. The Amishman was wearing a battered straw hat with a flat brim, faded gray pants, and a stained blue work shirt with suspenders.

  The old man reached for the scythe. “I will show you.”

  In Eli’s capable hands, the scythe cut through the weeds like a knife through warm butter.

  “Twist at the waist and keep the blade level with the ground.” Eli wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Du broviahra.” He thrust the scythe toward Joe. “You try.”

  Joe did as Eli instructed and was amazed at what the long, curved blade could accomplish when properly wielded.

  “Better, jah?” Eli nodded his approval.

  “Jah.” Joe was impressed with the tool. “I mean—yes.”

  “Come, I will teach you how to sharpen it. Then you can finish on your own.” The old man found a whetting stone on the workbench, sat down on a hay bale, and began to hone the blade.

  Joe dropped down close beside him to better watch the expertise of Eli’s hands. The old man immediately scooted away, increasing the distance between them by a full foot. Joe made a mental note to be more respectful of Eli’s personal space in the future.

  “Where will you go when your vehicle is fixed?” Eli rubbed a thumb along the scythe blade, testing it.

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “To your family, I betcha.”

  “I don’t have any—except Bobby.”

  Eli looked at him in surprise. “No family?”

  “Not on this continent.”

  “You have been driving around with no destination?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You Englisch.” Eli’s voice was puzzled. “I will never understand you.”

  Joe was surprised to find that the old man’s opinion mattered to him. He didn’t want Eli to think his journey had been frivolous.

  “My wife—died. I—I felt the need to get away for a while.”

  Eli stared hard at him. “When was this?”

  “Six months ago.”

  “It is hard to lose one’s woman, but it is not possible to run away from grief.” Eli’s eyes filled with empathy. “I, too, have felt the sting of losing my mate.”

  “I’m sorry,” Joe said. “How long?”

  Eli looked down at the file he now held motionless in his hand. “Four years—today.”

  “How have you stood it?”

  The old man suddenly stood up and went toward the door of the barn. Fetching a tin of water from the pump outside the barn, he returned and poured a trickle over the scythe.

  “Work is a gift from Gott for those who are grieving, so I work hard.” The whetting stone rasped gently across the blade. “I pray often for the healing of the pain—and I try to take the affection I had for my wife and give it to others in small ways.”

  Joe plucked a loose straw from the bale of hay and shredded it with his thumbnail. “How?”

  Eli shrugged. “A wooden toy whittled for a grandchild. A word of encouragement for my daughters-in-law.” He glanced at Joe from beneath shaggy eyebrows, a smile quirking his mouth. “A much-needed buggy ride to an overburdened stranger.”

  “Does it help?”

  “Giving to others is a joy to the giver,” Eli said.

  “And this ‘giving to others’ takes away the pain?”

  “No.” There was a great sadness in Eli’s voice. “But it helps you keep breathing.”

  He arose and handed the scythe to Joe. “You should stay with us awhile, Englischer.”

  “I’d like that.” Joe grasped the wooden handle. “But Officer Troyer has made it clear that she wants me out of here.”

&
nbsp; “Oh, that Rachel.” Eli shook his head in dismay as they walked outside and down the hill together. “She should be married by now with a haus full of kinder. It is not good for a woman to spend her life chasing crooks.”

  “If marriage and a house full of kids is what she wants, I agree, but what if the woman loves her work?”

  “Our Rachel does not love her work. She thinks she must do it.”

  “Why?”

  “It is not my story to tell.” The old man glanced down at the ground, making it clear that he was finished with the subject.

  Joe didn’t press. “Thanks for teaching me how to use a scythe.”

  “My cousins will be glad for your help,” Eli said. “Bertha likes a neat farm. I will be getting back to my own now.”

  As Eli headed toward a path that skirted the pasture, he stopped and turned back. “Have you ever milked a cow, Englischer?”

  “No.”

  “I have fifteen I milk by hand. If you stay and are willing to help, I will teach you tomorrow morning. I pay pretty goot. My sons are good boys, but they have their own work and families. My farm is over the hill. This path will lead you there. You may bring the boy—he is old enough to watch and learn.”

  Joe’s spirits lifted. Even if Eli’s idea of good pay wasn’t on the same scale of his own, anything would be a help right now. “I’d like that, Eli. How early do you want me?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Englischer. I sleep very late.”

  Joe was surprised. He had expected Eli to be an early riser.

  Eli walked backward a few steps, watching Joe’s face. “Jah. I like to sleep in very late. Be at my barn at four thirty tomorrow morning.”

  Joe caught the twinkle in Eli’s eye. The dour-looking Amishman was teasing him.

  “I’ll be there!” Joe called back.

  Rising early had never been a problem for him, and it would be a blessing to be able to bring Bobby. Tomorrow morning would be interesting—for both of them.

  That is, if the sisters didn’t turn him out and if Rachel didn’t run him out of town first. The image of the pretty cop haunted his mind once more. What had Eli meant when he said Rachel didn’t love her job? And why was a woman as attractive as Rachel still unmarried?