River of Mercy (11 page)

'Tis not an easy thing to see the Truth behind such heavy darkness.

UNKNOWN

G
ant waited only long enough to grab his gun from under the seat before leaping down from the rig and taking the lantern from its light box.

“Stay here,” he told Rachel, his voice low.

She stared at the weapon in his hand. “You still have that gun? You carry it with you, even here?”

“Stay here,” he said again, starting for the porch.

Before he reached the house though, he turned and saw that she was behind him, coming at a run.

“I told you to stay with the buggy!”

“I'm not staying out here alone. And stop telling me what to do.”

He looked from her to the open door. Her stubbornness exasperated him, but she had a point. There was no way to know if someone was still inside—or out here, watching them.

He shot a look toward the trees at the side of the house. There was just enough moonlight to enable him to see the barn and other outbuildings, but there was no sign of movement. He found himself wishing he'd brought Mac along tonight. The big hound heard things Gant couldn't hear and saw things he couldn't see.

He took in the open front door and the darkness it framed. He debated with himself only another second or two before passing the lantern to Rachel. “Here, take this.”

Finally, taking one cautious step at a time, his glance darting in all directions as he went, he stepped inside. Rachel came right behind him, extending the lantern so they could both see by its light.

A floorboard in the narrow hallway creaked and he stopped dead, causing Rachel to bump against him. The lantern dinged, breaking the silence. She gasped, but Gant warned her to silence with a shake of his head. He tracked the hall and then the front room with the gun, left and right. His mouth was dry with the bitter taste of apprehension.

Nothing.

He caught a breath and returned to the hall. With Rachel at his back, he headed for the kitchen, only to be met by more shadows and total silence.

Watching him, Rachel shook her head, confusion still glazing her eyes. “Why would anyone break into my house? I don't have anything valuable.”

Good question, and one Gant had already asked himself. And just how did they get in?

“The door was locked?”

She nodded. “I remember locking it.”

He checked the front door again but found no evidence that it had been tampered with. But the door off the room at the side of the house was a different story. The moment they stepped inside Gant saw how the intruder had gained entrance. Broken glass littered the floor from a shattered window. It had been so easy. Break the window at the top of the door, reach in and turn the key in the lock.

The door stood partly ajar. Whoever had broken in hadn't bothered to completely close it upon leaving.

This was Rachel's workroom, where she made the birdhouses she sold to the
Englisch
in town. The room had been wrecked. Wood strips had been flung everywhere, paint overturned and splattered, tools ripped from the board above her worktable and tossed randomly across the floor.

Anger.

No—not just anger. Rage.

Gant could feel it. Whoever had vandalized this room had been violating Rachel.

He turned to catch her, expecting her to fly apart. Instead she made only a small whimper, like that of a wounded animal. The lantern shook in her trembling hand. Pocketing his gun, Gant reached to take the lantern from her as she stood staring in obvious bewilderment.

Her husband had built this room especially for her before his death. Gant remembered the pride and love in her eyes when she'd told him how Eli had encouraged her craft, how he'd called the little birdhouses she made with such precision and care her “art.”

He set the lantern on a shelf and then turned and caught her lightly by the shoulders. “It's all right, Rachel,” he murmured. “It will be all right. Tomorrow I'll put in new glass and a new lock. And I'll help you clean up.”

Her gaze moved to his. “Why?” she asked, her voice choked. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

He didn't answer, didn't voice what he was thinking. Whoever had gone to the trouble of opening the front door after breaking in at the side of the house hadn't intended to hurt her. Just frighten her.

He continued to hold her for another moment, assuring her again that they would fix everything the next day and do a thorough cleanup. “We'll have everything back together in no time,” he said. “You'll see.”

Gently, he released her and again picked up the lantern. “I need to check the rest of the house. Why don't you wait down here for me?”

He tried again to get her to wait, but she wouldn't hear of it. On the way upstairs he took the steps two at a time but quietly, Rachel keeping up with him.

At the landing he stopped dead. Something turned in his mind. The feeling of someone in the house changed to a sense of nothingness. The house itself seemed to echo that it was alone, that whoever might have earlier stalked through its wide rooms and silent darkness was now gone.

A breathless quiet hung over the upstairs. Rachel came alongside him, her eyes still dazed with a combination of shock and questions. He squeezed her arm lightly but said nothing, continuing his search of the upstairs bedrooms until he was absolutely certain they were alone.

Downstairs again, he felt his pulse slow, but he didn't dare relax. He wasn't about to be caught off guard. Rachel stood watching him, and he tried to give her a reassuring smile, but it fell apart before he could say anything.

She was so hurt, so clearly baffled. Watching her, seeing her usually tranquil features pinched with fearfulness and pain, Gant again felt the gnawing, corrosive anger swell inside him. He bit down hard on the urge to release the fury burning inside him by smashing his fist into a wall or shouting. He knew that a display of anger would do nothing but upset Rachel even more.

He had to stay in control. For the most part, he had learned to suppress the rage that sometimes built up in him. He had seen too much trouble handled by fists and clubs in Ireland and on the docks of New York. But sometimes…sometimes when least expected, his own temper reminded him he wasn't immune from the same kind of destructive fury that fired others.

There had been a time when he thought little of settling his own conflicts with physical prowess, and he had even found a certain pleasure in using his strength and powerful size to put down an opponent. But Asa had led him to a different place, a place where Gant came to realize that the Christian way of resolving conflict wasn't with brutal confrontation, and that the measure of a man's character had nothing to do with physical strength or endurance.

Asa had taught him that a man of real strength could take a stand or make a point or settle a difference without ever lifting a hand against another human being.

“The real strength of a man,” Asa told him, “is in the peace he fosters and the grace he offers.”

Through the years, Gant had tried never to forget his friend's words. Asa was that kind of man, the kind of man Gant wanted to be, the kind of man he tried to be. It struck him in that instant that it was also the way of the Amish men he had come to respect.

“Jeremiah?”

Rachel's soft, questioning voice snapped him back to their surroundings. “Come on,” he said, “let's get you back to your mother's.”

She glanced away, looked around as if trying to figure what to do. “No, I—”

“Rachel,” he said quietly but firmly, “you know you absolutely cannot stay here tonight.”

Again she looked away and then back. Finally, she gave a small nod.
“Ja.
You're right.” She stopped. “But the house…anyone could come in—”

“The house will be all right. This is over now.”

Over for tonight maybe, but not over.

“I told you…I'll come out tomorrow and fix the door. For the next few days you can stay at your mother's, or I'll give Gideon the time off so he can stay here with you.”

The tight set of the mouth he'd come to recognize as her signature of stubbornness appeared. “No, there's no need for that—”

“Rachel,” he said, his tone harder as he took her arm, “it's getting late. Let's go before we have to wake up Doc and your mother.”

For just an instant it seemed that she would argue, but Gant arched a brow, waiting. After another moment she silently gave in and started for the door.

Rachel carried the lantern to the buggy. Gant kept the gun drawn with one hand and a firm grip on her arm with the other. Once, a feeling of being watched snaked through him, a feeling of someone possibly standing offside, enjoying what he had just put them through. He increased his pressure on her arm, propelling her to the buggy. After what he had just seen in the house, he felt a weight of genuine fear for her.

The Amish represented easy prey for vandals. They seldom locked their doors and were known pacifists, not given to returning the wrongs inflicted on them with violence of their own. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that what had happened here tonight was more than the random work of an ordinary vandal. He was convinced it was personal, an ugly act perpetrated against Rachel herself for some reason.

For now though, he wouldn't think about that. Later, when he was alone and Rachel couldn't see how troubled he actually was, he would give it more thought. The only thing that mattered at this moment was getting her out of harm's way and keeping her safe.

10

…
and the dark wind brings his lonely human cry.

T
HOMAS
B
OYD

A
fter taking Rachel back to Doc and Susan's place, Gant returned to the woods across from Rachel's house.

He found a small clearing nestled in the midst of a thick grove of pine trees and parked the buggy where he would be well-hidden and yet able to watch the house. He didn't really expect the night's intruder to come back, but in case he did, he intended to be ready for him.

The few stars that had brightened the sky earlier in the evening were gone now, obscured by a range of clouds that pressed low. It would rain soon. Gant was glad for the heavy blanket he carried in the buggy and the oilcloth he'd tossed in just before leaving town.

He had said nothing to Rachel about what he planned to do the rest of the night. She would have made a fuss had she known. At least he thought she'd fuss.

Or was he being too optimistic or unjustifiably smug that she cared enough to worry about him?

Again he wished he had brought Mac along. The big hound was surprisingly good company and intimidating in his own right. One encounter with that fierce, strong-jawed head and the low, menacing growl could put a healthy dose of fear into even the nastiest no-good out there.

He jumped when scattered pine needles behind him crunched, but he settled when he realized the sound was too subdued to belong to anything bigger than a 'coon or a stray dog. And when the distant cry of one of the big cats on the mountain broke the night stillness, he shrugged it off. Couldn't be
his
cat, not this far out.