River of Mercy (38 page)

35

None but one can harm you,
None but yourself who are your greatest foe.

H
ENRY
W
ADSWORTH
L
ONGFELLOW

D
avid Sebastian knew the moment Samuel Beiler began to read Gant's note that the man was fighting hard to control his temper. His face flushed crimson, and the hand holding the note trembled.

“He has no right to do this,” Beiler said in his heavily accented English. “No right. He made a commitment to me.”

David managed to keep his tone mild when he replied. “Unfortunately, he found himself unable to keep that commitment. He wasn't sure when he'd see you, so I told him I'd deliver his apology. He's sorry not to give you more notice.”

When Samuel made no reply but simply stood studying the note with a white-knuckled stillness, David decided to move on to the more difficult part of what he'd planned to say. “More to the point, Samuel, as a member of Rachel's family, I found your idea of a birthday gift for her entirely inappropriate.”

There was no mistaking the flare of rage in the other's eyes. “It's not for you to say what's appropriate for me and Rachel.” His tone was as harsh as if it were laced with ground glass.

David now struggled to hold his own temper in check. “There is no ‘you and Rachel,' Samuel. You're not a couple, and it's wrong for you to pretend that you are.”

They were standing just outside the barn. The evening was cold and damp and dreary. There would be rain or sleet later. The chill that coiled through David when he met Beiler's eyes, however, had nothing to do with the weather. The man was looking at him as if he'd like to gut him with the nearest pitchfork.

He turned to go, but Beiler's next words stopped him.

“So it's your doing then. You talked Gant into reneging on our agreement. You had no right.”

Painfully mindful of the truth in Beiler's words, David slowly turned to face him, choosing his words with care. “And you have no right to allow others to believe you have some sort of understanding with Rachel. That's not the case, and you know it. It doesn't become you as a man, and certainly not as our bishop, to foster such an untruth.”

“Rachel is simply being young and stubborn. Given enough time, she'll see what's best for her. I'm quite certain everything will work out well for us.”

David nearly choked on the acid taste of his own outrage. He was finding it more and more difficult to control himself, but he was determined not to let Beiler provoke him any further. Even so, he could hear the anger rising in his voice. “Rachel's not that young, Samuel. And she's never been stubborn. What is it going to take for you to accept the fact that she has no intention of allowing you to court her? Do you actually believe she'll change her mind if you continue to pressure her? Surely you're not that naive.”

As if Beiler suddenly realized his behavior belied the proper demeanor of a bishop, he seemed to grope for self-control. The angry flush paled slightly as he crushed the note in his hand and threw it to the ground, taking on the air of arrogance David had come to associate with him.

“Watch your words, Doctor Sebastian,” he said with what David knew to be a deceptive calm. “The Amish do not insult their bishop.”

“As an Amish man myself,” David said pointedly, “I have no wish to insult you, Samuel, nor any intention of doing so. I'm trying to reason with you. You're doing yourself no benefit by misleading others about having a relationship with Rachel. No good can come of such a pretense. You need to look for a wife and a mother for your sons elsewhere. There are a number of widows and unmarried women among us. Why not concentrate your attentions where they're wanted?”

As David watched, Beiler knotted his fists, drawing himself up to a rigid stance. “It would be best if you leave now, Doctor. We have nothing else to say to each other.”

With a slight shake of his head in frustration, David turned and started up the field. He could almost feel Beiler's icy stare following him like a knife in his back.

He sank into the buggy, feeling depleted and totally disgruntled. What in the world was to become of the Riverhaven People with a man like Samuel Beiler as their bishop and spiritual leader?

For one of the few times in his life, David Sebastian came close to questioning the work of his Creator, the choice He had made in allowing such a man to assume the authority over an entire community. But instead, he willed himself to pray.

He was still praying when he reached home.

36

Stars, hide your fires;
Let not light see my black and deep desires.

S
HAKESPEARE

I
t was a lousy night to keep watch, what with a cold rain starting up and the wind on the rise. But he was trying to get an idea of Gant's nightly routine, and this was the only way. Trouble was, the man seemed to change everything on any given night, from his trips in and out of the house to the time he turned his lamps off for the last time.

He'd been out here four nights straight now, and Gant hadn't done the same thing twice. Was he that unpredictable or just absentminded?

That big, mean-looking dog worried him too. There had already been one night when he'd nearly panicked, thinking the dog had spotted him or at least got a whiff of his scent. Gant had let him out, and he'd bounded up the hill, growling. But when Gant called him, he'd hesitated only a moment before turning and racing back to the house. Ever since, he hadn't dared to move in as close as before. That animal looked as if he could bring down any man or beast he chose to.

There was another problem too. In addition to the dog, he was pretty sure something else was lurking around Gant's place, maybe some kind of a wild animal. Night before last when he was out here, he'd stayed high on the hill, like tonight, keeping well away from the house. Even though there hadn't been a breath of wind moving, more than once he thought he heard leaves rustling and crunching a ways down the hill. He'd also seen a shadow slinking around, low and fairly close to the house. A shadow that two or three times made a strange, growling sound.

The faint sound of music had been coming from the house most of the time he'd watched. He assumed it was Gant. He hadn't seen anyone else around, and there was no sign of a buggy or a horse parked in front or back. From this distance, the music sounded as if it were coming from a fiddle. Gant hadn't stopped playing for more than a minute or two, so apparently he wasn't aware that there was something skulking around right outside his house.

He hadn't stayed to watch any longer. Whatever that was creeping around the shrubs and woodpile, he wasn't going to take any chances.

So far, he hadn't accomplished what he'd set out to do: find out when Gant was likely to be at home or away. It was beginning to look as though tonight wouldn't be any different. It was getting late, and he needed to get back to the farm. Besides, Gant wasn't likely to be going out anywhere on a night like this.

He'd give it another few minutes and then go back to the vacant lot behind the livery, where he'd left his horse tied to a tree among the high grass and overgrown weeds.

Just then, he heard the dull snap of wet twigs not far from him, just a few feet across the hill, where the ground dipped. He froze, his heart pounding. Squinting into the distance, he saw a shadow emerge from the trees, and that was enough to spur him to unlock his legs. He took off at a run, holding his hat down tight against the wind.

Did he hear something growl not far behind him, or did he imagine it?

Whether he imagined it or not, he kept running as if a demon were at his back, gaining ground and set on hauling him down. He ran so fast and so hard his heart pumped and his chest burned as though they would explode at any second.

Twice he slipped in mud and almost fell, but he made it to his horse. Gasping for breath, he yanked the rope from the tree and took off toward the road at a full gallop. Only then did he dare to toss a look over his shoulder. He saw nothing.

Nothing but the windblown rain and a darkness dappled by the faint lamplight that flickered behind the curtained windows of a few nearby houses.

Maybe he had imagined it after all. Maybe he'd just got spooked and
thought
the thing, whatever it was, was chasing him.

Maybe. But even so, he was finished with this risky business of prowling around, hiding in the dark and the cold. Next time he came out here, it wouldn't be to stand watch. It would be to finish the job and be done with it—and done with Gant.

37