River of Mercy (29 page)

Love is a fabric that never fades, no matter how often it is washed in the waters of adversity and grief.

ANONYMOUS

S
hortly before eight o'clock the next morning, Gant was in the shop, doing his best to avoid thinking.

Not that he intended to open for business that early. He simply couldn't stand the waiting any longer. At least if he were here in the shop, he'd be sure to catch Gideon when he first came in. In the meantime, he attempted to busy himself looking over new orders and scheduling deliveries for the remainder of the week.

As it happened, Gideon wasn't the first to show up. When somebody pounded at the front door, Gant looked up from his desk, surprised to see Doc standing outside.

This wasn't what he had expected, and his heart raced as he scraped back from the desk and hurried to unlock the door. Doc said nothing but merely gave a nod of greeting as he stepped inside. He was carrying a huge cooking pot, which he immediately hoisted onto the front counter. “Soup,” he said. “Susan and Rachel thought it might be of some help for your guests.”

“Give them my thanks. It will be much appreciated.”

Not for the first time, a hammer blow of guilt struck Gant. That, combined with the anxiety and frustration he had suffered throughout a long, sleepless night, rushed in on him, fragmenting his thoughts and feelings. How he wished his friends had never become aware of this business with the runaways, much less involved in it. Even Rachel and her mother knew what was going on, at least in part. In fact, they had known almost from the time he'd first arrived in the Amish community. Their friend Phoebe Esch had reluctantly filled them in on Gant's and Asa's involvement with the runaways, as well as Phoebe's own connection.

At the time, Gant had been so ill he hadn't realized what they'd been told until after the fact. If he'd any control over the situation, he would have made certain the entire dealings with the slaves and the Underground Railroad had been kept secret.

It wasn't that he didn't trust their confidence. To the contrary, Susan and Rachel were two of the most trustworthy persons he'd ever known. But their familiarity with the situation could place them in harm's way. Anyone suspected of aiding fugitive slaves, even from the sidelines, could be jailed. All it took was one neighbor with a grudge against another to make trouble.

Doc, of course, had grown ever more deeply involved, even giving some of the runaways medical care. Gideon had also been drawn in, having accompanied Asa on a trip north and making known his availability and willingness to go again whenever he was needed.

The entire family had been good friends to Gant. They were well-intentioned people, good people who were willing to help the runaway slaves however they could. Gant knew he could never dissuade them now to back away.

He knew because he had tried, more than once, to warn Doc off. But the last time he'd tried to caution his friend about the risks, Doc had replied with his typically British sniff. “Let this be. It's for me to decide what I will or won't do. I'll act upon my own conscience and God's directive, if you please. Only my Maker has a right to tell me what to do, certainly not some thick-headed Irishman.”

Clearly, it would take more than a pointed caution from Gant to sway him. Besides, there had been a number of times when he couldn't think what they would have done without him. Especially when it came to his medical skills.

All these thoughts came flooding in on him in a matter of seconds while Doc tossed his hat and coat on a nearby table before following Gant to the back of the shop. Only then, when Gant turned to face him, did he realize that his friend had not made direct eye contact with him since he'd first walked into the shop.

In that instant, Gant knew that the news he'd been waiting for wasn't going to be what he had hoped to hear.

“Where's Gideon?” Gant asked, his eagerness for any news from Doc now rapidly draining away.

Still avoiding Gant's gaze, Doc rubbed his shoulders and then his hands, as if he were chafing from the cold. “He'll be along. I hope I haven't made him late. I asked him to bring in more wood before leaving.”

“No, that's fine. As it happens, I don't really need him until later.”

Finally, with unmistakable reluctance, his friend faced him.

Gant braced himself. “Well?”

Doc drew in a long breath. “It's Beiler. The lot fell on Samuel Beiler for bishop.”

Gant felt as if his legs would buckle beneath him. A rush of dizziness hit him full force and then fled, leaving him weak to the point of nausea. He gripped the back of a chair with one hand to steady himself.

“I don't like it either,” Doc said. His voice sounded harsh, even angry. But the look he settled on Gant held nothing but understanding and kindness. “I'm sorry. Truly sorry. I know this is an enormous disappointment to you, but—”

Gant put up a hand to stop him. “We both knew it could happen.” He stopped, fighting to regain his composure. “I'll be all right. At least I will be once it sinks in.”

Doc's expression gentled even more. “For whatever it's worth, I'm actually sick about it as well. For you…for the People…”

Gant nodded but only half-heard the rest of what Doc was saying. An image of Rachel filled his mind. Rachel looking at him with tenderness, smiling, that slight tilt of her head as if she didn't quite know what to make of him.

And then another image pushed its way in front of her. Samuel Beiler. Also smiling at Gant. A mocking smile. Head high, eyes proud, watching for any sign of defeat.

“Gant?”

He blinked, dragging his gaze back to Doc.

“Did you hear me? I said many of the People are grieved about this. In truth, they're worried what it will mean. Beiler has already been throwing his weight around, insisting on stricter and stricter regulations, settling punishment on anyone who challenges him.”

Gant shrugged. So tight was he drawn that even this slight movement brought a pain to his chest. “But they believe this is God's will, right? Whoever the lot falls on…that's decided by God?”

“Even so, they're…anxious.”

Gant locked eyes with him. “Rachel?”

Doc shook his head. “Susan said she's deeply upset. For that matter, so is Susan.”

“But the People—they have no choice but to accept this. Isn't that right?”

Doc hesitated. “Well…for now, yes.”

Gant shot him a skeptical look. “For now?”

“We have to wait. Wait and see how this works out.”

“I may not know much about the Amish church, but I seriously doubt that anyone has ever booted out a bishop,” Gant snapped back. “Only your ordinary, everyday sinner is subject to excommunication, right?”

Doc visibly winced. “Bitterness won't help, my friend. We're obligated to pray for each other, even those we perceive to be our enemies.”

Gant studied him. “You may be obligated, Doc. I'm Irish, not Amish. And at the moment, I'm not feeling any special obligation to pray for
Bishop
Beiler.”

“Gant, I understand how you feel, but—”

Again Gant lifted a hand to stop his friend's words. “I don't think so, Doc. You're too good a man to understand how I'm feeling right now.”

The other gave a long sigh, his shoulders sagging. “No one is good, Gant. Certainly not me.”

Gant suddenly felt a heavy weariness wash over him. “I know you mean well, Doc. And I thank you for coming to tell me this yourself. I appreciate that, I really do. But I'll need some time to get used to the idea. The finality of it.”

Doc regarded him with an expression Gant couldn't quite read. A strangely sorrowful but carefully contained look, as if he wanted to say something he sensed he should not say.

Feeling too brittle, too close to splintering into pieces to deal with what he had just heard, Gant attempted a smile, which failed badly. “Just give me some time, Doc. We'll talk…later, all right?”

His friend delayed any reply but then gave a slow nod. “Yes. We'll do that.” He paused and then added, “But I'm going to ask for your word on something. I want you to promise me you will pray about this.” He waved off Gant's attempt to protest. “As my friend, and a friend of the People, I'm asking for your word that you'll pray for God's will in this situation. Pray for God to see and move and work His will. Just that, Gant. Will you do that?”

Gant studied him, keenly aware of the goodness he had found in this man almost since the day they'd met—the goodness and the wisdom and the unshakable faith so much a part of David Sebastian. And there was also the friendship the other had offered him, an unconditional kind of friendship. A rare gift, a gift previously unknown to Gant.

“All right, Doc. I'll try. Though for the life of me, I can't see what good it will do. If the Amish are right, the casting of the lot is God's doing. I'm pretty sure He's not going to change His mind for the likes of me.”

Doc fixed a steady gaze on him. “I'm not asking you to try to change God's mind. Only to accept that He often works in mysterious ways. It's for us to trust Him, not question Him.”

Gant was in no mood to argue theology. A simple shrug was his only reply. For now, it was all he could do to make a stab at getting through the rest of the day.

“Don't give up.” Doc's quiet words caught Gant's attention. “Don't give up on Rachel. On any of this. Don't give up…not yet.”

Gant's reply was equally as direct. “I don't think I can watch this play out over the long haul, Doc. I can't stay here indefinitely, knowing we can never be together. I've never been one to suffer in silence. You know Beiler will never let me convert, much less marry Rachel.”

Gant could hear the scratch of pain in his own voice. Pain and perhaps self-pity? Maybe. Although he'd tried to keep any expectations buried, there was no denying he had hoped for better than this, hoped intensely that Samuel Beiler would not be chosen.

But Beiler
had
been chosen, and now there was nothing to do for it. Gant would shake off the hopelessness and go on. He could do no less. At the same time, he knew himself well enough to know he could never give up on Rachel as long as he was within reach of her.

“You know, I've thought for a long time that Rachel might not be the only reason you're here in Riverhaven.”

Gant frowned, trying not to show his impatience. He found himself wishing Doc would leave, but just as quickly he felt a stab of guilt for the thought. The man had driven all the way out here on a bitterly cold morning after all, trying to ease what he'd known would be hard news for a friend. The least he could do was be civil.

“I don't take your meaning, Doc,” he said.

“I'm not at all sure I know what it means either,” the other replied. “It's just that when I pray for you—oh, yes, I pray for you, rogue that you are—when I pray for you I so often get this strangely ambiguous feeling that something isn't quite as…as clear-cut as it might seem. More and more, I'm coming to believe that you're here in Riverhaven for a reason that might be…well, if not entirely unrelated to Rachel, at least to some extent separate from her.”

“Speak English, if you will, Doc. I don't follow you. You forget I'm just an ignorant Irish roughneck.”

Doc uttered a sound of disgust. “You're as ignorant as a fox, though I won't argue the roughneck designation. In any event, I can't quite explain what I mean. But surely you haven't assumed that your ending up here as you did is altogether a matter of coincidence. Washed up from the river with an infected bullet wound that could have easily killed you, only to be taken in by an unlikely Amish family who just as easily could have left you to die in the midst of a rainstorm of nearly biblical proportions. And let's not forget that the Amish aren't usually given to entertaining strangers, even those who might turn out to be angels, which most definitely was not the case with you. And how many times have you shown up at the scene of various nearly tragic occasions to lend your help, at the same time falling in love with an Amish widow who hasn't given another man a second look in years, and managing to win her love…a love that apparently has kept you fairly well anchored in place?”

Doc expelled a puff of breath. “Now I don't know about you, but that strikes me as a bit too much of a coincidence. Whether you're too pigheaded to admit it or not, I can't help but think you've had divine protection all along.”

Gant stared at him, transfixed by what was almost certainly the most lengthy stream of words Doc had ever uttered all at once. Yet, despite his British friend's somewhat overblown method of speaking, he thought he actually understood what the other was getting at. “You're saying I'm not here by chance?”

Doc gave another long, exaggerated sigh. “Yes. I expect that's what I'm saying. And I'm also saying that no matter how much you fancy your situation with Rachel to be completely hopeless, it's possible that you're premature in thinking about leaving just yet. God might have another idea.”