The Isaac Project (25 page)

A coiled hose lay on the ground opposite a water trough. Turning the spigot, water gushed from the opening of the green rubber tube. I pulled my shirt up over my head and tested the water by letting it run through my fingers. It was as if someone had dumped chunks of ice into the well. I leaned over and lifted the hose, letting the water run over my head and through my short hair. A small stream of liquid snaked down my back, sending an involuntarily shudder through my muscles. Man, it was cold. Better to get the process over with as quickly as possible.       I contemplated stripping off my shorts, but my sense of modesty held me back. I hastily worked up a sudsy lather and then rinsed with the spray of glacial water, watching the bubbles glide off my skin, which, even in the light of the moon, I could see was turning a pinkish color. I vigorously rubbed the plush towel over my shivering frame, hoping the friction would return some circulation to my body. Wrapping the long cloth about my shoulders, I jogged to the house.

Once I was in dry clothes again, I checked my phone. No messages. Becky hadn’t called or texted. I was at a loss. If I hadn’t known where my wife’s heart stood before, then I was as good as in a foreign country with no map now. What could have caused the transformation? I had no idea, but I was determined to find out, one way or another.

27

Rebekah

THE BLOOD IN my veins didn’t pump red. It pumped yellow. I couldn’t even call myself a scaredy-cat. That wouldn’t be fair to cats. I had once seen Mittens jump from a ten-foot branch of an oak tree, a feat I deemed courageous. Nevertheless, I found myself driving to Grandview less than an hour after picking Luke up at the airport. And it wasn’t Luke I was afraid of.

I was afraid of myself. Or, rather, the reaction I had when in Luke’s presence. I’d thought the sight of the man would fill me with loathing. And it did, for a while. But the bitterness soon mixed with unwanted compassion as I saw the hurt and confusion in his eyes in response to my rejection. The yearning of unrequited love mingled in the swirling vortex of my emotions.

When he had tried to give me that gorgeous music box, I’d almost been undone. The threads of my resolve nearly severed. I’d waivered and come close to giving in to his masculine charm.

So in a dire effort to protect myself from my own imprudence, I was cloistering myself away in hiding for the night. If Lisa had been in town, I would have gone to her house. But, even though I got along well with her parents, I didn’t want to have to explain why I, a grown woman with her own house, needed a place to stay for the night. It just wasn’t a conversation I was willing to have with them. A hotel would have been the obvious choice for an alternate sleeping arrangement, but Meadowlark didn’t boast such an establishment. More’s the pity.

As it was, I was silently praying Rita would be on duty at Grandview. The nursing home didn’t exactly allow overnight guests. I felt somewhat ashamed at taking advantage of my newfound friendship with the innocent and obliging CNA, but I didn’t see any other options either. Besides going back home and facing Luke, that is. And in my book, that wasn’t an option.

Grandview’s parking lot was nearly empty. The only cars present were those of the staff. I parked near the entrance, rotating the key in the ignition and sliding it out. Turning off the truck’s headlights, the darkness of the evening enclosed around me, nearly suffocating me with its despondency. The only light, the only reassurance, came from the fluorescent bulbs illuminating Grandview’s front porch.

Stepping out of the truck, sound of hundreds of little wings rubbing together serenaded me. The mellifluous cadence of the country—crickets. The decreased speed of their song testified to the cooling weather. So did the tiny pinpricks on my skin. I should have grabbed a sweatshirt. I wrapped my arms about myself and hastened inside the nursing home.

“Ms. Becky!” Rita’s thick accented voice was a whole octave higher in her surprise at my presence. “What you doing here?”

“Umm…well…you see…”

“Everything okay?” Her eyebrows knit together in concern.

I started to nod but then shook my head. “Not really. I know it’s a bit unconventional, but can I stay here tonight? I can sleep on the couch in the front room.”

“What wrong? Why you need stay here?” Her perplexity showed in the tilt of her head.

I sighed. I wasn’t going to get off the hook without an explanation. “Things with Luke have turned a little…complicated.”

“Compli—” The word tied her tongue. It obviously wasn’t in her everyday vocabulary.

My shoulders slumped. I might as well tell Rita the whole sordid story. My soul yearned to confide in someone anyway. So with words that left a sour taste in my mouth, I spewed the truth of my marriage, the unexpected love I came to have for my husband, and, worst of all, my recent discovery of his disreputable character.

“I do not believe it,” Rita exclaimed. “Mr. Luke, he a good man. I do not think he do this thing you say he do.”

I frowned. I should have just kept my big mouth shut. “Look, can I sleep on the couch tonight, or what?” I couldn’t quite keep the bite out of my voice. “Luke’s leaving in the morning for training, and I’ll figure something else out then.”

Rita bit her lower lip, her eyes darting around. “I guess so?” It sounded more like a question than a statement as her shoulders rose to reach her ears.

“Thanks. I’ll be out of here before the first resident wakes up.” I turned my back on my friend and left without another word.

The couch in the front room was comfortable enough as I snuggled down into its springy cushions. I pulled the crocheted afghan from where it hung over the back of the sofa and cocooned myself in its warmth. Emotional exhaustion soon pulled me into a fitful sleep.

***

The clearing of a throat registered through the sleep-induced fog clouding my brain. I grunted, turned on to my side, and pulled the cover up closer to my chin.

The throat cleared again. This time followed by a deep voice that called my name. “Miss Sawyer.”

I squinted against the morning sun and blinked rapidly to dislodge the sleep that was clinging to me much like a toddler to his mother.

“Miss Sawyer,” the voice said again with more persistence and impatience.

I managed to collect enough of my faculties to look up and recognize that the voice belonged to Dr. Henshaw. Bolting upright, I extricated myself from the blanket and hopped off the sofa.

“Dr. Henshaw, how good to see you. How’re you doing this morning, sir? I wanted to talk to you about Poppy. He seemed to be getting better, but now he looks like he’s going downhill again. Is that normal? Should I be worried?” I spoke with the speed of a great thoroughbred racehorse. Secretariat wouldn’t have been able to catch the words flowing out of my mouth. As I spoke, my hands worked in a frenzy folding the afghan and replacing it to the back of the couch.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, it was good seeing you, Dr. Henshaw, but I really must be going now. We’ll have to discuss Poppy another time. Hope you have a good day.” I dashed to the exit, leaving behind a befuddled, droopy-eyed physician in my wake.

I breathed a sigh of relief upon entering my truck. I could’ve kicked myself for oversleeping. Hopefully, Rita wouldn’t receive any repercussions for my actions.

Not in a hurry to return home, I stopped at a coffee shop and leisurely sipped a caramel Frappuccino, watching the minutes on the clock tick by. Getting caught off guard once in a day was enough. I wanted to make sure enough time passed that Luke would be gone from the house before going back.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Withdrawing it, I squinted at the screen. The sun was streaming through the coffeehouse window, producing a horrendous glare off the screen. Tilting the phone, I was shocked to find so many missed calls and texts. I opened the messaging service and began reading the texts I had slept through the night before.

Where are you? We need to talk.

It’s getting late and I’m worried about you. Are you coming home?

Rita just called and told me you are at Grandview. I thought about coming but decided you must need your space. Do you want me to come?

Becky, I don’t know what is going on, but whatever it is, we can talk about it.

Hey, I’ve got to go to training. I’ll be back in a week. I hope that is enough time for you to figure out whatever it is you’re going through.

I miss you and I’ll be praying for you.

All the texts were from Luke. All the missed phone calls as well, although he didn’t leave any voice mails. I resisted the urge to slam my head against the table. What was his game? What was his angle? It didn’t make sense to me. But no matter what, I couldn’t let his smooth talking dissuade from the hard facts of what had transpired in Michigan.

“Is this seat taken?”

My head snapped up at the sound of the voice that had haunted me day and night only a few short months ago.

So much for not getting caught off guard a second time that day.

I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, and glared. “Depends on who’s asking.”

James slid into the seat across from me despite my not giving him permission, much less an invitation. “Now, Becky, don’t be like that.”

“And how exactly do you expect me to be?” My voice was clipped.

“Civilized. A Christian. You are still a Christian, aren’t you?”

Ouch. That hurt. “Yes, I’m still a Christian.” Although I felt anything but Christ-like at that particular moment.

“Then what about loving your neighbor and forgiving seventy times seven and all that other junk you used to spout off about?”

I sighed and uncrossed my arms. “What do you want, James?”

He leaned forward and tried to take my hand.

I practically sat on them to keep them out of his reach.

He shrugged and pretended my reaction didn’t bother him.

“Honestly, babe? I don’t know. I saw you sitting here all alone, and I thought I’d come over and—”

The sounds of
Swan Lake
coming from my phone interrupted whatever it was James had planned to say. Which was fine by me. I didn’t want to hear it anyway.

Dr. Smuthers’s name registered on the caller ID. I stood and grabbed my almost empty Frappuccino and still-ringing phone.

“I’ve got to go, James. See you later.” Hopefully much, much later.

I answered the phone as I stepped outside. “Hello, Dr. Smuthers.”

“Becky, we’ve got an issue. Mr. Bronson is having another horse confiscated, but animal control doesn’t have a trailer available for transport. Are you free to lend a helping hand?”

I climbed into the truck and revved up the engine. “I can be there in about an hour. Will that work?”

“Perfect. There should be an animal control agent there to oversee the pickup. Thanks, Becky.”

“No problem.” I flung the phone onto the passenger seat and fired up the engine.

***

Fifty minutes later, I pulled up to a long driveway with overgrown grass hedging both sides, ending at a rundown house. The paint was chipped off the wood siding and the roof sagged in certain places. To the left of the house, a rusted Oldsmobile Cutlass hid like a ravenous lion in the tall vegetation. The place looked deserted. There wasn’t an animal control vehicle anywhere on the property that I could see.

Curiosity pushed me out of my truck, but life didn’t stir as I glanced around. Maybe I had the wrong place. I pulled out my cell, ready to make a call to Dr. Smuthers, when a soft whinny lured me past the house. My spine set rigid as I rounded the corner. Stuffed in a round pen meant for a pony, a full-grown Clydesdale pawed at the dust. His skin sagged from his back. Brown sugar-colored fur stuck out in dull patches. What was happening here? A draft of this size should be full, his coat should gleam in the sunshine, and he should not be shut up in a cage like a stuffed animal in a retail supply warehouse.

The metal pen was so corroded, the original color was impossible to decipher. Running a finger across the oxidized surface, I wasn’t surprised to see the tip turn orange. Upon closer inspection, the desperate horse’s neck and shoulders also sported orange stripes.

The ground in and around the pen was barren, made up of pulverized rock and settled dust. Not a single green shoot colored the harsh brown of the inhospitable earth. The horse, desperate for a morsel, tucked his enormous head between two rungs of the pen and stretched his neck, his lips extending even farther in a vain attempt to reach a blade of grass.

I scowled as I speared the area around me with a searching glance. Where was the owner? How could people treat animals this way? Compassion and anger pulled me in different directions.

I wrapped my hand around a fistful of grass and heaved. The ripping of California flora was like a dinner bell to the near-starved equine, and he lumbered to me, his upper lip curling around my offering, and his teeth grazing my open hand.

“And just what do you think you’re doing, missy?”

I turned and met the outraged glare of a man twice my size. While he didn’t have an overwhelming height, a few inches taller than me, his girth was that of what the horse beside me should have possessed. His sweat-stained John Deere hat shadowed his eyes and the rest of his face was covered in an unkempt bushy beard. Dark crescents stained his shirt under his arms. His overalls could have once been a denim-blue color but were now nondescript. A spray of brown tobacco-filled saliva shot from his mouth in a long stream and landed inches from my foot.

He took a menacing step toward me. “This here is private property.”

Where was animal control? Sent me here without backup? This could get ugly. I couldn’t take the horse without the proper authorities present, and there was no way I was going to leave without that poor emaciated creature loaded safe in the trailer.

I pushed down the trepidation that gurgled in the pit of my stomach and squared my shoulders. Best to show no fear. “My name is Rebekah Sawyer, and I’m here to—”