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"You can't create at all... and I'm not asking you to tell me why," she
added quickly as Caitlyn tried to interrupt. "I'm just worried about
you. I know the accident set you back, but it was months ago, and
something is still wrong. I want to help. I wish you'd let me."
Caitlyn wished she could, too. But some things were too private, too
painful. She took the bottle out of Emily's mouth and pulled her out of
the car seat so she could burp her. When she glanced back at her
cousin, she saw Jolie shaking her head in disbelief. "What?" Caitlyn
asked.
"Career woman? Yeah, right. Look at you. you're in heaven."
"I'm baby-sitting," she said defensively.
"Sure you are." Jolie got to her feet. "I'm going to sell some dresses
while you take care of someone
else's baby. Now, do you see anything
wrong with this picture, Miss Career Woman?"
"It's just for today, a few hours."
"Tick. took, tick, took."
"It's not like that."
"Maybe it's a good thing Brian is back. Maybe it's time you looked at
some of the choices you're making, because it's been months since I've
seen you so content. Holding a baby is definitely a good look for you.
As your business partner, I'm not encouraging it. But as, your cousin
and your friend, I have to admit that—"
"Don't say it. Emily is just temporary. Tomorrow I'll be a career woman
again, I promise."
Caitlyn sighed as Jolie walked away. She couldn't believe Brian was
back in town. She wasn't ready to see him, to look toward the future,
to make decisions. She'd been comfortable in her safe, secure, bland
life of the past year. Now, she felt suddenly overwhelmed, and as she
looked down at
Emily, she wondered if Sarah had felt the same way. Had Sarah been so
burdened with motherhood that she'd simply run away from it? Because
Caitlyn could understand that desperate need to flee. She felt it right
now, so much so that her toes were tingling.
She looked up as the door opened and Matt walked in. Wearing worn blue
jeans, a brown aviator jacket, and a pair of dark sunglasses, he looked
stunningly male. So much for bland. This man was anything but.
"It's about time," she said, deciding her rapidly beating pulse had to
be due to anger and not, not, God forbid, attraction, because she
certainly wasn't in the market for any spine-tingling, palm-sweating
moments. She had enough problems.
Matt walked over to her. "I went to your apartment, but you'd already
left."
"Thirty minutes after you were supposed to come back," she reminded him.
"I got hung up."
"Did you find your sister?"
"Not yet." He took off his glasses, and the worry in his eyes stopped
her from giving him a harder time.
It was obvious he was concerned
about Sarah, and she could respect that.
"Maybe she'll call or come by," Caitlyn said. "You should be home just
in case. I'm sure she won't leave Emily with you for long."
"I'd like to believe that. But I don't know Sarah anymore. She was a
little girl when I saw her last."
Caitlyn hesitated to press for more information, but she desperately
wanted to understand. "May I ask what happened to your parents?"
"My father died right after Sarah was born. Some years later there was
a fire. My mother disappeared, and my sister and
I were sent to foster care."
"That sounds like the short version."
He shrugged. "It's what happened."
"I'm sorry." She couldn't imagine the horror of being abandoned. Not
that she wouldn't mind a bit more distance from her own family, but not
total abandonment. "Your mother just disappeared? Why?"
"I don't think she wanted to be a mother," Matt said, surprising her
with more information. "I guess she tried—sometimes." He stared out the
window, lost in thoughts that turned his face to stone. "Maybe Sarah
turned out just like her," he murmured. "Maybe she isn't coming back
for her baby either."
"Don't say that. It's not like Sarah left Emily on a street corner. She
left her with you." Caitlyn didn't know why she was trying to make Matt
feel better, except that he seemed to need it. And making people feel
better was ingrained in her. It was the way she compensated for her
shortcomings, the way she drew positive attention to herself instead of
negative. When people were happy, they were usually less critical,
a
truth she d learned from living with the high expectations of her
family.
"At any rate, I have a private investigator looking for Sarah," Matt
continued, turning to face her. "Now that we know she's somewhere in
the city, we should be able to find her. I guess I'll take Emily back
to the apartment and wait." He shook his head with impatience. "I hate
waiting."
"Emily will keep you company."
Matt sent her a doubtful look. "I hope she doesn't start screaming
again. Will you come by when you're done here?"
Caitlyn hesitated. "Uh, I don't know."
"Please. I don't know anything about babies. And I don't want to do
something wrong or hurt her in any way." He paused, looking into her
eyes with a hopeful expression. "I only moved to town a couple of
months ago, so there's no one else to call. I don't really have any
friends.. .."
"Yeah, yeah, you're breaking my heart," she said dryly. "I should tell
you, Matt, that I've been manipulated by the best, so I can pretty much
recognize a sob story when I hear one."
"I would appreciate your help. This isn't an area I know how to
control."
And she had a feeling there wasn't much else in his life he didn't
control down to the last detail. "You're pretty good at getting what
you want, aren't you?"
"That depends on your answer," he said, turning on the killer smile
he'd used on Tiffany earlier.
If Caitlyn had any sense, she'd say no. Just say no, she told herself.
It's an easy word, just spit it out.
But with Emily looking at her with
her big brown eyes and Matt looking at her with his big brown eyes, she
was completely lost.
"I'll come by," she said. "For a few minutes, just to check on you. But
no disappearing on me."
"Deal"
She handed Matt the baby, who didn't seem to mind cuddling up on Mart's
strong shoulder Frnily apparently sensed thai he was one of the good
guys. And something inside of Caitlyn told her the same thing. She put
a hand on his arm, and the heat between them suddenly seemed to sizzle.
He looked into her eyes, and she felt her stomach clench. She'd meant
to offer him a gesture of comfort, but instead the touch had created an
awareness between them, a connection, a sexual attraction. Oh, Lord.
Another
complication! She dropped her hand from his arm. "You better go," she
said abruptly.
He stared into her eyes as if he were seeing her for the first time.
"Yeah," he said somewhat gruffly as
he bent over to put Emily in her
car seat. He awkwardly fiddled with the straps as she began to squirm.
"Shit. Can't she just sit still?"
"You have to show her who's the boss."
He rolled his eyes as he looked up at Caitlyn. "I think we both know
she's the boss."
"Maybe. By the way, I almost ran into Mrs. Pederman on my way out this
morning. I had to hide in the laundry room so she wouldn't see the
baby."
"Mrs. Pederman?"
"The nosy old lady who lives by the elevator and asks who you are every
time you walk in the front door."
"Oh, her."
"She takes a nap between one and three every day, so you should be
okay, but maybe you should leave the car seat in the car and—"
"And do what, smuggle her in under my jacket?"
"I don't know; you're the investigative reporter. Figure something out.
But whatever you do, don't let
her see the baby or we'll both be in
trouble. I do not want to lose my apartment."
He frowned. "This isn't going to work."
"It will if Sarah comes back today."
"
If
being the operative word.
The women in my family have a history of
disappearing."
"She said she'd be in touch. Have some faith."
"I'm trying, but I don't have a good feeling about this."
Neither did Caitlyn, but she hoped she was wrong, because getting Matt
and Emily out of her life as
soon as possible
suddenly seemed desperately important.
The Reverend Jonathan Mitchell stared down at the broken glass. The
small window by the back door
of the church had once again been broken,
the third time this month. He hated to give in to cynicism, to
hopelessness, but even he could take only so much without losing
patience. He might be a minister, but
he was also a man.
Pauline Evans, the church secretary, an African American woman in her
mid-fifties, clucked disapprovingly as she saw the damage. "I think
it's time to put a board over that window," she said.
"It's bad enough we have to lock the church at night. If we start
boarding up all the windows, we might
as well lock God into a
safety-deposit box."
"It's just another homeless person looking for a warm place to sleep,"
Pauline replied. "Or a runaway."
"But if they come here, maybe they're not just running away, maybe
they're running to something."
Her stern expression softened. "I know there's always hope, but
honestly, Jonathan, T think sometimes you're too optimistic. You have
to face facts. There isn't enough money in the church budget to keep
replacing broken windows."
"Then maybe we should just unlock the door," he said with a smile.
She shook her head. "And what will they do to the inside of the church,
to our sanctuary?"
"But that's just the point, it isn't our sanctuary, it belongs to
everyone."
"You're young, you'll change your mind. The Reverend Wallace locked
this church up twenty years ago, and it's the only reason it's in as
good a condition as it is."
Jonathan was tiring of the constant references to Reverend Wallace,
whose place he had taken a year earlier when the good minister had
finally decided to retire at seventy-nine. At thirty-three, Jonathan
was much younger, and he knew he had a lot to learn, but he also knew
he had a lot to give, if he could just figure out the best way to give
it.
"You know the church board will use this broken window as one more
reason to close the church," Pauline pointed out.
He sighed, knowing she was right. With the neighborhood deteriorating
around them and the low attendance at Sunday services, there was
growing pressure to close the church and sell the land for a profit
that could be used at other churches within the ministry.
Jonathan didn't want to see his ministry closed. The people in the
community needed the church; he just had to make them realize that.
Sometimes the task ahead of him seemed impossible. Maybe if he was a
different kind of preacher, more like his father, with fire and
brimstone and passion in every word, he'd draw in the masses. But he
wasn't his father, and he had to stop making the comparison, even if he
couldn't stop others within the religious world from making it.
Just the other day one of the board members had suggested he ask his
father to visit, to come in and preach a sermon that would have the
rafters shaking with the force of his personality, with the passion
of
God's word delivered in a way that only William Mitchell could deliver.
But Jonathan didn't want to ask for his father's help, didn't want to
admit that he needed the help. It was selfish on his part, and he
prayed for forgiveness every night. He wanted to make it on his own. He
wanted to find his own way to serve God, not just follow in his
father's overly large
footsteps.
"Why don't you call someone to fix the window?" he suggested to
Pauline, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand.
"Are you sure you don't want me to go inside with you? Lord only knows
who's in there."
"That's exactly true, Pauline. The Lord knows. That's why I'm not
worried about going in by myself." Jonathan smiled at Pauline's
disapproval of his sometimes irreverent humor. Ah, well, they'd figure
out
a way to work together. Because deep down they both wanted the same
thing.
As Pauline left to call for a window replacement, Jonathan let himself
into the church. All was quiet, nothing out of place, nothing damaged.
His practiced eye noted all the details at the altar, then he walked
down the center aisle, looking into each pew. It wasn't until he came
to the last one that he saw her—fast asleep.
She looked like a tiny broken bird, a raven—with straight black hair
down to her waist, pale white skin, small bones, old clothes that hung
big on her frame. She shifted on the bench, obviously uncomfortable.
It
was then he caught sight of her face, her swollen cheek, black eye, cut
lip. Each wound made his fingers clench tighter in his fist.
Someone had hurt this beautiful creature and hurt her badly. His gaze
traveled down to her hand, to the sharp jagged cuts that could have
been made only by shattered glass. He'd found his trespasser. Was she
just another down-on-her-luck story or was she something more?
He caught his breath as her eyelids flickered and slowly opened to
reveal eyes as dark and as deep as a
starless sky. She saw him watching her and sat up abruptly.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.
"I'm leaving now. You don't have to call the cops." She tried to stand
up, but swayed, then sat back down. "I feel a little dizzy."
"What's your name?"
"Why?"
He smiled gently. "Maybe I can help you. But first you have to tell me
your name."
She hesitated for a long, long moment. "Sarah. My name is Sarah."
I'm Jonathan Mitchell, and this is
my church."
"You're the minister?" she asked uncertainly.
"That's right."
She licked her swollen lip, drawing his attention once again to her
injuries. He instinctively raised a hand to her face, and she flinched
as if he were about to strike her.
"I won't hurt you," he said quickly.
She didn't look like she believed him. Nor did she appear to have any
reason to believe him. For someone had definitely hurt her and broken
whatever trust she'd had. Sarah looked past him, her gaze darting to
the door, seeing her escape route, her way out, but he couldn't let her
go, not in her condition.
"Let me help you, Sarah."
Her mouth trembled, but she didn't speak; she simply shook her head.
"Please?"
"It's too late," she said in a breathy whisper, as if she were afraid
to say the words too loudly.
"If it were too late, I don't think you'd be here now. I think you came
to church looking for something. Maybe you found it."
Her dark eyes clung to his for a long moment, a glimmer of something in
their dark depths. Then she glanced away. "I was cold. That's all. I
saw the broken window, and I thought I'd be gone before you found me."
"So you didn't break the window?"
"I'm not a thief."
"That's not what I asked you." He wondered then if his pity was
misplaced. Had he been taken in by what looked like innocence but was
nothing more than practiced ingenuity? For surely she was lying. There
was blood on the floor from where she'd cut her hand.
Sarah tried to stand up but swayed once again, and Jonathan grabbed her
arm to steady her.
"Ow," she said, grimacing with pain. He looked down at her arm and
after a second's hesitation pulled
the sleeve of her sweater up until
he could see the dark purple bruising on her forearm. At least there
were no needle tracks.
She pulled away from him, pushing her sleeve back down.
"Let me help you, Sarah. I've got a house next door, a bathroom where
you can clean up, and we can wash some of those cuts on your face."
"I can't tell you anything. I won't," she warned him.
"I wasn't going to ask—yet."
As they faced off, Pauline came into the church, brandishing a large
wooden broom in one hand. She lowered it when she saw it was just the
two of them.
"You were gone so long, I thought maybe there was trouble." Her voice
faded as she took in Sarah's condition. "Oh, my, someone did a real
number on you, didn't they?"
"This is Sarah. She's coming next door to get cleaned up," Jonathan
said.
"I'll call—"
"No," he said, cutting her off.
She raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"Not yet." He sent her a silent plea to let him play this one his way.
There would be time to call in the appropriate social services, but
right now he wanted to ease some of Sarah's pain. He wouldn't be able
to do that if she tried to run. And there was no doubt in his mind that
she would run.
"All right," Pauline murmured reluctantly. "You come with me, and we'll
get you fixed up. Maybe some food, too? Are you hungry?"
Pauline moved forward, then stopped, her gaze suddenly fixed on Sarah's
chest. Sarah placed a defensive hand over her breast, but it was too
late.
"Oh, honey." Pauline shook her head, her eyes worried. "Where's your
baby?"
Jonathan realized then that Sarah's shirt was wet, stained with milk.
"Sarah?" he questioned. "Do you have a baby?"
"No. I don't have a baby," she said flatly. "Not anymore." She broke
away from both of them, startling Jonathan with her quickness. One
second she was there, barely able to stand, and the next she was
disappearing through the door.
He finally got his feet to move and rushed after her. He caught a
glimpse of her as she turned the corner in front of the church, but by
the time he reached the same corner she was gone. He turned and walked
slowly back to the church.
Pauline met him on the sidewalk. "She's in trouble."
"It looks that way."
"You should have called the cops as soon as you found her."
"So they could throw her in jail?"
"Maybe she should be in jail. Because that girl had herself a baby and
not too long ago. So where is it?"
"It could be any number of places, all legal."
"Or not." Pauline looked at him through troubled eyes. "They found a
baby in a Dumpster by Golden Gate Park, barely alive, just last week."
Jonathan's gut told him it couldn't have been this woman who'd left her
baby in a trash can. She hadn't seemed defiant, only hurt. Then again,
maybe she'd felt she had no way out.
"You should call the police, Jonathan."
"I will report the break-in, Pauline."
"You know that's not all you should report."
"Someone hurt that girl badly." He found his fingers curling into
fists, which disturbed him, tor violence was not supposed to be a part
of his nature. Yet there were times like this when his civilized Godly
demeanor wore thin. He hadn't always been a man of the cloth. He'd once
been just a man.
Pauline studied him with the wisdom of her years. "I know you're the
reverend, and I'm the secretary, but I've seen some things in my life.
You can help a lot more people if you stay on top of the cliff throwing
down ropes, rather than climbing down into a hole to save one soul and
maybe never coming back."
Jonathan looked down the empty street, knowing that Pauline was
probably right.
"Anyway, I don't think she'll be back," Pauline said, turning toward
the small house next door to the church where he resided and where the
church office was located.
"I hope you're wrong," he said.
She stopped and looked at him. "I'd like to believe that girl hasn't
gone and run herself right back to the man who beat her up. But I'm not
sure I'd be right. I just hope ..."
"What?"
"I pray that baby of hers doesn't bear the same scars."
"I pray that, too," he murmured heavily. But this time he wanted to do
more than just pray.
added quickly as Caitlyn tried to interrupt. "I'm just worried about
you. I know the accident set you back, but it was months ago, and
something is still wrong. I want to help. I wish you'd let me."
Caitlyn wished she could, too. But some things were too private, too
painful. She took the bottle out of Emily's mouth and pulled her out of
the car seat so she could burp her. When she glanced back at her
cousin, she saw Jolie shaking her head in disbelief. "What?" Caitlyn
asked.
"Career woman? Yeah, right. Look at you. you're in heaven."
"I'm baby-sitting," she said defensively.
"Sure you are." Jolie got to her feet. "I'm going to sell some dresses
while you take care of someone
else's baby. Now, do you see anything
wrong with this picture, Miss Career Woman?"
"It's just for today, a few hours."
"Tick. took, tick, took."
"It's not like that."
"Maybe it's a good thing Brian is back. Maybe it's time you looked at
some of the choices you're making, because it's been months since I've
seen you so content. Holding a baby is definitely a good look for you.
As your business partner, I'm not encouraging it. But as, your cousin
and your friend, I have to admit that—"
"Don't say it. Emily is just temporary. Tomorrow I'll be a career woman
again, I promise."
Caitlyn sighed as Jolie walked away. She couldn't believe Brian was
back in town. She wasn't ready to see him, to look toward the future,
to make decisions. She'd been comfortable in her safe, secure, bland
life of the past year. Now, she felt suddenly overwhelmed, and as she
looked down at
Emily, she wondered if Sarah had felt the same way. Had Sarah been so
burdened with motherhood that she'd simply run away from it? Because
Caitlyn could understand that desperate need to flee. She felt it right
now, so much so that her toes were tingling.
She looked up as the door opened and Matt walked in. Wearing worn blue
jeans, a brown aviator jacket, and a pair of dark sunglasses, he looked
stunningly male. So much for bland. This man was anything but.
"It's about time," she said, deciding her rapidly beating pulse had to
be due to anger and not, not, God forbid, attraction, because she
certainly wasn't in the market for any spine-tingling, palm-sweating
moments. She had enough problems.
Matt walked over to her. "I went to your apartment, but you'd already
left."
"Thirty minutes after you were supposed to come back," she reminded him.
"I got hung up."
"Did you find your sister?"
"Not yet." He took off his glasses, and the worry in his eyes stopped
her from giving him a harder time.
It was obvious he was concerned
about Sarah, and she could respect that.
"Maybe she'll call or come by," Caitlyn said. "You should be home just
in case. I'm sure she won't leave Emily with you for long."
"I'd like to believe that. But I don't know Sarah anymore. She was a
little girl when I saw her last."
Caitlyn hesitated to press for more information, but she desperately
wanted to understand. "May I ask what happened to your parents?"
"My father died right after Sarah was born. Some years later there was
a fire. My mother disappeared, and my sister and
I were sent to foster care."
"That sounds like the short version."
He shrugged. "It's what happened."
"I'm sorry." She couldn't imagine the horror of being abandoned. Not
that she wouldn't mind a bit more distance from her own family, but not
total abandonment. "Your mother just disappeared? Why?"
"I don't think she wanted to be a mother," Matt said, surprising her
with more information. "I guess she tried—sometimes." He stared out the
window, lost in thoughts that turned his face to stone. "Maybe Sarah
turned out just like her," he murmured. "Maybe she isn't coming back
for her baby either."
"Don't say that. It's not like Sarah left Emily on a street corner. She
left her with you." Caitlyn didn't know why she was trying to make Matt
feel better, except that he seemed to need it. And making people feel
better was ingrained in her. It was the way she compensated for her
shortcomings, the way she drew positive attention to herself instead of
negative. When people were happy, they were usually less critical,
a
truth she d learned from living with the high expectations of her
family.
"At any rate, I have a private investigator looking for Sarah," Matt
continued, turning to face her. "Now that we know she's somewhere in
the city, we should be able to find her. I guess I'll take Emily back
to the apartment and wait." He shook his head with impatience. "I hate
waiting."
"Emily will keep you company."
Matt sent her a doubtful look. "I hope she doesn't start screaming
again. Will you come by when you're done here?"
Caitlyn hesitated. "Uh, I don't know."
"Please. I don't know anything about babies. And I don't want to do
something wrong or hurt her in any way." He paused, looking into her
eyes with a hopeful expression. "I only moved to town a couple of
months ago, so there's no one else to call. I don't really have any
friends.. .."
"Yeah, yeah, you're breaking my heart," she said dryly. "I should tell
you, Matt, that I've been manipulated by the best, so I can pretty much
recognize a sob story when I hear one."
"I would appreciate your help. This isn't an area I know how to
control."
And she had a feeling there wasn't much else in his life he didn't
control down to the last detail. "You're pretty good at getting what
you want, aren't you?"
"That depends on your answer," he said, turning on the killer smile
he'd used on Tiffany earlier.
If Caitlyn had any sense, she'd say no. Just say no, she told herself.
It's an easy word, just spit it out.
But with Emily looking at her with
her big brown eyes and Matt looking at her with his big brown eyes, she
was completely lost.
"I'll come by," she said. "For a few minutes, just to check on you. But
no disappearing on me."
"Deal"
She handed Matt the baby, who didn't seem to mind cuddling up on Mart's
strong shoulder Frnily apparently sensed thai he was one of the good
guys. And something inside of Caitlyn told her the same thing. She put
a hand on his arm, and the heat between them suddenly seemed to sizzle.
He looked into her eyes, and she felt her stomach clench. She'd meant
to offer him a gesture of comfort, but instead the touch had created an
awareness between them, a connection, a sexual attraction. Oh, Lord.
Another
complication! She dropped her hand from his arm. "You better go," she
said abruptly.
He stared into her eyes as if he were seeing her for the first time.
"Yeah," he said somewhat gruffly as
he bent over to put Emily in her
car seat. He awkwardly fiddled with the straps as she began to squirm.
"Shit. Can't she just sit still?"
"You have to show her who's the boss."
He rolled his eyes as he looked up at Caitlyn. "I think we both know
she's the boss."
"Maybe. By the way, I almost ran into Mrs. Pederman on my way out this
morning. I had to hide in the laundry room so she wouldn't see the
baby."
"Mrs. Pederman?"
"The nosy old lady who lives by the elevator and asks who you are every
time you walk in the front door."
"Oh, her."
"She takes a nap between one and three every day, so you should be
okay, but maybe you should leave the car seat in the car and—"
"And do what, smuggle her in under my jacket?"
"I don't know; you're the investigative reporter. Figure something out.
But whatever you do, don't let
her see the baby or we'll both be in
trouble. I do not want to lose my apartment."
He frowned. "This isn't going to work."
"It will if Sarah comes back today."
"
If
being the operative word.
The women in my family have a history of
disappearing."
"She said she'd be in touch. Have some faith."
"I'm trying, but I don't have a good feeling about this."
Neither did Caitlyn, but she hoped she was wrong, because getting Matt
and Emily out of her life as
soon as possible
suddenly seemed desperately important.
* * *
small window by the back door
of the church had once again been broken,
the third time this month. He hated to give in to cynicism, to
hopelessness, but even he could take only so much without losing
patience. He might be a minister, but
he was also a man.
Pauline Evans, the church secretary, an African American woman in her
mid-fifties, clucked disapprovingly as she saw the damage. "I think
it's time to put a board over that window," she said.
"It's bad enough we have to lock the church at night. If we start
boarding up all the windows, we might
as well lock God into a
safety-deposit box."
"It's just another homeless person looking for a warm place to sleep,"
Pauline replied. "Or a runaway."
"But if they come here, maybe they're not just running away, maybe
they're running to something."
Her stern expression softened. "I know there's always hope, but
honestly, Jonathan, T think sometimes you're too optimistic. You have
to face facts. There isn't enough money in the church budget to keep
replacing broken windows."
"Then maybe we should just unlock the door," he said with a smile.
She shook her head. "And what will they do to the inside of the church,
to our sanctuary?"
"But that's just the point, it isn't our sanctuary, it belongs to
everyone."
"You're young, you'll change your mind. The Reverend Wallace locked
this church up twenty years ago, and it's the only reason it's in as
good a condition as it is."
Jonathan was tiring of the constant references to Reverend Wallace,
whose place he had taken a year earlier when the good minister had
finally decided to retire at seventy-nine. At thirty-three, Jonathan
was much younger, and he knew he had a lot to learn, but he also knew
he had a lot to give, if he could just figure out the best way to give
it.
"You know the church board will use this broken window as one more
reason to close the church," Pauline pointed out.
He sighed, knowing she was right. With the neighborhood deteriorating
around them and the low attendance at Sunday services, there was
growing pressure to close the church and sell the land for a profit
that could be used at other churches within the ministry.
Jonathan didn't want to see his ministry closed. The people in the
community needed the church; he just had to make them realize that.
Sometimes the task ahead of him seemed impossible. Maybe if he was a
different kind of preacher, more like his father, with fire and
brimstone and passion in every word, he'd draw in the masses. But he
wasn't his father, and he had to stop making the comparison, even if he
couldn't stop others within the religious world from making it.
Just the other day one of the board members had suggested he ask his
father to visit, to come in and preach a sermon that would have the
rafters shaking with the force of his personality, with the passion
of
God's word delivered in a way that only William Mitchell could deliver.
But Jonathan didn't want to ask for his father's help, didn't want to
admit that he needed the help. It was selfish on his part, and he
prayed for forgiveness every night. He wanted to make it on his own. He
wanted to find his own way to serve God, not just follow in his
father's overly large
footsteps.
"Why don't you call someone to fix the window?" he suggested to
Pauline, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand.
"Are you sure you don't want me to go inside with you? Lord only knows
who's in there."
"That's exactly true, Pauline. The Lord knows. That's why I'm not
worried about going in by myself." Jonathan smiled at Pauline's
disapproval of his sometimes irreverent humor. Ah, well, they'd figure
out
a way to work together. Because deep down they both wanted the same
thing.
As Pauline left to call for a window replacement, Jonathan let himself
into the church. All was quiet, nothing out of place, nothing damaged.
His practiced eye noted all the details at the altar, then he walked
down the center aisle, looking into each pew. It wasn't until he came
to the last one that he saw her—fast asleep.
She looked like a tiny broken bird, a raven—with straight black hair
down to her waist, pale white skin, small bones, old clothes that hung
big on her frame. She shifted on the bench, obviously uncomfortable.
It
was then he caught sight of her face, her swollen cheek, black eye, cut
lip. Each wound made his fingers clench tighter in his fist.
Someone had hurt this beautiful creature and hurt her badly. His gaze
traveled down to her hand, to the sharp jagged cuts that could have
been made only by shattered glass. He'd found his trespasser. Was she
just another down-on-her-luck story or was she something more?
He caught his breath as her eyelids flickered and slowly opened to
reveal eyes as dark and as deep as a
starless sky. She saw him watching her and sat up abruptly.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.
"I'm leaving now. You don't have to call the cops." She tried to stand
up, but swayed, then sat back down. "I feel a little dizzy."
"What's your name?"
"Why?"
He smiled gently. "Maybe I can help you. But first you have to tell me
your name."
She hesitated for a long, long moment. "Sarah. My name is Sarah."
four
"Sarah." Jonathan offered her a gentle smile. "It's nice to meet you.I'm Jonathan Mitchell, and this is
my church."
"You're the minister?" she asked uncertainly.
"That's right."
She licked her swollen lip, drawing his attention once again to her
injuries. He instinctively raised a hand to her face, and she flinched
as if he were about to strike her.
"I won't hurt you," he said quickly.
She didn't look like she believed him. Nor did she appear to have any
reason to believe him. For someone had definitely hurt her and broken
whatever trust she'd had. Sarah looked past him, her gaze darting to
the door, seeing her escape route, her way out, but he couldn't let her
go, not in her condition.
"Let me help you, Sarah."
Her mouth trembled, but she didn't speak; she simply shook her head.
"Please?"
"It's too late," she said in a breathy whisper, as if she were afraid
to say the words too loudly.
"If it were too late, I don't think you'd be here now. I think you came
to church looking for something. Maybe you found it."
Her dark eyes clung to his for a long moment, a glimmer of something in
their dark depths. Then she glanced away. "I was cold. That's all. I
saw the broken window, and I thought I'd be gone before you found me."
"So you didn't break the window?"
"I'm not a thief."
"That's not what I asked you." He wondered then if his pity was
misplaced. Had he been taken in by what looked like innocence but was
nothing more than practiced ingenuity? For surely she was lying. There
was blood on the floor from where she'd cut her hand.
Sarah tried to stand up but swayed once again, and Jonathan grabbed her
arm to steady her.
"Ow," she said, grimacing with pain. He looked down at her arm and
after a second's hesitation pulled
the sleeve of her sweater up until
he could see the dark purple bruising on her forearm. At least there
were no needle tracks.
She pulled away from him, pushing her sleeve back down.
"Let me help you, Sarah. I've got a house next door, a bathroom where
you can clean up, and we can wash some of those cuts on your face."
"I can't tell you anything. I won't," she warned him.
"I wasn't going to ask—yet."
As they faced off, Pauline came into the church, brandishing a large
wooden broom in one hand. She lowered it when she saw it was just the
two of them.
"You were gone so long, I thought maybe there was trouble." Her voice
faded as she took in Sarah's condition. "Oh, my, someone did a real
number on you, didn't they?"
"This is Sarah. She's coming next door to get cleaned up," Jonathan
said.
"I'll call—"
"No," he said, cutting her off.
She raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"Not yet." He sent her a silent plea to let him play this one his way.
There would be time to call in the appropriate social services, but
right now he wanted to ease some of Sarah's pain. He wouldn't be able
to do that if she tried to run. And there was no doubt in his mind that
she would run.
"All right," Pauline murmured reluctantly. "You come with me, and we'll
get you fixed up. Maybe some food, too? Are you hungry?"
Pauline moved forward, then stopped, her gaze suddenly fixed on Sarah's
chest. Sarah placed a defensive hand over her breast, but it was too
late.
"Oh, honey." Pauline shook her head, her eyes worried. "Where's your
baby?"
Jonathan realized then that Sarah's shirt was wet, stained with milk.
"Sarah?" he questioned. "Do you have a baby?"
"No. I don't have a baby," she said flatly. "Not anymore." She broke
away from both of them, startling Jonathan with her quickness. One
second she was there, barely able to stand, and the next she was
disappearing through the door.
He finally got his feet to move and rushed after her. He caught a
glimpse of her as she turned the corner in front of the church, but by
the time he reached the same corner she was gone. He turned and walked
slowly back to the church.
Pauline met him on the sidewalk. "She's in trouble."
"It looks that way."
"You should have called the cops as soon as you found her."
"So they could throw her in jail?"
"Maybe she should be in jail. Because that girl had herself a baby and
not too long ago. So where is it?"
"It could be any number of places, all legal."
"Or not." Pauline looked at him through troubled eyes. "They found a
baby in a Dumpster by Golden Gate Park, barely alive, just last week."
Jonathan's gut told him it couldn't have been this woman who'd left her
baby in a trash can. She hadn't seemed defiant, only hurt. Then again,
maybe she'd felt she had no way out.
"You should call the police, Jonathan."
"I will report the break-in, Pauline."
"You know that's not all you should report."
"Someone hurt that girl badly." He found his fingers curling into
fists, which disturbed him, tor violence was not supposed to be a part
of his nature. Yet there were times like this when his civilized Godly
demeanor wore thin. He hadn't always been a man of the cloth. He'd once
been just a man.
Pauline studied him with the wisdom of her years. "I know you're the
reverend, and I'm the secretary, but I've seen some things in my life.
You can help a lot more people if you stay on top of the cliff throwing
down ropes, rather than climbing down into a hole to save one soul and
maybe never coming back."
Jonathan looked down the empty street, knowing that Pauline was
probably right.
"Anyway, I don't think she'll be back," Pauline said, turning toward
the small house next door to the church where he resided and where the
church office was located.
"I hope you're wrong," he said.
She stopped and looked at him. "I'd like to believe that girl hasn't
gone and run herself right back to the man who beat her up. But I'm not
sure I'd be right. I just hope ..."
"What?"
"I pray that baby of hers doesn't bear the same scars."
"I pray that, too," he murmured heavily. But this time he wanted to do
more than just pray.
BOOK: Barbara Freethy - Some Kind Of Wonderful
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