His dark gaze clouded. “Once upon a time we had a sister.”
THREE
Had. They’d had a sister. Past tense.
“Tell me,” she said quietly.
He took a second to gather his thoughts, then began. “One summer night, Carrie and two of her friends were walking home from the library—something they’d done dozens of times before. It wasn’t quite dark, and we lived in a safe neighborhood. So as everyone said later, there was no need for our parents to worry.”
But there was a need, Rachel realized, and a feeling of dread settled over her.
“That night, Carrie and Erin dropped Liza off at her house, then half a block from ours, Carrie said goodnight to Erin and headed home.” He paused and his brow furrowed. “She’d just turned sixteen. She was pretty and smart, and she wanted to be a fashion designer. She drew all the time.” He blew out a breath. “They never caught the man who raped her. She died from a blow to the head during the assault.”
Rachel didn’t know what to say for a moment, then murmured a time-worn response that never really said enough. “Jake, I’m so sorry. How old were you when Carrie died?”
“I was her big brother by three minutes.”
Twins. That seemed to make losing her even worse. They’d begun life together, were born together—learned to walk and talk together. How many times had he wished he’d been with her that night? Rachel wondered. Big brothers were supposed to look after their baby sisters—keep them from harm. But he hadn’t been able to do that. And now she understood his need to protect. What was it her mom always said? If you want to understand someone, take a look at their past.
“Okay,” she said softly. “If Maggie would feel better hanging out with me tonight, then a slumber party it is. But she’s staying in my room.” She smiled a little. “We can’t possibly braid each other’s hair and talk about boys if she sleeps on my deck.”
The tenderness in his dark eyes brought back that billowing feeling in Rachel’s chest. “Good,” he murmured, returning her smile. “Good. Now I won’t worry about her while I’m gone.”
Rachel closed her Bible, then lay back and turned off the light, a contemplative mood settling over her. She’d read passages from Revelations, then moved on to the Book of Psalms, and one verse kept repeating itself in her mind, probably because of Carrie Campbell’s death. Psalm 34:18. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; He rescues those who are crushed in spirit.”
For the second time today, Rachel wondered how Jake had dealt with his twin’s passing. She’d needed her faith, needed her trust in God when David died. The comfort she’d received from her family and friends had been invaluable as she’d found her way back to a life without him. But without her faith, and the solid belief that David was whole and happy again, she knew she would still be broken and adrift. She hoped that sixteen-year-old Jake had turned to God, as she did, and found peace. He’d never mentioned his beliefs, but she knew he didn’t go to church.
Rachel repositioned her feet, smiling when they bumped into a big, muscular lump. After a few sad, high-pitched whines when Jake left without her, Maggie had accepted Rachel’s hospitality and settled in for the night. Now, as she lay curled up at the foot of the bed, she snuffled from time to time, doggie-dreaming.
“I guess I should get some sleep, too, Lord,” Rachel whispered in the silence. She’d already told Him how much she regretted the vandalism done on her land. Now it was time to center on the good in her life. “Thank You for this day, and for my friends and family. Please watch over my dad as he continues to get stronger after the stroke, and keep my mom well in Your care.” She paused. “Also, a friend of mine is on the road tonight. He’s a good man, Lord. Keep him safe.”
Then she rolled onto her side and, minutes later, welcomed the dozy, groggy beginnings of sleep … fuzzy shapes and images coalescing behind her closed eyelids.
Two hours later, a sharp bark shattered Rachel’s dreams and she bolted upright to see Maggie vault from the bed and disappear into the hall. Rachel pulled on her robe and hurried to the kitchen where the Irish setter was barking and leaping against the patio’s glass doors. Nerves buzzing, she snapped on the kitchen and deck lights.
Did dogs go ballistic over minor sounds in the night? Or had her intruder returned to wreak more havoc on Tim Decker’s already-damaged bulldozer? Rachel snagged the dog’s leash from a hook in the broom closet, then clipped it to Maggie’s collar, grabbed a flashlight and pulled open the door. She couldn’t let Maggie out on her own. She couldn’t risk the dog being hurt when she was in her—
Maggie lunged onto the deck, yanking the leash out of her hand.
“Maggie!” Rachel rushed barefooted down the steps after her. “Maggie, get back here!”
She clicked on her flashlight, played it around until it landed on fifty pounds of reddish-gold fur. The dog stood rigidly, a low growl vibrating in her throat, her attention pinned to the construction site. Rachel looked around apprehensively, then quickly picked her way over the dirt and stones in her driveway and grabbed the leash—tugged the dog back.
Suddenly something shifted in the shadows. Rachel’s fear skyrocketed—until she saw five massive figures wandering in the moonlight near the small cluster of gnarled apple trees close to the site.
She blew out a breath. “Really, Maggie. All this over a few elk?” Her yard was a constant stopover for animals making their way from the woods west of her house to the clover and trefoil across the highway. She loved to see them come through. They were shedding their winter coats now, and the bulls had just begun to sprout velvety antlers. Soon, they’d be stately and majestic again. But obviously Maggie wasn’t as impressed with them as Rachel was.
“Come on,” she grumbled. She gave the leash another tug, then gingerly crossed the stones and climbed the steps behind the now-unconcerned dog. “Back to bed with you. You have the luxury of staying up all night and sleeping all day. I don’t.”
At least this little foray took care of a question she’d been pondering. No way was she getting a dog of her own. Chronic insomnia was bad enough without having a four-legged nutcase sound the alarm every time a few elk showed up. Nope, no dogs or guns for her.
Sweat flowed from his pores as he scrambled frantically on the ground, trying to be quiet, feeling one-handed for the keys he’d dropped in the ferns and undergrowth. In the other hand, he gripped the handle of the pick and prayed he wouldn’t have to use it. Where had that dog come from? She didn’t have a dog!
He touched something cold and mushy in the vegetation—a disgusting slug!—but he kept his hand moving, moving. Then his fingertips bumped his key ring and his heart nearly burst in relief as he snatched it up. Fifty yards away, lights on the elevated side deck still blazed. The inside lights, too.
Jamming his keys deeply into his jeans pocket, he retrieved the pick, shovel and bag beside him and waited for the house lights to go out. He’d stopped the construction temporarily, but the problem remained. So did he stay or leave? This time, she’d blamed his nosing around on the mutt’s interest in the elk. But if he alerted the dog again, she could call the police, and that could start a more diligent investigation. Bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed. Swallowed again. Maybe … maybe he was out of options.
The
