The Caregiver: Families of Honor, Book One

188 Pages·2011·0.94 MB·English

by  Shelley Shepard Gray

THE CAREGIVER
Families of Honor, Book One
SHELLEYSHEPARDGRAY
Dedication
To Gary and Kelley. Just because.
Epigraph
Happiness is the inner joy that can be sought or caught, but never
taught or bought.
—Amish proverb
Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid,
for you are close beside me.
—Psalm 23:4
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Letter from the Author
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Also by Shelley Shepard Gray
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
L
ucy shielded her face when the antique platter crashed to the floor. Though
whether she was shielding it from shards of pottery or bracing herself for another
sting from Paul’s hand, she didn’t really know.
Most likely both.
But all her husband did was pull open the screen door. “You are such a
disappointment, Lucy,” he bit out, each word seething with venom. “Such a
disappointment. In every possible way.”
Her lip bled as she fought to remain still under his glaring eyes. Prepared
herself for another diatribe. Then Paul simply shook his head in disgust and
stormed out the kitchen door. It slammed behind him as he bolted down the
stairs and strode along the worn path to their barn.
When his footsteps faded, Lucy leaned against the gleaming counters of her
kitchen and willed herself to stop shaking.
Trembling and crying won’t help, she sternly urged herself. When Paul came
back, he would expect every trace of the bright blue dish cleaned up and the rest
of the kitchen to be spotless. With a scant glance at the clock over the screen
door, she saw it was a quarter after six.
She had fifteen minutes. Maybe eighteen.
After wiping the blood from her mouth with a dishcloth, she carefully picked
up the pieces of pottery. Tried not to remember her grandmother’s expression
when she’d presented the serving piece to her and Paul. Her lip quivered. Oh,
but her grandmother had been so proud to give her something that had been in
their family for four generations.
And Lucy had been proud to receive it. After all, she was the eldest of six
children and was marrying well. Paul Troyer was a pillar of their community and
had promised that he would be able to help out her brothers and sisters
financially.
And now the dish was shattered. Irreparable. Much like her marriage.
She glanced at the clock again. 6:22. Oh, but time is wasting! Quickly, Lucy
picked up her pace. Putting both knees on the ground, she scanned the floor and
snatched up every shard that she could find, only wincing slightly when one of
the pieces tore at her thumb.
After hurriedly bandaging her finger so blood wouldn’t stain anything, Lucy
wiped the floor with a damp cloth. Then she attacked the dishes—the source of
Paul’s latest discontent. Dinner had been late. She’d been helping her mother
with her littlest sister. Lizzie had the flu and was feverish, so Lucy had offered to
watch her while her mother went to school to attend Jeremy and Karl’s spelling
bee program.
But then her mother had run late. Making Lucy return late. And the chicken
had gone into the oven at 5:30 instead of 5:15. Paul had been very angry.
She darted a look out the window. Surmising that he was still in the barn,
Lucy breathed a sigh of relief. All she had to do was wash the dishes, scrub two
pans, and put them all neatly away before he returned. If she did that, everything
might still be all right.
She stole another glance at the clock. 6:26.
With the experience of almost two years of marriage, Lucy hurriedly wrapped
up the remains of the dinner, then washed and dried each piece of pottery. Sweat
ran down the middle of her back as she raced to put each dish away, then ran a
cloth over the counters.
Finally, she straightened out the red-and-white tin canisters to the right of the
oven. Made sure they were in perfect alignment, not a one out of place.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe a sigh of relief. The kitchen was
clean. She darted yet another glance at the clock. 6:34. She had made it.
As she always did, Lucy braced herself to hear Paul’s footsteps. Prepared to
meet him with a smile . . . as if he hadn’t thrown the dinner platter to the floor.
As if he hadn’t raised his hand to her.
But still the clock ticked . . . and he didn’t arrive. Warily, Lucy peeked out the
window. Glanced at the clock. 6:50.
A new set of worries settled in her stomach. To spend so long in the barn
wasn’t like him. Paul was nothing if not prompt; and she had learned the hard
way about the folly of not adhering to his schedule.
Not knowing what else to do, she pulled out a chair. And waited. Another
hour passed.
When the sun started to set, Lucy stood and paced. Common sense told her to
walk to the barn to check on her husband. But self-preservation warned her. Paul
didn’t like her to disturb him. He didn’t like her to spy on him.
And surely he would not be happy if she went to the barn without him telling
her she could. Almost without thought, she rubbed the knot that now was a
permanent fixture on her arm. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Thirty minutes later, Lucy felt sick to her stomach. It was now almost 8:30,
the time Paul liked to read the Bible and discuss his plans for the next day.
Surely something was wrong.
Worrying her bottom lip, she slowly opened the screen door and stepped
outside. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Star, their shepherd mix, whining
outside the barn door.
“Star?”
The dog barked, then whined some more. Pulled on the rope that hitched him
to a post by the barn’s entrance.
Lucy started forward. For Star to be still tied up, that was strange indeed.
Usually Paul let him loose once he went into the barn to inspect the horses.
“Star? Are you okay?” she asked as she freed the dog.
The dog answered by barking again and pawing at the barn’s entrance.
Lucy gathered her courage. Prepared herself to meet Paul’s barrage of abuse
for disturbing him. Or for him to yank at her shoulder for spying.
But the daylight was waning. Lucy didn’t know what Paul wanted her to do,
but when Star pawed the door again, she opened it and stepped in. Her heart beat
wildly. With a cautious, dry swallow, she whispered, “Paul?”
Only the nervous neigh of their horses replied.
She walked in farther, then stopped in shock.
Paul lay at the base of the ladder that led to the barn’s loft. She rushed to his
side and knelt, Star at her heels. “Paul!” she cried out. “Paul! Paul?”
That’s when she noticed his neck was at an odd angle and his eyes were open.
Lifeless.
Gingerly, she pressed two fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. But there
wasn’t one. Her husband was dead.