Apprentice Father

And she certainly knew how to keep them entertained. If they could work out an arrangement, he would be forever in his pastor's debt.

Though he knew little about Cate, he felt comfortable in her presence. Reassured, somehow, that things would work out. He found her as appealing as his niece and nephew did—on many levels, he realized, watching her blond hair brush her cheek.

When Cate turned toward him, her slight blush told him she was aware he'd been staring. Not good. He needed her child-care services. Making her nervous was not part of the plan.

“What are your plans for them?” Cate asked Clay.

“I don't know. I've been on my own for too many years. I never wanted a responsibility like this. But I made a promise to my sister. As long as the kids are with me, I want to do my best. But I can't do it alone. I need your help.”

God gives a home to the forsaken.

—
Psalms
68:6

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

T
he jarring ring of the phone slowly penetrated Clay's sleep-fogged brain. Groping for it in the dark, he squinted at his digital clock, trying to focus on the blue numbers. Three o'clock in the morning. Not good.

“Hello?” he mumbled.

“Clay Adams?”

“Yes.”

“This is Lieutenant Butler with the Omaha, Nebraska, Police Department. You have a sister, Anne Montgomery?”

A surge of adrenaline shot through Clay and he jerked upright, his hand tightening on the phone as he swung his legs to the floor. “Yes.”

“I'm very sorry to inform you that she was fatally injured tonight in a domestic violence incident.”

Clay heard the words. Tried to process them. Couldn't. He'd talked to Anne just three days ago, when she'd called to tell him she was finally leaving her abusive husband. Tomorrow after work, he was making the drive from Washington, Missouri, to Omaha to pick up her and the kids.

She couldn't be dead.

“Sir?”

“Yes.” Clay cleared his throat. “I'm here.”

“I'm sorry to give you such bad news. We notified a Clayton Adams in Iowa as well. However, he's ill and unable to assist with any arrangements.”

His father's illness was news to Clay. But he didn't keep in touch with his holier-than-thou old man. And he couldn't care less what his physical condition was. Thanks to the pressure he'd exerted, Anne had stayed in a dangerous marriage.

Now she was dead.

As the full impact of the officer's news began to sink in, a wave of nausea swept over Clay. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would somehow obliterate the reality. But it couldn't alter the facts. Anne was gone.

“What happened?” He managed to choke out the hoarse question.

The sound of shuffling papers came over the line. “According to the report, it appears she died from a blow to the head. The autopsy will confirm that.”

All at once, Clay's shock gave way to rage. A rage that went at light speed from simmering to boiling. “I hope you lock up that monster and throw away the key,” he spat out.

“Unfortunately, the suspect had disappeared by the time we arrived.”

A muscle in Clay's jaw clenched. “You mean he's gone?”

“For the moment. But we'll find him. He took the family's car, and we've issued a BOLO alert on him.”

“Did Anne report this before she…before she died?”

“No. From what we've been able to gather, the suspect locked the children in a bedroom when the dispute began. One of them
climbed out a window and ran next door for help. The neighbors called the police.”

Clay hadn't even thought about Josh and Emily. “Are the kids okay?”

“Physically, yes. But as you might expect, they're pretty traumatized. A friend of Mrs. Montgomery's is watching them until family arrives.”

Meaning him. There was no one else.

Wiping a hand down his face, Clay tried to think. The construction project he'd been sent to Washington to oversee was in the critical start-up phase, and a late February snow had already put them behind schedule in the two weeks he'd been on site. His boss in Chicago wouldn't be too thrilled about his taking time off. But that was tough.

He glanced again at the clock. “I can be there by noon tomorrow.”

“I'll pass that on to Mrs. Montgomery's friend. Let me give you her name and address.”

Flipping on the light, Clay fumbled in the drawer of his nightstand for a pencil and paper. He jotted down the information in a script so shaky he hoped he'd be able to read it later.

“And give us a call once you arrive,” the lieutenant finished. “We'll need you to fill out some paperwork. Is there anything else we can do for you in the meantime?”

“Find my sister's husband.”

“We intend to. And if it's any comfort, your sister's friend told us she would notify their pastor, and that all of you would be remembered in the prayers of her congregation.”

With an effort, Clay bit back the disparaging comment that sprang to his lips. Instead, he thanked the officer and hung up.

Clasping his shaky hands, he leaned forward and took several long, slow breaths as the lieutenant's last comment echoed in his
mind. He'd grown up in a so-called Christian home. A household where the slightest transgression was punished. Where hell and damnation were preached, and guilt was ladled out in generous portions. Where the God of vengeance and punishment held court, and where unrepentant sinners—like him—were dealt with harshly and told to pray for mercy.

Back then, Clay hadn't thought much of prayer. He thought even less of it now, the taste of bitterness sharp on his tongue. Anne had prayed. But where had God been when she'd needed Him a few hours ago? And what good were the prayers of her congregation now? Anne was gone, leaving a four-and five-year-old motherless.

As for him…he didn't need God's help. He'd learned long ago to take care of himself.

Of course, if God wanted to lend a hand, that was fine. He was going to need all the help he could get in the days to come.

But he sure wasn't going to count on it.

A
s the service for Anne droned on, Clay checked on the two children sitting beside him, who were huddled close together in the pew, holding hands. Emily's long, dark hair was pulled back with a ribbon, and her eyes were huge in her pale face. Fair-haired Josh looked uncertain and lost, his freckles standing in stark relief against his pale skin, one finger stuck in his mouth. He hadn't said a word since Clay had arrived in Omaha.

Redirecting his attention to the sanctuary, where Reverend Phelps was presiding over Anne's funeral, Clay tried not to appear too hostile. He hadn't been inside a church since his sister's wedding almost ten years ago, and he'd prefer not to be in one now. But Anne would have wanted a church service. That's why he'd thrown his one suit into his suitcase in the early morning hours preceding his long, solitary drive to Nebraska.

He'd always been a sucker about giving his gentle, loving kid sister what she wanted, he recalled. His favorite comic book, his last piece of chocolate. He'd been her biggest fan when she'd had the leading role in her grade school play, and her staunchest defender when bullies had plagued her in middle school.

Yet he hadn't been able to save her from the ultimate bully. From the man who, ironically, had pledged to love, honor and cherish her all the days of his life.

As he looked at the coffin resting beside him in the aisle, Clay's throat tightened. A tear leaked out the corner of his eye, and he dipped his head to swipe at it with the back of his hand.

May Martin rot in hell for all eternity,
Clay thought, the bitter wish twisting his gut.

And his feelings toward his old man weren't much kinder.

Nor were they tempered by the memory of their brief conversation after he'd arrived in Nebraska. He hadn't seen or talked with his father since Anne's wedding, and he hadn't recognized the querulous voice on the phone. But though his father had sounded old and feeble, he'd been as self-righteous, demanding—and disapproving—as ever.

“Listen, boy, I can't make it to Nebraska for the service. I have pneumonia.” His father's hacking cough, followed by audible wheezing, had interrupted their conversation. “You'll have to handle the arrangements.”

Clay had always hated how his father called him “boy.” His jaw had clamped shut and he'd gritted his teeth. “I plan to.”

“There has to be a church service.”

“It's taken care of.”

“Who has the children?”

“I do.”

“I guess there's no other option right now.”

He must think I'll corrupt them in a week, Clay had concluded, compressing his mouth into a thin line.

“I'll take them as soon as I'm well enough,” his father had continued. “I'll call you.”

And with that he'd hung up.

There hadn't been a lot of opportunity to think about his father's last comment, but as the organ launched into a hymn and the people around him began to sing, Clay considered the two children beside him. He'd been so mired in grief, so bogged down in paperwork and funeral arrangements, he hadn't given much thought to their future.

But as he regarded their innocent, anxious faces, his heart contracted with compassion. How could he relegate these little children to a cold, joyless life with his strict, hard-nosed father? After the trauma they'd been through, they needed love and tenderness, and a stable, supportive environment. They needed a caring parent figure and a real home. His father would offer none of those things.

Unfortunately, he wasn't equipped to offer them, either, Clay acknowledged. He didn't know much about love or tenderness, and less about how to create a comforting haven. The home of his youth wasn't a good prototype. Nor were his twelve years in the Army, where the focus had been on structure and discipline and honor. And his current job kept him on the move, making it impossible to establish ties of any kind—or even a permanent home. And that's the way he liked it.

Yet the thought of handing these children over to his father turned his stomach. The old man ruled through fear, not love.
Joy
and
fun
weren't in his vocabulary. Josh and Emily would have a dismal life with him. That was the last thing Anne would have wanted for them.

So what was he supposed to do?

“As we take our sister, Anne, to her final resting place, let us find some comfort in knowing she is at peace and with God.” Reverend Phelps's closing remarks echoed in the church, and Clay tried to focus on his words. “And let us recall how she
always tried to do the right thing. That's a challenge we all face. Because the right thing may not always be the easiest thing. It may not be what we want to do. It may take great courage. But Anne gave us a shining example of courage and selfless love. Let that be her legacy to us, one that we all strive to follow.”

Twin furrows dented Clay's brow. He'd seen too many people fail at relationships—with parents, with spouses, with children. Enough to convince him he never wanted a family. But if what the minister said was true, he had one now. For how could he send these children to his father's home, where their life would be little better than before?

All at once Clay found it difficult to breathe. Reaching up, he tugged at his suddenly too-tight tie. He'd had this feeling of being trapped, of the walls closing in on him, twice before in his life. Once, as a kid, living under his father's roof. And again, during Army training, when he'd been locked into a small, dark room for several days during a POW simulation. In both cases, he'd survived for one simple reason: he'd known he would get out.

But there was no escape from this situation. Not if he did the right thing.

Clay knew about duty from his years in the military. Knew about it, too, from years of living in his father's house, where the phrase “doing your Christian duty” had been drummed into him. The minister had confirmed that obligation. There was no doubt in Clay's mind about what he
should
do.

But he wasn't sure he was up to the task.

Frustrated, Clay raked his fingers through his hair. He didn't know a thing about little kids. If Anne had listened to him and left her husband instead of letting their father shame her into staying in that mockery of a marriage, he wouldn't be in this predicament.

Giving him yet another reason to resent his old man.

As the pallbearers began to roll the coffin out, Clay moved into the aisle behind it. Emily and Josh remained in the pew, watching him with big eyes. He motioned for them to follow, and Emily nudged Josh. But the little boy shook his head and burrowed closer to Emily.

Stepping back into the pew, Clay crouched beside the children. “It's time to go,” he murmured.

“Josh is 'fraid,” Emily whispered.

A lump rose in this throat. “Neither of you need to be afraid anymore. I'm going to take care of you. How about I carry you, Josh? That way, you can see the pretty windows in the back.”

Clay held out his arms and, with a nudge from Emily, Josh edged toward him. Swinging him up, Clay was startled by how little the boy weighed—and reminded yet again of the children's vulnerability…and the terrifying responsibility he'd inherited.

As the procession moved down the aisle, a tentative touch on his hand drew his attention and he looked down. Emily was watching him, her expression uncertain, as if to ask:
Is this okay?
In response, he pasted on a smile and folded her small, cold hand in his with a gentle squeeze.

The tremulous little puff of air she released, the sudden relaxing of her features, almost undid him. Clay knew Anne had tried her very best to shelter her children and create a real home. But in the few days he'd been in Nebraska, he'd discovered her best hadn't been good enough. The children had seen too much. Heard too much. Their eyes told the story. Fearful, anxious, uncertain, haunted—they were old beyond their years. Especially Emily's. The damage was clear. And he was afraid it would take a miracle to undo it.

Clay didn't much believe in miracles…except the kind people made for themselves through hard work and perseverance. In this
case, however, he wasn't sure any amount of work on his part would give these children back their childhood. Yet they were in desperate need of help.

Since he doubted he'd darken a church door again any time soon, Clay figured he should use this opportunity to seek help from a higher source. Not that he expected much. But what did he have to lose?

God, I don't know why any of this happened. And I don't know if You care. But if You do, please take pity on these children. They need more than I can give. I'll do my best, but I'm not equipped to handle kids. If You're listening, help me find a way to heal these children. Not for my sake. But for theirs. And Anne's.

 

Clay saw the familiar arches in the distance, a short drive off the interstate, and cast an uneasy glance into the rearview mirror as he pulled into the exit lane. Josh was dozing in the back seat, and Emily was staring out the window. Since leaving Omaha four hours ago after the funeral, she hadn't said more than ten words. And the eerie silence was beginning to unnerve him. Weren't kids supposed to be noisy and restless on long car trips? Weren't they supposed to chatter and ask how much longer and want a drink of water and need to use the bathroom every ten miles?

These two, however, hadn't made one request or asked a single question during the entire trip. But they must be hungry by now. He sure was.

“How about some hamburgers and French fries?” Clay tossed the question over his shoulder as he started up the exit ramp.

No response.

He checked the rearview mirror again. Emily's somber gaze met his.

“Are you hungry?” He gentled his tone.

She gave a slow nod.

“Do you like hamburgers and French fries?”

Again, an affirmative response. “Josh does, too.”

“How about a milkshake to go with them?”

Her face lit up a little and she gave her brother a gentle prod. “Josh. Wake up. We're going to have milkshakes.” It was the first touch of life Clay had heard in her voice.

A parking spot near the front door of the fast-food outlet opened up, and Clay pulled in. By the time he climbed out of the pickup truck, Emily had unbuckled her car seat and was working on Josh's, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

“Do you need some help?” Clay offered.

“No, thank you. I can do it.”

Five minutes later, after he'd settled them in a booth, Clay headed for the counter to place his order, keeping them in sight. But he didn't have to worry. Unlike the other children in the place, who were crying, shouting, throwing food or running around, Josh and Emily sat in silence waiting for him. While Clay wasn't anxious for them to emulate their peers, he was struck again by the need to restore some semblance of childhood to their lives. Some laughter and spontaneity and just plain silliness.

In light of all that had transpired, however, that seemed like a monumental task.

“Here's your change, sir.”

Clay swiveled toward the counter and pocketed the money. “Thanks.” Juggling the tray, he wove his way toward the booth, slid in opposite the children and quickly dispensed the food.

The first bite of his burger was wonderful, and he closed his eyes as he chewed, enjoying the flavor. At least, he
was
enjoying it until he opened his eyes and found Josh and Emily staring at him with solemn faces, their food untouched.

He stopped chewing. “What's wrong?”

“We didn't say grace yet,” Emily said.

Trying not to choke, Clay swallowed his mouthful of burger with a gulp and wiped a paper napkin across his lips. He hadn't said a prayer before meals since he'd left home at age seventeen. Racking his brain, he searched for the stale words his father used to say, but they eluded him.

Emily studied him. “Do you want me to say it?”

“Good idea,” he endorsed with relief.

She reached for Josh's hand, then for his. Josh inched his other hand across the table, and Clay took it. Their small hands were swallowed in his much larger grasp.

Emily and Josh bowed their heads as Emily spoke. “Lord, thank you for this food we eat, and keep us safe until we meet. Amen.”

“Amen,” Clay echoed after they gave him an expectant look.

As the children began eating, devouring every last morsel, Clay realized how hungry they'd been. And how dependent they were on him. For everything. Food. Shelter. Security. Love. Like it or not, he'd inherited a family. Unless he sent them to live with his father.

That was still an option. But not a good one.

Meaning his life was about to change dramatically.

And all at once he wasn't hungry any more.

 

“Don't make any noise, Josh.”