Robin Lee Hatcher | The Shepherd's Voice

CHAPTER ONE

July 1934

Gabe Talmadge felt the backside of his navel rubbing against his spine. An interesting sensation, he thought, before losing consciousness.

He ran from the darkness. He always ran, and it always followed. There was no escaping it. There never would be. The darkness would always be with him, hovering nearby, waiting to encompass him, enfold him, devour him. It would be easy to let it overtake him, to allow it to . . .

"Are you hurt?"

The soft, feminine voice came from a great distance.

"Mister?"

A hand slipped beneath his head. A small hand, with a touch as gentle as the voice.

"Can you hear me?"

Gabe opened his eyes. A shadowy form leaned forward, the bright light of midday glaring behind the woman, blinding him.

"Here. Take a drink."

His head was lifted slightly, and something cool touched his lips. Water trickled down his chin. Covering the woman's hand with his own, Gabe steadied the canteen, then drank deeply.

"Easy. Not too fast."

His thirst momentarily slaked, he closed his eyes. "Thanks."

"We should get you into the shade. It's powerful hot today. Can you stand?"

"Yes," he answered, although he wasn't as confident as he tried to sound.

Holding his arm, she helped him sit up. "Don't hurry. Take your time."

He thought he could feel the earth turning on its axis and gritted his teeth against the sensation.

"Ready?" his angel of mercy asked.

He opened his eyes a second time. "Ready." As he rose to his feet, the woman slipped beneath his arm, close against his side, taking his weight upon herself. It was humiliating to be this weak. His mind raged against it, as it had raged against countless degradations in the past, but rage changed nothing, then or now.

He glanced down. He could see little besides a floppy brimmed straw hat above a narrow set of shoulders.

"We're going over there." She pointed with her free arm toward a good-sized birch tree.
"Careful. We'll go slow. Take your time. Not too fast."

He could have told her not to worry. He was unable to do anything fast . . .

Except fall to the ground in a dead faint . . .

Which he promptly did.

***

Well, Lord. What do I do with him now?

Akira Macauley rolled the stranger onto his back. It was difficult to judge his age, given the shaggy black beard covering gaunt cheeks. There were holes in the bottoms of his boots, and the knees of his trousers were threadbare. Both he and his clothes needed a good washing, but she guessed cleanliness didn't mean much when one was going hungry.

I hope this hobo's not the one You sent, Lord. He's nothing but a rack of bones. I could make better use of a man who knows sheep, if that wouldn't be too much to ask.

With a shake of her head, she said aloud, "He'll be even less use if he dies."

She stood, grabbed hold of both his wrists, then walked backward, dragging him toward the shade. Despite his rawboned appearance, he weighed enough to make the going hard. Sweat rolled down her spine.

The stranger groaned.

"We're nearly there."

Reaching the cool shadows beneath a leafy green tree, Akira lowered his arms with a sigh of relief.

He groaned again as his eyelids fluttered and eventually opened.

She dropped to her knees beside him and leaned forward, waiting for his vision to clear. When she thought he could see her, she said, "Give yourself a moment. You're weaker than a newborn lamb." She glanced over her shoulder and pointed at the canteen where she'd left it. "Cam, fetch."

Her collie, who'd patiently observed all the goings on from a short distance, jumped up and raced to obey her mistress's command.

Akira returned her attention to the stranger. "When was the last time you ate something?"

"I'm not sure."

"Days?"

He nodded.

How'd he get so lost, Lord? He's a long way from the rails. And any man who could get that turned around would serve me no purpose. I'd spend all my time looking for him in the hills. You must see I'm right about that. Surely You've got a better way of answering my prayers.

Cam delivered the canteen, and Akira offered it to the stranger.

"Thanks."

With her help, he sat up, then opened the canteen and lifted it to his mouth. He took small gulps this time, washing the water around inside his mouth before swallowing. Finally he lowered the canteen and met her watchful gaze.

Something twisted in her belly, a reaction to the stark emptiness in his brown eyes. She didn't think she'd seen anything so sad in all her born days.

Dear Jesus, he's lost in more ways than one, isn't he?

"How far am I from Ransom?" His voice sounded utterly hopeless.

Still reeling from what she'd seen in his eyes, she couldn't think clearly enough to answer him.

"I'm on the right road, aren't I? For Ransom?"

She swallowed. "Yes. You're on the right road. Ransom's a bit more than fifteen miles to the north." She frowned. "But if you're looking for work at the lumber mill, you needn't bother. There's no work to be had."

He turned his head, judging the short distance to the tree, then slowly inched himself closer to it, stopping when he could rest his back against the trunk. He closed his eyes again. "No work at the mill," he whispered.

"No."

"But it's still there?"

"The mill? Yes, it's still there."

Silence fell between them. He kept his eyes closed, and she kept hers trained on him.

There's no work for him in these parts. He'll turn around and go back the way he came. As well he should. Look at him.

yea, look at him.

But, Lord . . .

for I was hungry, and ye gave me to eat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in.

"What's your name?" he asked, breaking into her silent conversation with the Lord.

"Akira. Akira Macauley."

He opened one eye. "Akira?"

"It's Scottish. Means anchor. My grandfather wanted me to have a strong name so I wouldn't be afraid of life, so I'd have a reminder of where to find my Anchor. He placed great store in the meaning of names, my grandfather."

"Mmm." The stranger's eyelid closed.

"And your name?"

"You can call me Gabe."

"Gabe. Short for Gabriel?" She smiled. "Gabriel a strong man of God."

Eyes wide open now, he gave her a look that was anything but friendly.

"That's the meaning of your name," she explained.

"You're mistaken, Miss Macauley. That's the last thing my name could mean."

She wasn't mistaken, but something in his dark countenance warned her not to argue.

"I'll fetch my horse and take you to my place. Get you something to eat." She stood, brushing the grass and dirt from the knees of her overalls.

"You don't have to bother. I've troubled you enough. I can get to Ransom on my own."

Lord, I have a feeling the trouble's yet to begin. Why is that?

She turned toward the road. "Mister, you couldn't make it fifteen yards, let alone fifteen miles."

With a shake of her head, she strode away, away from the stranger whose brown eyes were filled with indescribable pain, away from the man who denied the meaning of his name.

Gabe watched her go, her dark red braids swaying against her back, her collie trotting at her heels. Her stride was long and easy, a sign of a person used to walking great distances. She was slender as a reed, but her build was deceiving; she possessed enough brawn to drag a grown man from the road to this tree.

Akira. She was as strange as her name, more than likely.

A strong man of God.

If he'd had the energy, he would have laughed aloud.

But he had no energy, no strength, no courage, no hope. So he closed his eyes and allowed the threatening darkness to move toward him once again.