Devoted Heart Read online

I turned and looked out the tiny window of the camper shell. This was tougher than I’d thought. Not the ride, not the pregnancy, not even the birth. It was the letting go. Eight weeks ago I had a dozen men in my charge. Whether they lived or died was up to me. I’d made one mistake and as a result a man my age was fighting for his life. I’d vowed never to make that mistake again, never to let go. But now . . . now God seemed set on making me break that promise . . . multiple times over.

  An hour earlier, when we were back at the shed, I’d noticed Mary’s exhaustion was quickly setting in. I explained to our visitors that mother and baby needed their rest so I could move them to the hospital as soon as possible. They understood. After thanking me again and again, they headed back to their truck, anxious to tell everyone what they’d seen.

  But I’d barely shut the door and joined Mary before the old man was knocking again. “Señor. I am sorry to bother you.”

  I grunted, got to my feet, and crossed to open the door.

  He held one of the guy’s cellphone lights. There was no missing the concern on his face. “I have some news that is not so good about your car.”

  “My car?” I stepped out and looked across the field to the road. I saw one of the cellphone lights moving about, but not much more. “What’s wrong?”

  “It is better if you look.” He motioned me to follow.

  I called back to Mary. “I’ll just be a minute, there’s something I’ve got to see.”

  She agreed. But before I even shut the door, the old man grabbed my arm. “Shh…” He was shining his light into the tall grass to our left. “Do you see it?” he whispered.

  I squinted. “See what?”

  “There. The eyes.”

  I spotted them, not ten yards away, glowing eerily red in the cellphone’s light.

  “A bobcat?” I said. “Is it a—”

  The old man threw up his arms and leaped into the air. “Go! Vete! Lárgate de aquí!”

  The glow disappeared into the faint rustling of grass.

  “A bobcat?” I repeated. “Cougar?”

  He kept his eyes on the grass. “In this area, I have never seen one. They are much higher in the mountains, not so low.”

  “Coyote?”

  He shook his head. “I do not know, but perhaps, it is only a guess, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  He turned to me, lowered his voice. “El Diablo.”

  I frowned.

  “The Devil.”

  I gave a scornful chuckle.

  He didn’t smile. “If the angels, if they know of such things . . . then why would not the devil?” I searched his face. He was dead serious. Then, with a shrug, he motioned me toward the road. “Come. Your car.”

  I pulled the shed door closed, giving it an extra tug, and followed him along the path we’d been making in the wet grass. Moments later I saw the problem. Instead of sitting level on the road embankment, my car was tilted at a good 40, maybe 50 degrees.

  “What on earth. . .”

  As we got closer, I saw the reason. The little rivulet at the base of the embankment had turned to a torrent. It had eaten away the dirt, causing the outer edge to collapse . . . the outer edge I had parked on.

  Once we arrived, I jumped over the stream and scrambled up to the car.

  “Be careful, amigo, the rain has made the dirt very soft.”

  He was right, of course. Instead of the solid ground I had parked on, the embankment had turned to soft mud and was getting softer by the minute.

  “The boys,” he motioned to the other two standing by the rear, “they think they can push it back up.”

  I had my doubts.

  “And my pickup, perhaps with a rope we could—”

  “No, no.” I shook my head. “Too dangerous.”

  “Yes, I agree.” He called something over to the other two who disagreed. But he made it clear the decision was made. Then, turning back to me, he said, “But your wife? Your child? How will you get them to the hospital? Señor, tell us, what may we do to help you?”

  And it was that operative phrase, ‘help you,’ that ate at me. I should have parked better. This was my family, my responsibility. I should have been smarter, and I definitely should be able to take care of them without the help of total strangers.

  I should, but apparently I couldn’t. It would take at least a couple hours for a tow truck to be dispatched and come all the way out here (wherever here was). And another couple to head back. No way could I subject Mary and the baby to that.

  So, with no other option, I grudgingly led the men to the shed, let them load us into the back of their pickup and transport me and my family on this bone-jarring journey to the hospital. Mary certainly didn’t mind. Stretching out on a queen-sized mattress was a relief. The baby didn’t care. And the men were thrilled for any excuse to stay with us longer, let alone enjoy the honor of helping. Yes sir, everyone was happy. Well, almost everyone. I sighed heavily, turned onto my back and stared at the roof of the camper shell.

  Ninety minutes later, far better time than I had made getting us lost, we pulled into the emergency entrance of Mercy General Hospital. The staff was good about admitting us. Well, admitting a premature baby who had been exposed to the elements. They immediately swooshed him off to their nursery. And since Mary had complained about some minor tearing, they agreed to admit her, too. It was only when we got to the paperwork that we ran into problems.

  “May I see your insurance card?” the clerk behind the window asked. Her mussed hair, and sleep-deprived eyes made her look even more exhausted than she sounded.

  “Pardon me?” I said.

  “Your provider.”

  I turned to Mary. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  “You have no insurance?” the clerk said.

  Mary leaned toward the window. “My parents, up in Washington, they—”

  “You’re 26 years or younger?

  “Yes.”

  “And their provider?”

  “I . . . I don’t—”

  “Can you give them a call?”

  “Yes, of course.” Mary reached for the phone in her backpack then stopped. “The battery’s dead.”

  The woman said nothing.

  “Can she use yours?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Hospital policy.”

  I frowned.

  “What’s wrong with yours?” the clerk asked.

  “It’s dead, too,” I said.

  She kept silent, offering no solution.

  “It will only take a minute,” I said. “We’ll pay for any charges.”

  She shook her head, in no mood to help. “Sorry.”

  “I can’t believe you’d let a little thing like—” I couldn’t stop my voice from rising. “She just had a baby? Do you get that?”

  “Of course I do. And County Hospital, across town, will—”

  “Three hours ago she gave birth to a kid.” I pointed to a window. “Out there! The least you could do is—”

  “Do we have a problem?” Some tall guy in a suit appeared. They were apparently sending reinforcements.

  “Yes,” the clerk said. “These people have no insurance. Her parents are up in Washington State and—”

  “Are you the couple with the newborn?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “And if you’d just let us—”

  “Admit them,” he said to the clerk.

  “But they have no proof of—”

  “There are some very wealthy gentlemen upstairs in the VIP room waiting for them.”

  “I don’t understand,” the clerk said.

  He turned to me. “Foreign dignitaries, as best I can tell. They have agreed to pick up all your expenses.”

  The clerk continued to argue, “But I have to—”

  “Let’s get her admitted, now.”

  “And their coverage? There’s no plan that allows total strangers to—”

  “They’re paying cash.”

  She came to a stop. She pus
hed up her glasses and looked up at him.

  He motioned to me. “Stay here and finish the paperwork.” Then to the clerk he said, “And, you, call for a wheelchair.”

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I didn’t know they had hospital rooms like that—fancy as any expensive hotel. Leather sofa, end tables, lamps, mini kitchen, a big screen TV. And one extra addition . . . three strangers kneeling before my wife’s bed.

  When I finished the paperwork and joined her, I was more than a little concerned. “What’s going on?” I said as I entered the room.

  Mary looked up from discretely nursing the baby. “They’ve been like this since the nurse first brought him in.”

  I quickly moved between them and the bed. There was an older man, Middle Eastern looking—gray beard, dark brown jacket, brown pants. Beside him, a guy about my age in a white robe and headdress like sheik’s wear. The third was some middle-aged Asian fellow in an expensive suit.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  At first, they didn’t look up.

  “Gentlemen?”

  They slowly raised their heads, exchanged glances and got to their feet. The gray beard had a harder time until the sheik offered a hand.

  “You’re the ones who paid for the room?” I asked.

  They looked to the gray beard.

  “Yes.” He had a thick accent, Farsi the best I could tell.

  “Why? What do you want?”

  They traded more looks like it was a crazy question. Finally, he answered.

  “We want nothing. But to pay honor.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he is a king.”

  “The king,” the Asian said.

  All three nodded.

  Gray Beard closed his eyes and quietly quoted, “For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulders, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace . . .”

  The Asian added, “Of the increase of his government and of peace there is no end.”

  Mary quietly answered. “That’s from the Bible—the prophet, Isaiah.”

  “Yes,” Gray Beard, said. “Written many centuries ago. And there are more.” As he spoke, he edged closer. “Not only from Isaiah but from many of the holy books.”

  The Asian joined him, motioning to the sheik. “According to Balthazar, over three hundred.”

  I raised my hand, signaling them to stop. “That’s close enough.”

  “Of course,” Gray Beard said. He lowered his head. “Forgive us.”

  I continued, not rude, but not exactly polite. “What makes you think our son, what makes you think he’s this great leader?”

  “The prophecies,” Gray Beard repeated. “As we have said there are over—”

  “But why us, why him? How did you find us?”

  “The star.”

  I scowled.

  The Asian answered, “The supernova, it has been in the news for many months.”

  “And it led you here?”

  “That and your government.” Gray Beard lowered his voice. “They, too, are aware of the prophecies. The ones that say a king will be born.”

  I pretended not to understand.

  He motioned to the radio on Mary’s nightstand. “May I?”

  I nodded, watched him carefully as he approached. He turned on the radio, found some classical station, and cranked it up nice and loud. Mary looked to me but I motioned that it was okay, I knew the drill. He thought the place was bugged.

  He continued, voice barely loud enough to be heard over the music. “You have been under surveillance for many months.”

  “How did anyone—”

  “Again, the prophecies. They say he will be born of a virgin.”

  “But—”

  “There are not many virgin pregnancies—especially in small towns where everyone knows everyone’s business.”

  “And have Facebook to share with the world,” the Asian added.

  I began to nod.

  Gray Beard continued. “Because of our influence, each in our own country, we were able to gain favor from members of your intelligence community. But you must be careful. As one would expect, not every person takes kindly to the idea of their power being usurped.”

  “By . . . a king,” I said.

  “Yes, a king. But perhaps not as they suspect. The prophecies are most difficult. Some speak of a mighty ruler. Others speak of a suffering servant.”

  The Asian agreed. “There are many paradoxes.”

  “But, as with all prophecy, they will eventually come together.” Gray Beard’s eyes turned back to Mary and the baby. “Into one.”

  The room fell silent as they all looked on.

  After several moments, the Asian cleared his throat. “The gifts?”

  “Ah, yes, yes.” Gray Beard walked back to a leather satchel near the sofa. He unfastened it and pulled out something wrapped in blue silk. Carefully, he untied a burgundy ribbon, pulled aside the silk, and revealed a gold rod, about a meter long, covered in jewels. Big ones. Rubies, sapphires and diamonds. If they were real, it was worth a fortune.

  “A scepter.” He approached, smiling. “From my kingdom. It has been in my family many, many generations.” Once he arrived, he held it out for me to examine. “And now it is his.”

  I shook my head.

  He didn’t understand. “I am sorry?”

  “We can’t take that.”

  “Oh, but you must. He is my king now. You must accept it.”

  Before I could stop him, he laid it on the bed and stepped back. He turned to the sheik. “And from Balthazar, our young friend with crazy dreams . . .” He motioned for him to approach.

  The sheik was reluctant, but after another nod from Gray Beard, he stepped forward. In his hands he held a folded sheet—blue and purple, with lots of gold embroidery. He spoke for the first time—an Arabian accent, so soft I could barely hear. “For this I must apologize. I must apologize, but I was told.”

  The Asian smiled. “In another one of his ‘visions.’”

  Gray Beard quietly chuckled. “And believe me, he has many.”

  The sheik ignored them and handed the sheet to me. “I was told to give you this.”

  I took it, not understanding.

  He explained. “It is a burial shroud. From my country. A cloth to cover the dead.”

  I looked up. “A burial shroud?”

  “I am sorry. I only obey.”

  I turned to Mary who looked as puzzled as me. I tried to think of something appropriate to say. “Thank you,” was all that came to mind.

  He nodded and stepped back.

  “Perhaps,” the Asian stepped forward, “you will find this a bit more appealing.” He produced a square, plastic card—perfectly clear, except for nine, tiny numbers printed in black at the center.

  “A credit card?” I asked.

  “No. It is a code. Scan it into any digital phone. Once contact is made, enter the amount of cash you wish to withdraw, what bank it is to be delivered to, and funds will be transferred within the hour.” He handed it to me. “You will find it far more convenient than cash—”

  Gray Beard interrupted with a twinkle, “—and weighing far less than the gold—”

  The Asian finished, “—which Balthazar, here, suggested we bring.”

  The sheik looked to the ground, once again embarrassed.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry.” I tried handing it back to him. “This is too generous. These are all too generous. I can’t accept them, let alone from total—”

  “Nor do we expect you to accept them,” the Asian said.

  Gray Beard nodded. “They are not for you. They are for him.” He motioned to the baby. “They are for the King.”

  “I get that, but—”

  “Please, do not let your great pride get in the way.”

  “Pride?”

  “We h
ave done our research, Lieutenant Shepherd. We know of your many accomplishments and your pride . . . and your guilt. But there is a power at work here far greater than any of those.”

  The Asian added, “And greater than your misguided understanding of responsibility.”

  I blinked. There it was again. The not-so-gentle thump on the head. A reminder that I was not in charge. There was nothing I could do about my guilt over what happened to Charlie. That would haunt me the rest of my life. But my pride, my need for control . . . The orders were clear, I was to stand down.

  And in case I missed the point, Gray Beard finished the lesson. “Sometimes my young friend, when the car speeds down the freeway you must learn to stay inside. If you step out, attempting to push, you will only bring pain and trouble.”

  I looked at the burial cloth still in my hands, then over to the sheik who had presented it. I couldn’t help but think in some ways my actions would have to mirror his own. Obedience. Whether I liked it or not, whether it made sense or not, obedience would always have to come first . . . even when it made me look foolish or, worse yet, irresponsible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The voice from Mary’s re-charged phone rang loud and clear. “Turn left in one-half mile.”

  Mary grinned. “Sure makes things easier, huh?”

  “I could have found it.”

  She looked out the window, making it clear there was no need to argue—why argue when you know you’re right?

  I motioned to the back seat. “How’s he doing?”

  She turned to gaze at the baby strapped in his new car seat. “Sleeping as always.”

  “Good. Good.” And it’s true, everything was good. For the most part . . .

  Earlier that morning, the doctor, a wise old man with thick, white hair announced there was no need to keep us around. He gave Mary a few self-dissolving stitches and, unimpressed with my choice of surgical instruments for cutting umbilical cords, a prescription for antibiotics.

  “What about the baby?” I said. “A month premature?”

  He shook his head. “Human gestation is anywhere from thirty-seven to forty-two weeks. He may have been a few days early, but nothing alarming.”

  “And the delivery?” Mary asked. “My labor, it was so short and fast.”