He Said His Name Was Micah: The Micah Series, #1

COPYRIGHT

All rights reserved . No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:

tearrarhodes@tearrarhodes.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All mentioned scriptures are taken from the KING JAMES VERSION (KJV): KING JAMES VERSION, public domain. Scriptures are italicized for creative effect.

Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior and Jesus Loves Me are quoted throughout the work. These songs are a part of the public domain.

Copyright © 2017 Tearra Rhodes.

ISBN: 9780692958933 (e-book)

ISBN: 9781732424302 (paperback)

Written by Tearra Rhodes.

Cover Design by Maria Spada © 2018

Visit the author’s website at tearrarhodes.com

DEDICATION

To my family, the incomparable Rhodes Family—thank you for all of your love and support.

Thank you for believing in me.

Thank you Margo Dill, Ra'Kisha, Vanessa, Grandma, Aunt Luvenia, and Mom for all of your editing assistance and great ideas.

Thank you Jesus for putting it within me to finish this work. I am a huge procrastinator.

CHAPTER 1

Itook my time answering the door, because I was sure it was just Auntie Joy, checking in for the fifth time that week. If she hadn’t been letting me live rent free in the house she’d planned to give me as a wedding present, and we didn’t go to the same church, I would have seriously told Auntie Joy—not really my aunt—what I thought of her little visits. And then I’d have to move, because she wouldn’t like me anymore.

So, I painted on a smile and said through gritted teeth, as I swung open the front door, Not to worry, Auntie Joy, I’m still alive. With the door fully open, I found I was speaking to a tall, wiry, dark-haired man on my porch, instead of the plump, silver haired know-it-all I had expected.

The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his thumbs hooked into the waist of his worn denim jeans. He said his name was Micah and he was there to make me pay for Wes’ sins. Then he smiled with big, white teeth and said that he was just joking, but I thought someone with eyes that cold didn’t make joking around a habit.

Through the screen door, I noticed that the autumn wind had picked up. The leaves were making a melodic rattling sound as they swirled low to the ground.

I should have slammed the door in his face, but instead I stepped out onto the porch. I did things like that sometimes—often, acted against my better judgment. After meeting me, Auntie Joy said I was the most deliberately impetuous person she’d ever met—no offense.

None taken—Mommy always said I was deliciously indecisive, which was adorable at five but hadn’t made my life easier so far into adulthood. I never knew what I was supposed to be doing with my life. My father had always said prayer was the answer to my whirring mind, but somewhere down the line I kind of fell off.

That's not a funny thing to say, I said to this Micah person. Then I told him that I was sorry for whatever wrong my fiancé had done to him—ex-fiancé—but he didn’t live with me.

Micah’s eyes narrowed at ex.

Mine did too as I said it out loud. I’d played it over and over in my head, but I still couldn’t grasp why we weren’t together—why he left me two weeks before we were supposed to be married. We were together for two years, and then he just sold his food truck and said he was moving back to Chicago without me—no explanation.

I was left to wallow in embarrassment while canceling the catering, reception venue, flowers...everything. I complained to Auntie Joy once, and a couple of days later she handed me a check from Wes for the deposits I couldn’t get back. I, in turn, handed her my engagement ring, which I assumed she sent back to him.

Micah, standing on my porch, was the first day I'd heard Wes’ name mentioned since I’d given back the ring six months before.

Since my abandonment—I didn’t like the term jilting—I’d become somewhat of a recluse. I guess that’s what all Auntie Joy’s check-ins were about. She was Wes’ aunt; annoying but sweet.

Except to go into town weekly for Sunday services or the occasional Wednesday night Bible Study, I never really left the house. Since I had started planning for the wedding, I quit my job at the local daycare, my most recent place of employment. Wes had been fine with it, and I still had most of the money my father left me when he died. Auntie Joy brought me groceries and job applications weekly when she wasn’t popping by doing a quality of life check. I just gladly accepted the food, tossed the applications, lounged around in my PJs, and sulked a bit.

Not very mature but no one had ever expected me to be.

It was Friday, and this Micah was the first non-Auntie Joy person I’d seen, much less spoken to, all week. I didn’t want him to go. Perhaps Micah had something to do with a new path in life I was supposed to take or something.

I stuck out my hand to the toothy stranger on my porch and introduced myself. I’m Ava...Ava Howard.

Micah ignored me.

Wes doesn’t live here, he said almost to himself as he shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his equally worn black denim jacket that seemed entirely right for the cool autumn day.

No, he doesn’t. He moved back to Chicago.

I wanted him to stay for the human contact, if only on the porch, and I liked hearing him talk. His voice was gentle with a bit of a Southern drawl—Kentucky maybe. I spent a lot of time there as a little girl and hearing him took me back. I took a step towards Micah, and he stepped back off the porch.

I kept talking. This house was supposed to be a wedding present for Wes and me from Wes’ aunt.

From the bottom of the porch Micah turned on the heels of his work boots, looking around at the one-story ranch style structure I now called home. I would’ve never pictured me in a house like that at 27, but everything was growing on me. It was just crazy quiet, this new house in the middle of nowhere—in Ransomville, New York.

It’s nice, he offered, lots of trees.

A laugh caught in my throat.

When things didn’t work out between us—Wes and me—his aunt let me live here.

Micah frowned at my information unload, and I mentally kicked myself. I really had no idea who this man was.

I should go, he said as he backed up until he was standing in my gravelly driveway.

Wait—if I talk to Wes, what can I tell him you wanted? Not like I ever did talk to him—his choice not mine. He’d even blocked me on social media. The only contact information I had left was an old cell number that only received text messages, which had probably been shut off already. I hadn’t gotten up enough courage to try the number yet.

Nothing—just looking to catch up with an old friend. Bye, Miss Ava.

Miss Ava. He sounded like the children at the daycare where I used to work.

I called after him, You have a last name, Micah?

He stopped his hustling down the driveway and turned to face me. I’d say it was Smith, but you wouldn’t believe me, would you? Then he disappeared left down the road that passed in front of my house. I didn’t hear a car, so I guessed he was walking even though it was a few miles until you hit any kind of civilization. Just another odd thing about him, I thought, returning to my now cold breakfast.

For the rest of that day, though, I expected Micah to pop up again. Every rustle, every creak, every shadow I expected him to be there grinning. I double and triple checked to make sure the doors and windows were locked. They always were, but I still couldn’t relax. By nightfall, I had Wes on the brain, which meant it was Inspector, MD time.

When Wes left, he took everything except his Season 1 box set of the canceled TV show, Inspector, MD. The premise was tired and familiar—a doctor and an inspector are paired together to solve crimes in London, but when I missed Wes, I watched it.

First episode. A woman murders her husband. She follows him to his other apartment in the city. They argue, and the wife hits her husband over the head with a vase. So, he’s dead, and she just steps over his body and goes home.

I never understood that. The wife goes home and pretends like nothing happened. Then she acts all shocked when the police come to her door and tell her that her husband has been murdered. She acts even more surprised when the police arrest her for the murder a few days later during her weekly book club meeting.

I would have just run. Whenever I watched this episode I always wondered why the wife didn’t run. Why didn’t she simply leave the husband’s apartment and disappear into the night, instead of going back to suburban life and her book club?

By episode two I was, thankfully, beginning to nod off. Before I was overtaken by sleep, I decided to send Wes a text. Maybe he'd get it—read it. I typed, 'WHO IS MICAH? LAST NAME SMITH MAYBE? IT’S AVA.'

CHAPTER 2

Igrew up hearing the story about when my mother was pregnant with me how she picked up a hitchhiker and drove him 128 miles so he could visit his sick cousin. They got there right before the cousin died.

My father always said that it was a miracle they didn't find her body parts in a ditch. Mommy just shrugged, like she did every time he scolded her for picking up hitchhikers on her own, and said, When I was hungry, you gave me food. When I was thirsty, you gave me drink. When I was a stranger, you took me in. So, likewise, when I needed a ride you gave me one.

I believed it was being adventurous.

I’m not sure why I woke up thinking about that until I remembered that today would have been Mommy’s 54th birthday. It had been almost fifteen years since she died.

Drunk driver.

I rolled out of bed with a groan. Maybe I'd call Auntie Joy today for some company—maybe tell her about the man who said he knew Wes.

But, first, I needed coffee—four sugars and three creams swirled into a steaming mug with World's Best Teacher scrawled on the side, a gift from my daycare kids. With each sip, I tried to decide whether or not to call Auntie Joy. Halfway through my mug of coffee, I chose to keep the old bird out of it. Thankfully, Auntie Joy offered to let me live in the home Wes and I were meant to share as husband and wife. I’d accepted, and I was grateful every