It’s what she’d tell Jubal next time she saw him. The decision made her feel strong. Brave. More confident than she’d felt in a long, long time. So yes, that’s what she’d tell him.
That . . .
. . . and a whole lot more.
Chapter 5
“You were not at the gathering yesterday,” Pete said.
Jube didn’t look up from his milking. “I had work to do.”
Paul’s brow furrowed. “I thought we were here so you can have fun once in a while.”
Thomas’s expression bordered on arrogant, and Jube wondered what kept the others from taking him down a peg or two when he said, “That is only part of it, grote babe.”
“I am not a big baby,” his brother argued. “I know why we are here.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“To keep us too busy to get into trouble.”
“And,” Jube stepped in, “to help you learn that from an honest day’s work comes self-respect.”
“Our parents must really hate us,” Thomas whined.
Jube shook his head. “Not true. They are disappointed, in you, and in themselves. They believe if they were better parents, you would not cause so many problems.”
If he’d ever seen more miserable faces, he didn’t know where.
“Look. Boys. You have shown me what you are capable of. Soon, they will see it, too, and they will be proud, and so will you.”
“But pride is a sin!” Paul said.
“Pleased, then. Yes, that is better. You will be pleased with yourselves.” Seeing that his words had improved their mood, Jube smiled, and for the first time in a long time, he felt like smiling. “Rose needs water.”
They filled her tub. Filled the rest of the tubs, including Goliath’s, then got busy with the milking.
“He is not so big and bad, tied up in here, is he?”
“He is not big and bad in the pasture, either,” Jube said, “when there are no interlopers around, threatening his cows.”
Shrugs, frowns, and quiet muttering told him they understood: Even Goliath behaved well . . . when doing what was expected of him.
“Why do you avoid the gatherings?”
“I have attended my share.”
“I have never seen you.”
Leave it to Thomas to ask the tough questions, and follow them up with equally tough comments.
“So many questions! Are you writing a book, Thomas?” He grinned, so they’d know he was kidding. On a more serious note, he added, “Mine is not the largest farm in Pleasant Valley, and until you arrived, I worked alone. Staying on top of things leaves very little time for partying.”
“Still, everyone needs to have fun, even a man like you.”
A man like him?
“Serious,” the boy said, answering Jube’s unasked question. “If I ever write a book, I will quote the old ‘all work and no play’ saying!”
They all had a good laugh over that, and for the rest of the day, the boys worked and smiled and stood a little taller than when they’d arrived. Again, he offered to drive them home, and again, they said no. “I’ll go with you, see what is in the mailbox,” he said, joining them as they departed.
“It is Sunday,” James said. “The mail does not come on Sundays.”
“Forgot to fetch it yesterday.”
As they walked, Pete asked, “How long is your driveway?”
“Thirteen hundred feet from road to porch.”
Squinting, Paul did the math in his head. “A quarter mile.” Then, pointing, he added, “Is that Miss Fletcher’s truck?”
Jube’s heartbeat quickened.
James gave his twin a brotherly shove. “Just look at his face!”
“Yeah. No need to answer our question.”
If only he could forget what they’d asked . . . and what they’d said.
“I think it is true.” Thomas’s thumbs and forefingers formed a heart. And then he exhaled an exaggerated sigh.
“I think you are right, Brother.” James formed the heart, too.
“Stop it, boys,” Jube chided. “It is warm for October and her windows are open. She could hear you.”
“How would you explain that?”
“Easy. I would simply say the four of you are gek.”
“Lower your voices,” Thomas warned. “She has heard the stories and will believe we are crazy!”
They were still laughing as she turned into the driveway. Abigail waved, and so did they.
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Quinn,” one said.
“Maybe a buggy lesson?” asked another.
“Shoo,” he said, smirking, which prompted a new round of laughter.
They’d stepped onto the roadside when he approached her truck. “I did not expect to see you today.”
Long lashes fluttered. “Why?”
“It is Sunday. Plus, yesterday you rattled off a to-do list as long as my forearm.”
“One thing on the list was ‘Check Jube’s side.’ ” She smiled. “May I drive you back up to the house?”
He moved to the truck’s right side, grimacing at the door’s high-pitched squeak. “Before you leave, remind me to give those hinges some oil.”
A second, perhaps two, passed before she faced forward, shifted into Drive. “All right.”
Why the hesitation? he wondered. But after the way she’d run off yesterday, Jube decided not to press the issue.
Side by side, they climbed the porch steps. “The boys really like you, Jubal. That, I think, is a wonderful thing.”
“I like them, too.”
“Do you think you can turn them into dairy farmers?”
If her impish smile hadn’t told him she was teasing, her glittering eyes would have. “No, but if they ever find themselves stranded in the desert . . . with a cow . . . what they know will save them from dying of thirst.”
She let out a giggle, reminding him how much he enjoyed the musical sound of it. He hadn’t heard it often, because Ira gave her very little reason to laugh. If Jube had acted on his feelings before Ira made his move . . .
He shook his head, because not once in all those years had Abigail done anything to indicate interest in him.
“The coffee is hot. . . .”
“That sounds good. But first, I will take care of your side. Are the bandages in the dining room, still?”
“They are,” he said, reaching for mugs. She was quick and agile, and not even the loose folds of her apron could hide her slender waist. She’d worn a black mourning dress for a full year after Ira’s funeral. The first time Jubal had seen her without it, about two year ago, he’d wanted to shout, Finally! Today, dark curls had escaped her bun and peeked out from under her cap, reminding him of the vision she’d been that early morning in her kitchen.
“Coffee before or after the bandage?” he asked.
She thought about it for a minute before answering. “Before.”
In case he said something stupid, as he had yesterday, and sent her running?
“Cream and sugar?”
“Just black, thanks.”
“Something else we have in common.”
She sat across from him. “Something else?”
Ach. Now you have put your foot in it, fool! He cleared his throat. “We both grew up here. Neither of us has missed a church service. Despite the bishop’s sometimes bossy, prying ways, we like him.” He stopped himself from saying, And we both loved Ira. . . .
“And we both love black coffee.”
Jube wished the mug were bigger, so that he could hide his foolish face behind it.
“Am I to understand that in addition to teaching the boys about milk cows, you will show them how to hitch a horse to a buggy?”
“Noah and Ben have likely given that lesson.” Leaning forward, he said, “Can you keep a secret?”
She mimicked his action, lessening the space between them. “As long as it does not involve a crime,” she whispered, “yes.”
Sunlight, slanting through the w
indow, lit the top half of her face, highlighting the faint freckles that dotted her nose and casting spiky shadows on her cheeks. Lord, but she is lovely, he thought.
If anyone came to the door right now and saw them, nearly nose to nose, they might face a reprimand. A lot of things had changed when the community traded Old Order for New Order ways, but an unmarried man and a woman, alone, still violated the rules of propriety.
He sat back, and so did she.
“Well? The suspense is killing me. Tell me all about this deep dark secret you are keeping.”
He loved the way her eyes glittered when she teased him. Loved the way she smiled, and tilted her head, and . . . But who was he kidding? He loved Abigail, had loved her from the moment she’d walked into their one-room schoolhouse so many years ago.
“Secret?”
“The buggy lesson?”
He filled her in on the punishment that, in the hope of convincing the four teens to stay on the straight and narrow, included finding a neighbor in need and fulfilling that need by Christmas Eve.
Faint lines formed between her brows. “What does that have to do with buggies?”
“They selected their parents as the neighbors in need, and—”
“I get it!” she said, slapping the table. “Just this morning, Priscilla complained about their buggy. Said it rides so rough that it rattled things in her basket, chipped her favorite serving bowl.” Hands clasped under her chin, she sighed. “How sweet of the boys. How thoughtful. They want you to teach them how to build one for the Hartzes, don’t they?”
“You are half-right.”
The furrow returned. “Oh?”
“Turns out the Briskeys’ buggy is in sad shape, too. And since neither family can afford to buy a new one . . .” He shrugged, extending his hands, palms up.
“I am confused. Priscilla also said they will buy horses for the boys. Surprises, for their birthdays. If they have money enough to buy horses, they can afford buggies.”
Now she looked worried, and, oh, how he wanted to comfort her!
“I hope the plan to build buggies . . . does it mean they know about the surprise?”
“Probably not. But then, I have only been with them a few days.”
“Maybe you will find out before they have served their sentence.. . .” She giggled, waved a hand in front of her face. “Sentence. That sounds so serious!” Abigail grew serious as she asked, “Will you help them build the buggies?”
“I intend to try.” He outlined the cost of supplies, the tools and processes—some dangerous—and hours of meticulous attention to detail required to turn the materials into safely functioning, eye-pleasing vehicles. “They cannot meet the deadline unless I pull a few all-nighters while they are home, sleeping.”
“You would do that for them?”
“I will try,” he repeated.
Abigail inhaled a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Well,” she said, walking to the sink, “that bandage is not going to change itself. While I wash up, untuck your shirt?”
As she had yesterday, Abigail arranged the supplies in the order she’d need them, then knelt beside him, wincing with every tug of the tape. It reminded him of how he’d laughed, watching his mother’s lips part with every spoonful that went into baby Jethro’s mouth. He wanted to pull Abigail close and thank her for being empathetic . . . for being her.
He resisted the impulse.
And made a decision.
Jube saw no reason to traipse all the way to the bishop’s house for advice, because he knew exactly what he needed to do: Before she left here today, Abigail would know the details of that awful night. Afterward, she might resent him even more, but it was a chance he had to take.
She made quick work of tidying the table and returned the tray to the sideboard. Abigail sat beside him, and he prayed for the strength to tell the truth.
“I need to talk to you,” she said, “if you have a few minutes.”
“I will always make time for you, Abigail.”
“I have been meaning to say this for a very long time, and—”
A loud, guttural bellow stopped her.
“What. Was. That?”
“Not Rose, I hope. It is much too soon for her to drop that calf.” He’d checked, just before the boys left, and seen none of the telltale signs: swelling, discharge, restlessness . . .
“What can I do?”
“You can go home. I appreciate the offer, but if Rose is calving . . .”
If she was calving, there wasn’t a moment to waste. Jude nearly shoved his palm through the screen, opening the door, and made a beeline for the barn. Somehow, Abigail kept up with him. Stood beside him. Helped slide the big doors aside.
“Could be messy,” he warned. Especially if the calf is breach. Or worse, already dead. “You sure you want to see this?”
“What I want is to help her. She sounds terrified, and in horrible agony. Tell me what to do.”
Rolling up his sleeves, he approached, saw blood covering the cow’s hindquarters and rear legs. Covering the walls. Spattered on the stall walls. “The calf’s hooves must have nicked an artery or shredded the birth sac.” Jube had only seen such a thing once. That cow hemorrhaged so badly that she was dead within minutes.
The other cows, upset by Rose’s bawling, had started mooing, pacing, thumping against their stall boards.
“They sense that something is wrong,” Abigail said. “I wish there was a way to let them know things will be all right.”
“There is a way. You will find clean buckets against the back wall. Fill them with water and put one in front of each cow. God willing, that will distract them, settle them down, at least until I can calm Rose enough to find out what is going on.”
Abigail turned so quickly, the cap slid from her hair. How odd to see it roll lazily left, then right, before coming to rest against Goliath’s gate. Normally, the bull would’ve been in the pasture at this time of day, but with the milking and deliveries, church services, showing the boys where they’d build the buggies, Jube hadn’t had a chance to move him outside.
Feet planted shoulder width apart, Jube wrapped his arms around the cow’s neck, tried to ease her down and onto her side. “You are okay. It is all right,” he chanted. “Lie down, now, so I can . . .”
As if by God’s design, Rose’s legs buckled, first the front, then the back. She hit the hay-strewn floor hard, pinning Jube’s leg beneath her. She’d stopped screaming, which could only mean one of two things....
Chapter 6
When she approached Rose’s stall, Abigail found Jubal sitting on the floor, forehead pressed to a bent knee. The only other time she’d seen Jubal look more defeated had been that night in the ER.
Abigail knelt beside him again, this time plucking bits of hay from his hair. “You were right. Putting water in front of the cows quieted them.” If only humans could be comforted as easily.
He looked at the blood on his hands, his trousers and boots, and the floor and walls around him. Using the hem of her water-soaked apron, Abigail wiped a streak from his cheek. Wiped away a stray tear, too.
“You did everything humanly possible for her, Jubal. If she suffered . . .” Rose’s chilling wail echoed in her mind. “At least it was quick,” she amended.
“Yes. There is that.”
Hett iss Gott’s wil. She’d keep the thought to herself, because at this moment, he didn’t need to hear that Rose’s death was God’s will.
He met her eyes as one corner of his mouth lifted in a faint, sad smile. “Thank you for staying.”
If he hadn’t chosen that moment to get to his feet, Abigail would have thrown her arms around him.
“Jubal! You are limping!”
“Just a pulled muscle.” He glanced at the lifeless cow. “I must take care of her.”
In other words, he needed to bury Rose.
“But your leg . . . We will need help.”
“We? No, Abigail. She weighs nearly two thousand pounds. Thi
s is not something you can help me with.”
Abigail ignored his dictatorial tone, putting it down to shock and misery. “I can, and I will. Let me drive you to the Hartzes’. Noah and Ben will be in their shop.”
He gave the idea a moment’s thought and, frowning, limped closer.
“We have to pass the clinic on the way. Emily has a new X-ray machine, and we can have her look at your leg.”
“No time for that. Once Rose has been taken care of, I will think about it.”
Oh, he would do more than think about it if Abigail had anything to say!
“Lean on me,” she said, sliding an arm around his back. And to her amazement, he did.
Jube remained quiet all through the short drive, and she could only imagine what might be going through his mind.
The men met her at the workshop door. Ben took one look at her wet, bloody apron and said, “What happened?”
On the heels of her hasty explanation, Noah said, “Give us a minute to tell the wives and we will meet you there.”
Ten minutes later, Noah and Ben and their sons joined her and Jubal in the barn.
“What is the plan?” Noah asked.
They’d chain Rose to the skip loader to pull her from the barn, and once outside, he’d lift her into the bucket, and drive her to the back lot. From the looks on their faces, Abigail knew that even the boys understood what would happen after that.
Having noticed that Jubal was favoring his right leg, Noah took charge. “I will drive the loader, and Ben and the boys will ride over there in the van.”
Abigail tensed, waiting for Jubal to insist he was capable of doing it himself. Instead, he joined Ben and the boys in the van.
She had plans of her own.
Scrubbing away all evidence of what had happened in the barn left her filthy, sweaty, and exhausted. The men and boys would feel even worse when they returned. After filling the teakettle, she tossed her dirty apron aside and washed up. Abigail was setting the table when Jubal limped into the kitchen, alone.
“Where are the others?”
“They had to get back to work.”
She followed his gaze to the platter, plates, and mugs on the table, and felt silly for having made so many sandwiches. Her biggest concern wasn’t waste, but Jubal’s sad and weary face.
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