“Wouldn’t Mamm say that helping another is always worth the doing?” Luke’s voice was level.
Joshua clapped him on the shoulder. “Ya, she would. But not everybody’s like she was.”
“And that’s the truth to be heard,” Luke muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
THE DAY WAS ONE TO STIR THE SENSES; BLUE SKIES AND cotton fluffed clouds. Geese flying in south V-patterns, and the mingled scents of nature in its hurried pursuit and preparation for sleep, all joined in a rapturous serenade.
But Rose was uneasy. For once she couldn’t discern Luke’s mood, and it made her nervous. Of course there was the guilty worry that, from his perspective, she’d been kissing a stranger in the rain. That had to make him angry, and she thought once more of telling him what she knew. But the moment passed and she focused on tossing the quartered apples into the Lantzes’ cider press as Luke turned the crank handle.
The smell of ripe apples and the crispness of the fall day seemed to burgeon with life and abundance, and part of her wanted to dance with the red and yellow leaves that swirled in graceful arcs to land on the ground. But Luke was uncommonly silent, moving mechanically, almost as if she wasn’t there.
“Are you all right?” she asked at last.
He glanced at her—calm blue eyes and a solemn expression. “Ya. And you?”
She frowned. She didn’t want to talk about how she felt. “Fine,” she mumbled.
He straightened and came toward where she sat on a low stool. His work boots brushed the rounded fall of her dress as it spread upon the ground, and she squinted up at him in the sunshine.
“Ya, you are fine, Rose,” he said, reaching down to brush the curve of her cheek.
She sat still, mesmerized by his warm fingers and that mysterious side of him that teased at her consciousness.
He dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking of late . . . our engagement . . . perhaps we set the wedding too soon. Maybe you’d prefer another year in which to plan?”
“What?” she squeaked in dismay. Is this why he’s so quiet? Does he want to break our engagement? Surprisingly, the thought made her sick at heart, even as she considered how she might feel if she thought he’d been kissing someone else in the dark.
He turned his back to her and ran a hand over the damp board of the press, shrugging his broad shoulders. “You’re much younger than I, Rose.”
“I’ve always been younger than you—it’s never mattered before.”
“Nee, but now . . . with all of the responsibilities of the house . . . perhaps you desire still a continued bit of freedom.”
Her eyes widened in a rush of feverish thought. What had she said to him last night about freedom? Did he suspect that she knew?
She rose and touched his arm, and he turned to face her. “I want to marry, Luke. I do.”
He nodded, but she felt him search her face, and she lifted her chin.
“All right, Rose.”
She longed for him to touch her, but he was back to the apple press. The moment was gone, and the day seemed to lose some of its color as she shifted on her feet and tried to sort through her emotions.
WHEN ROSE STOOD BEHIND HIM, LUKE TRIED TO CONCENTRATE on the gush of juice from the press and put aside the thought of touching his future bride—kissing her as the “thief” had last night. But he’d meant what he said—perhaps she needed a bit more time. Maybe that’s why she spoke of freedom in the dark and yielded to—nee, returned a heated kiss with such passion. Yet he didn’t want to complicate matters by bringing more physicality into the moment . . .
He looked up in relief at the diversion when his brother Mark emerged from the woodworking shop nearby. Mark was two years older than Luke, still single, and was the family’s tease. But today he appeared frustrated.
Mark dropped onto the stool Rose had abandoned and sank a dipper into the bucket of cloudy cider. He slurped loudly as Luke ran the last of the apples through.
“What’s wrong?” Luke asked.
“What’s wrong with you two?”
Luke started to take the apple press apart to prepare it for drying and ignored his brother’s question.
“You leaving already, Rose?” Mark prodded. “Seems like Luke could do something to persuade you to stick around more often.”
“She has her own chores to be about,” Luke observed in a warning tone.
“I’d imagine that a girl would want to spend every second possible with her betrothed.”
“Ya.” Luke smiled then. “You’d have to imagine it—since it seems no one’s standing in line to be your bride.”
Rose giggled.
“Watch your mouth, baby bruder. Or I may have to watch it for you.”
Luke laid the crank down with care. “All right. You are in a fine temper and in front of my future bride. Why is that?”
Mark sighed. “Ach, I messed up the piece of burled elm Daed had me redoing for that piano front. You know how rare that wood grain is.”
Luke turned from the press. “How bad is it?”
Mark shrugged. “I don’t know. I was off somehow in the scrolling design, and now the whole thing’s lopsided. Daed’s gonna have a fit when he and Josh get back from their delivery.”
“Let me take a look.”
Mark shrugged. “Go ahead. It’s on the second workbench.”
Chapter Nine
ROSE FOLLOWED LUKE’S PURPOSEFUL STRIDES INTO THE shop. A generator powered several overhead bulbs and cast light onto the worktable that was laden with tools, wood curls, and a beautiful piece of wood. But the design clearly had a flaw. She watched as Luke picked up the foot-long panel and ran his large hands down the unusual sheen of the wood.
His eyes were intent as he scanned the workbench and chose a slender tool from among the gougers and scrapers. There was an air of suppressed energy in his movements, almost a sensuality in the way he turned the wood in his hands.
“Luke?”
“Hmmm?”
He was making small additions to the scrollwork, bending to cast an eye over the wood, then straightening to start again.
“Why don’t you tell your daed the truth?”
He stilled and stared at her. “What do you mean?”
She gestured to the wood. “You love this; you always have. Tell your father so you can get out of that office.” And away from women like Barbara . . .
He bent over the wood again with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”
She was silent, watching him work, liking the way the dust motes he stirred up played in the fall of light and landed in his brown hair. She’d rarely seen him so enthused, and her throat ached when she thought of the hours he gave without complaint to the work his father expected of him. Perhaps that was why he sought some sort of diversion—dressing like an Englischer, playing at being a thief. But still, it didn’t quite make sense . . .
After a few minutes he looked up with satisfaction. “There.” He blew the wood off and tilted it toward her as the sound of a wagon and horse echoed from outside. Luke put the wood down, stepped away from the workbench, and caught her hand. He pulled her toward the door as Mark entered, looking hunted.
“Daed’s back.”
Luke gave him a swift cuff on the shoulder and looked out to see their father coming toward the door.
“Daed.” Luke greeted him calmly. “I was about to see Rose to her buggy, if you’ll excuse us.”
“Ya, surely. I wanted to see how Mark did on the—”
Rose watched as he broke off and drifted past them to the workbench. The older man lifted the wooden piece with near reverent hands. “Ach, Mark. What is this?”
Mark stepped forward as if to speak when Luke caught his arm.
“It’s wondrous craftsmanship, my son. And I’ll risk the vanity to tell you so. I’ve never seen the like of such an intricate design.”
Rose watched Mark open his mouth again, and Luke turned abr
uptly. She felt the jolt through their entwined hands when his elbow connected with Mark’s ribs, knocking the breath from him. Then Luke pulled her out the door and into the sunlight.
“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” ROSE HISSED. SHE SNATCHED her hand away from him as he moved to help her up into the wagon.
He swung up beside her. “What?”
“Why would you let your daed think that Mark fixed that design?”
Luke lifted the reins and tilted his hat back a bit, exposing his handsome profile. He answered slowly. “It would trouble my father—make him feel torn if he knew I could work wood like that. It’s less worry for him if I do the books. And he doesn’t need any worry—not since Mamm . . . well . . .”
“You miss her so much, don’t you?”
She watched him reach to rub at his neck as if to soothe an ever-present ache. “Ya, of course I do.”
“I never asked you before . . . did she know? I mean, how much you love the woodworking?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I planned on telling her once, and then there was the flu. It all happened so fast. And Daed, well . . . it nearly broke him.”
Rose took a deep breath and a shot in the dark. “You’re afraid. It’s not your daed, Luke—it’s you. You’re afraid to be who you really are.”
He turned to face her, blinking solemnly. “Ya. You’re right, Rose. And you’d know, because your secret is that you’re afraid yourself. So don’t tell me about being who you really are.”
“I know who I am,” she cried, wanting it to be true. Wanting to banish the meetings with him as the Englischer in the woods from her mind. Suddenly, the planned footing of her future seemed treacherously slippery.
Chapter Ten
ROSE TOSSED BENEATH THE NINE-PATCH QUILT OF HER girlhood bed; she hadn’t seen much of Luke the past week and felt distant from him. She sighed aloud and forced herself to focus on her prayers.
“Ach, Lord, help me. Help my relationship with Luke to be true. Search my heart, Derr Herr, and find those shadows, those secrets that I would hide even from myself, and bring them to light. Forgive me for spending time chasing after Luke as the man in the woods, and help him just the same. Free him from this stealing. Free me from wanting something like the wind, and not the steadiness of the moment. Thank You for Luke. Thank You, Derr Herr, for my life and my ability to make choices. Give me wisdom, Lord . . . please . . . give me wisdom.”
Utterly drained, she pulled the covers up to her chin and dreamed fitfully. Tangled blue threads, the color of the wedding dress she was sewing on a bit each day, seemed to stretch from her mind to wrap around her arms and wrists. The thread was thin but confining, and she struggled against the bonds. Then a dark-hooded stranger stood before her and raised a pair of silver shears high. She felt her breath catch in her throat at the slash of silver against the white of her skin, but then the threads were gone and she was free. She called to him because he was running from her, and he turned. The hood fell away, and Luke stood before her. Then he caught her up in a swinging embrace and she laughed, free and clear . . .
Rose jerked awake and sat straight up in bed. Her heart was pounding and she stared out the window, glad to see the first streaks of the morning sun falling across the hardwood floor of her room. She decided that a walk in the woods before breakfast would clear her tangled thoughts, and she hurried to dress. She wanted to slip away before anyone would notice she was gone. She needed some time to herself to consider her dream.
But when she crept downstairs, it was to find everyone wide-awake and already halfway through breakfast at the kitchen table. “Mamm,” she cried in dismay. “Why didn’t you call me to help with the meal?”
Ben laughed. “We all called you, but you slept like the dead! Don’t you remember that today’s the first day of the fair?”
Rose bit her lip as she accepted a bowl of steaming oatmeal from her mother and sat down at the table. “I guess I forgot,” she mumbled.
The first fall fair in the area was something her family always attended together, but after her poor night’s sleep, the outing held little appeal. She kept seeing the moment in her dream when the stranger’s hood fell backward to reveal Luke’s face.
“As is right,” her father remarked, scraping the last of his plate. “Probably dreaming of your wedding coming, like any girl would.”
Rose concentrated on the wet lumps of her oatmeal and didn’t lift her head. She had no desire to talk about dreaming—wedding or otherwise.
“Are you feeling well, Rosie?” Aenti Tabby asked softly.
A sudden inspiration struck Rose. “Well, actually . . . if you all wouldn’t mind—I wonder if I might stay home today to do some sewing on my wedding dress. I’ve barely pieced the pattern yet, and I feel like time is running away from me.”
She saw her mother glance down the table to her father’s warm eyes.
“Ya, Rose.” Mamm smiled. “Just for today. Some time alone may be gut for you.”
Rose nodded. “Danki.”
James held his plate out for more sausage. “Ya, Rose, but just don’t go entertaining any Rob in the Hood while we’re gone. Luke Lantz might take offense.”
She frowned as both of her brothers laughed, and told herself that she’d had enough of fairy tales for a while.
ONCE SHE’D HELPED CLEAN UP BREAKFAST, THEN WAVED the family off, she decided that a walk in the brisk sunshine would do her good before beginning hours of sewing. Of their own accord, her feet seemed to lead to the forest behind her home. She spent a peaceful half hour praying as she walked, collecting the reddest leaves, and daydreaming. On one level, she continued her prayers for Luke from the evening before, asking the Lord if Luke might one day escape the task of bookkeeping and use instead the ready skill he had with woodworking.
But then she became aware of a rhythmic pounding from somewhere in the distance. She stopped and listened. She couldn’t imagine who’d be building on anything out this far. Her steps quickened as a childish memory of an old tumbledown shack on the Lantzes’ property surfaced in her consciousness. She crept through the trees to the sunny clearing and stopped, pressing hard against an old oak.
Clad in blue jeans, work boots, and a loose white shirt, Luke was atop the low roof of the old shack. His back was to her, his head bent, as he concentrated on securing a new white pine board to the roof. The sun caught on the muscles of his arms as he lifted the hammer, and she made an inadvertent sound of pleasure at the sight. He half turned in her direction, then seemed to tense and put a foot back onto the gray wood. There was a brief cracking sound and a muffled cry. Rose gasped as the weathered part of the roof gave way beneath his weight and Luke disappeared in a rain of old wood and an ominous cloud of dust.
Chapter Eleven
ROSE RAN TO THE DOOR OF THE SHACK, COUGHING AS SHE breathed in the dust. She flung open the door and saw Luke lying facedown and still beneath a splintered pile of boards. She began snatching at the boards, heedless of their weight or the scratches from the wood on her arms.
“Luke! Are you all right?”
He gave a faint groan, then sneezed from the mess she was kicking up. “Rose—you know it’s me?”
“Ya, of course . . . since that first time in the woods.”
Luke sighed, a gusty exhalation, rolled over onto his back, and stared up at her through the dust and shards of wood. “I should have known,” he muttered. He closed his eyes and slid one arm up and over his face, revealing an ugly gash on the underside of his wrist.
She dropped to her knees beside him and began to tear a strip from her apron and dab at the blood.
He lowered his arm slowly. “Don’t. It needs to be washed first. And I think there’s a splinter there.”
Even his voice seemed different now—husky, inviting. And his dark blue eyes gleamed up at her with a knowing confidence. She let her eyes trail down his torn shirt to the low-slung blue jeans and shook her head, wondering if she was losing her mind. Was this really her Luke? The irony of h
er sense of proprietorship struck when she realized that no woman would take for granted the holding of the man before her.
“I—should have told you that I knew who you were,” she said. “But I wanted you to trust me, to tell me what you were doing. You didn’t.” Her eyes met his, and he caught her hand, pulling her dirty fingertips to his lips.
“Nee,” he murmured against her skin. “I was wrong.”
He kissed her fingers with lingering passion, as she watched, mesmerized; then he let her go. She snatched her hand back as if she’d touched hot coals, feeling her face grow warm, whether from anger or excitement, she wasn’t sure. Her thoughts felt thick, like the oatmeal she’d choked down at breakfast.
“Well, then—what? Why did you go on pretending with me that you were the thief?”
He smiled at her, a flash of white teeth and something fast and wolfish that made her catch her breath. “I am the thief.”
“You—you touched me and kissed me, and I thought I was betraying Lu—you! Or that you were betraying me . . .” She broke off in confusion.
“Let your hair down, Rose, will you?” His eyes were intent, compelling, and she wondered if he’d taken a knock on the head when he’d fallen.
“Wh-what?”
“Please. I want to see you—revealed, like you’re seeing me.”
“Revealed?” she repeated slowly. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“I’m the same person I’ve always been, Rose. Maybe you just haven’t noticed.”
She shook her head, inadvertently letting several strands escape the confines of her kapp and brush against his chest.
He smiled, a lazy, sultry smile that made her think of honey dripping from a comb, and she had to blink to keep her thoughts straight.
“We’re nearly married,” he observed, reaching to catch a stray curl and run it between his fingertips. The sunlight slanted down through the hole in the roof at that moment and fell across the tableau of her hair in his hand.
An Amish Wedding Page 4