by Leslie Gould
“My initial impression of him was right then?”
Ruby nodded. “It seems so.”
Zachary met her eyes. “You seem taken with him.”
Ruby shook her head. “Indebted, jah, but that is all.”
Zachary smiled a little. “I don’t remember you looking at Paul the way you do at Duncan.”
Ruby took a step backward. “You’re teasing me.”
He shook his head.
She put her hand to her throat. “Don’t say such a thing, Zachary. It isn’t true.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps you aren’t being honest with yourself.”
“I’m to marry Paul, as soon as we can get to Canada.”
Zachary sighed. “Don’t marry someone you don’t love, sister.”
She cared for Paul. And she’d made a commitment to him. She loved him—or at least she had. She couldn’t be so frivolous as to throw away all that she had with Paul for her fleeting feelings toward Duncan, for an Englischman. Too much was at stake for that.
Zachary continued to stare at her.
Lots of people, she was sure, married someone they didn’t love. She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter whether I love Paul or not. We can still have a good marriage.”
Zachary shook his head and his eyes grew sad, but he didn’t say any more.
Finally, against her better judgment, she asked, “What are you thinking?”
“About when I joined the army. About how certain I was I could fight, but when I was faced with it I realized it went against everything I believed in. I stood facing the enemy, who wasn’t the enemy at all, but another man, probably younger than me, in a red coat. Far away from home. Scared. And fighting for what? A king he’d never meet?”
Ruby shook her head. “What does that have to do with me marrying Paul?”
“I went against my conscience,” Zachary said. “And I regretted it every day. Especially when I pulled the trigger and shot that young man.” His eyes filled with tears.
Ruby stepped toward her brother and placed her hand on his shoulder. She felt his sorrow and sympathized, but her marrying Paul was a very different matter. She’d heard of women who married men they didn’t love, but they came to love their husbands—or at least to respect them. Perhaps she’d never truly loved Paul, but she’d had feelings for him. She was sure those would return, once she was far away from Duncan.
“I have one more thing to say,” Zachary said. “You may think you’ll be fine marrying Paul, and perhaps you would have been if you’d never met Duncan. But you can’t go back, Ruby. You can’t pretend none of this happened.”
She turned away from her brother and toward the fire, her eyes burning as she did her best not to think about what he’d just said. He had no idea what he was talking about.
As she put another piece of wood on the fire, a knock on the front door startled her. The only person it could possibly be was Duncan. She walked slowly, not wanting to seem too eager, even though her heart raced.
When she opened it, a soldier dressed in a well-kept blue uniform stood before her. But behind him were Duncan and Isabelle.
“Come in,” she said, alarmed.
Duncan must have sensed her fear because he said, “This is Captain McLeod. Isabelle mentioned him at the inn.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Ruby curtsied a little and then stepped aside so all three could enter the cabin. “Come to the fire,” she said.
She started to introduce Zachary to Captain McLeod but by the look on her brother’s face it seemed he was already familiar with the man. He struggled to stand and said, “Captain McLeod.”
“Glad to see you’re on the mend,” the man said. “You’ll be returning to the 1st Regiment, Company H with me in the morning.”
“But we’ve just arrived! And . . . and he’s ill,” Ruby exclaimed.
The man stepped forward and put his hand against Zachary’s forehead. “No fever. No doubt the cough I heard about is fabricated.”
“His arm is broken,” Ruby said.
Zachary let go of the blanket, showing his arm in the sling.
“I’ve seen worse,” the man said. “He can still work with the horses. And drive a wagon.”
Duncan cleared his throat. “I’ll take his place.”
“No,” Ruby said. “Not with your leg the way it is.”
“I can work with horses and drive a wagon,” Duncan said. “I’ve proven it over the last few days. Maybe not as well as Zachary, but I can get by.”
“I can’t let you do that,” Zachary said. “I don’t want you to take my place.”
“Yes,” Isabelle said, stepping to Duncan’s side. “Don’t be ludicrous. You’d break my heart—and Mother and Father’s too.”
“That’s just it,” Duncan said. “If something happened to me, you and Mother and Father would have each other. All Ruby has is Zachary.”
That wasn’t entirely true. She had Hans and Daniel too. And Paul. Her heart fell. But neither felt like family. Not the way Zachary did. Not the way Duncan—
She stopped. She couldn’t choose between her brother and her—her what? Neighbor? Friend? Her heart began to ache, and she turned toward Captain McLeod.
He put his hand on his hip. “Frankly, I don’t care who accompanies me. But one of you must. I’ve been put in charge of rounding up our scattered troops. How fortunate that I’ll be able to collect one so soon.”
14
Jessica
Early the next morning, as I mulled over Ruby’s story, a driver picked up Leisel and took her to the hospital so she’d be there before Arden’s surgery. It was scheduled for 6:30 a.m. As Milton, Amos, and I did the milking, I prayed for Arden and for the surgeon. And for Vi, who didn’t plan to go up until later in the day. None of us spoke much. I checked the office again for the fracking plans but once again couldn’t find them. After we finished with the milking, Milton asked if I’d work on the tractor so he could start plowing on Monday. He could get more done with it than the mules. I told him I would the next day.
By midmorning, I changed into my Englisch clothes and started for Harrisburg. I couldn’t imagine what my office mates would think if I came in wearing a cape dress. As I drove, I thought of Ruby leading the horses home with Zachary in the back of the wagon and Duncan on the bench. Aenti Suz had insisted on stopping the story last night even though I’d begged her to continue.
I couldn’t help but compare Duncan to Tom. Both had gone out of their comfort zones to help an Amish girl. Well, I was an ex-Amish girl—but I couldn’t help but be grateful to Tom. He’d been nothing but good to me. Patient as I learned the Englisch ways, both at work and in our relationship. He’d been so generous with his time, coming to Lancaster for the funeral. And he’d saved the day helping with the CPR on Arden and keeping him alive until the paramedics arrived.
Another week and I’d be back in Harrisburg for good, moving forward with my life. In fact, I felt a freedom I hadn’t before. And it wasn’t due to Dat’s death. Seeing my Mamm and Marie again convinced me more than anything that I didn’t want to live the Amish life anymore. Sure, seeing Silas brought up my old feelings for him. But that was all in the past.
Hopefully some good would come with my time at home. I knew spending time with Leisel had benefitted me, and I already felt closure as far as Silas. God could bring good from anything, even my time with Mamm and Marie. I truly believed that. I said a prayer for each of my family members. Then I realized I was praying for Silas, too, and my face grew warm. I hadn’t meant to do that.
I stopped praying for Silas and consciously switched to praying for Tom. But soon my mind wandered off to Ruby and Duncan again, and Paul. I knew what was at stake for her. I was dying to find out what she decided.
Surely Paul would come after her soon—unlike Silas had done for me. But Duncan was so willing to sacrifice for her. Then again, if he ended up at Valley Forge, perhaps he didn’t survive.
An odd gasp erupted out of my mouth. A sob. Then another
. I gripped the steering wheel harder. I thought I’d cried myself dry over Dat but more tears started to fall. I pulled off on a side road and cried some more, not entirely sure what I was even crying about. The last week had been so emotional.
Finally, the crying done, I flipped down my visor and looked in the mirror. I hadn’t put on any mascara at the house. I decided I might as well or I’d look as if I hadn’t slept in a week, so I dug in my purse for my makeup. I never wore a lot—just a little foundation, eye shadow, and mascara. A little color on my lips. I had to admit, I hadn’t missed wearing makeup while on the farm. In Harrisburg, I didn’t leave my apartment without it.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot at work and parked next to Tom’s car. After I climbed out of my car, I glanced down at my low-heeled black pumps, afraid they might be speckled with mud. They weren’t. My black skirt wasn’t wrinkled either. I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for the building, feeling confident. Jah, I truly was an Englisch girl. No doubt about it.
Tom wasn’t at his cubicle, so I continued on down the hall to my desk. The Stoltz file was just where I left it—in my top drawer. I slipped it into my bag, checked in with Deanna to let her know what I was doing, and then waited for Tom by his cubicle.
A few minutes later, he bounded up to me, his coffee cup in his hand. “You’re here.”
“I said I would be.”
He put the cup down. “Did you get the file?”
I nodded.
“Ready for lunch?”
I nodded again.
“How about the sandwich shop on Fourth Street?” he asked.
“Perfect,” I answered.
“I’ll drive,” he said.
He always drove. “I’ll drive too,” I said. “I should leave from there, instead of coming back.”
“Of course,” he answered.
Lunch was fine. The sandwich shop only had ten tables and was one of those places where you pay when you order at the counter. I got the chef salad because it was easy to eat, and I didn’t have to worry about spilling soup or having the middle come out of my sandwich.
Being with Tom was comfortable. There was no drama. No backbiting. No mean looks shot my way. Tom said work was going fine. He nodded toward my bag where the file was peeking out. “Thank you for going to meet the Stoltz family.”
“I’m happy to do it,” I answered. “It’s a nice diversion.”
“Let me know if you think the story is worth pursuing. If so, I’ll do the interview.”
I nodded.
“Hey,” Tom said. “I really enjoyed meeting your family. All of them.” He smiled, a little wryly. “They’re not nearly as bad as you make them out to be.”
My mouth dropped open, but then I realized he was joking. The truth was, I hadn’t been negative about my family to Tom. As much as they frustrated me, my loyalty was greater than that. “Well, let’s just say you brought out the best in them.”
He grinned. “A heart attack? Don’t flatter me.”
“Well, that was simply unfortunate.” I pushed my empty salad bowl to the middle of the table.
Tom finished his water and then said, “I’d better get back to work.”
I stood and bused my bowl, cutlery, and glass. Then I slipped into my coat and grabbed my bag. As we walked out of the sandwich shop, I said, “I’ll see you next week.”
“Ditto,” he answered. “I hope the rest of the time with your family goes well.”
“I hope the rest of your day . . .” My voice trailed off. He was already at the corner.
He waved and called out, “Bye!”
I stood still for a moment and then shuffled along to my car, feeling dejected. But why? Did I secretly hope Tom would beg me not to go back to Lancaster? As if a week was that big of a deal? Maybe I needed some extra comfort. Maybe he felt as if I didn’t. But how could he know? I hadn’t said what I needed.
When I reached my car, I opened the file and then entered the Stoltz address into the navigation app on my phone. That was one thing I could, hopefully, do for Tom—get an Amish farmer to talk.
In no time, I left Harrisburg far behind and was back in the farmland that I loved. The Stoltz farm was east of my family farm, off Highway 30. As I drove, my thoughts fell to Ruby again. And once I turned on Highway 30, I realized it was the route she would have taken to Valley Forge. Of course I knew it wasn’t the exact route. I guessed a lot had changed in the last two hundred and forty years. But it was the same general vicinity.
I turned off the highway, onto Garden Lane, and then a short time later arrived at the Stoltz farm. It consisted of the typical large white house, several outbuildings—a barn, a shed, and a chicken coop—a large pasture, fields, and a strip of willow trees along a creek. I guessed it was the average seventy acres or so that most Amish farms were in Lancaster County.
After parking, I grabbed my bag and climbed out of my car. As I approached the house, a man walked out of the shed, a red rag in his hand. I called out, “Guder Daag,” and headed toward him. He appeared to be in his late sixties, maybe early seventies, and walked with a significant limp.
In English, I explained whom I worked for and why I’d stopped by.
“Ich non fashtay,” he said in Pennsylvania Dutch, telling me he didn’t understand.
“Mei Englisch?” I asked.
He smiled wryly. “I don’t have anything to say to you,” he replied, still speaking in Pennsylvania Dutch. His tone was polite, but his words were clear. He seemed both timid and gruff all at the same time.
I responded in Pennsylvania Dutch, saying his story could help others.
He looked at me, a hint of smile in his eyes. “You speak Plain even though you’re dressed Englisch. Who are you?”
“Jessica Bachmann. My family owns a farm near Leacock.”
“One of Augustus Bachmann’s daughters?”
I nodded. “Jah, the oldest.” Of the living, anyway, but not of the faithful.
“I heard about you,” he said. He took off his hat and added, “I was sorry to hear about your Dat passing.”
I accepted his condolences. After a moment of silence, I told him that my interest in his experience was both professional and personal. “It seems my brother may have or is entertaining the idea of fracking on our property.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Your property?”
“Well, our family farm.”
“But obviously you’ve left.”
“That’s true,” I replied. “But I’m still concerned about the land.”
By the skeptical look on his face, I guessed he didn’t believe I had a right to be.
“Could I ask you a few questions?”
He nodded toward the shed. “I’m working on my tractor. We can talk in there.”
I followed him inside. The place was as tidy as I would expect, and the faint scent of gasoline hung in the air. The tractor was ancient, even older than ours.
“I’m just changing the oil,” he said, and proceeded to awkwardly sit down on the mechanic creeper and then slide under the vehicle.
I started asking my questions. Bit by bit his story unfolded. A pickup truck hit his wagon, throwing him out into a ditch, twenty years ago. The accident broke his back, and it took years for him to recover his mobility. He and his wife were childless, so he leased out his land because he couldn’t farm it and didn’t have any offspring to help.
“But one doesn’t make as much leasing out land as farming it,” he said. “It became hard to make ends meet.”
When he was approached by a fracking operation, he sent them away. But they kept coming back. Finally, he listened to their proposal and decided it was the financial boost he and his wife needed. They’d been praying for an answer to their money problems.
He rolled back out from under the tractor, dragging a gallon jug full of oil. “This doesn’t matter, not in the long run, but I found a year after I signed the contract that they paid me seventy percent less than my Englisch
neighbor.”
“Oh dear,” I said.
“Jah. I spoke with a lawyer who said I could sue for fraud, but you well know we don’t sue.”
Obviously so did the fracking company.
He stood and placed the oil on the shelf under his tools. With his back to me, he said, “The actual drilling wasn’t a problem, but what it did to our well was.” He turned around slowly.
“What happened?”
“First the water grew cloudy. Then there was a funny odor.”
I told him the story I’d read, about the farmer who lit his tap water on fire.
He smiled. “I tried that—but that wasn’t the case with our water. It seemed chemicals from the fracking process had leeched into our well. Mildred started boiling it, but it seems maybe not soon enough. Or perhaps boiling didn’t make a difference.”
“Why?” I asked. “What happened?”
“She was diagnosed with breast cancer last year.” He shrugged. “We can’t prove it’s from the well water. She’s sixty-seven. Perhaps it was age-related and inevitable. . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Is she going through treatment?”
“She did,” he answered. “But the cancer is aggressive, not like some. . . .” Again his voice trailed off.
“I’m sorry.” I blinked back tears. It sounded as if Mildred was all he had. “Sharing your story could help others. Amish and Englisch alike.”
He started to speak and then stopped. Finally he said, “I’d like to think about it. I’ll speak to Mildred and then make a decision.”
“Of course,” I said. I gave him a card with my cell phone number on it. “Could I stop by in a few days?”
“Jah,” he answered. “We’re home most all the time.”
“What about your land now?” I asked. “Are you leasing it out?”
“Some of it. I’m farming some too. Like I said, we don’t have any children. . . .” His voice trailed off as his hand fell to the small of his back. “I’m still crippled up some but better than I used to be.”
“Oh? What made the difference?”
“Your Dat,” he answered. “He gave me some supplements that eased the pain, taught me some exercises, and recommended a good chiropractor. All of that helped.”