by Tricia Goyer
The scent of his loafing shed welcomed Aaron as he entered. With winter set, the cows and young cattle nestled inside. Taking a look around, he saw a fresh calf was in the stall box along with hogs and chickens tucked in their spots. It was good to be here—to have his own space. Although he appreciated the extra time to get to know Marianna in Montana, nothing about that place appealed to him. The mountains were beautiful, but he missed the wide open plains and rolling hills. He did not like the friendships between the Amish and Englisch. Did not like Ben Stone being anywhere near Marianna.
He wasn't blind. He'd seen the way Ben and Marianna's eyes found each other across crowded rooms. Aaron considered giving Marianna the rest of the letters he'd written when she first left Indiana for Montana. He'd given her two already and he'd seen her response. After she read them all, she'd be even more committed to their marriage and all thoughts of Ben would vanish. Yet part of him held back. They shared more inside than he'd ever shared with another person.
After we're married, he convinced himself.
The door to the loafing shed opened, and Aaron's eyes widened as his mother walked in. He could count on one hand the number of times he saw her in the "menner's territory." He studied her face, hoping nothing was the matter.
"Mem?" He raised his eyebrows.
"Do ya want to tell me what's on your mind? What's going on with you and Marianna? You were so happy when you left to show her the house and you returned not so happy."
He cast her a glance and then filled the feeding bins with ground ear corn and silage.
"Aaron?"
"Nothing. It may be my leg, the pain, that's the problem." He rubbed it for emphasis.
"Ja, well if there is a problem . . . I offer a listening ear. I wouldn't blame ye if you need to talk. Everyone speaks of a difference in Marianna already."
"Everyone? Who's had a chance to see her? She's hardly left the house yet. Has her aunt been saying things?"
"Well now, I'm not one to be speaking what I have no business to say."
Not in front of me, that is.
Aaron knew his mother had no qualms about sharing her "concerns" with friends.
When Mem left, Aaron braced an arm on the wall and hung his head. The truth was he didn't know what bothered him. He'd waited to show Marianna the house for so long and finally had the chance. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he'd dreamt about it for too many nights. Maybe he'd put too many expectations about how Marianna should react. Maybe it was what he hid that bothered him even more than what he'd revealed.
Should he have told her the truth about Naomi?
Marianna had assumed she'd been the only woman who'd sat on that bed and enjoyed the view. He didn't have the heart to tell her that Naomi had done so . . . more than once. It would lead to too many questions.
Questions about things he didn't want to think about . . . let alone confess.
Dear Marianna,
I wonder when I'm going to give you this letter. Part of me wants to put it in today's mail. Another part tells me to wait. Wait until I know your heart. Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the Amish way: gentle, simple, peaceful, forgiving.
Although the Amish are sometimes called simple people, we both know that is not the case. The Amish love, laugh, celebrate, mourn like any other human. There is nothing simple about their emotions. There is nothing simple about my emotions.
When you left I thought a lot about the Amish response to life. There is so much that must be "given up": modern conveniences, normal society, one's right to himself or herself. Only equal to that is the determination not to give in. Not to give in to the trappings of wealth, give in to pride, give in to temptations of what they ought not have.
I'm sad to say I've given in to many temptations. I'm not the man that I see in your eyes when you look at me. I wish I were.
Yet since I've known you, one thing that has not failed is my love for you. It's hard to explain, hard to deny.
Do you love me as much as I love you? I wish you were here with me now. One glimpse in your eyes and I think I would know.
Why do you have to be so far away, my sweet Marianna? Why couldn't you be tucked next to my side? Dream of me tonight if you would.
Written with the pen of the man who loves you more than you know.
Naomi entered the dawdi haus without knocking and then moved to the back bedroom. She'd seen Levi leaving thirty minutes ago and she'd waited near the back porch for fifteen minutes, making sure he wasn't going to come back.
She entered the bedroom and paused in the doorway. At first she'd planned to stay in this house, but her parents didn't like the idea of her being in her grandparents' cabin alone. She ended up staying in her room, and her older sister Judith moved in with their younger sisters. It worked better that way since Levi didn't have a home to return to once he became Amish again.
She'd cleared out her things weeks ago, until she remembered something she'd tucked away on a high closet shelf. Naomi just hoped Levi hadn't stumbled upon the drawing.
She entered the bedroom that smelled of Levi—of his manly presence and the Englisch cologne he still wore. Her heart hammered.
Turning to the closet, she hurried over and stood on her toes. Her fingers brushed the edge of a piece of paper and she let out a sigh. It's still here.
Naomi pinched her fingers on the edge of the paper and pulled. She didn't know why she kept the drawing. She'd be horrified if anyone saw it.
Aaron had drawn her with her kapp off, hair down, and apron sitting beside her. He'd used colored pencils to capture the red of her hair. She bit her lip and ran her finger over her captured image. She'd never considered herself beautiful until Aaron drew her like this, but she couldn't risk the chance of Levi finding it and asking questions. With one smooth motion she ripped it in half. Taking those two pieces she ripped them again, and continued ripping, until only small pieces remained in her hands.
Only then her breathing slowed.
She carried the small pieces in her hand and placed them in the trash, hiding them under potato peels. Relief lessened the tension in her chest. Still, she didn't feel whole. The evidence was destroyed but the deeds would never be undone. Her heart felt like the paper—torn and in pieces. Naomi placed a hand over her growing stomach.
When had everything gone so wrong?
Chapter Seven
He finished the concert, his mind and heart heavy for the words he had shared, the song he had sung.
He stood at a back table and noticed the line growing for autographs. His head ached and his eyelids weighed a hundred pounds.
A woman approached wearing bright blue eye shadow. She looked to be his mother's age but gushed like a teenager. "Can I take a photo for my Facebook page?"
Ben nodded. "Uh, sure." He smiled, but felt the life getting sucked out of him as he did.
More people joined the line, and he knew he should stay there for them, but tonight . . .
He just couldn't.
He turned to the assistant at the table. "Sorry. I need to scoot tonight. I'm not doing too well." He turned to face the line of people, raising his voice so they would hear him. "You know what folks, it's been a long day. I need to hit the hay."
A moan carried through the crowd as Ben offered a wave and strode away.
Backstage, the rest of the band members were loading up their instruments, but instead of helping he excused himself and headed to the tour bus. The night air was chilly, but a warm breeze seemed to blow over him when he noticed a woman standing by the door of their bus. Tall, blonde, beautiful . . .
He slowed his steps as he approached and said a silent prayer for strength. "Hey. You looking for someone?" Ben glanced over his shoulder. Were the band members setting him up? They'd teased him on the flight to Chicago about taking one of his groupies up on their offers to "keep him company." It would be just like them to place a temptation before him, then hide someplace with a video camera. Well, as temptation went, this woman was t
op notch.
"Lookin' for you."
Yeah. It was a setup. "That's kind of you, but I don't—"
She held up a hand, stopping him, then tucked her thumbs in the back of her jeans. She wore a low-cut shirt and it took all Ben's reserve to stay focused on her eyes.
She smiled, and oddly enough, her smile seemed . . . friendly. Nothing more. "I know it can get lonely and boring on the road. And I bet you get tired of fast food. I thought you'd like a home-cooked meal."
Ben's eyes widened. He'd been on the road before and he'd gotten a lot of offers—but none like this. "You're offering me food?"
"Yeah, what did you think?"
"Well . . ." He shifted from side to side trying to figure out how to tell her he wasn't interested. Well, he was interested, but knew he shouldn't be.
"Actually, I make it a policy never to go home with a stranger, even one as pretty as you."
Laughter bubbled from the woman's lips like suds in a sink of warm water. "Oh man, I must seem pretty desperate. Look, I'm serious about the meal. My dad owns a restaurant down the street. Home cooking at its finest." She lowered her gaze and looked up at him under long eyelashes. "After hearing the story of the girl you like I wouldn't want to get in the middle of that. You just looked like . . . you could use a friend."
No doubting the sincerity in her words. Clearly, he'd misread the situation. And the woman. "Sure." Ben slid on his jean jacket and buttoned it half way up. "I could always use a friend and home cooking does sound good." He patted his stomach. "Especially tonight. I forgot how empty I get pouring everything out on stage."
Something inside told him to get on the bus, to walk away. But the woman's smile drew him in.
He motioned to the bus driver and when the man approached, Ben told him he'd be back in an hour. It would take the rest of the band that long to pack up.
With slow steps he followed her to a waiting sports car.
"I'm sad to hear you're empty. My dad's cooking is sure to fill you up."
"Thanks. Appreciate that." If only he were just talking about his stomach. But his chest felt just as hollow. With late nights and long days on the road, he'd hadn't spent time with God like he had before going on tour. He needed quiet time, time to think, time to pray . . . but for right now he'd settle for a good meal, followed by a slice of pie. Coconut cream, if they had it.
She clicked the key fob to unlock the car door, and he placed his hand on the door handle. The stirring came again, stronger this time, urging him to go back to the bus. The woman was beautiful. He could use the company . . .
But he knew he had no right getting into the car with her.
A battle waged inside him between what he longed for and what God was asking him to do. He couldn't believe how quickly those old desires popped up. He'd gone with many women like this in the past—and for a whole lot more than pie.
Ben released the handle and stepped back. "I've changed my mind. I told my fans back there I was heading to bed. I do need the sleep, and I need some time with God. As much as I appreciate your offer—"
"Are you sure?" The woman hurried around to the side of the car. "I can get something to go." She stepped closer to him, peering into his face. "I can be back in twenty minutes. It's no problem."
The skin on her face, her neck, was so smooth. He imagined the feel of it under his fingertips.
Ben swallowed hard. "Sorry." He raised his hands and turned away. "I'm sure you're a nice girl, but I have to set limits. More than that, I need people to trust my word." He didn't look back, didn't wait for her response. Instead he hurried back to the bus.
God, keep me strong.
It was a simple prayer, but so true. He needed to be strong against those who had the power to draw him away. And against himself—
And against the desire to run to those he truly longed to be with.
Abe swung the axe high over his head and let it fall onto the wood. A crack split the air and the log broke into two pieces, each side tumbling into small piles stacking up on the dirty snow.
He squatted and loaded his arm with wood. Biting edges snagged on his jacket, and he piled wood up to his shoulder and then turned and strode toward the front porch of his house. The woodpile was already tall and neatly stacked, but he was one to be prepared. If things worked out as it seemed, they'd most likely be around next winter too. He could use the extra wood then.
Stepping onto the first porch step, Abe saw Ike standing with a coffee mug in one hand and patting Trapper with the other. His brother was just a few years younger, and they'd grown closer over the last year than they'd ever been. Ike had always been the wanderer, the adventurer, and this time—as the word had spread back home—he'd talked Abe into wandering along with him.
"Jest got here a minute ago." Ike lifted his mug. "Walked over from the store. Ruth was kind enough to let me warm up by the fire for a minute and pour me a cup of coffee."
Abe stacked the wood against the log siding. "She does make the best coffee. Glad you could make it."
Ike chuckled. "Well now, it's not every day I get a message on my answering machine in the shed from my brother. In fact, I think it's a first."
"I jest wanted to talk to you about packing up our things in Indiana. You said you knew of a driver who could help us." Abe wasted no time letting his brother in on the whole truth of the matter. "Ruth wants to sell the house, too, which means packing up and moving everything."
Abe finished stacking the wood and brushed off wood chips from his jacket. "The more I think about it, the more it seems the right thing to do. I won't need any of the farm equipment. I'll try to sell it to the Moser lad or take it to auction. Most of the things we bring will be from the house."
"That's good, the less you have to move the better. The problem is the driver I was thinking of was Ben Stone. That's not possible now that he's gone to California to make his music."
Abe nodded. He didn't like that they'd have to come up with another driver, and yet . . .
Just as well his daughter was far away from that Englischman.
Ike rose, and Trapper jumped up on his leg, wanting more attention.
Abe patted his leg, and the dog lunged toward him, tail wagging. The poor pup hadn't been the same since Marianna left. He stroked the top of the dog's head.
"Too bad you couldn't pack up those trees you planted behind the barn." Ike added a log to the stack. "I know they were planted in memory of Marilyn and Joanna, and even though those were the darkest times . . . well, seeing the trees helps me remember."
"That was a hard time, all right." Abe lowered his head. And that was the strange thing about moving. Leaving Indiana felt like he was turning his back to the pain and the loss, and in a way it saddened him to walk away from all that. It was a part of what made him who he was—what made them who they were.
"There were other dark days too." The words escaped before Abe understood why he was saying them, but as soon as they were out a chill dripped down his spine. Even though losing his daughters in the accident had been devastating, he knew his children rested in the arms of God. The darkest day was different.
That was the day Ruth told him she loved another.
He'd come in from laying seed, not having a care in the world, and there sat his wife, holding their infant daughter and looking at him as if he were a stranger in their own home. Her parents had both been ill, and she'd been spending time helping in their home. She'd been distant, but he believed it was because she'd been trying to do too much. But the words escaping from her downturned lips told Abe a different tale.
"My parents' neighbor has been over every day. Mark was my friend as a child—before I understood his friendship wasn't to be. We've been talking . . . he says he still loves me, Abe. Has always loved me." She lowered her gaze. "I believe I love him too."
She'd spoken as simply as if she'd been sharing her favorite recipe rather than shredding his heart.
Over the following months, although Ruth still liv
ed at home and went through the motions of being his wife, her heart wasn't in it. Abe thought he'd lost her for good.
Then one day she returned. She'd never left physically, it only seemed that way. One day, though, she laughed as she did the dishes. She smiled again and cared for him as she had when they'd first married. He hadn't asked the reason for the change—he was just happy it had come.
Ruth's childhood friend moved away soon after that, and they never again brought up the subject of her struggle. It had been enough for Abe that the man was gone. It had been even better when their next daughter Joanna was conceived just a few months later—a second representation of their union. Another proof of their life, their family.
But now? Deep down he had a feeling what Betsy had said in her letter stirred his wife's buried emotions. No, he hadn't read the letter, but his wife's distance and tension these last few days told him what her words couldn't.
Mark Olsen had returned.
Abe shook his head.
Was he making a mistake in taking Ruth back to Indiana for Levi's wedding? Maybe he shouldn't return. Or just go without her. But no. He couldn't leave Ruth in Montana alone. There was nothing else to do. They would return.
He just hoped Ruth would be stronger this time around.
Ike cleared his throat, bringing Abe back to the present. "There is a phrase that Edgar at the store uses . . . penny fer your thoughts." Ike cocked one eyebrow.
Abe released a sound that reminded him of escaping steam. He considered telling Ike his struggle, but he didn't want to damage Ruth's good name. Back when it happened, word had gotten out that Ruth's eyes and heart had been turned to an Englischman, but like any "news," it had dissipated into nothingness as soon as the next community member did what they ought not.