* * *
Gray felt himself shiver as he trudged home through the deep snow. It wasn’t the cold . . . Nee, it was her . . . that staid, stiff-necked Naomi. After she’d hired him, she’d put him to work, first giving him a list of duties he’d be expected to perform each day when he arrived and then dealing out directions on what to do with an emergency fire. She was crisp, concise, organized . . . and would probably balk like a chicken if he tried to kiss her. Kiss her . . . wait, whoa, slow down here. She’s going to be my boss, not some dalliance.
He hiked for a few more minutes, taking a shortcut through the tall pines, and then came upon a small cabin nestled pleasantly in the mounds of snow. He climbed the stairs, grateful, as always, for the warm glow of candlelight coming from inside. His eccentric Aenti Beth made home both a place in his mind and his heart. She’d raised him since his parents left the Amisch to divorce. His mother and father had both felt that he’d be best served by staying with the community in Beth’s care. He pushed away the darker thoughts associated with his lack of control in this matter and knew he was more than grateful for his Aenti Beth. Her kindness had sustained him through his injury, though even all of her love hadn’t been able to wipe away the memories.
He sighed, feeling the warmth of his breath mingle with the chill of the air; then he stamped his boots and went inside.
Aenti Beth was, as usual, cooking at the woodstove though she had a diaper-clad guinea pig balanced on each of her shoulders. Ned and Ted squealed their greetings to him and he replied in proper guinea piggish, raising his voice to imitate the two friends—“Aw ra, aw ra, aw ran!”
Aenti Beth smiled at him as he came forward to brush her elderly cheek with a kiss. Then he scratched the two pigs and went to the pump to wash his hands. He had to lift his right hand to the water and he thought inadvertently of Naomi when he touched his own wrist.
“Hope you’re hungry, Gray!”
“What are we having?” he asked.
“Bacon corn chowder . . . great on a cold nacht. How was the candle shop?”
Ned seemed to ask the same question, wriggling a large black nose.
“Fine—it’ll be fine.”
“Well, it gives you something to do besides ordering seeds in the winter—might learn a few things too.”
“I might at that.” He plucked at Ted’s white ear and hoped there were only a few hairs in his chowder. Then he thought of what he might learn from Naomi Gish and decided that whatever it was, it would probably hold the touch of Gott and that had to be worthwhile.
* * *
Naomi nestled beneath the quilts of her bed and watched the shadows from the great pine outside her window play with the dancing fall of a light snow. She couldn’t help reflecting on the day and hugged herself at the thought of being so near Gray Fisher. The man was mesmerizing, though she held no illusions that he would ever be interested in someone like her. Nee . . . he deserves a delicate flower of a girl—not someone aulder than he and rather put on the shelf with the other preserves . . . Then she chided herself for such a negative train of thought and pulled her pillow close. She thought she might dream of Gray Fisher that nacht, but she awoke to the dawn with nothing but the recollection of a deep and pleasant sleep in her mind. Then she reminded herself that she’d be seeing Grayson—nee, Gray—in the flesh that morning and she needed to get prepared with materials that would help her to instruct him.
She ignored the traitorous voice inside her head that whispered of hidden things that he might instruct her in, then put such foolery aside and rose to dress for the day.
Chapter 3
He tried to concentrate. She was explaining something about scenting the wicks of certain candles with oils of lavender and rosemary, but all he could see was the confident movements of her slender hands. And all he could think about was stroking her wrist the day before, surely an intimacy, and the strange feeling of peace that had come over him—a peace that rivaled anything he’d ever experienced with a woman.
“Do you understand about straightening the wick?” Naomi asked in a no-nonsense tone, and he dragged his attention up to her dark brown eyes.
He savored her words aloud. “Straightening the wick . . .” Yeah, I get it just fine, painfully fine . . . “Jah, I do.”
“Gut,” she nodded. “Now, I should warn you that you might get burnt occasionally.” She turned her right hand palm up and lifted it for him to see.
Gray raised his fingers to rub at a red mark in the center of her palm. He glanced down and didn’t miss the hectic color that flooded her face at his action. But he didn’t draw away. He couldn’t. Touching her was like putting warm fingertips to clear ice—there was a curious melting sensation inside of him that he couldn’t explain.
“It’s funny,” he whispered, still touching her.
“My burn?”
“Nee . . .” He felt himself flush and awkwardly tried to say what he was feeling. “It’s funny how we can have scars on the outside and they can hurt but it’s the wounds on the inside that give us the most problems.”
“Because no one sees them?” she asked.
“Jah . . .” He lifted her hand close to his mouth, then felt as if he’d had a bucket of ice water thrown on him when she jerked from his grasp.
“Herr Fisher . . . um, Gray—it’s Bishop Umble kumme shopping . . .”
He looked round, rather dazed, to meet the wise blue eyes of the spiritual leader of Ice Mountain and gave a brief nod.
The auld man smiled. “Glad to hear you’re working here, Gray. I saw your Aenti Beth and Ned and Ted, of course, out for a walk—the pigs’ new winter parkas look top notch.”
“Um . . . jah,” he agreed, but he felt off balance, like right after his arm had been injured and he’d had to learn to walk while maintaining his equilibrium with the dead weight of his limb.
He jerked his attention back to the moment and realized the bishop was talking with Naomi about a special order.
“I want something for my Martha, one of those carved candles or maybe a honeycomb type—what do you say, Gray?”
“That it’s gut you still want to buy your wife gifts after being married as long as you have.”
The bishop laughed outright. “Back in control now, buwe? Well, I’ll choose the honeycomb and make it big enough to serve as a centerpiece.”
Gray told himself that Bishop Umble always said things like he’d just done—Like he can see into a man’s heart and mind . . . It was enough to freak a person out . . .
Gray watched Naomi’s careful penmanship as she detailed the order in the book she kept by the cash drawer and he loved the intricate loops and circles of her lettering. I am losing my mind here—being interested in a woman’s letters and not her breasts . . . Which thought, of course, made his eyes drop irreverently to Naomi’s bosom. He realized it was charming.... Like two high apples, just waiting to be picked . . . He met the bishop’s eye and tried to diffuse his thoughts but not before the aulder man spoke succinctly.
“Make it in a honeycomb style, Naomi, but sei se gut, make it apple scented, if you don’t mind.”
It took all Gray had not to choke as Bishop Umble gave him a sunny smile, then took his leave without a backward glance.
“Do you want me to show you the apple-infused oil?” Naomi asked Gray diffidently when the bishop had gone.
“Nee,” he whispered, feeling like a coward, but seeing no way out. “I—I really want to see the honeycomb candle making.”
He spent the next hour trying to tear his gaze from her chest and thinking about apples . . .
* * *
Naomi knew instinctively that he was studying her and she wondered if her kapp was askew or if she had something on the front of her apron. But when she made to inspect herself with a discreet glance, he raised his left hand in dismissal. “There’s nothing wrong, Naomi.”
“Ach . . . gut. I—um—made some sticky buns this morning for Fater and me. Would you like one? I usually have somet
hing to eat as a midmorning break. We can geh into the haus and listen for the shop bell.”
“Sounds good. I love sweet things.”
Well, she thought. That leaves me out. Then she swallowed, telling herself she was being silly and led him through the curtain and into the living area of the haus.
Much to her dismay, not only had her daed finished the sticky buns and left the pan on the floor near his chair, but he was also snoring loudly in his long johns, sound asleep. Naomi was about to back Gray out of the room when she heard a rich chuckle from behind her. She turned and looked up at Gray, whose rain-colored eyes were warm. “Sorry.” He laughed low again. “But a man’s got to be able to relax in his own home, doesn’t he?”
She was struck by the sudden image of what Gray would look like relaxing—maybe on crisp sheets, mellowed cream by candlelight—his big chest bare and finely muscled. He would be lounging back against the pillows with the sheets tangled about his hips and . . .
“Naomi!”
She snapped back to the moment and realized her fater had awoken and was trying to gain her attention. “Um . . . what?” she asked, knowing her face was red with heat generated by her thoughts. I never knew I had such an imagination . . .
“I said”—her daed rolled his eyes—“Gray went to answer the bell in the shop. Best geh help the buwe. . . . And, uh—if you might send him back in here when you’re done . . . I’ll get my clothes on and could use his help outside for a minute.”
“Ach, jah . . . surely.” She turned and reentered the shop through the curtain, only to find Gray exchanging easy conversation with Mary Lyons—the young and beautiful wife of the schoolmaster on the mountain.
They both turned to smile at Naomi as she joined them. She felt glad to see Mary, who was as straightforward and natural a person as she’d ever met.
“Naomi,” Mary said brightly. “My dochder Rose is going on three now and has a plaguing interest in touching everything. Jude thinks it’s wonderful and he wondered if you had any flat wax that she might play with?”
Naomi smiled in return. “Of course.”
“What’s flat wax?” Gray asked with obvious interest.
She led him over to a counter where sheets of wax paper separated literal flat wax pieces. “See?” Naomi held up a piece of bright red wax that she’d flattened and oiled between the wax paper so that it might be rolled into a candle or used for play.
She handed him a piece and watched the lean fingers of his left hand work the smooth material. She couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to have him touch her with as much intent.
“I’ll take five sheets,” Mary said and Naomi turned to concentrate on the wax.
She was discovering that the candle shop was actually a very sensual place when Gray was around and then told herself that she’d better focus more on her customers than her handsome employee . . .
* * *
“Now runnin’ moonshine is simple—if you don’t get caught or shot.” Bud Gish pronounced the words to Gray with all the solemnity of reciting a prayer in church and Gray felt a shiver go down his spine.
“Okaaaaay.”
They were standing in one of Bud’s caches, a hidden panel behind Naomi’s cellar pantry, and Gray couldn’t help the faint pang that came over him when he thought of deceiving the girl. She deserves better . . . But he knew that if he was in for a penny, he was in for a pound, and he couldn’t just back out now.
“So,” Bud was saying. “You make the run tonight at midnight. And no lantern light . . .”
“What about a candle?” Gray asked dryly.
“Only for a few seconds. You potentially got two kinds of folks after you—the Englisch authorities and other moonshiners. You have to be fast and sure. Tonight’s drop is simple—a satchel of ’shine for a bit of money and we split fifty-fifty.”
Gray nodded. “All right. So, the ’shine goes under Stoulfus’s Bridge and the money should be there in exchange. Do I know who the buyer is?”
“Never . . . you might have ideas but nee, never.”
“You know,” Gray said after a moment, “a fellow has to think if it’s worth it . . .”
Bud laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Soon enough you’ll stop thinking, buwe. It’ll just start to run in yer blood—the mystery, the thrill—not to mention the easy pay.”
“Right.”
But Gray knew that other things ran in his blood—things like warm wax and smart women and he wasn’t as thrilled with his secondary job as he thought he’d be . . .
Chapter 4
Naomi went to bed that nacht thinking of a confusing mixture of candle making, rich scents, and Gray. She blushed beneath the quilts when she realized that she was trying to recapture his scent—perhaps his soap—maybe just the essence of who he was. It was intriguing really, that so much of her work at the candle shop involved intricate scents yet she struggled to put a mental finger on what was Gray . . . She turned over in bed and gave her feather pillow a gut thump. Then she drifted into an uneasy sleep.
“Home-ly Naomi, Home-ly Naomi!” The children’s voices chanted in cruel unison and she would have loved to run from the taunting. But she stood her ground, straightening her spine—not even closing her eyes. She noticed a gaunt stray dog trying to skulk past the school when her tormentors recognized another form of amusement and began to throw rocks at the dog. She quickly ran to try and fend off the blows from the whimpering animal when suddenly she was aware of a taut young voice and she looked up to see Grayson Fisher standing in front of her and the hund.
She’d never spoken to the buwe as he’d started school on Ice Mountain only a few months beforehand but she remembered his odd Aenti Beth bringing him his first day. She’d handed him a lunch pail and removed a squirrel kit from it. Then Naomi had listened to the foreign whispered word divorce as it was hastily tossed about the classroom. There were subdued giggles when Grayson came in, his dark head bent, his young jaw set, and she imagined he looked much the same way now as he stared down each one of the class bullies. They melted into another part of the school yard and Grayson turned to stoop down near her and the dog. He ran practiced hands over the cringing animal and looked into her eyes. “I’ll take him home to my Aenti Beth.”
Naomi nodded, then held her breath as he touched a bleeding scratch on the back of her hand. “It’s nothing,” she whispered.
“It means a lot—to give your blood for another creature.” She watched in detached fascination as he bent his dark head and put his mouth to her wound, slowly sucking it clean. Then he lifted the dog and started to walk away, growing smaller with each step until she sat up gasping in her own bed. . . .
Gray reined in the big black gelding with his left hand and made a soothing sound from the back of his throat. His horse, Thorn, was one of the fastest on the mountain but also blended in nicely with the shifting shadows of midnight. He slid from the back of the animal and eyed Stoulfus’s Bridge in the near distance. Beneath the light of a winter’s full moon, the auld stone structure looked eerie, even with its dusting of snow.
Gray tied Thorn to a low-hanging branch, then carefully untied the leather satchels that held the canning jars filled with moonshine. He glanced once more at the sky, then laughed softly to himself when it hit him full force where moonshining got its name. He slung the satchels over his left shoulder.
He trod softly through the snow, feeling his heart beat loudly in his ears. He wet his lips as he neared the curved arch of the bridge and concentrated on the darkness below. Should have brought a candle, he thought grimly. Then a hoarse voice gave him frightening pause.
“Put the white lightning down real slow.”
Gray straightened his back and chose to stand his ground.
The awful click of a gun being cocked sounded deafening in the cold nacht air.
“Give me the money—I’ll give you the ’shine,” Gray said hoarsely. He felt as if he was watching himself from some distance and his thoughts fl
ashed oddly to Naomi and touching her wrist . . . Peace . . . so sweet . . .
He heard the crunch of boot steps in the snow and the hoarse voice came again. “Drop the moonshine now, boy.”
Suddenly he didn’t want anything but to live—live for some kind of purpose. He dropped the satchels roughly to the ground and heard the distinct sound of glass shattering. He knew the alcohol was now seeping into the snow.
“Aw, now what you do that for, Gray!”
The moonlight shifted to play over Bud Gish’s stubby form and Gray wanted to sag in relief.
“Bud!”
“Never drop the ’shine. That’s a rule!” the auld man cried.
“Never pull a gun! Talk about rules—you’re freakin’ Amisch—you’re supposed to be peaceable!”
Bud waved the small pistol around and Gray resisted the urge to duck. “ ’Twas me grossdaudi’s. It’s not loaded. I just wanted to give you a little test run tonight. Calm your nerves . . . that’s all.”
“Calm my nerves? You almost gave me heart failure and you wasted your own ’shine.”
Bud ambled over to clap him on the back. “I’ve got plenty more and you’ll do all right, buwe. Besides, I promise—no more tests.”
“Yeah, right,” Gray muttered as he blew out a breath of disgust and bent to lift the damp leather satchels from the snowy ground....
* * *
Naomi tried to go back to sleep after her dream but she found it impossible. How could she remember something so long forgotten through the power of a dream? She knew that the Bible said that the Lord could speak to men’s hearts through dreams, and certainly her heart had forgotten those moments when she was young and Gray had defended her and the auld dog.
She decided to continue her musings by going out to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk and she’d nearly gained the cupboard when her fater stumbled in, breathless from the cold nacht air.
“Daed!” she exclaimed.
The Amish Christmas Candle Page 2