by Mary Ellis
“Draught or bottle?” Her smile revealed unusually white teeth.
“Draught, a tall one.”
“We have our nine regular handles this month, plus two seasonals.” She placed a laminated card before him that listed the beers and wines, along with photos of rainbow-hued blender drinks. “We have five kinds of frozen margaritas too.”
Jake stared at a blob of dried catsup on the card rather than the beer choices. “Why don’t you choose one for me, darlin’. I don’t want to make any more decisions today.” He returned the best smile he could.
“You got it, but the name is Kim. Only my better half is allowed to call me darling.”
Color rose up his neck. “Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he murmured, ashamed.
Moments later, she set a giant frosty mug on a cocktail napkin in front of him. “You’re forgiven. This one is my husband’s favorite. If you don’t like it, it’s on the house.”
“Thanks.” Jake took a long pull of the dark amber liquid and almost gagged. But with Kim watching his reaction, he swallowed it down and wiped his mouth on his flannel sleeve. “It’s good,” he lied. “Nice and cold.” At least, that part was true.
“Glad you like it. I myself prefer light beers—colored water, as my husband calls them. You want to see our lunch menu? We have great daily specials.”
“No, thanks. I’m here to drink.” He gulped down another mouthful. Surprisingly, this swallow didn’t taste anywhere near as foul as the first.
When she wandered away to serve other customers, Jake caught his reflection in the mirror above an array of liquor bottles. He looked like an old young man. That’s what he got for being a nice guy, for playing by the rules. Didn’t women prefer the wild bad boy type? The love ’em and leave ’em kind who moved on long before vows or commitments could be spoken? Lifting the mug, he drained the contents down to the foamy bottom.
What was America’s passion for beer all about? The stuff tasted like yeast, barley, and hops, fermented and then strained to get the chunks out. Why would anybody want to brew and then bottle a beverage made from grains not much different than horse feed? Nevertheless, when his cheerful bartender returned, he ordered a second mug of the odorous stuff.
“What would a man drink if he was celebrating or seriously drowning his sorrows?” he asked when she refilled his glass.
She stared at him. “This is Kentucky, home of real Kentucky bourbon.” She pointed to a group of bottles along the top shelf, each one sporting a famous name he was vaguely familiar with. “If price was no object, a man would order a shot or two of this stuff.” Kim selected a bottle and set it before him. “Aged in oak barrels for five, seven, or eight years, until the master says it’s ready. Whiskey doesn’t get any smoother than this. You could shoot it down or sip it slow from a snifter.” Miming both actions, she placed the two styles of glassware on the bar.
Jake reached for the shot glass. “Pour me one, Miss Kim, and leave the bottle.”
Hesitating, she leaned over so other patrons wouldn’t hear her comment. “Cowboys might have said that in olden days, but that’s strictly for TV shows now. Our best bourbon sold at bar prices would cost you a fortune.”
Jake reached for his wallet and drew out his credit card. “I only look like a poor, down-on-his-luck loser. Actually, I’m a rich horse breeder.” He laced his words with so much sarcasm they fooled no one.
Kim’s face filled with pity as she cracked the seal on the expensive spirits. “I’ll just charge you by the drink, not the full bottle. Maybe you won’t even like this stuff.” She poured the shot glass to the rim and headed to the kitchen pass-through window. A bell had signaled the arrival of several stacked cheeseburgers with mounds of French fries.
Jake stared at the expensive golden liquid without tasting it. Teetotalers like his mother called it the devil’s brew, a weak man’s courage, and plenty of other disparagements. He focused on the shot glass as though waiting for some mystical sign.
“Looks like you have something on your mind, son, and are hoping that whiskey holds the answers.” Ken slipped onto the next bar stool as though entering a bar were an everyday occurrence.
“Dad. What are you doing here?” Jake’s tone conveyed more shock than anger.
“I could ask you the same question. I recognized your truck out front and thought I would keep you company. Then I’ll drive you home once your sorrows are sufficiently drowned.” Ken slicked a hand through his graying brown hair.
Jake snorted. “How do you plan to drive two trucks home?” He lifted the stein for another sip, but ignored the bourbon.
“God looks out for drunks, or so I’ve heard. He gave me the idea to come to Rabbit Creek today to drop off the diesel generator that needs repair. Jack Daws rode along with me. I already sent Jack back to Charm with my truck. So I’m here till you’re ready to go home.”
Kim wandered over after delivering food to the pool players. “Hi, there. What’ll it be? Care to see our menu?”
His father tipped his hat. “Ma’am, I’d love a bowl of the chili listed on your signboard, along with a cup of coffee if you have any.”
“Coming right up. I just brewed a fresh pot. How about you?” she asked Jake. “Ready for some lunch?”
“No, ma’am. Not hungry.”
After Kim jotted down the order, poured Ken’s coffee, and strolled away, Jake pivoted on his stool. “I’m not drunk,” he snapped. “This is only my second beer.”
“Maybe not yet, but I see a bottle of 120 proof sitting in front of you and a glass already poured. It won’t take long now.” He studied his son as though he were a fascinating insect.
Jake lifted the shot, sniffed, and set it back down. “I’m still debating about trying this.” He focused on a wall calendar, positioned on the previous month. “I came in because Rachel broke up with me.” He blurted out the words with little emotion. “I started driving and ended up in Rabbit Creek, out of gas. After filling my tank, the neon beer sign in the window beckoned to me.” His palms opened, his fingers clawing toward his chest.
“As signs have done for many brokenhearted young men and a few old ones too.” Surprisingly, his father’s tone held no censure. “From what I heard, alcohol usually doesn’t help, but I won’t stand in your way if you’re bound and determined.”
Jake took another gulp of beer and pushed away the mug. “Don’t tell the bartender,” he whispered, “but I really hate the stuff.”
Ken laughed as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “I understand it’s an acquired taste.” He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup. “Keeley overheard your conversation with Rachel. She tore into the house all upset.”
“Oh, great.” Jake rolled his eyes. “Now the whole stable will know what a loser I am.”
“Your sister isn’t like that. She’s really mad at Rachel and not about to spread rumors. She vowed never to speak to her again and plans on communicating with her solely with sign language during their tours.”
“Without any deaf friends, Keeley has been itching for a reason to practice her sign language skills.”
Kim delivered a steaming bowl of chili topped with cheese and a basket of warm bread. The smell whetted Jake’s appetite. “May I have a bowl of that too, along with a Coke?”
“You got it, darlin’,” she teased. “Nobody can resist our chili for long.”
While his father ate, Jake stared at his reflection in the mirror. “What am I going to do, Dad? I really love that woman. I can’t bear seeing her every day right now, but I don’t want to mess up her new position at work.”
Setting down his spoon, Ken cocked his head to one side. “Your problem is you’re too pale.”
“What?”
“You’re practically as white as a sheet. You need some sunshine. A trip to Florida ought to do the trick. You could check on the colt’s progress firsthand. Make sure that Hitchcock isn’t ordering steak every night for supper on our dime. Some time away from Twelve Elms will do you good
.”
“What about my chores?” Jake leaned back as Kim delivered his chili and Coke.
“I’m not retired yet. And we have plenty of hired help to fill in while you’re gone.”
Jake began to devour his lunch, almost scalding his tongue in the process. When he scraped the bottom of the bowl, he finished his soft drink in three gulps. “When can I leave?”
“How about tomorrow? Pack your bags tonight after supper. Set the GPS and cruise control, and you’ll be among palm trees before you know it.”
“Let me pay our tab and then let’s get out of here.” Jake pushed away his beer. “Miss Kim,” he called. “Charge me for that bottle since you had to crack the seal.” He set his credit card next to the empty bowl.
She walked over and patted his hand. “Bourbon ain’t like milk, my friend. It won’t go bad. I’m charging you for the coffee, beer, and the chili. But your drink and the Coke are on me. No arguments.”
Jake left enough cash to cover a healthy tip and walked out of the Rabbit Creek Tavern with his father. The aged 120-proof bourbon remained untouched in his glass. He would have to take Kim’s word that Kentucky made the finest spirits in the world.
Rachel punched out at the time clock Friday afternoon with a grateful sigh. She had managed to work the rest of Wednesday and all day today without running into Jake. The head trainer kept her busy from the moment she arrived. She barely had time to wash up and wolf down her peanut butter sandwich lunch before her new boss barked another order. Not that she was complaining. Better to stay busy than to sit around pining for Jake.
It was what had to be. She knew it was the only sensible option.
Yet she felt as though she’d slammed the door on her heart’s desire.
Punching Sarah’s number into her cell phone, Rachel waited patiently for her cousin to pick up.
“Stoll’s Free-to-Roam Chicken Farm.”
“It’s Rachel. I can leave early because of some schedule changes. I’ll be home soon. Why don’t you let me fix dinner tonight? It’s high time I earn my keep.”
“You earned it yesterday helping me clean the laying boxes. And you only got pecked twice.”
Her cousin’s laughter brightened Rachel’s mood as she hurried toward her buggy. “My arch nemesis walked the other way when she saw me coming. I will mark the occasion on my calendar.”
“If I let you cook, what will you make? My ehemann won’t just eat anything. He’s very picky.”
Rachel snorted. “Isaac is the most laid-back husband in the world. I’m pretty sure he’ll eat spaghetti and meatballs, buttered green beans, and cabbage salad.” Her menu came to mind at that moment.
“Spaghetti?” she asked. “I suppose that will be all right as long as the sauce isn’t too spicy. Should I start the meatballs?”
“Nein. It’s my turn to cook. You go soak in the tub with a mug of sweet ginger tea, and maybe read one of those craft magazines you love.”
“Like a lady of leisure?” The rest of Sarah’s comments were muffled by laughter. “Okay, I’ll give it a try.”
But the irrepressible Sarah didn’t relax at the end of her workday. When Rachel entered the kitchen less than an hour later, the table had been set, plump meatballs sat draining on paper towels, and green beans simmered on low heat. A large pot of water roiled away on a back burner. “Sarah Stoll, what have you done? I wanted to make dinner tonight.”
“Then get busy, missy. The spaghetti still needs to be dropped into that pot and the jar of sauce heated. Plus you need to add dressing to the cabbage I chopped. I’m going out to the barn to see what Isaac is doing.” Sarah tugged her apron over her head and slipped out the door.
Rachel’s dinner was ready in less than ten minutes. Isaac even finished work thirty minutes early, allowing the three of them to eat immediately. Rachel suspected Sarah was responsible for their early supper hour.
Once Sarah wiped up the last dab of sauce with a bread crust, she looked Rachel in the eye and announced, “Because we are done eating, I think you should head over to the Yosts’. They’re having a marshmallow roast tonight. You need to get out and socialize.” Sarah laced her fingers together and cracked her knuckles.
Rachel considered inventing a myriad of excuses why not to attend, but if the gleam in Sarah’s eye was an indicator, tonight was some sort of test. Am I broken up with Jake Brady and serious about courting Amish men? “Sure, I’ll go. The Yosts don’t live too far.”
“Gut. And as you cooked our delicious supper, I’ll clean the kitchen.”
“Sarah, I only—”
“Don’t fuss with me. I’ve had enough leisure time for one day. Now go get ready, and wear your rose-colored dress. That horrid brown one makes you appear anemic.”
Isaac glanced up from his apple cobbler. “I advise you do as your cousin suggests, Rachel. Sarah has been planning this all day and can handle any barrier you throw up.”
She rose to her feet. “Well, I haven’t managed my life very well, so I’m open to suggestions. Danki, Sarah.”
“Don’t thank me. Just meet somebody nice so you’ll settle down here and not run back to Lancaster.”
Unfortunately, the dating pool of eligible men had shrunk instead of expanding in Casey County, according to one of her friends. Bonnie explained within five minutes of her arrival that all of the Old Order Amish had moved from the area.
“Where did they go?” Rachel stood far back from the huge bonfire. Roaring blazes still made her nervous since the horrible night she’d lost her parents back in Mount Joy.
“The entire district pitched in to buy five thousand acres in Tennessee. Five thousand acres, can you imagine? It’s supposed to be fertile farmland too.”
Rachel could not imagine it. That much land would cost tens of millions of dollars in Lancaster County—far beyond the reach of any Plain community. “What about the Old Order Mennonites?”
“Staying put, far as I know.” Her friend stood on tiptoes scanning the crowd for her beloved Josh. They had announced their engagement recently and were planning a January wedding during the slow-paced time of year. “Let’s move closer to the fire. It’s dying down. Soon they’ll bring out the marshmallows.” Bonnie dragged Rachel to a row of lawn chairs. The moment they sat down, Bonnie jumped to her feet. “There’s Josh! I’ll see you later, Rach.” She flew off as though her feet had wings.
“Hello, Miss King. You’ve come out of hiding at last.” Reuben settled into Bonnie’s vacated chair the moment her friend left. “I feared I would never see you again. My sister heard from Sarah that you’d been under the weather recently. Leah had been buying eggs at the time. Gut to see you’re feeling better. Sarah said you might quit your job at the horse farm soon. Things too hectic for you there? Say, we may need help with making cheese this winter. I’ll check with my mamm and daed.”
Rachel stared as Reuben inhaled a deep gulp of air. All that had been uttered without the slightest break or hesitation. She didn’t know which comment to respond to first. “I’m fully recovered, danki, but your sister heard incorrectly—I won’t be quitting my job at Twelve Elms in the near future. So please don’t speak to your parents on my behalf.” She smiled politely. The thought of working around fermenting dairy products made her queasy, even though she only smelled burning logs and branches. Wood smoke had once been a pleasant scent to her. Now it left her light headed and disoriented.
“Right then, but let me know if that changes anytime this winter. My mamm and sisters all would like to know you better.” Reuben scooted his webbed chair closer. “Did I mention we’re thinking about adding a herd of dairy goats to our Holsteins and Jerseys? There’s growing demand for both natural goat milk and goat milk cheese. And some ethnic groups in Louisville love to eat their meat. Can you figure how they serve it?”
Rachel hadn’t expected to be drawn into a conversation quite so soon. “Maybe in stews or soups?” she stammered. “Or panfried with onions and peppers, like fajitas?”
Re
uben’s mouth dropped open. “Goat-meat burritos? I can’t imagine any fast-food joints springing up soon, but anything is possible in the English world.”
No, some things aren’t remotely possible, she thought glumly. “Tell me about your Jersey herd. Those are the ones with the big ears, right? Their calves are so cute.”
“If Sarah and Isaac didn’t have every barn devoted to poultry, I’d give you a calf next spring as a pet,” he said with sincerity.
Rachel smiled, taking in every detail of Reuben Mullet in a span of twenty seconds. He was a handsome man with thick, sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, and straight teeth. He was a hard worker who cared about his dairy cows, his family, and her, if she would only allow him. But she wasn’t assessing bloodlines in racehorses to determine which would make a better sire. She was human, and despite his highly flattering devotion after a long absence, she couldn’t generate one ounce of romantic interest in him. She would never marry him any more than she could Jake Brady, but for completely different reasons.
That night Reuben drove her home in his enclosed buggy while two of his sisters rode in the backseat. When they parked at the Stolls’ walkway, he jumped down, sprinted to her side, and offered his hand.
Like a true gentleman.
When he walked her to the back door, Reuben ducked his head, blushed bright pink, and asked, “May I kiss you good night, Rachel?”
Despite her decision not to see him again, she couldn’t bear to tell him her true feelings. So she nodded yes and closed her eyes. He gave her a quick kiss on the lips and fled back to his buggy.
Like a well-mannered Amish fellow.
Rachel entered the kitchen and wiped her mouth with her sleeve.
Like the true snake in the grass I am.
SEVENTEEN
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
For the next three weeks, Rachel had had little trouble avoiding Mennonite social events. During the Christmas season folks spent more time with their extended families rather than the district as a whole. Plenty of aunts, uncles, and cousins visited the Stolls, many staying for several days. Rachel busied herself cooking, cleaning, and keeping up with laundry to allow Sarah and Isaac more time with their guests. Baking a steady stream of cakes, pies, and Christmas cookies prevented Rachel from wallowing in her misery. But no matter how many people visited, Sarah never neglected her beloved chickens. They ate before anyone else.