But to accuse the bishop of letting his grief stand in the way of his administration of the duties Gott had bestowed on him?
Jonas did not filter the conflict from the gaze with which he returned Amos’s. Nor did he wish to continue this disturbing conversation.
“We must pray for our bishop,” he replied in an even tone.
A moment’s pause, and then Amos nodded before continuing to walk backward through the doorway with the table for their afternoon snack.
NINE
Jesse opened his eyes Thursday morning and, for the first time since the shooting, he didn’t feel like throwing up. A good sign. He turned his head, testing the pain, and was pleased when the movement resulted in no more than a dull ache.
He spied something on the bedside table that drew his attention. Once again, Katie had forgotten to take the whiskey bottle away after cleaning his wounds the night before. Maummi Switzer’s vigilance was slipping. He indulged in a grin as an idea occurred to him. He could have a little fun plaguing her.
Soft female voices drifted through the doorway that had been left cracked open a couple of inches. He heard the clink of a dish and then the sizzle of something frying on the stove. Bacon, judging by the delicious aroma that stirred up a rumble in his empty stomach. If he was real quiet, and they were intent on their tasks, he might have time.
Moving slowly, as much for stealth as caution for his weakened state, he rolled onto his side and then pushed himself upright. His vision swirled dangerously, and he squeezed his eyes shut until the world stopped spinning. There were only a few steps between here and the window, where the curtains waved gently in a cool morning breeze. The window looked out over the garden west of the house, so the sun was not yet visible, but a few clouds overhead glowed with a pink light that let him know the day was underway.
He grabbed the bottle by the neck. Standing required an effort that sent the world careening crazily again, but he managed not to fall or make any undue noise. Thank goodness for the empty chair someone had left beside his bed. The sturdy wooden back provided the support he needed to leave the mattress behind and cover the three or so feet to the window.
Once there, he kept a firm hold on the sill. Grasping the cork between his teeth, he twisted the bottle open. A soft pop set his heart to thudding, and not merely because he feared being overheard. The sound called to mind a passel of memories, not all of them unpleasant. For one moment, the sharp smell of whiskey overpowered the aroma of frying bacon, and he was tempted. One taste would do no harm, surely.
But when had he ever stopped with just one drink? Jesse knew that first taste would lead to another, and another, and another. This half-full bottle would be empty in less time than it took to sing a verse of “The Ol’ Cow Hawse.” And he’d be lost in a drunken fog once again.
With a hand that trembled from more than physical weakness, he thrust the bottle outside and tipped it. Amber liquid trickled out to wet the grass below him. Not all of it. No, that would be sure to cause a ruckus. Only a little, enough to rouse Maummi’s suspicions.
That done, he recorked the bottle and, moving as cautiously as before, returned to bed. Only when he had seated himself and arranged the blanket over him did he set the bottle on the table—with an audible thud. Then he leaned back on the feather tick to wait.
Sure enough, they had been listening for him. The door opened and Katie entered. But where was Maummi Switzer?
“Guder mariye.” Katie’s smile brightened the room more than any candle could. “You are well this morning?”
He returned her smile absently, his gaze fixed over her shoulder. “Truth be told, my stomach’s a bit uneasy. Might have been something I ate yesterday.” He straightened his neck and projected his voice to carry past her. “Or maybe something I drank.”
As he had hoped, Maummi Switzer came scurrying into the room. She paused in the doorway, her gray brows gathered low over her eyes as her gaze swept over him.
Concern settled on Katie’s features as she crossed to his bedside. “Have you a fever?” Her hand felt cool against his forehead.
“Nah, I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”
Sure enough, the old woman’s gaze settled on the whiskey. With a sharp look in his direction, she strode to the table and snatched up the bottle. Her eyes flickered from him to Katie, and he clearly saw the struggle on her face. Should she say something or keep silent? Jesse had a hard time trying to hold back a snicker.
Finally, she turned and marched through the door, mumbling something about “redding up the room.” Chuckling, Jesse relaxed into the soft feathers. She’d fret about that whiskey all morning.
“I’m fine,” he told Katie. “It’s probably nothing more than an empty stomach tempted by that bacon I’ve smelled for a while now.”
She continued to study him for a long moment, and then she gave a small satisfied smile. “I will bring a plate soon.”
“No need for that. I can eat at the table like everybody else.” He couldn’t lie abed forever, could he? As long as they continued to mollycoddle him, he’d never get his strength back.
Her eyebrows arched, and he expected her to deny him. He released a sigh when she replied mildly, “I will prepare a place for you.”
After checking the wound on his back and placing a clean shirt and his boots within reach, she returned to the kitchen. As he slowly donned the shirt, he contemplated her response with a certain amount of satisfaction. If she’d still been worried about fever and infection and the like, she would have protested. He must be getting better. Certainly the whiskey she’d poured on his scalp last night hadn’t stung nearly as much as before, and he could hardly feel it at all on the bullet scar.
Time to get up outta bed, cowboy, and get back to work.
Work. He paused in the act of easing the fabric over his weak right arm. And what work would that be? Protecting Jonas and Maummi Switzer from the conniving machinations of Littlefield was his immediate task, but what about afterward? Would he return to Luke’s place? The thought left him cold. Though Luke and Emma had gone out of their way to make him welcome, a man couldn’t live off of his friends forever, could he? Maybe he ought to claim his own hundred-and-sixty-acre parcel and start up a farm. True, in all the years he’d run cattle up and down the Chisholm Trail he’d never had much respect for sodbusters, but in the past year he’d learned to enjoy working the dirt. There was a certain amount of satisfaction in harvesting a crop a man had planted with his own hands. And who said he couldn’t start up a small herd of cattle, as Luke had done? He could even build himself a house, like he’d helped Colin and Rebecca build theirs after the church was finished.
He slipped the shirt over his head and tucked the tail into the waistband of his britches. What good was a house without a family to live in it? On his own he didn’t need more than a privy and a one-room shack for when snow froze the ground and made it too uncomfortable to sleep outdoors. No need to build a whole house without a wife, and no decent woman would have him.
A noise from the kitchen drew his attention, a low female laugh. Katie. His head jerked up and he stared hard at the doorway, as though he could see through it and catch a glimpse of her smiling face and trim figure as she went about the task of preparing breakfast in Maummi Switzer’s kitchen. Speaking of decent women, there was a fine one right here under the same roof as him. But of course she wouldn’t spare a second thought for him. He had nothing to offer her.
But if I did lay claim to land, and start up a farm and a herd of cattle…
He shook his head to dislodge the spark of hope the thought produced. He’d spent his good years in rowdy living, rolling in muck so disgusting he’d never get the stink of it out of his nostrils. Taking up with her would sully the fresh wholesomeness that was Katie’s nature. Besides, she was Amish, and he, most definitely, was not.
Emma used to be Amish before she married Luke. The thought crept unbidden into his mind. And Rebecca too, until she met Colin.
But so
mehow he sensed Katie was different. When she spoke of her Amish beliefs, he sensed not a shred of hesitance, not a single whisper of desire for any lifestyle other than the one she lived. He knew better than to expect a woman of her character to give up her whole life for a rowdy cowpoke like him.
With the gloom of certainty gathering to form a lump in the vicinity of his chest, he shoved his foot into a boot and thrust the disturbing thoughts from his mind.
Katie bit off the final thread and smoothed the wrinkles from the tiny white gown on her lap. There. Her gift for Rebecca’s babe was finished. Though after Sarah’s visit yesterday, perhaps she should have made something for the new Beiler daughter—Katie was positive Sarah carried a girl, though she could not pinpoint the exact source for her certainty—before Rebecca’s. No doubt Sarah would deliver first. Katie closed her eyes and formed a silent prayer that the Lord would seal Sarah’s womb long enough for the little one to be born healthy.
She opened her eyes to find Jesse observing her. He had resumed his place in the rocking chair after breakfast, and had watched her and Butch make a dozen trips from the water pump to the trough with a scowl. The unaccustomed exertion of joining the rest of them at the table had exhausted him, and he dropped off to sleep while she performed the rest of her chores. When she finished, she’d moved a chair quietly to his side to work on her sewing.
“You are rested after your nap?”
A grimace squeezed his features. “Whoever heard of a grown man taking a morning nap after a full night’s sleep?” He scrubbed at his eyes with his left hand. “I’ve got no more strength than a newborn lamb.”
“You sleep less now than three days past,” she pointed out. “Your body is working to make up for the blood it lost. A man with less strength would not have recovered.”
He considered the statement, and then his expression softened. “It’s thanks to you I’m alive at all.”
She found herself unable to return his frank stare and fumbled to fold the baby garment. Fortunately, before she finished, the sound of a horse’s hooves clopping in the distance announced the arrival of a visitor. Welcoming the distraction, she stretched her sight to catch a glimpse of the approaching Amish buggy. A lone man on the bench this time.
When the figure drew near enough to recognize, her spirits sagged. Bishop Miller had come to pay a call. Or had he come to check on her? As he drew near, she became aware of his sharp gaze fixed on her. With a quick glance at Jesse, she rose and hastily shoved the gown into the sewing basket. She could go inside and prepare a light meal. Surely Maummi Switzer would want to offer the bishop a bite to eat and a cool drink. But though she intended to head for the door, she found herself held in place by the unsmiling countenance of her father-in-marriage. Her arms pressed the sewing basket into her stomach, and she had to lock her knees to keep them from trembling.
“Hey, you okay?” Jesse’s inquiry held a note of concern.
She gave a shaky nod. “It is the bishop come to call.”
“Yeah?” He turned narrowed eyes on the buggy. “I met him once, a long time ago.”
Later she might be curious about that, but at the moment she was too busy battling a fit of nerves as she watched the bishop stop his buggy in the same shady spot the Beilers had taken the day before.
Why am I anxious? I have done nothing to bring his disapproval.
She spared a quick glance for Jesse. He was the reason behind her jittery stomach. Though she did not fully understand why, she did not want the bishop to see her talking with the Englisch cowboy.
Too late for that.
Maummi Switzer, who had been in the vegetable patch teaching Butch to recognize the difference between weeds and bean plants, rounded the corner of the house wiping her hands on her apron. Katie relaxed her clutch on the basket. No one intimidated Maummi Switzer, not even the bishop.
Fader Miller climbed down from the buggy and called a greeting toward the older woman. “A pleasant morning to you, Marta.”
“And to you. Always a treat to see our bishop.”
The two reached the porch at the same time. Fader Miller studied Jesse as he might inspect a lame horse someone was trying to sell him. Finally, when his brooding silence began to feel awkward, he dipped his head.
“I heard of your injury. I trust you are recovered.” Not a trace of sympathy appeared in the stern countenance.
Jesse replied with an easy smile. “I’m getting there, thanks to the care of these fine ladies. Without them I’d have been a goner.”
“Thanks are due to our Katie.” Maummi Switzer beamed at her. “She has an uncommon healing touch, and she has not left his side since she arrived.”
Katie kept her eyes lowered. Though she appreciated the good word, she wished the older woman had not chosen this moment, and this audience, to deliver her tribute. Fader Miller’s gaze, full of speculation, slid to her for a moment before returning to Jesse.
“Jonas will arrive in a few moments.” Maummi Switzer waved toward the field east of the barn, where Jonas could be seen making his way toward them. “Please sit here in the shade. Katie and I will bring a cool drink.” She indicated the chair beside Jesse’s rocker that Katie had vacated a moment before.
“A drink would be most welcome.” Bishop Miller cleared his throat. “Though I would like to speak privately with Katie first.”
Sparse gray eyebrows rose high on Maummi Switzer’s wrinkled forehead. She glanced at Katie before replying, “Ja, of course.”
Fader Miller looked at Katie. “Perhaps a walk in the shade of the apple trees?”
Though he posed the question as an invitation, she knew she had no choice but to accept. Her stomach tensed into knots. What could he want to say privately? Rarely had he spoken to her since Samuel’s death, and then always in the presence of others. Swallowing against a throat tight with nerves, she set her basket on the porch near the door and followed him down the steps. She spared a passing glance at Jesse, whose questions lay heavy on his brow.
The bishop remained silent as he led her to the small stand of apple trees. Blossoms still clung to the branches, though many had fallen in the past week or so. A thin layer of wilted petals covered the ground, and tiny apples no bigger than a pea had begun to appear amid the leafy foliage. The petals swirled around Katie’s feet as she dragged herself after the bishop, and their sweet scent lingered in the air around her.
Once they were inside the grove, he ended his silence. “He is recovered from his wounds, this Englisch man?”
Katie had suspected that Jesse would be the topic of this conversation. “He is recovering,” she answered carefully.
He glanced toward the house. “I see no lingering signs of his injuries.”
“He lost much blood. The doctor said it will take weeks for him to fully regain his strength.”
“Weeks?” He halted and looked down at her from his towering height. “You would stay here for weeks, caring for this Englisch man?”
“Not weeks,” she replied. “One week more, perhaps.”
“Already you have spent a week. Marta Switzer is a capable woman. Why not leave him in her hands?”
“Maummi Switzer’s heart grows weak with age.” She sent a concerned glance backward to the house. “I fear placing an undue burden on her would be harmful.”
“She appeared well a moment ago.” His eyes narrowed. “Tell me, is there more behind your care than concern for an injured man?”
She found herself the object of intense study, and her thoughts turned to yesterday, when her pulse sped up in response to Jesse’s gaze. Her heart began a heavy thudding in her ears. Could the bishop see guilty thoughts on her face? A warm blush threatened to creep upward beneath the high collar of her dress.
“His injuries are extensive, and he is Englisch.” She nearly wilted with relief at the calm, measured tone she had managed to maintain. “What else would I feel but concern for his health?”
His eyes narrowed, and then he gave a tiny nod. He resu
med his slow pace, hands clasped behind his back. “It would be unseemly for my son’s wife to spend more time caring for an Englisch man than for one of our own.”
Thoughts raced in her mind. Was he accusing her of neglecting her Amish friends in order to care for Jesse? If so, it was an unjust complaint. “I am not aware of illness or injuries that need tending among those in our district.” Her reply contained the faintest hint of the insult that rankled inside.
The thin lips tightened. “Sarah Beiler complains of pain in her back.”
“Sarah was here yesterday.” A touch more heat slipped into her voice. “I advised a change in her diet to guard her health and her babe’s.”
“The cut on my Hannah’s hand—”
“Was closed and healing well when I saw her eight days past. Has something changed since then?”
She saw from his expression that it had not. She also saw that he was growing impatient with her, and guilt niggled at the realization. One should not argue with the bishop. To do so was disrespectful to him and to his appointed position of leadership.
But he is wrong!
Shame flared at the sinful thought. Wrong or not, he was the bishop.
He continued his slow pace, though she was aware he watched her closely from the corner of his eye. “Do you know what will occur seventeen days from this one?”
Seventeen days from now? Today was Thursday, so that would be the second Sunday of the month. It would be the week for church, and if she remembered aright, it was her parents’ turn to host the church meeting. Was he giving her until then to return home?
“I will be home to help my family prepare for the meeting,” she promised.
He came to a stop and pierced her with an icy stare. “You do not remember. It is the twentieth of May.”
She closed her eyes. Yes, she had forgotten the date for a moment. May twentieth, the day her Samuel pressed a tender kiss upon her forehead before he went out to plow the far field and never returned.
“You dishonor the memory of my son.”
A Cowboy at Heart Page 11