The Devoted

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Luke hesitated, giving Ruthie a moment to realize he was—there really was no other word for it—a disaster. Normally, he took great pride in his appearance. He was hatless, with greasy hair and bloodshot eyes and a wrinkled white shirt that hung half in, half out of his pants. His gaze lifted to hers.

  “You look terrible.”

  His bleary eyes focused on her undone hair. “You, on the other hand, look gorgeous,” he said, with a flash of his old charming self. “No wonder Saint Patrick is falling in love with you.”

  Ruthie rolled her eyes expressively. “Stop it, Luke.”

  “I can tell these things. I know how guys think.” He thumped his chest. “I am a guy. I see how he looks at you.”

  “You need to leave.” She opened the door for him.

  “What I need to know is what you are feeling about St. Patrick.”

  “What I know is that you need to leave. Now.” She kept the door open.

  They stood next to the grandfather clock in the hallway, a steady ticking in the silent of night. “That sound!” He boxed his ears with his hands. “It’s so loud. Make it stop. It’s making me crazy!”

  Crazier, Ruthie thought to herself. “Hush. Unless you want to wake up my dad.”

  That threat silenced him.

  She had to get him home. “Let’s get you to Eagle Hill.”

  He made a sudden jerking motion with his shoulders, as if throwing off the weight of his thoughts, and he laughed. “No can do. Galen locked me out.”

  Ruthie didn’t blame Galen. He had a short fuse with Luke’s shenanigans. Everyone’s fuse was growing short with Luke. “I have an idea. Follow me.” If you can. She grabbed a shawl off the hallstand, a flashlight from the kitchen, and started down the driveway.

  “I thought I could just stay at your house,” he said in a slurry voice, falling into step beside her, his long strides tipsy and wavery. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman and sleep on the couch.”

  “My father might have a different opinion of that solution.”

  “Ruthie, hold on. Let’s run away. Let’s get married and run away. Tonight.” He stopped abruptly. “I’m dead serious.”

  “Right.” Humor him, keep him walking toward Eagle Hill before he turned mulish again. “And where would we go? What would we live on?”

  Luke started walking again. “I hadn’t gotten that far.” He grinned sheepishly. “That’s why I love you, Ruthie. You’re good with plans. Every couple needs at least one grown-up. Does that make any sense?”

  “Perfect sense,” Ruthie said.

  “Good! Because I might have had a teensy-weeny too much to drink.” He pinched two fingers together as he spoke. “Makes me mix up what goes through my head with what comes out of my mouth.”

  He tripped twice, and started to sing, but she shushed him. She put an arm around his waist as they followed the flashlight beam toward the cottage at Eagle Hill. A soft buttery glow shone through the windows from the Coleman lantern hanging above the kitchen table. Good, Patrick was still up. She tapped tentatively on the door until Patrick opened it, surprised by the sight of the two of them.

  “Saint Patrick, how good of you to join us.” Luke glanced sideways at Ruthie, mocking laughter in his eyes.

  “Patrick, I’m really sorry to bother you, but I need some help.”

  Patrick backed away from the door and held it open so they could come in over the threshold. He quickly closed the door behind them and pointed to Nyna’s empty cage. Ruthie knew he often kept the door open to Nyna’s cage so she could get some exercise. With one firm word from Patrick, she would return to her cage. “I’ll handle it from here, Ruthie,” he said, putting his arm around Luke to steady him. “You can go on home.”

  But Luke was not to be easily corralled. He lunged for Ruthie and caught her by her free arm. “Not without Ruthie!” he said, his voice soaring. “I’m not going anywhere without my Ruthie.”

  Patrick shrugged and looked across Luke’s head toward Ruthie. “Would you mind?”

  Luke glowered at him. He pointed a finger at Patrick’s chest. “Do you not realize she’s my girlfriend?”

  Ruthie rolled her eyes in disgust. “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, she is,” Luke insisted. “She just won’t admit it.”

  “Well, I can’t blame you for wanting Ruthie to be your girl,” Patrick said.

  Tears pinpricked Ruthie’s eyes. She had burst into Patrick’s cottage tonight with a drunken Luke, interrupting his peace, and yet somehow, Patrick’s peace resisted interruptions. Unflappable.

  “She’s devoted to me,” Luke said. “We have history.”

  Patrick had far more tolerance for Luke than Ruthie did—she was ready to stuff a sock into his mouth. “What kind of history?” he asked Luke.

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  Luke plopped down on the couch. “Ruthie doesn’t mind things about me as much as everyone else.”

  She suddenly felt a sweep of fatigue; she didn’t know what kind of convoluted train of thought Luke was on and didn’t care. But Patrick seemed to.

  “What things?” Patrick asked gently. “What things do other people mind?”

  Luke closed his eyes. “Oh, you know. Things.”

  “No, I don’t know. What things?”

  Luke said something in such a soft voice that Ruthie couldn’t catch what it was. She thought he said, “Booze.”

  Then he opened his eyes and spoke again, his voice loud enough for both of them to hear. “She knows it helps me not care. That’s what booze does for me, helps me not care.”

  “Not care about what?” Patrick’s voice was oddly gentle.

  “You don’t know what it’s like to be trapped.”

  “To be trapped?”

  “Yes. Trapped!” Luke rolled his eyes in annoyance. “What is the matter with you? Are you deaf?”

  “No. I’m not deaf.” Patrick remained undisturbed. “I’m just trying to understand. Luke, traps are often of our own making.”

  Ruthie looked at Patrick with new respect, wondering if he knew he spoke wisdom. It flowed out of him so naturally, so much a part of who he was.

  Luke had gone sly again. He stuck a finger in Patrick’s direction. “I just want to be clear about Ruthie. You need to back off.”

  “Got it. Understood. It’s good to have things straight between friends.”

  Luke peered up at Patrick suspiciously. “You think we’re friends?”

  “Yes,” Patrick said, in the same clear, firm voice he’d used for calling his bird. “I am your friend, Luke.”

  Suddenly, Nyna the Mynah swooped down on the couch next to Luke and pulled a silver flask out of his pocket. When Luke realized what she had done, he tried to swat her, but she flew off and into her cage. From there she squawked, “Repent, O sinner!”

  “I hate that bird!” Luke grabbed his flask and held it close with both hands, as if precious to him.

  “Sorry, Luke. She’s attracted to shiny objects.”

  Luke slumped over on the couch and murmured, “So am I.”

  Patrick closed the door to Nyna’s cage as she squawked at him. Ruthie had to suppress a grin. If he thought the grandfather clock ticked too loudly, imagine his raw nerves after a night with Nyna the Mynah squawking “Repent, O sinner!” to him. Squawk away! she wanted to tell Nyna. Whistle! Screech! Caw! Have at it.

  Ruthie and Patrick stood by the door’s threshold in a narrow space. She feared he would hear her heart pounding. “Thanks, Patrick.” There was a lump in her throat. “I just . . . he showed up like that and I didn’t know what to do with him.”

  He had a curious look on his face. “It’s all the way to your hips. Your hair, I mean.”

  Her hand went to her hair and she gathered it together to a side ponytail, letting her hands slip down it like a rope. “I was heading to bed when Luke . . . appeared at my window.”

  Patrick looked over his shoulder to see Luke sprawled out on the sofa. �
��It’s late, you’re a lady, and I’m going to walk you home.”

  Pleasure warmed Ruthie’s heart. She dipped her head to hide her flush of pleasure. “All right,” Ruthie said. “If you insist.” She tried not to sound too happy about it.

  “I do insist.” He turned, a bit unsteady, so that he had to fling out an arm for balance.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Just all thumbs.” Patrick smiled down at her and again she felt that wonderfully disturbing sensation of stillness.

  Andy had asked David to stop by Moss Hill, so as soon as time allowed, he left the store in Jenny Yoder’s capable hands and drove over. Andy met him at the bottom of the hill, getting mail. “Thanks for coming, David. I just wanted you to know that the land agents have asked to explore a possible oil trap on the other side of the hill.”

  David looked up at the steep hill. He could see the two oil pumps, slowly rocking their heads. Slower than he remembered. Much, much slower. “Andy, has production slowed down in those traps?”

  “Yes, but that’s to be expected. The first year is the most productive year, then it drops considerably. That’s why I’d like to look for more oil.”

  “They’ve offered another lease?”

  “Not yet. They want to do some testing, first.”

  David took a deep breath. “I’d like you to hold off on more testing.”

  Andy was stunned. “Why? There’s a better-than-good chance that this hill holds more oil traps. It’s possible that all of Stoney Ridge might have unexplored oil traps.”

  “I’d like to give this more thought.”

  Andy looked like he’d been struck by a lightning bolt. “David, do you realize what you’re saying?” He lifted his hands. “This moss farm . . . it can’t support us. It barely breaks even.”

  Perhaps, but it seemed that Andy and Katrina had spent very little time growing the moss farm business once generous royalty checks from the oil pumps started to arrive on a monthly basis. Just a few years ago, the notion of developing this moss farm filled Katrina with vigor and imagination, giving her a unique purpose. That focus had recentered her entire life on the Lord. David had never looked at moss the same way—to him, it now held secrets of living, of abundance. The right kind of abundance: a dependence on God.

  Clearly, Andy had a different view. He turned left, then right. “David, this land . . . it can’t provide for us.”

  “You’re looking in the wrong direction.” He tipped his head to the sky. “God is the one who provides.”

  Andy was flabbergasted. “God did provide, by putting that oil into the land! If you turn your back on this oil money . . . it’s like walking away from a treasure chest.”

  “Son,” David said, and he did feel like a father to his son-in-law, “I’m trying to protect the treasure.”

  18

  It was a perfect day. Clear blue sky, a steady breeze, and unseasonably cool temperatures after last night’s rain broke the relentless heat wave. Ruthie was hanging sheets on the clothesline when she heard someone call her name. She turned around and saw Mim Schrock standing on the walkway to the house, her hands linked behind her back.

  “Mim!” Ruthie threw the clothespins down on the pile of wet sheets and walked over to her friend. Well, she wouldn’t consider Mim a friend, exactly. The girls were a few years apart in age and Ruthie was always a little uncomfortable around Mim. Partly, Mim was acutely shy; mostly, Ruthie was prejudiced by how she kept Jesse dangling on a thin string of hope. But even if the girls weren’t chummy, they were neighbors. “When did you return?”

  “Two days ago.”

  She thought about asking Mim if she liked Prince Edward Island, but from the way she responded to her question, and the way she twisted her hands nervously in her apron, Ruthie could see this wasn’t a social call. Even on a good day, Mim had a gift for looking as if the sky might fall. She waited for Mim to say what was on her mind.

  “I know your relationship with my brother Luke is none of my business . . . and, well . . . this is a really hard thing to talk about . . .”

  “Just go ahead and say it,” Ruthie said, thinking she was going to say that Luke had a new girlfriend.

  Instead, Mim said, “What I’m wondering is . . .” After a long pause, she began again, “Have you noticed a change in Luke this summer?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like . . . he seems to be acting crazy.”

  “Crazy?” Ruthie said as calmly as she could, switching gears in her mind. “Crazy . . . how do you mean?”

  “Sneaky. Belligerent.”

  “More than usual?”

  “Yes. You haven’t noticed?”

  “No, not really.” Other than when he had been drinking. When he was drunk, he was mean. And crazy. But she wasn’t sure she should say so to his sister.

  Mim looked relieved. “Well,” she said quietly. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Wait. Let’s back up,” Ruthie said slowly. “What do you mean when you say he’s more belligerent than usual?”

  “I know he’s always been susceptible to back-acre parties, but he went out last night and didn’t come back until dawn. And it was obvious he’d been drinking. A lot.”

  Ruthie waited. None of this seemed like new information.

  “Galen and Luke argued this morning. He told Luke that if he doesn’t stop drinking and find a job, he’s going to make him move out when he turns eighteen. Luke stormed out.”

  Still, nothing new.

  “I heard my mother cry. She never cries. Luke doesn’t realize how he affects our family.” Mim looked away. “Or maybe he does.”

  “Mim . . . why are you telling me all this?”

  “Luke can be wonderful. Sweet, thoughtful, funny,” Mim said, clearly evading the question. “You know how much you’ve always meant to him. You’ve been one of the few who can see the potential in him.”

  Ruthie didn’t know how to answer that.

  Mim’s hands curled into a tight ball. “Ruthie, does Luke have any reason to be jealous of you? Is there anyone else in your life?”

  She thought of Patrick, but didn’t answer.

  “He does, doesn’t he?” she said softly. “That’s why you broke up with him. There’s someone else.”

  “No. That’s not why and Luke knows it. I stopped going out with him because he drinks too much. I’ve had enough of it.”

  Mim nodded, as if she understood.

  Just as Ruthie was starting to relax, Mim added, “Maybe he’s just misunderstood the situation.”

  “Misunderstood what situation?”

  “He seems to think that there’s something between you and Patrick Kelly.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We’re just friends.” She bit her lip. “Why? What did Luke say?”

  “It’s not what he said. It’s what he did.”

  “What did he do?”

  Mim wrapped her arms against her side, as if it hurt her to say what she was going to say. “He killed that black bird of Patrick’s and left it on his doorstep.”

  Ruthie gasped. Nyna the Mynah? Patrick loved that silly bird. Loved, loved, loved it. Luke killed his bird. Killed his bird, killed his bird, killed his bird. Those words swirled around in Ruthie’s head. “Has Patrick found out?”

  “Yes. He’s . . . quite upset.”

  “I should go find him.”

  “He left to go bury his bird. I offered to help him, but he said he wanted to be alone.”

  Ruthie was still trying to absorb this information. Luke killed Patrick’s bird? She felt a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach. “How could Luke do such a thing? Why? Why would he do such a thing?”

  “He said he saw the two of you together, taking a walk, and it just made him crazy.”

  Yesterday afternoon. She knew he had seen them leave the cottage. She didn’t even mind so much. Luke had been so hot and cold lately that it didn’t bother her one little bit if seeing them made him a little jealous. She wan
ted him to know she didn’t belong to him. What had that started, though?

  “Patrick said something odd. He said that in ancient Greece, leaving a calling card like that—the dead bird on the doorstep—he said it’s a challenge to a duel.”

  Silence.

  “Does that make any sense to you?”

  Ruthie thought of Socrates, of courage, of knowing when to advance and when to retreat. “Yes, it does.”

  Mim looked like she was going to cry. “Please don’t tell Luke that I’m the one who told you about the bird. Don’t tell anyone about the bird. Patrick asked me not to say anything. I just . . . I felt as if you should know what was going on between them. Just in case . . .”

  “I won’t,” Ruthie said, even though she didn’t owe Mim any promises, especially not over Luke, especially since Mim had broken her brother Jesse’s heart more than a few times. Yet Ruthie would keep the confidence for Patrick’s sake. “Well. Thank you for telling me.”

  “You’re welcome,” Mim said. And then—“I’m so sorry.”

  As she finished hanging wet sheets on the clothesline, Ruthie thought about Mim’s last words: I’m so sorry. There was something about them that was both poignant and telling. She really did sound sorry, although she wasn’t sure if she felt sorry for Luke or herself.

  The one Ruthie felt sorry for was Patrick.

  David was on his way home from the Bent N’ Dent one afternoon when he decided to make a quick stop at the cottage next door. He hadn’t seen Patrick Kelly in the last few days and it concerned him when Ruthie said that the Penn Dutch lessons had been put on hold, plus the buggy driving lessons. What had dampened Patrick’s enthusiasm?

  As he reached a hand to knock on the cottage door, it swung open. “David!” Patrick said, a surprised look on his face. “I was just on my way out.”

  Was it David’s imagination, or did Patrick look extremely fatigued? No . . . no, it wasn’t how he looked, it was how he moved. Slowly, shuffling his feet like an old man. Before he could ask, he noticed the cage in Patrick’s hand. It was empty.

  “Where is Nyna?”