The Patch of Heaven Collection

by Kelly Long

  Luke King threw another fork of the pungent fresh hay into the stacked feeder. He relished the feel of his muscles at work, the scent of horse and hay and manure. He loved growing things, taking care of the land, tending the stock.

  Farming let a man know where he stood.

  The squeak of the barn door behind him caused him to jump. He thought he was alone.

  Instead, here was that girl. The odd one from the wedding, who hid in the bushes. He dropped the pitchfork and squinted at her.

  “What do you want?” he asked, the words coming out rougher than he meant.

  “You,” she said.

  He blinked, then swiped his dirty hands on his loose white shirt. “Are you addled from the heat?”

  She burst into merry laughter. “Nee. I mean what I say. I’m nineteen and looking for a man to love. From what I’ve gathered about you, I think you might fit the bill of sale.”

  He stared at her. Every other Amisch girl who’d gotten within ten yards of him had been demure, pleasant, and as distant as the munn. She took a step closer and he stepped back. She laughed again.

  “Skittish, are you? Well, no matter. It’s actually rather endearing.”

  “Look, Miss . . .”

  “Violet,” she prompted.

  “Violet. Whatever. I am sweaty and dirty and look like a healthy farmer should. If I fit any bill of sale, it would be for a hired man.” He lifted the pitchfork and held it in front of him. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss—er, Violet, I’ve got work that needs doing.”

  She watched him with a calm, impassive gaze for a moment, then she nodded. “My intentions are clear, Luke King. I suggest you prepare for the onslaught.” And then she spun on her heel and vanished into the slant of sunlight coming through the barn door.

  Seth didn’t move when he heard the kitchen door creak. He knew Jacob’s footsteps. He stayed on his knees, feeling as if he’d run two miles and back. He shook his head.

  “What’s wrong?” Jacob said. “Where’s Grace?”

  Jacob put a hand on Seth’s bare shoulder. Seth tried to hang on to the warmth of his brother’s touch, but he felt lost, bereft for Grace’s sake. And, he admitted to himself, for his own sake as well.

  “Jacob, I think she’s broken. Like a broken doll. I told you there were problems, but I didn’t know how far—” He drew a sobbing breath, clutching the kapp, and looked up at his brother.

  Jacob dropped to the floor in front of him. “Was en de welt is going on?”

  “Her hair. I think he cut her hair.”

  “Who?”

  “Silas Beiler. It was all hacked off, just starting to grow back, like—” He felt himself shiver despite the warmth of the summer day.

  “Put your shirt on and get up. Where is she?”

  “Upstairs.”

  Jacob got to his feet and handed Seth the white shirt. He slipped it over his head, then took Jacob’s outstretched hand and pulled himself up.

  “Go talk to her,” Jacob said.

  “She won’t.”

  “If there’s one thing I know about you, Seth Wyse, it’s that you know how to get a woman talking. Now, go on.”

  “I’ve got to mix some baking soda paste first.” He started to rummage around in the cupboards.

  “What for?”

  “Bee stings.”

  “Of course. Why didn’t I guess?” Jacob shook his head and started for the door. “I’ll go see to the horses.”

  Grace stared at the painting, mesmerized. It was a mountaintop scene that looked out onto a river valley. At the top of the mountain, facing away, stood a petite Amish woman and a small black-haired boy. The strength of the woman in the painting seemed to rival the mountains themselves.

  Grace drew in a deep breath. It was, without a doubt, a portrayal of Abel and herself.

  “It’s not how I’d like to paint you.”

  Grace spun around to face her husband. His suspenders hung about his waist and his shirt was loose. He held a bowl of something white against his lean hip.

  “You’re not to paint me at all. It’s a graven image. You know that.”

  Seth smiled at her. “Guilty as charged.”

  “But why would you risk it? You know that young man from Elk Valley was shunned recently for doing drawings.”

  “I’ve got some baking soda for the stings.”

  “Are you listening?” she cried. “Do you even care?”

  “Jah and jah. But right now I’m concerned with those stings. So will you let me treat them?”

  He set the bowl on top of the dresser and caught her hands in his own. She felt the warmth of his long fingers and did not resist as he eased her hands down. Then he was touching her hair, gently strumming through the strands, massaging her scalp here and there. He bent his broad back to kiss the short pieces, running his mouth close to her ear and then away, as if he was trying to heal her. She trembled at his gentleness, completely unused to such attention.

  “Did he do this to you, Grace?”

  She nodded, feeling a blush of shame heat her cheeks.

  “Why?” The word was a hoarse whisper.

  “He said my hair—my hair was a vanity. He cut it every year.” She reached for the bowl. “Please—the stings. I’ll tend to them myself.”

  He let her go abruptly and moved to the front of the painting. She watched him run his fingers over the damp palette, touching the colors, almost as if she had disappeared. She clutched the bowl and was edging past him when he looked at her.

  He slid two fingers into his pocket and pulled out the squashed kapp. “Don’t forget this.”

  “Danki,” she whispered.

  She glanced down at the kapp, now smudged by the paint from his fingertips. It seemed fitting, as if he were making a statement—branding her as his own, somehow.

  A tightness clutched at her chest. Her breath came in short gasps. Without looking at him, she jerked the kapp onto her head and hurried out of the room.

  Never again would she allow herself to be captured by a man.

  Any man.

  CHAPTER 20

  Seth fooled with the painting for about half an hour, feeling his heart rate slowly settle as he tinkered. He had been turned upside down inside by Grace’s nearness, by the silken feel of her hair. He wiped his hands on a rag and decided it was time to head back to work. Jacob had to be wondering where he was.

  When he went downstairs, he saw Grace through the back kitchen window, splotches of white on her neck and cheek, a proper kapp back in place as she hung up sheets on the line. He decided he didn’t want to press her right now with his presence and headed out the front door instead, only to encounter Abel sitting in the dust at the front of the steps.

  He stooped down next to the boy and watched the intensity with which the child drew something on the ground with a stick. Seth cocked his head, sensing it was better to observe than interrupt. He studied the picture on the ground. It was a basic tree with a heavy branch extending from its side. There was a large protrusion hanging from the branch. In the next drawing, a stick figure waved its arms wildly around its head while stick flowers bent at its feet. Seth saw a drop of moisture hit the ground and realized that Abel was crying.

  “Hey,” he said softly, touching the child’s shoulder. “What is it?”

  Abel shook his head, the tears coming faster now. Seth sensed he was gathering energy to bolt and spoke quickly.

  “Abel, remember when you came to me and Jacob about the bad man? We helped you, right?”

  Abel nodded after a long moment.

  “Then let me help you now. You can tell me anything.” But then again, maybe he couldn’t. Maybe the drawing is the telling.

  Seth studied the outlines more closely, and the figure waving its arms suddenly clicked in his brain. Grace in the garden with the bees. Had the boy seen his mother get hurt?

  “Abel, your mamm is gut. She’s hanging out clothes right now. She got a few stings, but she’s all right. Did you see her?” />
  “I did it!” the child burst out, flinging the stick across the ground and scrambling to his feet. He was off like a shot, and Seth dashed after him. He’d played this game before and was not about to let the boy get out of sight.

  Abel rounded the house and Seth followed. They passed Grace, who looked up in alarm. She started to move toward them, but Seth waved her off. “Hiya! Having some quality bonding time, that’s all!”

  The kid was fast, but Seth’s long legs covered the ground easily—until they entered the cornfield.

  The stalks were high, and Abel left little imprint of his passage. Seth sighed in frustration, then hollered for the boy. There were rattlesnakes in the field as well as the normal corn and black snakes.

  “Abel! Come on, please!” He stood on tiptoe and caught the slightest waver in the silken tops about ten feet ahead and to his left. He plunged into the corn and saw the flash of a small black pant leg. He pressed on and finally caught the child, who squawked and kicked furiously.

  “Don’t run and I’ll let you down.”

  Abel stilled, and Seth lowered him to the ground between the cornstalks.

  “All right. Now, what do you mean, you did it?”

  Abel shifted restlessly and caught hold of a cornstalk. “I had my slingshot and I was by the garden and I saw this big thing hanging down from the tree. I shot at it and it fell down by Mama. But I didn’t see her until too late. It was my fault.”

  The child began to sob. Seth dropped to his knees in front of him, catching him close. He felt the tension in the small body and then the release as he let his weight rest briefly against Seth.

  “It was an accident, Abel.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. You’re very brave to tell me the truth.” Seth thought for a moment, then caught the boy’s small hand. “Listen, Abel, come with me. I want to tell you a story.”

  Grace had to resist the urge to follow her husband when he passed by with Abel, giving her only a brief wave. She was pleased to see Abel’s hand in Seth’s.

  As she went back to pinning clothes to the clothesline, a fly buzzed past. She jumped and swatted, then laughed at herself when she saw it wasn’t a bee. She stretched one of Seth’s broad white shirts on the line and smoothed it with her hands.

  There was a time when marriage to a man like Seth would have been the culmination of all her dreams. He was perfect—well, nearly so, if you didn’t count the painting. Why did she have to second-guess herself all the time? Why couldn’t she just be thankful to der Herr for what He had given her?

  She set another clothespin and took in a sharp breath. Deep inside, she had to admit that she’d struggled on a soul level with God since her marriage to Silas. She couldn’t help feeling as if God had set a trap for her, that the whole thing was either a cruel joke or, at best, a faulty plan. Still, she knew that der Herr had plans not to harm her but to give her hope and a future.

  Was Seth Wyse part of that plan? She couldn’t tell. God’s voice seemed faint and far away.

  “Where is Seth?”

  Jacob’s voice made her jump, and she swatted through the damp clothes to see her brother-in-law.

  “Ach, he took Abel inside a bit ago. I don’t know why. I can go and see.”

  “Nee, never mind. You’re bee-stung. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, danki.”

  “I was thinking maybe you and Abel and Seth could come over for dinner one night?”

  “Uh, jah. We will.”

  “When?”

  Grace hid a smile. Jacob was so blunt, while Seth tended to be cryptic in what he said.

  “Whenever you like.”

  “Tomorrow night, then. Thursday. Bring Violet too, if she wants to come. I’ll tell Lilly.”

  Grace had to laugh. “Don’t you think you should ask Lilly first?”

  Jacob smiled, and for once she could see the similarity between the two brothers. “Lilly’s fine with it. She’s been waiting to ask but wanted to give you time alone too.”

  “Well, then we’ll be glad to come.”

  “Gut. Tell Seth I’m meeting a buyer out at the corral. A woman.”

  “All right,” Grace said. She wondered why Jacob had emphasized that the horse buyer was a woman. Then with a shrug she dropped a last clothespin into the bag and headed off to see what Seth and Abel were doing.

  CHAPTER 21

  Seth opened the door to his old bedroom and art studio. He lifted the painting down and set it on the floor against the wall. Then he put a fresh canvas onto the easel. He turned to Abel.

  “Did you know I like to read, Abel?”

  The boy shrugged, his eyes drifting about the room.

  “I’ve read a lot of stories about very brave men going into battle.”

  “We’re not supposed to fight.”

  “You’re absolutely right. We’re not. But we can learn something from these men. They often prayed to be brave, and then they would paint their faces.”

  Seth knew he had the child’s full attention and curiosity by the way his eyes grew wide.

  “Why paint on their faces?”

  “Some people called it ‘war paint.’” Seth took his palette and mixed a little blue tempera powder with a few drops of the clean water he kept in a jug on the shelf.

  “But war is bad . . .”

  “Suppose we called it something else—not war paint, but bravery paint? A way of showing on the outside the courage you can feel inside. I know you remember bad things from your fater, Abel, but that’s over. You got through it—you’re brave and strong.”

  He dipped a finger in the paint and reached his hand to Abel’s cheek. The boy didn’t flinch when Seth drew a line of blue across his skin.

  “You really think I’m brave?”

  Seth clenched his jaw at the quiver in the child’s voice and marked his other cheek. “Jah, Abel. And you can be brave and tell me anything you want, anything you remember, anytime.”

  “I remember a lot.”

  Seth nodded and laid the palette aside.

  “Nee!” Abel cried suddenly. “You do it too, Seth. You’re brave too.”

  “All right.” Seth stared into the mirror of the child’s eyes and drew the blue lines across his own face.

  “We’re the same now,” Abel said. He ran his fingers back and forth across a fan brush.

  “Jah, the same, sohn.” He said the last word without thinking and felt his eyes well up with tears. But Abel didn’t seem to notice. Seth swallowed hard.

  “Can I paint?” Abel asked.

  “Jah, of course you can.”

  No! He cannot!”

  The words exploded from the depths of Grace’s being. She had been standing outside the doorway, listening, feeling her heart throb at Seth’s tenderness. Painting, however, was not something she could allow.

  But she was also amazed that she had dared to contradict her husband. She knew it was not good for a child to see parents at odds—it was one reason she had been compliant with whatever Silas wished. But there were other reasons too.

  Was it possible that she could argue with Seth and not get hurt?

  Seth bowed his head slightly toward her with a frown, but his words were calm and sure. “Abel, go outside and work at weeding the kitchen garden. Pretty can watch you. And wear your paint proudly. There’s no one to see anyway, so don’t worry about looking funny.”

  “Are you keeping yours on, Seth?”

  “For a little while. Now, obey your mamm. There will be other times to paint.”

  Abel went to his mother. “I’m brave, Mamm. See my face?”

  She touched his dark hair gently. “Very brave, my love.” Abel nodded, and his footsteps echoed on the treads as he went downstairs.

  Grace clutched her hands together, waiting to see what her husband would say to her.

  “In case you’re wondering, it’s only tempera paint. It won’t hurt him, and it washes off.” He pick
ed up a rag and wiped the blue paint off his fingers. “How long were you there?”

  “Long enough to hear what you said to him. I thank you.”

  “There’s no need to be so stiff and formal, Grace. I understand that you don’t want him to paint, but with a kid like Abel—well, painting might give him an outlet for his thoughts and feelings. I caught him drawing in the dirt outside.”

  “That’s different,” she said.

  He smiled grimly and walked to her. “Is it really? It’s art. Primitive, perhaps, but still art.”

  “I don’t understand you—what you want. Why you’re willing to risk offending the community by—”

  He ran his finger across his face and reached out in a flash to swipe her cheek blue.

  “What . . . what are you doing?”

  “Brave, Grace Wyse. You’re very brave, and I admire you.”

  She floundered for a moment and he wet her other cheek, then stepped so close that his legs brushed her skirts. She resisted the urge to step back.

  “That’s right, my brave wife,” he whispered. “No backing away.”

  “I don’t want Abel to paint.”

  “I know.” He bent close enough to whisper the words in her ear, and for just an instant touched his cheek to her own. She couldn’t breathe for a moment. She understood what he was trying to say—that they were together, their bravery, their strength as one.

  But the intensity of the moment overwhelmed her, and she fled from him to their bedroom. She looked at herself hesitantly in the small bureau mirror and then felt the smeared blue paint on her cheek with wonder.

  Silas had always been careful not to mar her face in any way; he worried what others would think, she supposed. But never had he touched her with anything approaching tenderness. Never had she known such intimacy as she had with Seth.

  She dipped a cotton cloth into the washbasin on the dresser and was just about to wipe away the color when something stopped her. Instead she sank onto the bed and began to pray.

  Ach, dear Gott, help me to find some thread of myself to offer to this new husband—this one who would be a fater in truth to Abel. Help me to forget the past, to trust. Bless Seth and help me, help me to indeed be brave and to bring honor to this marriage and family.