Not that you’ll have to worry about Marcus wanting you, Rosalyn tried to reason. He can’t be a day over nineteen and acts even more adolescent sometimes, so to him you’re already impossibly old and—
“Why are you standing in the middle of your room in the dark, Rosalyn?” Loretta asked from the doorway. “Are you not feeling well? I missed you at supper.”
Rosalyn pressed her lips together to keep from blurting out her fears about intimacy. Loretta, who had been open and flirtatious first with Will and then with Drew, couldn’t possibly understand her misgivings.
Loretta slipped her arms around Rosalyn and hugged her. “I suspected that this morning’s gossip about Marcus was getting to you—especially after he made that wisecrack about horses and women,” she murmured.
Rosalyn shrugged helplessly, unsure of what to say. If her sister was reading her so easily, had all the other women in Naomi’s kitchen figured out that she was ferhoodled about Marcus?
“Well, when Marcus said that, he sounded like a lot of guys who think they’re God’s gift to women,” Loretta went on with a shake of her head. “And the fact that he’s been living with English girlfriends has surely warped his perception of what sort of talk is acceptable, and what’s not. At least he had the decency to leave,” she added. “Maybe he embarrassed himself. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.”
“Maybe next time he shoots off his mouth, Nora will wash out his mouth with soap,” Rosalyn put in quietly.
Loretta hugged her hard, laughing. “That would cure him of such inappropriate talk!” she said. “I’ll never forget the time Mamm did that to me for calling old Bishop Ammon a fiddle-fart—even though neither of us knew what a fiddle-fart was.”
Loretta’s giggling was contagious and Rosalyn began to laugh despite her earlier bleak thoughts. As she wiped tears of mirth from her face, she realized again that her worries about Marcus were unfounded. A guy of his age, who’d had so much worldly experience with cars and computers and women, had a rumspringa mind-set that meant he’d never settle down, much less join the Old Order and marry an Amish woman.
“Loretta, I’m so glad you and Drew decided to live here,” Rosalyn confided. “I can’t imagine how lonely I’d be for your company if it were just Dat and me rattling around in this house like two dried peas in a shoebox.”
“Rosalyn, you are nothing like a dried pea!” her sister shot back. “Drew will stand by his offer to provide you a room, come the day we find a place of our own. So don’t go worrying about being stuck with Dat.”
Rosalyn heard the hint of a move in Loretta’s future, but she let it go by. “Jah, Asa has said the same thing.”
“Don’t go thinking you’ll never marry, either,” Loretta insisted, planting a fist on her hip. “God hasn’t found you the right man yet, but He will. Keep the faith, sister.”
Rosalyn’s spirits lifted, even though she didn’t fully believe she would ever marry. “You’ve got a gut point. When all else fails—when we lose everything and everyone precious to us—we still have our faith. Jesus will never forsake us.”
Loretta tweaked Rosalyn’s nose and started for the door. “That’s not what I meant, but you’re smiling again so I’m not going to disagree with your statement about faith. Gut night, Rosalyn. Sleep tight.”
“You, too, Loretta,” she said, even though sleep probably wasn’t what her sister had in mind when she and Drew closed their bedroom door.
And isn’t it nice that they’re so happy together? Rosalyn thought as she pulled her flannel nightgown from the drawer. Maybe she’s right. Maybe God’s hand-picking a husband for me and He hasn’t yet found one who’s as wonderful—and patient and understanding—as I deserve.
It was a good thought to ponder before she went to sleep.
Chapter Ten
Marcus pulled his car into the parking lot of the bank in Morning Star on Friday morning and looked around him with interest. The sidewalks were full of shoppers, a mix of English and Plain. It gave him a sense of hope that this town, only a few miles from Willow Ridge, had a car dealership, a pizza place, a couple of clothing stores—and even a pool hall—because he’d spent his first three weeks in Missouri working way too hard. After opening a bank account, he intended to look around town and maybe drink a few beers away from the prying eyes of his kin. He also hoped to find some girls to date.
He entered the bank with a sense of accomplishment that came from having twenty-eight hundred dollars of regular pay plus another five hundred—his bonus for training all five of Wyatt’s Thoroughbreds to be reliable buggy horses before the deadline they’d set. McKenzie was a strict boss, but he was fair and he’d seemed as pleased to write those checks as Marcus had been to receive them.
Opening a bank account was a big step, which implied that he intended to stick around Willow Ridge for a while. Marcus planned to pocket a chunk of cash as his reward for working hard and behaving as a responsible adult—
Well, except for shooting off your mouth in Nora’s store.
“How may I help you this morning, sir?”
The sight of an attractive young woman smiling at him from her teller station seemed like a good omen—even if he noticed a diamond on her left hand. “I, um, would like to open an account—for checking and savings,” he said as he approached her.
“If you’ll have a seat over there,” she said, gesturing at the sleek wooden desk behind him, “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
Marcus noticed a coffeemaker and a tray of chocolate chip cookies on a credenza near the entry. As he helped himself to breakfast, a gust of wintry wind came through the door along with a middle-aged man whose broad-brimmed black hat and austere black coat—and a dark beard with hints of silver—announced that he was Amish. The man strode toward the teller windows as though he had urgent—or secretive—business to conduct.
“How can I help you this morning, Mr. Riehl?” the other teller asked him.
Marcus blinked. Mr. Riehl? Could this be the Cornelius Riehl Luke and Ben had been discussing at Thanksgiving? The fact that he was carrying a thick leather briefcase seemed intriguing. As he took his seat at the desk, Marcus reminded himself not to let his imagination run amok. But the man bore a definite resemblance to Rosalyn, especially around his brown eyes and in the shape of his face, so he probably was her father—
“Got a deposit—for my business account,” Cornelius replied as he unfastened the briefcase.
Marcus sipped his coffee, trying not to be too obvious about observing Riehl’s transaction. He jammed a second cookie into his mouth, suddenly very hungry for the walnut chunks and gooey chocolate chips.
His teller sat down on the other side of the desk. “My name’s Carolyn, and I’m happy to be helping you set up your accounts, Mister—?”
“Marcus Hooley,” he replied. He noticed how Riehl turned slightly to stare at him, as though he recognized his name.
“I’ll need your driver’s license or another form of photo ID, please,” Carolyn said as she opened a document on her computer. “Won’t take me but a few minutes to get this information filled in.”
“Yeah, sure.” As he took his wallet from his back pocket, Marcus wondered what sort of photo ID Cornelius had provided, as most Amish men of his age strenuously objected to having their pictures taken. “And here are the checks I want to deposit to open my accounts. I’d like to set up online access, too,” he added. Wyatt had suggested online payments as a nearly painless way to begin repaying his credit card debt—and Marcus liked the sound of the painless part.
“I’ll do that for you, yes. You’ll be receiving an ATM card, too.” Carolyn smiled at him as she took the checks and his license. While her fingers tapped the keyboard, Marcus glanced toward Cornelius again. Were his eyes fooling him, or had Rosalyn’s father just placed three bundles of bills on the counter? Why would a clockmaker be handing over money in paper wrappers instead of checks or loose cash?
“Is this your current address, Marcus?”
The teller’s question drew him away from his spying. He focused on Carolyn, answering her questions and explaining about how his new job had brought him to Missouri. He wasn’t sure why, but he spoke just loudly enough that Cornelius could hear him, if he cared to listen—
Not that you intend to have anything to do with his daughter Rosalyn, he assured himself. But if Cornelius is up to something—as Ben and Luke seem to think he is—maybe he’ll realize I’ve been a witness to some of it.
As Carolyn continued typing, Marcus couldn’t let this opportunity pass him by. He smiled, extending his hand as he approached the teller station. “Say, are you the Riehl who runs the clock shop in Willow Ridge?” he asked breezily. “I’m Marcus Hooley, your new neighbor at—”
“What if I am?” Cornelius snapped. “That’s really none of your concern, is it?”
Marcus blinked. Riehl’s glare and tone of voice were intended to shut him up—to cut him down to size—yet before Cornelius turned his attention back to the teller who was helping him, Marcus noticed a nervous paleness around his eyes. For a brief moment, Cornelius looked like a trapped animal.
You shouldn’t have pushed his buttons, Marcus chided himself as he returned to his chair. He’s the kind of guy who’ll take out his frustrations on his family . . . on Rosalyn.
Marcus wasn’t surprised that Rosalyn’s father strode out the door a few moments later without making further eye contact with him. When Carolyn had completed the paperwork for his account and he’d signed on all the lines, he left the bank with a couple hundred dollars in his wallet. He felt very responsible, having money in the bank for the first time—not to mention a glimmer of hope that he could pay down the credit card debt he’d accumulated over the past couple of years.
When Marcus stepped outside, the aroma of pizza overwhelmed him. Thoughts of wolfing down a pizza with a pitcher of beer lured him toward the pizza place a few doors down from the bank, yet his steps slowed on the sidewalk. He became sadly aware that he’d left his drinking buddies behind, and that a pizza fresh from the oven tasted even better with friends.
He entered the restaurant anyway, and ordered a house-special pizza with five kinds of meat to take home with him. While he waited for it, Marcus sipped a cola—because the restaurant was a family-oriented place that didn’t serve alcohol—and let his thoughts wander. Rosalyn’s face popped into his mind and he imagined her sitting across the table from him, smiling shyly as she shared his pizza and his company.
That’ll never happen, the voice in Marcus’s mind mocked him. She’s not your type—and you’re not the sort of fellow she’d be seen with, either.
Marcus frowned. It had never occurred to him that a young woman might not enjoy his company or that her standards might exclude him.
It’s a religious difference, not a personality conflict, he reassured himself as he finished his drink. Rosalyn’s been raised by a strict father—and Deacon Cornelius would no doubt warn her away from you because you’re a threat to her reputation. Too dangerous.
Marcus laughed so loudly that the folks at the next table looked over at him. Maybe he should cultivate a relationship with Rosalyn just to irritate her old man, and to prove he could entice her to set aside her straitlaced Old Order rigidity.
The thought made him pause. When he saw Rosalyn’s face in his mind again, Marcus sensed her feelings would be deeply hurt if he befriended her for either of those reasons—and when had he ever worried about such a thing?
Wouldn’t it be nice to see her smile—to hear her laugh? She’s probably every bit as lonely as you are.
Marcus quickly tipped his glass and began crunching ice between his teeth—anything to dispel the notion that he’d lost his touch when it came to attracting female companionship. He’d thought about asking Savilla for a date—and it would be a real coup if Rebecca would go out with him—yet winning Rosalyn’s affection seemed like the ultimate challenge . . . a way to pass the gray winter days and boring nights that stretched ahead of him.
That’s the ticket. You’d be doing Rosalyn a favor, getting her out from under her father’s thumb once in a while.
“House special ready for Hooley!” the man behind the counter called out.
Marcus paid his tab, his good mood restored. With a hot pizza box in his hand, he headed back to his bare-bones apartment to spend Friday afternoon planning his conquest of Rosalyn Riehl.
* * *
At their noon meal, Rosalyn couldn’t miss Dat’s scowl or the way he plowed through his hamburger and hash brown casserole so fast that he couldn’t possibly taste it. As she and Loretta exchanged a quiet sigh, she was glad Mamm’s empty place acted as a buffer between her and their moody father, and she was grateful that Drew sat across the table from them. She couldn’t imagine how unpleasant her life would be had the newlyweds left her to deal with Dat alone.
When Dat tossed his fork onto his empty plate, its clatter rang in the kitchen. “This morning I saw that infernal horse trainer McKenzie hired—and I want you girls to steer clear of him!” he added as his eyebrows rose ominously. “The Hooley family is taking over this whole town, and this one’s the worst of the lot.”
Rosalyn wondered what had led to Dat’s vehement statement. He’d left for a while this morning without mentioning where he’d gone—but he’d apparently run across Marcus.
“What don’t you like about Marcus?” Drew asked as he took a second helping of casserole. “When Wyatt came into the shop yesterday, he had nothing but gut things to say about his new employee.”
“Such as?” Dat fired back.
Drew took his time squirting ketchup on his casserole. “Well, Marcus may be full of swagger, but he’s made gut on all his claims about being a fine horse trainer,” he replied calmly. “Not only has he retrained five retired Thoroughbreds to be excellent buggy horses—which have already sold for top dollar—but he’s also taught Wyatt to drive a rig—”
“Jah, Hooley thinks he’s somebody, all right,” Dat groused. “McKenzie must be paying him too much, the way he was flashing his checks while the bank clerk was opening an account for him.”
Rosalyn pondered this information, focusing on her food so Dat wouldn’t suspect her interest in their topic of conversation. She felt a new respect for Marcus because he was putting money in the bank—and she was glad Drew was defending him, because Dat would be on her like a duck on a bug if she spoke up in Marcus’s behalf.
“Hooley needs to mind his own business, too,” Dat continued in a rising voice. “The way I hear it, he should be repaying his own considerable debts instead of—well, never mind.”
Loretta cleared her throat. “Instead of what, Dat?” she asked. “From what I’ve seen, Marcus’s behavior has improved a great deal since he first came to town.”
“Just get dessert on the table,” Dat snapped. “I’m telling you girls again to stay away from him. He’s bad news. A corrupting influence, what with jumping the fence and living in sin before he came here.”
Her father’s diatribe gave Rosalyn a lot to speculate about as she scraped their plates. Why had Dat been at the bank this morning? And what had Marcus done to inspire her father’s tirade against him?
After they’d eaten their cherry cobbler, Dat stomped downstairs to his shop and Drew returned to Detweiler Furniture Works across the road, leaving the kitchen peaceful again. As Rosalyn washed the dishes while her sister dried them, they talked quietly so their father wouldn’t overhear them.
“What do you suppose Marcus did that got Dat so riled up?” Loretta asked. “You’d think that as a deacon, he’d be commending Marcus for banking his paychecks.”
“Jah, from what we saw of Marcus a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have expected him to be acting so responsibly,” Rosalyn remarked under her breath. She frowned as a new idea occurred to her. “Did you know Dat had a bank account? He used to tell Mamm that he would keep track of his money rather than trust an English bank with it.”
Lore
tta’s eyes widened. “You’re right. I never knew him to set foot in the bank in Roseville,” she said. “Maybe that’s why he clammed up and demanded dessert when I asked what Marcus had done to upset him.”
“Maybe he has to have an account to order his clock parts through the mail,” Rosalyn said with a shrug. She peered through the window, which was fogged from the steam coming off the dishwater. “Looks like we’re in for some more snow, so I’m going out to cut some greenery and gather more pinecones for my wreaths. It gets dark so early, I don’t want to wait until after supper.”
“I’ll bake some bread with those overripe bananas in the fruit bowl, and stir up some dough for cinnamon rolls,” Loretta said. “It feels drafty in here, so it’s a gut day to run the oven.”
Rosalyn pulled the plug from the sink drain. Dat had instructed them not to touch the thermostat, to conserve the propane in the big tank outside. They weren’t to burn any more wood than necessary in the upstairs fireplace, either, so the house was cold even on days when the wind wasn’t blowing. As she slipped into her old barn coat and high boots, she wondered again why they seemed to be falling so short of money this winter. Dat was spending every spare moment in his shop, so why wasn’t his clock income covering their expenses anymore?
When she stepped outside, Rosalyn held her face up to catch the tiny white flakes that were falling. She fetched the high-sided pull cart and a small handsaw from the shed. Rosalyn crossed the road, over to her brothers-in-law’s property, where a windbreak of evergreen trees would provide the materials she needed. Several of the neighbors had told her she was welcome to trim greenery from their pine and spruce trees—said she’d be doing them a favor if she picked up the pinecones and little seed balls from the sweet gum trees. The wind was blowing harder, however, so staying close to home seemed like the best idea.
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