An Amish Winter

by Amy Clipston

  Nothing.

  She jerked off her apron, wadded it up, and slung it across the room. “Thy will be done?” She spoke the words aloud in the still silence of her room. She’d heard them a million times it seemed, and she still couldn’t understand how a person knew. How did she know?

  Gott?

  Silence. Heart as heavy as a year’s supply of firewood, she trudged across the room to pick up the apron.

  Thy will be done, but please let it include Rocky. Somehow. Some way.

  Some kind of prayer that was. Trying to say, “Lord, have it Your way, but first, Lord, have it my way.”

  Lord, have mercy on my rebellious soul.

  Worn to a frazzle, she combed her hair, replaced her kapp, and slipped on a clean apron.

  Time to set a place for Joseph.

  CHAPTER 7

  The horsey smell mixed with the rank odor of manure should be considered for a man’s cologne. Rocky smiled to himself. Women might not think so, but any cowboy worth his salt would wear it. The rhythm of his strokes across Chocolate’s wide back and flanks was almost as calming to him as it was to the horse. He leaned his head against Chocolate’s long neck for a second and heaved a sigh. Take away everything going on in his life right now, capture the soft evening glow of sunset, a mourning dove cooing in the distance, two calico kittens chasing each other in a rough-and-tumble race across the yard outside the corral, and this moment could be almost perfect.

  Almost.

  The distant clip-clop of horse’s hooves and the squeak-squeak of wheels traversing the rough terrain of the dirt road that led to the Cotters’ homestead forced him to raise his head and squint into the setting sun. A buggy. Too soon to say whose. Chocolate raised his head and nickered.

  “You and me both, sweet thing, you and me both.” Rocky gathered the harness and led the horse toward the fence. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. That there is the bishop, Chocolate. What do you think he wants?”

  To tell Rocky to get out of Dodge and leave a certain young Amish woman in peace? Surely not. Rocky ducked his head. His jeans, so worn they were a pale blue with skin peeking through thick threads at the knees, were dirty. His jacket had bloodstains on it from where he’d cut his hand chopping firewood, and he probably smelled a lot like Chocolate.

  Leroy parked near the gate and descended from the buggy. Once both boots were on the ground, one hand went to his back. He was slow to straighten. “Evening.”

  “Evening.”

  Rocky waited. He’d learned in his dealings with the bishop to let the man do the talking. He got in a lot less trouble that way.

  “Tomorrow is the annual auction.” Leroy wiped his face with a bandanna that might have once been white but now looked a dingy gray. “It’s our annual fund-raiser for the school and our emergency medical fund.”

  Rocky shoved through the gate and latched it behind him. “I might have heard something about that.”

  Leroy propped both arms on the top plank of the wooden fence and leaned against it. “Have you finished your readings?”

  The older man’s shift in topics from the auction to a barely legible translation of the Dordrecht Articles of Faith and its eighteen articles had meaning, but Rocky couldn’t say what it was. “I’m working on it.”

  “Those articles are very important to a Plain man of faith.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t ‘sir’ me.”

  “Yes, sir—Leroy.” Why had the man made this trip out here to repeat a conversation they’d already had? More than once. “I know that.”

  “You talk to your mother lately?”

  Now that was indeed a new topic. “I gave up my phone.”

  “You don’t know how to come to the store and use the community phone?”

  Surely that was a privilege meant only for the members of the district. “Well, yes, I mean, I didn’t know, I didn’t think—”

  “Never underestimate how much a parent misses a child who’s left the nest.” Leroy cleared his throat. His gaze drifted over Rocky’s shoulder. Surely he thought of his own son, whom he refused to see and with whom he would never break bread again. “Mother or father. It’s as God intends when a grown child strikes out on his own—for the most part—but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt a parent’s heart.”

  “Understood.”

  He’d talked to his mother every night from his hotel room on the trip down, regaling her with stories of the people he’d visited within the diners along the way, describing parks where he’d stopped to eat a sack lunch and take a quick snooze. She thought he would pick up Frannie and bring her home. If things didn’t work out, he wouldn’t have to tell her how close he’d come to assuming a Texan citizenship. Texas had been its own country more than once, and some still thought it was or should be.

  Writing letters was a lost art in the English world, but one he had given due diligence since coming to Bee County. His mother deserved to know what was going on with her only son.

  “Tell me something about your mother.”

  Leroy’s abrupt command blew away Rocky’s reverie. “Beg your pardon.”

  “Your mother raised you to be a decent human being, best I can tell.” Leroy stared at Rocky over streaked wire-rimmed glasses that rested halfway down his long nose. “Tell me something about her.”

  Food always came to Rocky’s mind first when he thought of his mother. That and the way she used to put vapor rub on a cloth diaper, warm it on the gas register in the living room, and then pin it around his neck when he had a bad cold. Her hands were always cool on his hot forehead. She always hummed a George Strait song under her breath when she made chicken noodle soup from scratch. “She makes the best fried chicken in the state of Missouri.”

  “And your father? What do you remember about him?”

  “What does this have to do with me joining the church?”

  “You are who you are because of your parents. They taught you what’s right and what’s wrong. They taught you what to value.”

  “My dad mostly taught me what not to do.” Rocky let the rough wood of the fence absorb an anger that never really went away. It bubbled under the surface and reared its ugly head at inopportune times. “He wasn’t a real dad. My Uncle Richard, he was my dad.”

  “The boxer who became a farmer.”

  “Yes.”

  “He raised a good man.”

  Rocky ducked his head, his throat tight at the unexpected, matter-of-fact assessment from a man he’d come to respect. “He used to take me to auctions up in Jamesport. I loved the auctioneers. I used to practice all the way home, in the backyard, at the kitchen table, until my mama finally told me to hush.”

  “Any good at it?”

  “Uncle Richard said I could always become an auctioneer if the NFL thing didn’t work out.”

  Leroy sniffed and straightened. He turned and ambled toward the buggy, his limp more pronounced than it had been earlier. At the buggy he turned. “I reckon I could use some help tomorrow.”

  “Help?”

  “Are you deaf? Jah, help. At the auction. It’s a long day and my legs aren’t what they used to be. Throat gets mighty parched too.”

  A chance to be at one of the most important events in the life of this district and he was invited, by the bishop, no less. Rocky squashed the urge to pump his fist and whoop. As an added and particularly sweet bonus, Frannie would be there. “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  “No bells needed. Show up before dawn.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Don’t be late.”

  “I won’t.”

  Leroy touched the brim of his hat, hauled himself into the buggy, and drove away.

  When his visitor was well down the road, Rocky succumbed. He pumped his fist, did his best Snoopy dance, and whooped until Mrs. Cotter came to the window and looked out, a perturbed expression on her face. Chocolate simply nickered.

  CHAPTER 8

  Englisch folks sure worked up
an appetite at auctions. Still pleased that Aenti Abigail had trusted her with taking money and making change, Frannie recounted the bills in the shoe box. More than two hundred dollars just from the food shack since the beginning of the auction. More money than she’d ever seen in one place. From the number of cars and trucks parked in front of the Combination Store, the crowd would equal or surpass those she remembered from previous years. From her vantage point seated by the tables laden with pans of hamburgers, meat loaf, green beans, potato salad, and coleslaw, along with bread and pie, she couldn’t see much. All the same, the stream of Englischers and the steady singsong sound of the two auctioneers said all went well.

  Her mouth watered as she batted away flies buzzing the table. The women wouldn’t eat until the flow of customers became a trickle and then disappeared. This event, held the first Friday every November, was about raising money for the school, their medical fund, repairs, stocking up for winter, and preparing for emergencies that might occur during the year. Everyone understood that.

  “I’ll have the meat loaf plate.”

  She’d been so sure Rocky would know better than to seek her out here, in front of Aunt Abigail and the other women. She’d been so careful to avoid him since the impromptu basketball game. She’d taken her aenti’s words to heart and accepted a handful of invitations to go riding with Joseph. He asked almost nothing of her, and he’d never brought up the topic of Rocky again. He was a nice man. Smart. Funny. A hard worker. Easy on the eyes, if that counted for anything, which it didn’t. Not much, anyway.

  She counted off his attributes on her fingers at night in bed. She told them to Rebekah in the dark as they both tried to sleep. Rebekah cheered her on every time, and every time Frannie found sleep eluded her for hours.

  She patted damp sweat from her cheeks with a paper napkin. Even in November, she felt warm. Or maybe it was his presence. “Good choice. Five dollars.” She glanced up at Rocky for a split second. Blue shirt, black pants, boots. All he needed was a straw hat and suspenders to look the part. That’s all it was—a part. “It includes your choice of wheat or white bread, apple, cherry, or lemon pie.”

  “White and apple, of course. You should raise your prices. You could get a lot more for good grub like this.” He tugged a worn leather wallet from his back pocket and handed her a crumpled twenty. “Can I take something to Leroy? He must be getting hungry. He’s been up there auctioneering for hours.”

  She fumbled with the box lid. It took her two tries with trembling fingers to count out the three fives for his change. “He’ll eat when it’s over.”

  “You could at least look at me. I’m just trying to help.”

  “If you want to help, take your plate and have a seat at one of the tables.” Aenti Abigail slipped into the space next to Frannie. Her tone was polite, but her expression stern. “What kind of pie would you like?”

  “Apple, but I can’t sit. I have to get back. I’m helping spot the bidders. Leroy invited me to help out when I met with him last night.” Rocky’s tone had a so-there quality to it. He’d met with the bishop. He’d been invited. Would wonders never cease? “I may spell him after a bit as auctioneer. He looks pretty tuckered out.”

  Frannie held out his change, trying to ignore her aunt’s surprised stare. Leroy had invited Rocky. That was a good thing. Besides, a man had to eat. She hadn’t done anything to encourage him. Not one thing. “You know how to call an auction?”

  “Uncle Richard used to take me to the livestock auctions up in Jamesport all the time.” Rocky waved away his change and picked up his plate instead. “I loved going and I used to imitate the auctioneers in our backyard. Uncle Richard said I got to be pretty good.”

  “You forgot your change.”

  “Nee, this is a fund-raiser, isn’t it? Consider it my donation.”

  There he went using a Deutsch word again. Frannie eyed her aunt, whose eyebrows knotted in a fierce line across her forehead. “We appreciate it.”

  Humming a soft tune that sounded like a Christmas hymn, he sauntered away, already picking at the meat loaf with his plastic fork.

  “He is quite the talker, isn’t he?”

  “Jah.” Frannie counted the bills again. And again. Sitting here in the food shack far from the auction had become unbearable for no apparent reason. The first time she met Rocky outside the restaurant had been at a Jamesport school fund-raiser auction. The memory of his smile and the way he asked her if he could call on her sometime—that’s the way he put it—was so sweet it hurt to think of it. “Maybe I should take food to the boys at the water table.”

  “I don’t think so.” Aunt Abigail pursed her lips, her eyes narrowed. “But you could take a plate to Joseph. He’s partial to hamburgers. And lemon meringue pie, it’s his favorite.”

  “There’s nothing between Joseph and me.” And there never would be. Both of them knew it.

  Smiling, her aunt whipped from one end of the table, wrapping a burger with all the trimmings in a paper napkin and placing it on a Styrofoam plate, along with a baked potato steaming in its tinfoil and a thick wedge of pie. “Sometimes you have to work at it a little. Give things time to grow. Get it to him while it’s hot.”

  Frannie sighed. She needed a breath of fresh air. She needed to be someplace else. Anyplace. Skirting folks who stopped in the middle of the road to chat and sip sodas or bottled water covered in condensation, she trudged past the Combination Store intent on her errand. At least Joseph would get a decent meal out of it. He would appreciate that.

  “Where’re you headed?”

  Frannie stumbled. Rocky grabbed her arm. She tugged away. “Are you following me? You’re supposed to be eating your meat loaf.”

  “I lost my appetite after you gave me the cold shoulder. We have to talk.”

  “I know.” Frannie glanced around. A crowd of Englischers pressed them, no one she knew, but that could change any second. “Not here.”

  “I was thinking of buying some chickens. The Cotters don’t have any.” He pointed toward the livestock area. “Maybe you can help me pick them out.”

  Joseph’s plate clutched in her hands, Frannie veered to her right. Her mind said, Nee, nee, nee, but her heart seemed to be in control of her body. She slipped between the sheds to the pens that held chickens, pigs, goats, and sheep. The stench nearly knocked her back a step.

  “Remember the auction in Jamesport?” The smell of manure didn’t seem to bother Rocky. He leaned on a fence post with one elbow and surveyed a mama hen and her chicks.

  “I do.”

  “You looked so cute with your sunburned nose. Your freckles tripled in one day.”

  His teeth had been white against his tan, and his eyes, always so vivid blue, were made even more vibrant by his blue shirt.

  “It was so hot that day, at least a hundred and two.”

  “You drank three cups of lemonade and ate two helpings of homemade ice cream.”

  “You kept track?”

  “I didn’t want to get you in trouble. So I gazed upon you from afar until I realized I wouldn’t get another chance like that to ask you out.”

  She giggled. “From afar?”

  “Yeah, haven’t you ever read a romance? Mr. Shakespeare or something.” His hand came up and his fingers brushed at her cheek. They were so warm. “I keep telling myself to follow the rules, to wait, to be patient, but when I see you, all I can think about is . . .”

  He leaned so close she caught a whiff of peppermint on his breath. She found herself stretching on her tiptoes to meet him. “Think about what?”

  He pulled back. She felt as if she’d been dropped into a deep well of cold water. “Rocky!”

  His face flushed, he straightened. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “I feel the same way.” The words came out in a stammer. “I’m trying so hard to do the right thing.”

  “But sometimes it’s hard to know what the right thing is.”

  “Exactly.”

  Rocky returned to the f
ence post, his hands gripping the wood as if determined to stay put. “Remember the sewing machine?”

  “The Singer treadle?” It was a nice machine. They had one just like it in their front room. Most Plain folks did. “Of course I do.”

  “My mom embroidered a tablecloth and draped it on top.” He shook his head, his expression sheepish. “She set her begonias on it. Looks very pretty.”

  Frannie chuckled. “Not much of a sewer, I guess.”

  “Nope. She likes the way it looks in her living room, but if she wants to fix a hem or something, she drags out her Sears electric and lets it rip.”

  The chuckle they shared had a homey feeling, as if they’d known each other years and years.

  “My parents bought a used wringer wash machine.” Frannie rubbed her hands across the slats of the fence, the wood rough under her fingers. “Can you ever imagine them filling it with dirt and planting begonias in it?”

  “Or using the canning jars you bought for them as planters?” Rocky shook his head. “They’re practical people who live in a practical world.”

  “Our worlds are different.” For one thing, her parents couldn’t afford to buy something for looks. “Besides, when you work the land, you have a lot of dirty clothes.”

  His sigh had a strange, sad echo in it. “That doesn’t mean never the two shall meet.”

  “You are in a funny mood today.”

  “Very literary.”

  His college education sometimes bled through, making Frannie feel worlds apart. As if she didn’t already. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “I know. Do you understand why I’m meeting with Leroy?”

  “To talk to him about . . . being Amish.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He says it’s a very big change, not one most Englischers can make. They try, but they fail.”

  “What do you say?”

  “I’m not big on failing or losing. I’m not doing this because I want a simpler way of living. I don’t have any illusions about how hard your life is.”