An Amish Winter

by Amy Clipston

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  He shook his head without meeting her gaze. “There’s something in me that needs filling up, I guess.”

  Not for her. That was good. Very good. “Because of your dad and your uncle?”

  “Because of my life.” His gaze leveled with hers. “Who’s the burger for?”

  Frannie glanced down at the plate in her hands. She’d forgotten about it. Grease had begun to congeal on the bun. “Oh, that.”

  Rocky took only one step back, but the gap between them widened to a chasm. “Joseph?”

  As much as she wanted to deny it, she wouldn’t. She could never lie to Rocky. “Yes.”

  “These chickens look a little small.” He took another step back. “I should spell the boys in the auction barn. It might not be a hundred and two, but it’s warm and muggy. They might need a swig of water.”

  “Taking a plate to someone doesn’t mean anything.” Only to her aunt. Even Joseph knew where he stood, and he didn’t seem all that upset about it. “He’s a friend of the family.”

  Rocky’s face twisted with pain. “I love you.”

  He whirled and strode away.

  The words floated in the air around her. She wanted to collect them and hold them close to her heart where she could hear them over and over again in the middle of the night or in broad daylight, morning and afternoon. “Ach, Rocky!”

  He kept walking. Soon he disappeared into the steady stream of folks moving between the auction barn and the food shed and the buggies for sale in front of the Combination Store.

  She closed her eyes. Love you too.

  In her world, love might not be enough. Faith and community also counted. Rocky knew that.

  They both did.

  A chicken squawked and the goats bleated in response. The smell choked her. She glanced at the plate in her hand. The offending hamburger needed to be delivered. She plodded toward the honey table, glad only the animals could see the misery and pain riding piggyback on her shoulders.

  Joseph leaned over the table, sacking an array of jars ranging from honey to wild mustang grape jelly to strawberry jam for an elderly lady leaning on a walker that tilted unsteadily on the uneven ground. He smiled at Frannie and went back to his chore. She set the plate on the table and touched the woman’s arm. “Can I help you carry that?”

  “Thank you, young lady, but my grandson is around here somewhere. He’ll be back any second to help me to the car. Sweet of you, though.”

  Indeed, the young man in overly tight blue jeans and a fluorescent orange T-shirt that matched his orange-and-green sneakers returned just as Joseph handed the lady her change. “Enjoy, ma’am.”

  “I plan to. Deacon here loves strawberry jam on English muffins. Don’t you, Deacon?”

  The teenager’s big ears turned a deep shade of purplish red. She leaned on her walker and tottered away, Deacon’s arm around her bowed shoulders in a surprising—to Frannie, anyway—show of affection.

  “That was sweet of you to offer to help her.” Still smiling, Joseph snapped the plastic lid onto the battered coffee can that served as his cash box. “You do have a sweet disposition under all that sassiness.”

  “Sassiness?”

  “Jah. You give a lot of lip, but I see more to you.”

  None of this was his fault. It was her Aunt Abigail’s fault. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry for what? For being lippy and not the best housekeeper? Don’t be.” He rearranged the jars on the table, from four in a row to five, still smiling. “You may not be the most ordinary Plain woman, but I like you just the way you are. Life with you would be interesting.”

  More likely irritating and annoying in the long run. The shiny would wear off. Most Plain men would wish for a fraa who could make gumbo without burning it and bread that wasn’t hard as a rock. Men like Joseph would want a fraa who knew her place and also knew how to sew a tear in his pants so that it held. “You will find your special friend one of these days.”

  “And you don’t think she’ll be lippy?”

  “I think you know what you like, and you’re too nice to tell my aunt to leave well enough alone.” She slid the plate toward him. “I brought you your favorite pie. Aenti Abigail said you’d rather have a hamburger than meat loaf, but I can always take it back and trade it.”

  “It’s too bad Abigail is already taken. She does make a fine pie.”

  He grinned at her despite the Englisch girl in a pink T-shirt—why did young Englischers wear their clothes a size too small—who flashed a five-dollar bill at him and said her mother wanted to know if she could get two jars of honey with that. The answer was no, but Joseph ignored her for the moment. “Your aenti is only trying to save you from a world of hurt.”

  “You have a customer.”

  He tended to the girl, who seemed happy with her one jar. Whether the mother would be was another question. She traipsed away and he turned back. “Abigail is a wise woman.”

  “Sometimes the heart doesn’t listen to wise words.”

  “For your sake and the sake of your parents, you should try harder.” He plopped onto an overturned bushel basket, unwrapping the hamburger. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone your secret. I can even keep coming around to take you on rides if you want.”

  “That’s okay. You shouldn’t waste your time on the likes of me.”

  “It wasn’t a waste. Abigail is a good cook.” He grinned. “And Rebekah is a firecracker.”

  “She is indeed.” Frannie grinned back. “See you around.”

  “Not if I see you first.”

  As she walked away, the sound of the auctioneer floated from the big shed. “I’ve got two, who’ll give me three, there’s three, how about four, anybody give me four . . .”

  Rocky’s voice, deep and sure and full of delight. Leroy had let him take over.

  Wonders would never cease.

  Frannie could use unceasing wonders about now.

  CHAPTER 9

  Rocky snapped the reins again. Chocolate picked up his pace. Such a good piece of horseflesh. Rocky felt guilty monopolizing Seth’s horse all the time, but the elderly farmer assured him it was no imposition. Seth paid Rocky well, and he squirreled away every penny he could in savings. Even with his nest egg, it would be awhile before he could afford to buy his own horse and some property for settling down. If he was here that long. Gott willing. The soupy gray sky hung so low it felt as if it weighed on his shoulders. He wouldn’t miss the south Texas weather, that was for sure. November in Missouri meant crisp fall weather with leaves turning brilliant oranges, reds, and golds. Frost sparkled on the grass in the mornings. “Downright dreary” described Bee County this time of year. Dreary matched his disposition this morning.

  On the bright side, warmer weather meant winter strawberries could be planted, along with cabbage, broccoli, onions, and English peas. Which gave him an excuse to head to the district to help out. Maybe Mordecai would extend an invitation for Thanksgiving.

  Stop it.

  He hadn’t seen Frannie since the auction. Frannie with her plate for another man. Leroy said Rocky must leave her out of the equation. Regardless. Make a decision based on a desire to live out his faith according to the Bee County district’s Ordnung. Could he do it? Did he want to do it? Did God call him to do it?

  Leroy asked all the hard questions. Rocky turned the buggy onto the farm-to-market road, contemplating his answers. The sun broke through clouds that began to scud across the sky in a chilly breeze that hadn’t been there a few minutes earlier. The sudden brightness blinded him for a second. Chocolate snorted, whinnied, and began to pick up speed. “Whoa, whoa, what’s gotten into you?” He tightened the reins with one hand and pushed down the bill of his cap with the other. If he planned to stay, he really should get a straw hat. More of a visor. Chocolate whinnied again, the sound high and nervous.

  Rocky saw what had the horse worried. A buggy capsized in the ditch just beyond the turnoff that led to
the highway and Beeville. A horse, still tethered to it, bucked and tried to free itself. Mordecai’s Morgan. A vise tightened around Rocky’s chest. Fear choked the flow of blood to his heart. “Come on, Chocolate, let’s go.”

  He gave the horse free rein for several hundred yards and then pulled him in as they approached the overturned buggy. “Easy, easy does it.”

  Don’t let it be Frannie.

  He hopped into the ditch and shot across the muddy terrain, slipping and sliding despite the tread on his work boots. “Hello? Are you okay?”

  A moan greeted the response. The orange SLOW triangle dangled to one side on the rear of the buggy. He squatted and shoved it back. Abigail lay on her back, her right side under the buggy. Mud covered her face. Blood streaked her forehead.

  “There you are. Can you move?”

  “Help me out of here.” Abigail’s voice was soft, but determined. “I’m stuck.”

  “Are you sure you can move? Is anything broken?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He took the hand she held out and gently pulled. She groaned and jerked away. “My wrist. Something’s wrong with my wrist.”

  “Okay, we’ll do this a different way.” Rocky slid his hands under her arms. She stiffened but didn’t protest. “I’m going to lift you out now. If anything hurts, tell me and I’ll stop.”

  Seconds later he had her out from under the buggy. Mud, bits of dead grass, straw, and weeds covered her apron and dress. One of her shoes was missing. Her kapp, normally so perfectly situated, had slipped down her back. Her hair, now tousled and falling from its bun, was a deep blond highlighted with a few strands of silver. He wanted to push the kapp back into its rightful place, but he didn’t dare. “Where does it hurt?”

  “I’m fine. A little headache and some pain in this arm.” She clutched her wrist against her muddied apron. “It’s nothing. I need to get home, that’s all.”

  “Nee, you need a doctor.”

  “No doctor.”

  Finances were tight. If anyone understood that, he did. “Then let me take you up to the Cotters. It’s closer than home. Mrs. Cotter will have first-aid supplies. You can get cleaned up, and we can decide if that will do it, or if you need more medical attention.”

  She touched a finger to her forehead, winced, and drew it away. The sight of the blood seemed to give her the answer she needed. “Home. We have first-aid supplies too.”

  “The Cotters are right down there at the end of the road. It’s much faster. You’re bleeding.”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine.”

  Their gazes locked. She looked away. “Fine. The Cotters.”

  A lifetime of letting men take the lead couldn’t be overcome in a day. Rocky would never take advantage of her upbringing, but in this instance, he felt relief. She needed his help. “Let me help you up.”

  “I can do it.”

  Stubbornness definitely ran in the family.

  Abigail scrambled to her feet, slipping in the mud, then managing to hoist herself upright. Her knees buckled. Rocky caught her before she went down again. “There’s no shame in letting a person help you.”

  “I know. It’s good of you to stop.”

  Something about the emphasis on you puzzled Rocky. Was it because he was an Englisher or because he was Rocky Sanders, the man trying to steal her niece away from her family?

  “Of course I stopped. Who wouldn’t?” He lifted her into his buggy—surprised to find she weighed not much more than a child—and settled her on the seat. “Tuck this blanket around you. You’re shivering. I’ll take a quick look at your horse.”

  Even though her expression could only be described as dubious, she pulled the scratchy, stinky wool blanket up to her chin without a word.

  He took two minutes to unhitch the Morgan and tie him to a nearby tree. It wouldn’t do to have him take off and get hit by a semi on the highway. Adding another expense to the repair of the buggy. If it could be repaired.

  “All set.” He climbed into the buggy and picked up the reins. “What happened?”

  She clutched the blanket tighter. Her teeth chattered. Shock. “A deer ran across the road and spooked Brownie. I couldn’t get him under control.”

  “That would do it.”

  “I should’ve been able to handle it. I don’t know if the buggy can be repaired.”

  And they couldn’t afford to replace it. “It would’ve happened to anyone. Especially when it takes you by surprise like that. Leroy and his boys are excellent at buggy repair. I have no doubt they’ll give it their best shot.”

  “Jah.”

  “What were you up to?” Maybe conversation would take her mind off her predicament. “Going into town?”

  Women didn’t usually go alone.

  “Mordecai had to fix the shed. The wind blew off some of the roof overnight.” She swiped at her face. Her sleeve came back with a trail of blood. The distinct sound of her teeth chattering filled the pause. “He’d promised a box of jams and jellies to Belle Lawson—the one who has the This and That antique store. I told him I was quite capable of taking a box of jellies into town.”

  A hint of tears tinged her attempt at a laugh.

  “It could’ve happened to anyone,” Rocky repeated.

  After that his dogged attempts at small talk were met with monosyllabic responses. She allowed him to help her from the buggy when they arrived at the Cotters’ farmhouse, but she moved away when he attempted to put an arm around her to hold her up on the walk to the front door.

  A book in one hand, Mrs. Cotter answered the doorbell on the second ring. She took one look at the two of them through thick dark-rimmed glasses that made her look like a horned owl and shooed them in.

  “Goodness gracious, whatever happened to you?” She drew Abigail into the living room made cheery by a fire in the fireplace and pretty Tiffany lamps on either side of two recliners that faced the pine bookshelves that filled one entire wall. The room smelled of coffee and mesquite. “Sit, sit. It’s Abigail King, isn’t it? I’m Lorraine. Lorraine Cotter. You probably don’t remember me. I stop by the store for honey and jam all the time now that I’m too lazy to make my own homemade jams.”

  At seventy-five the woman didn’t have a lazy bone in her body, as evidenced by the pristine cleanliness of her house.

  “Jah—yes, I remember you.” Abigail still clutched the blanket, which stank a bit of wet horse, with one hand as she edged toward the fire. The other hand stayed limp at her side. “I’m sorry to barge in like this. Rocky said—”

  “She’s had a buggy accident. I thought we might use your first-aid kit.”

  “Absolutely. Of course.” Mrs. Cotter dragged an oak rocking chair across the thick, evergreen carpet toward the fireplace. “You sit here and we’ll be right back. You need a good cup of coffee to warm you up or would you rather have hot chocolate? I’m a bit partial to hot chocolate, as Richard will tell you.”

  Mrs. Cotter always called him Richard. She said Rocky reminded her too much of an aging action-film star.

  “Don’t trouble yourself. I’m fine.”

  Again with the fine. Rocky shook his head. One stubborn woman. “Have some hot chocolate. You know you want to.”

  “Fine, hot chocolate would be fine.”

  He followed Mrs. Cotter down the long hallway to the kitchen and watched as she bustled about, filling a basket with medical supplies and a warm washcloth. “Are you sure she doesn’t need a doctor?”

  “No, but she wouldn’t let me take her.”

  “No money?”

  “I reckon.”

  “You know what to do?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Part of my recreation training. Sports injuries and such.”

  “Good, skedaddle in there and figure out if it’s something we can deal with. I’ll bring the hot chocolate. After we get her warmed up, we’ll let her fix herself up in the bathroom. She’ll feel better once she gets cleaned up.”

 
He felt better already. “Thanks, Mrs. Cotter, you’re a peach.”

  “I keep telling you, call me Lorraine.”

  He’d like to call her Grandma. He’d never had one of those. His mama’s mother had been gone by the time he was old enough to remember. His father’s mother had never been in the picture, as far as he could tell. “She’s not going to want me to touch her.”

  “I’ll be right behind you with her hot chocolate. I understand their need for propriety, but it’s no different than having a doctor tend to her wounds with a nurse present. Go on.”

  He scooped up the basket of medical supplies and headed to the door.

  “Rocky.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “She’s the aunt of your Frannie?”

  He’d spilled the beans about his reason for coming to south Texas over the very first supper of ham, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, and coconut cream pie what seemed like years earlier. “Yes.”

  “Things have a way of happening for a reason, don’t they?”

  “God caused that deer to run across the road in front of Abigail’s buggy?”

  Mrs. Cotter chuckled and shook a long, bony finger at him. “I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s possible He placed the right person there to help her out when she needed it.”

  Fortified by that thought, Rocky settled the basket on an end table and tugged it closer to Abigail. She’d smoothed her hair. The kapp was exactly where it should be now. She looked almost asleep with her blanket tucked around her and the wood crackling and popping in the fireplace. Shock did that to a person. He hated to bother her. “Abigail?”

  Her eyes opened and she peered up at him. She sat up straighter. “Jah.”

  He pulled up Mr. Cotter’s fancy cushioned footstool and plopped down in front of her. “Can I see your arm, please?”

  She drew back. “It’s fine.”

  “Don’t start with the ‘fine’ again.” His tone was sharper than he intended. “I mean—”

  “It’s okay. I’m being silly.” She extended her right arm and took a sharp breath. “Is it broken?”

  With as tender a touch as he could muster, Rocky pushed up her long gray sleeve and began to probe and bend. She pressed her lips together but didn’t cry out. He smiled at her in what he hoped was his best reassuring manner. “I think it’s just a sprain. No broken bones. What I’m going to do is wrap it in an Ace bandage. If you were anybody else I’d suggest ice, but in this case, you’ll rest it for a couple of days, swallow some ibuprofen, and let the girls take care of business around the house until it heals.”