And she was afraid.
Afraid she wouldn't see him again. Afraid she'd been given a second chance at life, only to have it continue as it had. "How can I repay you?"
Jakob managed a lopsided grin. Pulling a kerchief from his rear pocket, he swiped ineffectually at his face. "How about a pie for my pa next time we're through?"
Hope kindled within her. She lifted her hand for the kerchief. He followed her to the trough near the street's edge, and, after soaking the red cloth, she wrung the water out on the grass and held it toward him. "Allow me, please?"
The moment stretched between them, the sunny day evaporating into a hushed blur. There was no sound except the thumping of her heart in her ears; no sight but that of his merry blue eyes gauging her; no feelings but those of wonder that he didn't take the kerchief, then dismay at the realization that he was daring her to touch the cloth to his face. She imagined doing so, and her breath stuck in her chest. She pictured wiping the cool cloth over the heated skin of his lean cheeks, the curve of his brow, across his shapely lips....
He was looking at her as though he wanted her to—
The freckled girl returned with water, interrupting their silent reverie. The tall Outsider took the mug and drank thirstily, his Adam's apple bobbing in his tanned throat. Lydia had never seen such an enchanting sight.
He handed her the empty mug, accepted the damp kerchief and ran it across his face and throat. Lydia regretted not having had the courage to enjoy the task herself.
"Shame about your bakery," he said, squinting at the smoke.
"In His mercy God spared us," she replied. "Wood and food can be replaced."
He nodded his agreement.
A springboard loaded with seed bags and supplies pulled alongside. A large, well-fed pair of horses, their maize-colored coats lustrous from many brushings, bobbed their heads.
"Wie bald Ruckkehr Sie?" Lydia said softly before he could move away. Jakob looked at her without comprehension. "Your return will be soon?" she translated.
"I'll be back soon," he replied. He leapt up onto the wooden seat beside his father and touched the brim of his hat politely. The horses pulled them away.
Lydia had always believed that those of the outside world were self-indulgent, proud, haughty, concerned only with their own profit. But there was nothing self-seeking about the Neubauer son who had risked his life to rescue her from a certain death. Outsiders were vain and untrustworthy hypocrites—weren't they?
Was Jakob the exception? Or was he the rule? It would be unfair to condemn Outsiders without firsthand knowledge. Her comfortable cloak of assumptions had holes the size of Pennsylvania shot through it.
She turned and watched her father direct the cleanup. Hatless and dressed in shirtsleeves, he looked odd without proper attire. His voice rose authoritatively.
According to her father, it was sinful to waste time on inconsequential matters. Most of the time she disciplined herself to say and think and feel all the proper things.
But Jakob Neubauer was not inconsequential—not to her. Through him, God had given her a new life. She didn't believe in coincidence. She must make the most of this blessing, and not allow the opportunity to crumble into ashes, like the inside of the bakery.
He would be back.
Chapter 2
A sky blue parasol shading her, Emily let her gaze drift from the acres of monotonous fields raked into windrows to her husband's broad back. Perched on the wagon seat above her, he swayed with the motion of the springboard. Would Anton have risked his life for her like Jakob had for the Rappite girl? She should know something like that. She often recognized his disappointment in her. In their marriage. She wished she knew how to fix it.
Growing up in Savannah Stockwell's establishment in Pittsburgh, Emily knew what it was like to be different. To be unaccepted. As a child, Emily had never comprehended exactly what her mother did that incited the respectable women of the city to peer down their noses and hold their skirts aside as she passed. Emily only understood she was different.
As an adult, she'd come to know her mother's vocation: whore. Emily had vowed to do whatever it took to get herself far from that place, to live a life completely different. And she had.
Nobody here knew about her mother or where Emily had been raised. She'd fabricated a convincing story of a well-to do, doting father who had been unjustly accused of embezzling funds from the bank of which he was vice president and was now imprisoned. The tale included a mother so humiliated that she'd been placed in a hospital.
Poor Emily, devastated herself, had needed to get away from the city and its ever-present reminders. That was when she'd seen the ad in the Pittsburgh Gazette. Envisioning the marital offer as her ticket out of the city she so desperately wanted to escape, Emily had written immediately.
Two weeks and two letters later, she'd boarded a train bound for Butler as Mrs. Anton Neubauer. Anton was good-looking, clean and nice. Most importantly, he'd married her and made her respectable. After a one-night honeymoon on the rails, Anton had taken her home.
But she'd never quite fit in with his family.
Jakob's hoarse cough dragged her attention back to the present. Johann pounded him on the back. "Y'all right?"
The wagon lurched in and out of a rut, and her husband turned to check the load, meeting her eyes. His were a darker blue than Jakob's. Anton didn't smile as often as his brother, and his laugh was more reserved.
Confusion and insecurity haunted her days and nights. She'd never had an example of husbands and wives. She didn't know the last thing about family or interaction with others. She wanted Anton to love her. She needed him to love her. But she didn't want to appear needy—or worse. A mail-order bride was nearly the same as a whore. Whores received cash; she'd collected a place to live and a mask of esteem.
Anton stopped the wagon to adjust a stack of seed bags. He leaned over the side to caress Nikolaus's hair affectionately. Emily imagined him touching her with such obvious tenderness. Anton's gaze, deep-set and unfathomable, met hers.
He was probably a good husband. He didn't know yet how much he needed her though. There was a way to make him see, and she'd find it. Just as she'd found a way out of Pittsburgh.
"It pleases me you are allowed to work outside the kitchens, Lydia. You must feel as stifled as I did all those years," Rose Beker said.
Since the fire, Lydia secretly enjoyed the opportunity to work in the gardens and nursery with her brother Nathan, who was scarcely a year younger than she. "Grandmother, it's not our lot to wish for pleasures and desirable positions. Father says we must be of one mind and one accord." She stopped and perused her grandmother's beloved face. "I'm not certain what I think and feel anymore."
Wizened eyes flashed a smile. "Your grandfather used to say young people's sap flows in the spring. I recognize that in you."
Lydia cleared their lunch dishes. She dared to share her thoughts only with her grandmother. She could fool everyone else, and once in a while herself, but she never fooled Rose Beker. "I shouldn't have said what I did."
"Nonsense." The old woman patted the air in a silencing gesture. "Things were different when your grandfather was alive."
Lydia nodded. Her grandparents had been among the original settlers of Accord when the town's founder, "Father" George Rapp, relocated twenty years before. Matthaus had become discouraged by the harsh self-denial Rapp taught, unconvinced that celibacy was the only road to heaven. "I know you miss him."
Her grandmother shook her head sadly. "When we moved here from New Harmony, we had plenty of lean years. With all you have, Lydia, you can't imagine. Endless days of work, meager meals..."
Lydia detected a note of wistfulness in her grandmother's voice.
"I was twenty," Rose continued. "Same age as you."
"Sometimes I wonder how you left your family and everything familiar to come here."
"Walk me to my room for my nap and sit."
In the bedroom, the elderly woman l
ay on her narrow cot. Bending, Lydia pressed her cheek against her grandmother's soft, dry one, and experienced a familiar pang of guilt. Such displays of affection brought harsh reprimands. How could something so natural, something that felt so good, be so sinful? Grandmother was her precious friend. Her only friend.
Grandmother gave her the only acceptance and love she'd ever known. In the past several years, Lydia had realized how lonely and deprived her life was. She entertained thoughts that were out of place in her world. It had been her burden to bear to see herself as inconsistent with the mold she'd been made from.
She was missing out on so much! She read every book she could find, and stayed abreast of current local and national events. Vater Beker encouraged awareness, but not participation. Longings such as hers were strictly prohibited.
A child, perhaps a home of her own, would help fill the distressing void, but she dreaded marrying a cousin or a young colonist. In Accord, no one was special. Shouldn't a husband be special? Shouldn't children be special?
Of late, her father had been pushing her to promise herself to a colonist. She must marry soon or move to the singles dormitory. She was well past school age, and it was unacceptable for her to continue living with her parents.
"I must go. I have flour to blend this afternoon." Smoothing Rose's quilt, Lydia enjoyed the familiar feel of the stitches. One day this wedding quilt would belong to her. Not long after, she'd hold a baby of her own. As always, the dream comforted her.
Jakob pushed his hat to the back of his head and squinted. Behind him, acre after acre of hayfield lay plowed in geometric windrows. He was pleased with his morning's accomplishment. As always, he experienced a deep satisfaction from his work with the land. Land that his father and grandfather had worked. Land that would one day be worked by his sons.
Off to his left, a parade of Holsteins plodded through the morning mist from barn to pasture. From the sloping hill east of the barn, he watched his calico-wrapped sister-in-law, Franz's wife. With sheer grace, Annette raised one arm and pulled the perfectly balanced sweep, letting a bucket down into the cool depths of the well.
A wife of his own would do the same chores, would hold dinner for him while he washed at the pump. He conjured up the picture often. Often enough to stir his blood. Since the fire, the vision had a face—tranquil and fine-boned, with ivory skin—and a name.
Lydia.
He remembered the lingering feel of her clasped against his body as he'd run through the smoke and licking flames. Delicate. Desirable. Strange—he couldn't recall the heat or the choking, blinding smoke as vividly as Lydia Beker's softness and her gentle, womanly scent.
He'd chastised himself at least twenty times a day. He should have stopped her and sent her out the front door before running into the kitchen. He hadn't imagined a fire could spread that quickly. He was quick enough—he could have grabbed her and pushed her behind him, but he'd followed her instead.
She was right. God had been merciful. He was a first-class fool, but he felt something for the young woman. He had felt something since he first laid eyes on her. She was different, unlike any girl he'd ever known.
Even in drab gray, with her hair bound and barely restrained under her white cap, she was lovely. Her wholesome candor added to Jakob's attraction. A full unpainted mouth complemented her fine-featured face, with its high cheekbones and somber expression.
He smiled in self-derision. He'd first seen her several weeks ago, when he and his father had happened into the bakery. Though he'd tried to catch her attention, she'd never looked his way.
The day she appeared at their table, his heart had bobbed into his throat. She'd looked at him as though he fascinated and frightened her at the same time. He'd eat pie until it came out his ears if she served each slice with the same look in those guileless dark eyes. "Pa?"
Johann didn't glance up from where he crouched, changing the feed on the manure spreader. "Yup."
"I've been thinking."
"Figured."
"About the woman in Accord."
"Mm-hmm..." Johann straightened and brushed his palms on his dungarees. "Purty thing."
"What if I do court her?"
His father squinted at Annette, who was pouring water down a row of the vegetable garden. "She's a lot different from us."
"That's part of it." Annette wasn't vain, but he'd seen enough of Emily's primping and fussing to know he didn't want a woman more concerned with her hair and her lip rouge than she was with him. While Annette did the work of two women, Emily usually stood around watching every time a meal was prepared. He wanted a wife who could carry her share of the work load. He wanted a wife to share farm life—the days, the evenings... and the nights. He wanted a home of his own. A family.
"She's so pretty," Jakob commented wistfully. "And the way she looks at me and listens when I say somethin'..."
"Like Sylvie did?"
Jakob jerked his gaze to his father in surprise. He hadn't thought of Sylvie for—well, for a long time. Sylvie. Her name didn't hurt anymore. Not the way it had at first. "Does Lydia remind you of Sylvie?"
"You trying to replace Sylvie?" his father asked.
Sylvie had been different, too. Painfully shy and self-conscious. A childhood stutter had prevented her from making friends. Jakob had drawn her out, encouraged her to join in activities and dared anyone to think less of her.
Jakob shook his head. It was pointless to wonder if she'd still be alive had he not coaxed quite so much. But Lydia was no Sylvie. "No."
"Her pa might not take to you sniffin' around his daughter," Johann went on.
"I figured I could go to some of their meetings. Get them used to the idea of seeing me."
"Thought it all out, have ya?"
"Pretty much."
"You're sure?"
"No, but I'm willing to give it a whirl."
The wind that had carried the stench of manure away from them changed, and Johann pulled his kerchief up over his nose. "Then good luck, son."
"Lydia! Come quickly!" Christine Beker exclaimed, with an eagerness Lydia seldom heard in her voice. "The Neubauers!"
He was here! Even sooner than she'd expected!
In the bakefront, her mother smiled. "Take our guests pie." The older woman hurried toward the new storeroom. "Pack one for them to take home I will."
Fingers trembling, Lydia sliced apple pie and carried it to Jakob and his father. Johann thanked her. Jakob studied her.
Self-consciously she tucked stray tendrils of hair under her cap. She must look a fright! She touched the back of her hand to her cheek and lifted her gaze to his face. Surely embarrassment glowed from every flour-dusted pore on her face.
"We were through a couple of weeks ago, but the bakery was still closed."
"Only this week were the repairs finished. Opened on Monday we did." She struggled to compose herself. Socializing was unheard-of in Accord, and she lacked the experience for cordiality.
"You seem sound. A lot better than the last time I saw you." Jakob's voice was deep, its tone unhurried; there was no trace of the hoarseness of his utterances after the fire.
"Hale and hearty I am, Herr Neubauer. Herr Doktor said I would have died had you not carried me out me when you did. We might have both died."
"I feel mostly responsible for the danger," he said. "I shouldn't have let you run back in there after your ma ran out."
Lydia tried not to study his strong jaw and healthy skin as he ate. She'd never learned to use words such as handsome or good-looking in regard to appearance, so she didn't set his looks apart from what little she knew of his character. He was a strong man of great courage and selflessness.
"We had no way of knowing how quickly the fire had spread. It's no one's fault. The men who cleaned afterward said the flue and stovepipe had become blocked."
"Fraulein Beker," he said in that emollient, deep-strung tone. "Would I be welcome at one of your meetings? I'd—" he smiled disarmingly "—like to learn more abou
t your colony."
He truly was interested in her? Her mother returned, carrying a flat carton.
Lydia's gaze again collided with Jakob's. "To hear the gospel we welcome everyone. There is service each evening at seventh bell. Men enter from the west door and sit on that side of the assembly hall."
Jakob nodded and finished his last bite.
The older Neubauer retrieved his dun-colored hat and walked to the door. Jakob rose to his feet. Lydia stood awkwardly in front of him, her eyes level with his brawny chest.
He wore a blue flannel shirt with the first few buttons open. Her glance skittered from his tanned throat to his blue eyes and down to the flour-dusted toes of her shoes. Heat crept up her neck, warming her cheeks. Her pulse roared in her ears.
"Thanks for the pie."
She forced herself to meet his sparkling eyes. "The gratitude is ours."
Bending from the waist, he leaned across the table to pick up his hat. "Will you be there? At the meetin'?"
He might as well have asked her something indecent, the way her insides quivered. She managed a nod. What would she have answered had he asked her something indecent?
"I'll be there tonight."
Something forbidden rippled through Lydia. Something expectant and trembly. Something warm and delicious and too good to stifle. Every dormant cell in her body awakened and bubbled with life.
She would see him tonight.
He stroked one long finger across her chin and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. "Flour, hmm?"
Her skin burned where his finger had touched. Lydia's eyes, widened, and she took a step back. No one in the colony touched another person in public!
Bold as brass, Jakob only smiled and adjusted his hat upon his shock of hair. "G'day,fraulein."
Long strides carried him across the room, and Lydia's wide-eyed stare followed his massive form. He filled the doorway briefly, then disappeared.
Chapter 3
From his seat at the table in front of the congregation, Etham Beker exhorted the colonists to remember their heritage and to keep their eyes on the glorious future and on Christ's coming.
Cheryl St.John - [Neubauer Brothers 01] Page 2