by Amy Lillard
“Hi, yourself.”
“I was hoping you’d call today.”
“Sorry, it’s been busy here, and there’s no electricity at the house.”
“Are you serious?”
“Very.”
“I thought that was like an urban legend. So they really live that way, huh?”
“And of course without electricity, my laptop and phone died. We had to take them into town to charge. So I’ll be incommunicado at least every other day, depending on the work schedule.”
“I understand.” This was one of the things he appreciated most about her.
“It could be worse,” he added.
“Who’s ‘we’?” she asked. “You said ‘we’ had to take it into town.”
“Oh, me and John Paul, the youngest Fisher. He has a car so he drove me into town.” He purposefully left out the details of the horrific ride into Clover Ridge, probably because he felt so guilty over his walk home with Katie Rose. Or maybe because he sought her out this morning. He shook away the thought. He’d done nothing wrong. Not really.
“Wait. They don’t have electricity, but they do have cars?”
“No,” Zane scrambled for the words to describe Amish customs. “It’s not that simple.”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said, but it’s too complicated to go into right now. I need to keep the charge on my phone as long as possible.”
“That complicated?”
“You know it.”
“All right, then. I need to go anyway. I have a spa appointment at four.”
“Sounds wonderful,” he said, giving Monica the answer she expected. He’d never been to a spa in his life.
“I love you,” she said, her voice earnest, even as he imagined her grabbing her designer purse before heading out for an afternoon of pampering.
“Me, too,” he said. The words didn’t slip out like they normally did.
Monica seemed not to notice, blowing him a kiss before hanging up.
In silence, Zane stared at the wallpaper of his computer screen. After a moment he pocketed his phone and sighed.
He was tired. That was all. He had stayed up a little too late last night logging questions and answers about the Amish and writing down the anecdotes from the day. He was sure Jo would be pleased. Except for the part about no pictures. But he’d figure out a way around that. A twinge of something—remorse maybe?—pinged him at the thought.
Again, it could have been the fatigue. After the troubles from the day before, he had opted not to take something to help him sleep, and that had meant dreams. It was unfair to true sufferers of post-traumatic stress syndrome to call them nightmares or terrors. They were disturbing. Dreams so real he could smell the war surrounding him, feel the hot desert air on his face, the grit in his mouth and eyes. There wasn’t anything overly horrific in these night visions he had, just work and war and death, same ol’ same ol’ of his job. But they didn’t let him rest. It was beyond strange to him that when he was living it everyday, the dreams never came, but the minute he returned to the States, they returned. Haunting him at night. The people he couldn’t save—the soldiers, children, innocent civilians.
Longing for a nap, he looked at the colorful quilt on his bed, and then checked his watch. He had about fifteen minutes before he would need to start the evening chores with John Paul. Fifteen glorious minutes of daytime sleep more restful than his efforts in the dark, but not nearly enough to make up for what he had missed.
He shook his head and hiked up his too-short pants. Tonight, he promised himself. Tonight he’d take a sleeping pill and go to bed early.
Sunday morning dawned bright and beautiful, another crisp day that Zane had learned would quickly turn into a warm afternoon. He caught Ruth in the hall of the ambling house reaching a hand up to her bonnet, ensuring it was in place.
“Guder mariye, Zane Carson,” she said with a wan smile.
Zane had gotten used to everyone calling him by his first and last name, but the sound still brought a smile to his lips. “And to you too, Ruth Fisher.”
“There is somethin’ I need to speak to you about.”
He nodded. “All right.” He waited for her to begin, but she just smiled.
“Let’s go to the kitchen, we will talk this out over a piece of pie.”
If pie was involved, surely the topic couldn’t be too serious. Zane nodded and followed her down the stairs.
He got out plates and cups for coffee as she cut and served the pie. Together they carried their early morning after-breakfast snack to the table.
Amish pie was wonderful if not a little odd, the flaky crust as thick as cardboard. John Paul had told him it was for convenience, to allow them to eat the pie without plates and forks as they carried out certain chores.
“Today is a church day, Zane Carson.”
It was the first he had thought about attending church since his arrival. They read from the Bible every night, prayed before and after every meal, and stopped to pray silently several times during the day. Zane had even caught John Paul praying in the middle of the afternoon before milking the cows. Church seemed . . . redundant.
“We invited you here to learn our ways, but there are some things the Amish like to reserve for themselves. Church is at the top of that list.”
“I understand.” He couldn’t tell her that Jo didn’t pay him enough to get him into the church building. He didn’t want to offend her, or even worse, have her kick the heretic out of the house. So he just nodded.
“Today’s service is at the bishop’s haus. Afterwards, we’ll eat and have fellowship, but we’ll be home in time to milk the cows.”
“Did you say the bishop’s house?”
“Jah.” She laughed a little, and Zane liked the sound. She needed to laugh more, though her eyes looked tired and worn. “We have church in the homes of our members. Week after next it will be our turn. Lots of work will have to be done to ‘redd-up’ the house for worship.”
Zane made a mental promise to help in any way he could. Not because he cared about the Amish means of worship, but he did care about the well-being of the woman seated across from him. “Where’s the service next week?”
“Next week isn’t a church Sunday for our district. We’ll be travelin’ to Bishop Stoltzfus’s service to worship with them.”
“So you have church every other Sunday.”
“Sort of. We have church on every one of the Lord’s Days. One Sunday in our district and the next we go a-vistin’. After each service we eat and talk. Then that evenin’ the host family holds a singin’ for the teenagers.”
“For the ones in rumspringa or the others?”
“You have been learnin’ your Deutsch, Zane Carson.” She patted him on the hand. “Best let John Paul tell you about the goin’s-on at the singin’ these days. It’s a mite different than it was in my day.”
With the gentle progress of the Amish, Zane sincerely doubted that. The conversation seemed to have taken a lot of Ruth’s energy, but she pushed up from the table like a real trooper and took their plates to the sink. Before she could come back for their cups, Zane had them in hand.
“It is time to get ready for the service, Zane Carson. It was nice visitin’ with you this mornin’.”
“You too, Ruth.”
He resisted the urge to follow her up the stairs and support her elbow as she navigated her way. He had a feeling Ruth wouldn’t appreciate the help in the way it was intended. One thing was certain: Ruth Fisher was a fighter.
Katie Rose pulled the horses to a stop in front of the house and set the brake. “Whoa.”
Zane stood on the porch, hammer in hand.
“Zane Carson!” Her mother called from beside her in the buggy. “Ho there, Zane.”
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br /> She started to scramble down from the seat, but Katie Rose touched her arm to stay her. “You came home because you were tired. Don’t go gettin’ all riled up now.” She hated the pinched look around her mother’s mouth. She did look tired, but Katie Rose feared something else was bothering her mudder.
Halfway through the food service, her mother had started looking weary. It had taken nearly half an hour, but Katie Rose finally convinced her that no one would care if they returned home early. John Paul would stay for the singing, and Annie would want to go visiting with Gideon after they ate. Katie Rose asked Noni if she might be tired and ready to leave as well, but the old woman fanned herself, sitting in the shade drinking lemonade as she watched the children play. “I’ll get some rest when I have my reward,” was her reply. Once her father assured her that he could find his own way home, Katie Rose hopped in her elder’s buggy and drove her mother home to rest.
But sometimes her mother was just so stubborn.
Katie Rose hopped down from the buggy, the springs and wheels squeaking as she hit the ground. “Zane Carson,” she called, annoyed by how good his name sounded from her lips.
He shaded his eyes as he watched her come near. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
She glanced at the hammer in his hand. “It would appear so.”
He smiled at her words, watching her with those brown eyes. She pressed one hand into her side. “It’s the Lord’s Day, Zane Carson. We only do what is required of us on the Lord’s Day.”
“I was just repairing this loose floorboard on the porch. Nothing more.”
“If’n you want to fix it, you may do so tomorrow. Today is a day of rest.” She dropped her voice so only he could hear. “Will you come and walk Mamm to the house? She’s done too much today as well. I fear she might fall.” She didn’t add how fragile her mother was, how the weight loss and cancer drugs had made her bones and spirit brittle. Zane Carson was a smart man. He could see that for himself.
“Of course.” He set the hammer down and dusted off his hands and knees.
“Ruth,” he called. “Stay right where you are.”
Katie Rose winced at the sternness in his tone. Maybe with all his fancy education Zane Carson wasn’t as smart as she had given him credit for.
“You are a guest here, Zane Carson. You may not order me about like a new puppy.”
“And I won’t just as soon as you’re not as weak as a newborn kitten.” His sure strides carried him across the yard in half the time it would have taken her. In the blink of an eye he put his hands on her mother’s waist and swung her to the ground.
Ruth frowned. “I am capable of liftin’ myself down from a buggy.”
“I’m sure you are, Ruth, but why expend the energy for something I can do for you when you need all the strength you have for healing?”
She was sure her mamm would harrumph and march stiff-legged toward the house, but there was something in Zane Carson’s manner that seemed to calm her mother.
He offered Mamm his arm and linked them together before walking her toward the porch. When they got close, Katie Rose took her other elbow and together they escorted her into the house.
Katie Rose contemplated the man who’d come to visit. He was gruff and soft at the same time. He had a way with her mother, somehow making her see reason where no one else had, all the while giving her the space she needed to remain self-sufficient. Suddenly Katie Rose felt as if she had underestimated the fancy reporter from Chicago.
Or maybe she hadn’t, and that was the problem.
It took some talking, but Zane finally persuaded Ruth to lie down for a nap. Only the threat that she’d be back in the hospital before sunset was enough to get her upstairs and in bed. Stubborn woman only did it so she could oversee supper that night.
She reminded him so very much of his own mother. Not in looks or temperament but in spirit. Thalia Carson had been that same kind of woman—sufficient, brave, positive. Bold in a womanly manner that made men do her bidding, then wonder what had happened to make them so readily comply.
He smiled to himself and made his way back downstairs. Katie Rose could see her safely in bed while he finished the porch.
The sun was bright when he pushed through the screen door. A beautiful day as he had ever seen. How long had it been since he’d enjoyed a Sunday afternoon? How long had it been since he’d enjoyed any afternoon? Maybe Monica was right. Maybe he did work too much. But he didn’t know how else to be. Once he started a project he had to see it through to the end.
He retrieved the hammer and started back to work. Just a couple more good whacks and that should do it.
Katie Rose stormed out of the house, green eyes glaring. For the peace-loving Amish, she looked downright murderous. “I believe I mentioned that it is the Lord’s Day.”
“That you did.” Whack.
“And the Amish don’t work on the Lord’s Day.”
“I’m not Amish.” Whack.
“But you’re stayin’ with us now. Tryin’ on our lifestyle so you can write about it in your magazine.” She plucked the hammer from his grasp mid-swing. “You’ll do well to remember that.”
It didn’t matter anyway. He was finished, but something in him wasn’t going to let the matter go easily. Zane straightened to his full height, once again dusting himself off before looking at her. He was considered tall by many, but the willowy woman challenging him was only a few inches shorter.
He crossed his arms and hid his smile. “Okay, if that’s how you want to play this. How are you spending the afternoon, Katie Rose?”
“If you must know, I have papers to grade and a lesson plan for the third grade to get ready.”
“And the reading test for the sixth graders?”
“Jah, that too.”
“Well, missy, that sounds suspiciously like work.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again instead. He tried not to be too pleased with himself for leaving her speechless.
“Tell me, what’s allowed on Sundays?”
She took a deep breath, a thoughtful look on her face. Or was it annoyance?
“Milkin’ the cows,” she started. “Cookin’ and cleanin’ up afterward. Feedin’ the animals. Readyin’ for church service. Cleanin’ up after that.”
“What about a buggy ride?”
“Jah, I suppose a buggy ride would be allowed.”
“Good. Then let’s go.” He took her arm, intent on steering her down the steps toward the Fishers’ buggy still parked in front of the house.
She pulled back, as focused on not going down the porch steps as he was on drawing her down them. “Actually, I was just about to unhitch the wagon.”
“Perfect timing, then.”
She shook her head, the loose strings of her head covering waving with the motion. “The horses need to be watered and brushed down.”
“If we give them a drink now, couldn’t we brush them down after a slow and easy ride?”
She nodded, her brows knitted together.
Why was she so bent on not spending any time with him? Unless . . . he tilted his head, watching her. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Don’t be silly.” She turned her face away.
Her attitude could only mean one thing: she felt the same pull between them. But what good would it do either one of them to pursue such an attraction? In a couple of months he would head back to Chicago. He was getting married and going back on assignment—a real assignment. And she would be here, among her people, with her church and family.
He reached for her, guiding her gently along the porch. The chemistry they shared could pull them together, make them the best of friends. Even if that’s all they would ever be.
At the bottom of the porch steps, he turned her to face him. “I do
n’t want anything from you. You know that, right?”
She stared at the ground, not acknowledging his words one way or the other.
Zane hooked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up so he could see her eyes. “We can be friends, can’t we?”
“Of course.” Her voice was the barest whisper.
“And friends can go on walks and buggy rides.” He still held her chin in his hand, her mouth at the perfect angle for kissing.
She nervously licked her lips as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. “I reckon.”
He released her and took a step back lest he fall into the temptation of finding out if her lips tasted as sweet as they looked. Like pink cotton candy. It would be unfair—more than unfair—to take advantage of the moment. Even if she were an English girl, accustomed to such advances, he couldn’t have kissed her. He was engaged—practically.
“Then let’s go for a ride.” He led the horses over to the water trough, wishing he had let the subject drop. After the moment that passed between them, he should have let her retreat into her corner and wait for another day, but something inside him wanted to spend time with her. More than he could understand. Even after the bristle and claws he’d gotten from her, he still wanted to be her friend.
She shook her head, smiling, the strings of her prayer cap dancing in the breeze. “Okay then, Zane Carson. We’ll go for a buggy ride.”
He smiled in spite of himself. “There’s only one problem.”
“Jah?”
“I can’t drive the buggy.”
Her smile was bright and infectious. “Come then, Zane Carson. I will show you how.”
5
Fifteen minutes later, Zane was sitting in the driver’s seat, behind the swaying rears of the horses.
“Just hold the reins loosely. The horses know what to do. If you pull too hard, you’ll confuse them.”
He loosened his hold, trying not to be so tense. “Like this?” He was sixteen again and getting his license for the first time.