by Amy Lillard
“Where’d you get those pants, Zane Carson?”
He looked down at his too-short pants as if seeing them for the first time. “I believe they are a gift from your father. A lesson in humility.”
She couldn’t stop herself and laughed at his joke, her defenses crumbling around her. Amish were never good at that anyway. They were not fighters. How could she be expected to keep these feelings at bay? She had warned herself against those deep brown eyes, against that dimpled smile, but his sense of humor and good spirit? She had no fortifications for that.
“Are you going to walk with me or not?”
“And if I say nay?”
“Then I might call you a chicken.”
Katie Rose smiled into the night. “And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then I’ll ask again, even nicer this time.”
“And if the answer is still nay?”
“Then I might resort to begging.”
She stopped and stared at him through the darkness of the night.
“Are you going to make me beg, Katie Rose?”
She shook her head. When had his tone changed from funny banter to funeral serious? She should tell him no. All the common sense she had told her to say nay, then gather up a flashlight and run home as fast as she could. “I will not let you beg. Nor will I walk with you. It is time I went home, Zane Carson.”
“Then I’ll walk you there.”
She shook her head.
“Surely that’s an Amish enough virtue, to not let a lady walk home in the dark unprotected.”
He would protect her, she knew that without a doubt, but who was going to protect her heart from him and those deep brown eyes? She sighed. “All right, then.”
She went back into the house and told her father good night. Her mother had long since gone to bed, the extra effort of hosting the church service taking most of her energy.
Katie Rose’s heart thumped loudly in her chest as she made her way back out onto the porch. Zane was still standing where she’d left him, like an anxious suitor awaiting his love. But he was Englisch not Amish. She had heard tales of Englisch men and their lack of morals, their disregard for the holy, their wild desires when it came to matters of the flesh.
She shivered, then pulled her shawl a little closer around her. She should have brought a coat. And she should have never agreed to walk home with Zane Carson.
He didn’t say a word as they headed for the road, moonlight and the stars shining almost as brightly as the light he carried.
“There are so many more stars here than in Chicago,” he said, gazing up at the sky.
Katie Rose kept her arms wrapped around her, but tilted her face upward to the darkened sky. “How can that be, Zane Carson? The sky only changes at the bottom of the world.”
He lifted one shoulder in half a shrug. “City lights, I guess. Block out the light from the stars. Or maybe the stars are there, but the lights distract everybody from noticing.”
She couldn’t imagine living in a big city like that. Her visits to Tulsa were enough to make her head spin.
They walked a few more minutes, slower than average so they could study the stars. Katie Rose wished she knew what he was thinking. What did he see when he looked at the heavens?
“Are you cold?” He nodded toward her arms still folded around her.
“A little,” she admitted. The night had a definite chill in the air. Fall was well on its way.
“If I had a coat, I’d lend it to you.”
She nodded, secretly glad he didn’t. It would smell like him, and she didn’t think she could stand walking home wrapped in his scent. Just having him beside her was chore enough.
“Why didn’t you ever get married, Katie Rose?”
She gave a halfhearted shrug. No one had ever asked her that before. “It just never came up.”
“Because of Samuel Beachy?”
She turned to look at him, but his face was in shadow, his expression hidden by the night. “Who told you about Samuel?”
“John Paul may have mentioned it a time or two.”
Katie Rose shook her head. “It is a sin to speak ill of others, but John Paul is almost as chatty as Beth Troyer.”
“Now I know who to talk to when I need information.”
She smiled. “You don’t want to hear my tale.”
“Actually, I do.”
She watched the rise and fall of his broad shoulders, before she answered. “John Paul told Mary Elizabeth that you are gettin’ married when you return to Chicago.”
“He is a chatterbox.”
“I think rumspringa has loosened his tongue.”
Zane Carson laughed.
They walked in silence, the only sound around them the rustle of leaves in the trees as the ever-present Oklahoma wind blew through the night.
“Are you?” she asked again.
“Yes.”
Suddenly her mind was filled with questions. Did he love his Englisch girl with the love of the romance books she’d read during her own rumspringa? Did she love him back?
“Your turn. Why did you never get married, and what does it have to do with Samuel Beachy?”
“What does it matter? It was long ago.”
“It matters.”
She shook her head. “Why do you want to know, Zane Carson?”
“Because I do.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“It’s the best you’re going to get. So just tell me.”
She took a steadying breath to gain courage and stall for time. “Jah, it’s because of Samuel, I suppose.”
“Did he break your heart?”
“Not all Amish couples marry for love, you know.”
“I do now.”
She smiled into the darkness. “But . . .” she stopped, unwilling to say the words out loud. Ridiculous, she admonished herself. It wasn’t like everyone in the district didn’t know. “But I loved Samuel Beachy with all of my heart.”
He paused. “So what happened?”
“A few weeks before we were to be baptized into the church, Samuel came to me in the middle of the night and said that he needed to go out and experience the world.”
“He didn’t do that during his rumspringa?”
“His father is the bishop, you know.”
Zane Carson nodded.
“Bishops are chosen for life. Bishop Beachy took . . . takes his position with the church very seriously. He keeps his children close to him. Even durin’ their run-around time.”
“But that’s not how it’s supposed to work. Is it?”
“Everyone is different, Zane Carson. Even the Amish interpret the Ordnung with different eyes. That’s why we have church elders to lead us through. For the bishop to have a son who ran crazy all over the district and beyond was more than he thought he should let his church see.”
“I can understand that.”
“But what taste of freedom Samuel did get, he discovered he liked . . . very much.”
“More than you?”
She smiled, despite a stab of sadness. “I suppose so, Zane Carson. Samuel Beachy left the district and has never been back since.”
“Does he ever write or call? Scratch that last part. Does he ever write?”
“If he does, the bishop has not said. As far as he is concerned, his son is dead to the world and all those in it.”
“That’s harsh.”
“He wasn’t baptized so he wouldn’t be shunned by the church. But the shame of havin’ such as wayward spirit in a child was too much for Bishop Beachy to bear. He never so much as speaks his name. Not since the day Samuel left us.”
“But other men . . . I mean, to an upstanding Amish man you’d be
quite a catch. You’re pretty, good with children, and a great cook.”
She was thankful for the darkness that hid her blush over his kind words. “Danki,” she said, when she really wanted to twirl about in a circle and bask in the knowledge that Zane Carson thought she was pretty. That was ridiculous. Plain folk didn’t set much store in looks, and it was not a good idea to let such compliments go to her head. Or her heart. She steeled herself and continued. “At first I had some offers. But I turned them down.”
“Why?”
“I thought Samuel would get it out of his system and come back. But then a year passed and another. Then my Samuel . . . Gabe’s Samuel was born. Rebecca died and my brother was on his own with six children to care for. He needed me, and I guess I needed him just as much. Once I moved in with my bruder, the offers just stopped comin’.”
“And Samuel never returned.”
“Jah. But the Lord has a plan for us all. Mine is to provide for my family, my niece and nephews, and to teach the children of our district.”
He made a noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh.
She tilted her head. “You don’t believe the Lord has plans for us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why do you scoff?”
“I don’t know.” His voice was close to a whisper, almost a sigh.
“So you believe that humans are just floatin’ around with no one to guide them home?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s not what you believe. I can hear it in your voice.”
She saw him dip his chin in a jerky sort of nod. For someone with such strong beliefs he surely had a time trying to express them.
“I just have . . . trouble with God, you know?”
“Nay, I’m sorry; I don’t.”
He took a heaving breath, and she supposed the dark gave him the courage to finally speak his thoughts out loud. “I don’t understand how a man can live His life without thought of consequence, then ask forgiveness one day and, bam! All’s forgiven, and he’s going to heaven.”
“Jah, that is understandable. But it is true. Amish also believe in living everyday with his sacrifice in mind. Treat others with love and respect, even if you have trouble. Help your neighbor. And do all you can for each other.”
Despite the cold and the feelings he stirred in her, Katie Rose was sorry to see Gabriel’s driveway just ahead.
“Almost there,” Zane Carson said, nodding toward the dirt drive that led toward home.
She held back her sigh. She wanted to talk more, more about his Englisch love, the beauty of the night, God. Especially God. She had a feeling Zane Carson needed to find his way to the Almighty more than he let on. Maybe even more than he knew himself.
Instead, they turned silently down the narrow road and made their way toward the warm lights of the house.
“Danki, Zane Carson,” Katie Rose said as they drew nearer. She didn’t want this time to end. Didn’t want to leave him to walk back to her parents’ haus by himself. Didn’t want to say good night.
Her thoughts otherwise occupied, she didn’t see the tree root and caught the gnarled wood with the toe of her lace-up black boots. She would have gone sprawling had she not been scooped up by Zane Carson.
He wrapped his warm, strong hands around her arms and pulled her close to him.
Katie Rose’s breath left her in a quick rush. Her entire body was pressed up against the Englischer, the hard planes of his torso sending heat flooding through her system.
She couldn’t remember ever being this close to a man. Not even Samuel Beachy, and if she had, she certainly never felt like this. Warm. Hot. Cold. Breathless. All at the same time.
“Kate, I—”
She couldn’t read the light in his eyes, but thought perhaps he felt it too, this strange and wonderful current that ran between them, that pulled them closer and closer together. If she raised her face to his, he just might kiss her. Oh, how she wanted that kiss. Just one taste of the forbidden, and she would go into the house and never ask again.
His nostrils flared, his hands tightened on her arms, and he drew her even closer, though she hadn’t known that was possible.
His head lowered an inch, then another. Katie Rose waited breathlessly for his kiss.
“Katie Rose? You comin’ in?”
She tore herself from Zane’s grasp, thankful and disappointed all at once.
“Of course, bruder.” Was that her voice? That high-pitched squeaky sound, like a mouse?
She turned away from Zane. It was better this way. She had no future with a man like him, an Englischer. Kissing him would only leave her with more heartbreak when the time came for him to go. And she’d had enough heartbreak for a lifetime.
“Good night, Zane.” She turned without looking at him and followed Gabe into the house.
8
Zane pounded down his pillow and flopped onto his other side. Amish beds were not known for comfort, but he couldn’t blame his sleeplessness on the lumpy mattress. Or the fact that John Paul was still not back. If he had known that he was going to flop around instead of go right to sleep, he could have taken a sleeping pill. He hadn’t had to take one in days, the hard work of the daylight hours chasing away the nightmares with sheer physical exhaustion.
He stared at the bed opposite his, still neatly made up. John Paul didn’t even make a pretense about his catting around. There was no telling what he was out doing. Drinking, drugs, running around with English girls, while Zane lay here in the dark and fretted over Katie Rose. And God. Don’t forget God. As soon as he managed to push one concern from his thoughts, the other popped up in its place.
Katie Rose. She was so warm and so innocent. She didn’t even know how beautiful she was, which increased her beauty. But it was more than that. The light in her eyes was steady and true. She worked hard every day taking care of children that weren’t hers by birth, teaching the scholars of the district, cooking, cleaning, and fretting over her family. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t do so much as hold her hand. He was leaving in a couple more months. He was getting married. Going to Mexico. He had no business toying with her emotions. He had to steer clear. And he had almost succeeded too. Until she fell against him and all of his good sense fled. In that moment, he’d forgotten all the vows he’d made to himself. Forgotten that he wasn’t from her world. Forgotten everything except how warm and sweet she felt against him, and how much he wanted to lean down for a taste of those sweet, pink lips.
He flopped onto his back and stared at the darkened ceiling. They were so lucky that Gabriel had picked that time to come out onto the porch and check on his sister.
Or maybe it wasn’t luck at all, but the plan of a divine power.
Zane wasn’t sure how much of that he truly believed. Why would God care if he kissed Katie Rose? What reason would God have for planning out the tiniest details of their lives? Didn’t He have better things to do?
But what really filled his mind were the words that Katie Rose had spoken to him. How a man can be forgiven.
He shook the thoughts away. He’d lived this long without God and His divine plans. He could survive a few more years.
The thought persisted. He really wanted to talk to Katie Rose more about it, but he’d probably scared her off with his Neanderthal advances. She hadn’t even looked at him as she made her way into the house, more than happy to get away from him. He’d need to apologize to her as soon as he could. Maybe even tomorrow. But it was wash day, and he needed to get up early in order to help Ruth and Annie. After the work they had put in for the church service, they would especially need his assistance.
Katie Rose would be up washing clothes tomorrow, too. And just like that she filled his thoughts once more.
He was pounding his pillow int
o submission yet again when the door to the bedroom creaked open. He watched as John Paul snuck in, sat down on his bed, and unlaced his boots. Zane’s eyes had long ago grown accustomed to the darkness. He could see John Paul as clearly as if it were the middle of the day.
John Paul placed his boots next to his bed, then stripped off his shirt, folding it neatly and tucking it away inside a box under his bed. Completely out of sight.
“That’s quite a hiding place you got there.”
John Paul jumped and whirled around, somehow managing to stifle his yelp of surprise. “Zane Carson, you scared years from my life. What are you doin’ awake?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” No sense going into why. That part was no one’s business but Zane’s. “A better question would be: Where have you been and why are you hiding clothes under your bed? Wash day is tomorrow, you know.”
John Paul collapsed onto his bed and propped his elbows onto his knees, his hands dangling in the space in between. “You have to promise not to tell. Mamm and Dat wouldn’t like it much, if they found out.”
“I thought anything goes in rumspringa.”
He shrugged. “Mostly, but this they wouldn’t like.”
How bad could it be? Zane wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to that question. “Tell me.”
John Paul took a deep breath. “I have a job.”
Zane tried not to laugh. Honestly he did. “There’s living life on the edge, buddy.”
“It’s not funny.”
Zane sobered up immediately. “What is it, then?”
“I got the job to help pay for the medical bills. When I told Dat what I was goin’ to do he said, nay, that this was the time for makin’ sure about joinin’ the church.”
“And you got a job regardless.”
“I hide my work clothes under my bed so the girls won’t find them. Each Friday when I get paid, I slip the money into the pickle fund.”
“And they never notice? That has to be hundreds of dollars.”
John Paul smiled somewhere between a cocky teenage grin and a grimace of pain. “Annie’s not an accountant. She’s a rich Englischer from Dallas. She doesn’t keep up with such things. Plus, I know she’s been linin’ the fund. We can’t sell that many pickles.”