by Amy Lillard
“Good point.”
“So you won’t tell?”
He shook his head. It wasn’t often that someone exceeded his expectations, but John Paul had done just that. Of course, if Abram found out that Zane knew about this, he’d probably toss him out on his keister. All the more reason to keep his mouth shut.
If only he could push God and Katie Rose from his mind as easily as that.
One day slipped easily into the next. Before Zane knew it, the weather had turned cold and winter was upon them. An Oklahoma winter was very different from Chicago’s. Not quite as cold, the air more humid. On the days the cold rivaled that of Chicago, it seemed as if it might blow straight into his bones. Chores still had to be done. Chickens fed, cows milked, hay pulled down and spread for the horses.
If it hadn’t been for the heavy wool coat John Paul had supplied to him the week before Thanksgiving, he might have seriously considered going back home without finishing out his required three months. Chicago might be colder, but he had heated indoor air and winter clothes. He supposed that a person would eventually get used to the weather, the sudden and sometimes drastic drop in the temperatures. But as far as Oklahoma weather was concerned, he was a greenhorn.
Another bright spot was Katie Rose. He hadn’t seen her much since he’d almost kissed her that Sunday after church, but she’d been on his mind every day. He recalled the longing he’d heard in her voice as she told him about not expecting to have a family of her own. How God had a plan for her to take care of Gabe’s family.
What garbage. She was kind and nurturing and as loving as they came. If God truly had a plan for her it was to find some handsome guy to marry and raise a bunch of kids and live happily ever after here in Amish land.
Now why did his stomach drop at the thought?
Just because he found her warm and refreshing didn’t mean anything beyond that. They were from two different worlds—and that’s how it would forever remain.
Maybe he was just getting a taste of figurative cold feet to go with his literal ones.
Yes, that sounded logical.
Thankfully his cold ankles were a thing of the past. Katie Rose had taken pity on him and found another castoff pair of barn door pants for him to wear. He glanced down. At least these covered the laces in his boots, and unless he sat down, his sock color was a mystery to all those around him.
She also let out the hem in his first pants. So now he had two pairs to get him through to wash day.
John Paul tossed a set of waffle weave underwear to him. “Come on, city boy.”
Zane caught them, one eyebrow raised. If the late nights working to bring in extra money for his mother’s hospital bills was taking its toll on the young man, it was yet to be seen. “Come on where?”
“Thanksgiving is in two days. Let’s go bag us a turkey.”
He frowned. “Like at the store?”
“Like huntin’.”
Of all the time he’d spent in Oregon in the cooperative with his parents, Zane had never gone hunting. He’d milked goats and weeded the garden, harvested food, and otherwise helped with the day-to-day chores much like the Amish children that he’d encountered. But since most of the members were vegan, hunting was out of the question.
“What happened to peace and love and all that?” he asked.
“It is not a sin to kill for food. It is a way of life. We hunt to put food on our tables,” John Paul added as Zane stripped out of his clothes and donned the insulated underwear before getting dressed again.
“So that’s an acceptable form of violence?”
John Paul frowned, an unusual expression for the happy teen. “You are tryin’ to make this too complicated. We hunt for food; we do not kill for sport.”
Zane supposed that made sense, but there was one thing he’d learned since living among the Amish—there were a lot of gray areas that were hard to understand. He could see why they expected Annie to learn their ways before she committed herself to the church. The whole concept was just out of his grasp.
They walked down the stairs together, John Paul leading the way.
Zane slowed, and turned to John Paul. “So what happened to Halloween?” There hadn’t been any trick-or-treaters, no black and orange pumpkins set about. The entire day had gone unnoticed weeks ago.
John Paul shook his head. “We do not participate in such nonsense.”
Halloween was pagan at its core, but the rest was just in fun. He was about to say so, but took in the serious expression on John Paul’s face. In that moment, he looked so much like his father that Zane thought better of voicing his opinion. What did it matter to him?
They got to the bottom of the stairs, and the women were nowhere to be seen, yet the smell of baking pies and cooling bread filled the downstairs portion of the house. The aroma only added to the warmth given off by the stove.
The men grabbed their coats and hats off the pegs, then John Paul fetched the rifle behind the door, and together they walked out into the brisk afternoon sunshine.
The blast hit Zane like a bucket of water to the face. And he thought the wind blew hard in Chicago. Or maybe it wasn’t the persistence of the current, just the surprise that the Oklahoma wind could possibly rival that of the city named after its breeziness.
Zane pulled on the leather work gloves he’d picked up at the general store on their last trip into town. “That gun hasn’t been there the whole time.”
“Dat keeps it in the barn. It’s gut to own a gun, but not gut to let it own you.”
Wise words.
After all the war-torn countries he’d been to, all the devastation he’d seen . . . well, an idiom like that made a lot of sense. How would the world look if more people adopted that mentality?
It would have to be all of them, the cynic inside him whispered, but he could see the philosophy worked here in Clover Ridge. It might not be the entire world, but it was a start. He’d make a note of that tonight when he sat down to write. That had become his habit. John Paul sneaked out for work, and Zane took out his notebook and pen and recorded the day’s events and thoughts. It would take him awhile once he got back to Chicago to record all his notes on to his computer, but he thought it’d be easier this way. Instead of having to constantly risk life and limb jumping in the car with John Paul to drive into town to charge his laptop.
The last time had been . . . well, it must have been almost three weeks ago. Until recently, his primary concern had been his computer and being able to record his thoughts and findings. Strange how his plans had shifted by necessity and that pen and paper had taken its place.
Even stranger, his cell phone went dead long before that. Instead, he had used the phone shanty across from the house to call Monica, but the last time he’d spoken to her had been a couple of days ago. Surely not longer than that.
Instead of using his computer, each evening he’d taken to writing in a journal, recording his thoughts for the day. With any luck he’d have enough to print several articles. Or a maybe even a book.
Like most writers he felt he had a book somewhere inside, a novel to rock the ages. He imagined a work of fiction, maybe something about a daring photojournalist who captured all the ladies hearts as he gunned down his story with a surprising single-mindedness. Like James Bond—with a camera.
But after spending time with the Amish, that idea seemed naïve at best.
He and John Paul headed into the forest behind the back garden that Ruth and Annie used to fill the table.
He slid a glance at John Paul. “We’re just going to walk in there and . . . hunt?”
“Somethin’ like that.” John Paul led the way into the woods, a curious mix of evergreens and live oaks. A carpet of dead leaves, reddened pine needles, and fallen twigs snapped beneath their feet as they walked deeper and deeper into the forest.
Finally, they came to a small clearing. John Paul eased to the far side, where a small tree had long ago found its resting place. He sat on the trunk, propped up the gun next to him with its safety firmly in place, and started emptying his pockets. A thermos of hot coffee, extra shells, and a funny little box that looked as if it were made of cedar tumbled out.
Well, at least there was coffee. Zane sat down beside him and stretched his legs out in front of him.
They sat for a few minutes, listening to the wind careen through the tops of the trees. Zane had never been hunting a day in his life. He knew the importance of keeping quiet, but he couldn’t imagine sitting being fruitful in this endeavor. He enjoyed the breather from the hard but productive Amish life, but after twenty minutes or so he turned to John Paul.
“Is this normal to just . . . sit . . . like this?” He kept his voice low.
“You ever been huntin’?” John Paul whispered.
“I grew up with vegans and a citified uncle.”
“What’s a vegan?”
Zane stifled his laugh. “It’s a person who only eats and uses plant-based goods. They don’t wear leather shoes or eat eggs. Just veggies and tofu.”
A frown puckered John Paul’s brow. “What’s tofu?”
Zane grimaced. “You don’t want to know.”
They settled in and waited. Every now and then, John Paul would rattle the cedar box back and forth. It turned out it was a turkey call and that shaking it would produce a sound just like a gobble.
Hunting, Zane decided, was a little like fishing and required a lot of patience to get the prize. But when fishing, he’d had Katie Rose for company, which in and of itself was fun—and warmer. A lot warmer.
John Paul nodded with the merest movement of his head. “Look there.”
Zane cut his eyes in that direction. It took a second or two to see what he was referring to: a brown rabbit hesitantly hopping their way.
John Paul inched toward his rifle.
“You’re going to shoot it?” Zane’s words were barely louder than the wind.
“Jah, he’d make for some fine eatin’.”
“I thought we were hunting for turkeys.”
“True enough. But a good hunter takes what shot he can. And that’ll be one less forager the womenfolk will have to worry about next spring.”
Carefully, John Paul took aim, and with a quick single shot, took down the rabbit.
Zane watched the young man skin and clean the animal. It was easy to forget where the food came from when all a person had to do was walk into the nearest grocery store. A touch of remorse twisted in his gut, but it battled an equally strong sense of pride, of accomplishment. They would eat tonight because he and John Paul had gone hunting.
John Paul wrapped the meat in a plastic bag and put it in the cooler he’d brought along. The outside temperature was probably cool enough to keep the meat fresh until they got home, but this way sure beat having to lug around the carcass.
John Paul passed him the gun and returned to his seat on the log. “Next shot is yours.”
Zane held the weapon in his gloved hands, conflicting emotions searing him. It seemed like yesterday he had felt the intense burn in his shoulder, felt the blood wet his clothes, and drip down his arm as someone wrapped a belt for a tourniquet around his bicep.
It wasn’t this gun that hurt him, but one in the hands of the wrong person. He cleared his throat. “Is one rabbit enough to feed everyone for supper tonight?”
“Nay, not if you want to fry it up. You’ll need three or four to have a good mess of rabbit, but one is enough to make a goodly sized pot of rabbit and dumplings.”
“Like chicken and dumplings?”
“Jah.”
“Is that a traditional Amish dish?”
John Paul shrugged. “I think it is somethin’ Noni dreamed up.”
Zane nodded, once again in awe of the resourcefulness of the Amish people.
Their hunting trip lasted most of the afternoon. It was nearly dark before they found their turkey, as if the birds knew Thanksgiving was upon them and that showing their faces was not a good idea.
John Paul actually bagged the bird, but that didn’t make Zane feel any less about his role in the hunt. Or maybe it was the four rabbits he bagged that made him feel like king of the world.
“The Lord has smiled upon us today.”
Zane had never heard John Paul speak of grace before, and he was humbled. They had been . . . blessed. Strange, but something so violent as a rifle could kill a man or put food on his table. Blessed. That was the only way to look at it. They had gone out into the forest and not only found the treasure they originally intended, but enough for two more meals as well.
Zane smiled at John Paul. “And there is enough bounty to share.” The wrinkled face of Ezekiel Esh came to mind. Alone and without any family, Zane felt a kinship to the man. He could see himself in Ezekiel, a man who had lost all of his family. Getting shot had done that, showed him his solitary life and where it would lead. So he had asked Monica to marry him. Zane hadn’t known the old man then, but he knew the possibilities of a life lived alone.
The difference, of course, was Ezekiel had married and had a family. Still, he was alone. Well, mostly. He might live alone, but he had a whole community of like-minded people to care for him.
He glanced at John Paul again. “Mind if we take one of the rabbits to the deacon?”
John Paul smiled as if he knew what Zane had been thinking, as if he were proud that the Englischer finally “got” it. “How about we take two of them to Katie Rose? She can make somethin’ for them and somethin’ for the deacon as well.”
Perfect.
They gathered their kill and started back the way they came, winding around and through the mismatched trees and toward the house. John Paul veered off to the left, and they eventually found themselves behind Gabriel’s house. The wash was still pinned to the line, the colder temperatures lengthening the drying time.
John Paul nodded toward the back door. “Go on. It is your meat.”
His meat. He shouldn’t be so prideful over something so simple. Maybe that was why the Amish warned against pride.
Zane took the cooler to the small back stoop and knocked.
A few minutes passed before he knocked again, and Katie Rose jerked the door open almost as soon as his knuckles touched the wood.
“Zane Carson.” Her voice sounded breathy, as if she’d been running a marathon.
“Katie Rose.” His didn’t sound much better.
He hadn’t seen her in weeks, but she’d never been far from his thoughts. Suddenly he felt as shy as a schoolboy with a crush on the teacher.
Pull yourself together, man.
“John Paul and I went hunting for turkey this morning, and we found a few rabbits as well. We thought you and Gabe might like a couple. And the deacon.”
He opened the cooler and took out two of the rabbits.
He couldn’t read her expression. She looked . . . stunned. What did that mean for him? Stunned as in I can’t believe you killed an innocent animal? Or stunned as in I can’t believe you’re such a big strong he-man and brought me food for the table?
Maybe the last one was pushing it a bit, but that’s how he wanted her to feel. He’d stepped outside of his box today, and he was proud of himself. He wanted her to feel the same way about him.
Her shoulders relaxed, and she gave him a small smile, though it promptly disappeared. “Danki, Zane Carson,” she said. “Your gift is most appreciated.”
Warmth flowed through him, as if the sun was shining straight out of his heart. “You’re very welcome.” He bowed, not knowing what else to do, and then turned to leave.
He got as far as the bottom of the steps before she called o
ut to him. “I will see you on Thanksgiving, Zane Carson.”
And the sun shone even brighter.
Thanksgiving Day dawned bright and sunny, but cold. Frost covered everything in sight, making the world look strewn with diamonds.
Despite the holiday, Zane and John Paul went out to take care of the morning milking as soon as they got up. Breakfast was a simple affair of thick-crusted pie, dried fruits, nuts, and a hunk of sharp cheddar cheese. Back home that would have been an odd combination, and Zane might have refused, but somehow today it seemed more natural than toast and eggs. Pickle-making had been put on hold for the holiday, and Zane’s job for the day was to stay out of the way. Every time he stepped near the kitchen the women sent him disapproving looks that no man should have to suffer. As much as he wanted to help, he decided to use the time to get a few of his notes organized. So he spent the morning upstairs, going through the pages he’d collected so far.
He shook his head at the changes he’d been through in nearly two months. He had learned so much about the Amish culture, so much that at times he felt as if he actually belonged here. Other times he wondered how anyone could keep up with the ins and outs of the Ordnung.
He had learned that the list of rules changed from district to district. While Bishop Beachy had decided that his members should be allowed to ride bikes and have phone shanties on their property, the neighboring district was not allowed these luxuries.
One thing seemed certain: they all believed in Jesus as their Savior. Zane thought back to his walk home with Katie Rose, how peacefully adamant she had been about her faith. A piece of him wanted a little of that for himself, to believe that a higher power cared enough to guide his daily life, cared enough to give him what he needed.
But you do believe.
The voice was there in his head, and for the first time in his life Zane knew that he did believe in God. He had just never really thought about it. Never gone to church, never had anyone question his faith. Not even in the Middle East where wars were fought over religion every day.