All He'll Ever Need

by Loree Lough

  “But they have a purpose, to pull plows or buggies, provide food.”

  “And stud services. If you have a good bull or stallion. . . Let’s just say there’s a lot of money in it.”

  “No pets indoors seems a reasonable rule, considering everything else she does.”

  “Yes.”

  Did his one-word reply mean he’d grown tired of Sarah being in control of his home, of his son?

  “Was your mother very upset when you stopped behaving. . . Amish?”

  “At first. But over time, she got used to it. So did the others.”

  “What others?”

  “The bishop. The elders. My sister and her family. Just about everyone in Pleasant Valley.”

  “It must be difficult, living among people who disapprove of your choices.”

  “They were there for me when my father died, offering kind words and help with the chores. The same was true after my brother’s funeral. And when I lost Rebecca? The entire community rallied round—not too close, just close enough that I understood that if I needed anything, they would provide it.”

  Was he trying to convince her? Or himself?

  “In between the bad times,” Phillip continued, “I tried to repay the favors. Small things, like repairing storm-damaged roofs, helping erect barns or round up runaway cows.”

  He seemed to have found reasons to stay, good reasons. Pleasant Valley was more than just his and Gabe’s home. His friends lived there, too.

  “I suppose,” he said quietly, “if it sometimes seems they disapprove, it’s because they want what they believe is best for me.”

  “If your roles were reversed, how would you behave toward them?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged again. “When they do my job and pay my bills . . .”

  “Sometimes, though, don’t you think it’s just easier to go along with things?”

  “Amish rules, you mean?”

  Heart pounding, Emily whispered, “Yes.” She cared about this man, and wanted him to be happy . . . even if it meant—

  “Tried that,” he said, “and walked around angry all the time.”

  “Well, bending to the will of others is never easy.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “But neither is living with the distance you’ve put between yourself and . . . just about everyone.”

  “Except for Gabe.” He turned slightly to face her. “And you.”

  It all made sense now. At first, she’d thought Gabe’s condition had encouraged their . . . friendship. And while that might partially explain their closeness, it was clear that loneliness played a role, too.

  “So there is no dog or cat waiting for you at home?” he asked.

  Home . . .

  “No. Just a few houseplants.” And the once-glossy leaves were probably drooping and dull by now. She’d left in such a hurry that there hadn’t been time to ask a neighbor to water them. Well, there might have been, if she’d given it a moment’s thought.

  If you can’t plan ahead well enough to protect philodendrons, ferns, and palm trees, how do you hope to mother a sickly little boy and his brokenhearted father?

  * * *

  Gabe took Pete by the hand and led him inside, straight into the parlor, where Sarah sat, adding a square to the quilt on her lap. The minute she saw the boy, she stuck the threaded needle into an apple-shaped pincushion, eased the coverlet into the basket at her feet, and stood up. Her eyes filled with tears as she drew Gabe into a gentle hug. Then she held him at arm’s length. “Laat me je bekijken!”

  “Grossmammi, you have looked long enough!” Gabe teased.

  “Ah, du gucksht gut! Du moosht beheef dich. Unt die froher nacht for de Chrischdaag!”

  The boy looked up at Pete. “Grossmammi is excited to see us. That is why she speaks the German, and speaks it so fast.” Wrapping his arms around her waist, he said, “I do not just look good, I feel good, too. You are right . . . I behaved. And being home again makes me happier than on the night before Christmas!”

  She threw her head back and laughed. “Ik van je hou!”

  “I love you, too.” He turned to Pete. “This is Grossmammi. If you were Amish, like me, you would know that means grandmother.” Looking up at Sarah, he added, “This is Pete, Grossmammi. He is Dr. White’s brother. He drove the ambulance that took me to the first hospital. And he drove the ambulance that took me to Baltimore. He saves lives, too, but in a different way than Dr. White.”

  Pete whipped off his baseball cap, sent her a quick nod. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. You’ve got a terrific grandson here.”

  Emily had never seen the woman happier. And was it any wonder, with her home filled once again with the men in her life.

  “Yes,” Sarah said, “he is truly a gift from God.” Lifting a corner of her apron, she dabbed at her eyes. “There is coffee on the stove. Come to the kitchen. I will pour for us a cup.”

  Like a litter of well-trained pups, the foursome followed her.

  “Zitten, all of you!” she said, pulling out the nearest chair.

  But instead of sitting, Emily went to her. “How can I help, Mrs. Baker?”

  She didn’t answer right away, then after pointing to the cupboard on the opposite wall, said, “Everyone needs a mug.” Sarah pulled Emily into a hug. “Hartelijk dank, Dr. White. Bedankt.”

  Almost word for word what the young Amish wife had said after Emily threatened to report the abusive husband. “No thanks needed.” She stopped herself from saying “Just doing my job” because it would only have been half true. Going the extra mile had been as much for Phillip—and herself—as it had been for Gabe.

  Sarah opened the round-edged refrigerator and removed a pitcher of milk.

  “Is it from your own cow?”

  “From Buttercup. Yes. She is a Black Angus.”

  “An odd name for an all-black cow,” Emily said.

  “She has an almost yellow spot, right here.” Sarah touched a finger to Emily’s chin.

  “Maybe later, you can show me.”

  “Maybe Phillip can show you instead,” Sarah replied.

  Hands clasped on the table, he said, “It’d be my pleasure.”

  “Mind if I tag along?” Pete asked.

  “And me too?” Gabe said.

  “You will rest after your long drive, Grandson.” Sarah gave a dismissive shrug. “The rest of you can do as you please. But you might as well make yourselves useful.” Sarah tapped the handle of a rough-hewn basket. “Bring in my eggs. But first, koffie.” She filled Phillip’s mug with one hand, slid a plate of cookies onto the table with the other. “And koekjes.”

  “I have not had cookies in days and days and days!” Gabe said, helping himself to a sugar-topped treat.

  Emily took the seat beside him and helped herself to a cookie, too. “The quilt you’re working on, Mrs. Baker . . . it’ll be lovely. Is it for your own bed, or Gabe’s?”

  “Oh no.” She sat opposite Phillip. “Much too colorful for me. It will be sold at Hannah’s shop. The Englishers, they go zijn gek op for such things. But if you ask me? I think they should ‘go crazy’ for living Plain instead.” Using her cookie as a pointer, aimed at her son, she winked. “Who knows. They might like it enough to do it for a lifetime.”

  A subtle invitation for Emily to at least consider what it might be like, taking up residence here on the Bakers’ humble farmette? If Phillip’s grin was any indicator, the answer was yes. She warned herself not to read too much into Sarah’s comment . . . or Phillip’s face. The woman had spent a lifetime “speaking Plain.” More than likely, she’d referred to all Englishers. And Phillip? She didn’t quite know what to make of his hopeful expression.

  When the cookies were gone and their mugs empty, Sarah got to her feet. “Come with me, Grandson. It is time you had a rest in a bed that does not change into a chair.”

  He followed dutifully, but not before saying, “If you must leave before I wake up, Pete, will you come back and see me sometime?�
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  “Why sure. I’d like that.” He winked at Sarah. “Especially if Grossmammi bakes more cookies.”

  Phillip stood in the open doorway. “Now, how ’bout that tour?”

  “Duer dicht! Je laat de vliegen binnen!”

  “No flies are getting in, Moeder. And we have English guests, so why all the German today?”

  Chin high, Sarah looked from Emily to Pete and back again. “Since they will spend much time here, they need to learn.”

  Words, Emily told herself. Just words . . . Or were they yet another hint that Sarah might give her blessing, should things progress between herself and Phillip? Now that her grandson had been returned to her, his future prospects so much brighter, would she be more open to the world outside Pleasant Valley?

  Now, Sarah shooed them outside and left the room.

  A warm breeze swept through the tidy yard, rustling tree leaves and bobbing the flower blossoms. A sturdy gust lifted the cap from Pete’s head, and he zigged left and zagged right as it bounced and rolled across the lawn. It stopped on the white-painted wooden porch of a small, tidy outbuilding located about thirty yards from the house.

  “Is that your workshop?” Emily asked.

  Phillip followed her gaze to the white crossbuck door. “It is. Would you like to look inside?”

  Walking beside him, she said, “But there isn’t a sign.”

  “A sign?”

  “You know, to let people know what sort of business you’re in.”

  “My business is built from repeat customers and word of mouth.” He opened the door, and as she entered, said, “If I had a sign, what should it say?”

  She looked around at the well-worn surface of the workbench and the tools—screwdrivers, hammers, handsaws, rasps, and wrenches—hanging in order by size on the pegboard above it. On the opposite wall, steel shelves held power tools, paint cans, and stacks of cleaning rags, while jugs of motor oil gleamed in the sunbeam that slanted through the front window. Overhead, fan belts, V-belts, and grooved belts hung from hooks that Phillip had screwed to the rafters. Tidy and dust-free, the shop smelled of fresh wood shavings and gasoline.

  “Something simple, I’d think. ‘Baker’s Engine Repair.’” Forefingers and thumbs forming a square, she squinted. “With a descriptive subtitle, like ‘Big or Small, We Fix ’Em All.’”

  Reaching up, he straightened the clock that hung beside a pair of tin snips. “I need to move this thing. Every time the door closes, it tilts a bit.” He peered through the window. “Look at your brother out there. . . .”

  Emily moved closer and stood on tiptoe. She saw a calico kitten walking figure eights around Pete’s ankles, then giggled like a child as it jumped up and stuck itself to his right jeans leg. “Have you ever lassoed a cat?”

  “As a matter of fact,” he drawled, “I’m right handy with a lariat. You know the old saying, ‘Jack of all trades, master of few.’ Man has to teach himself how to do many things on a spread like this.”

  How had he learned to imitate Old West cowboys? Had he read a Zane Grey novel or watched an old John Wayne movie? Had it been on the sly, or with the permission of the elders?

  “So tell me, Cowboy Phil, how big is your ranch?”

  “Just shy of forty acres now. My great-grandfather bought the land back in the twenties, and it’s been in the family ever since. Started out with hundreds, but nature can be cruel. Storms, drought, weevils, deer herds, field fires . . . over the years, we had to sell a parcel at a time to make ends meet.”

  “That’s a shame.” A question came to mind, and she considered keeping it to herself. “Another reason you’re not exactly devoted to God?”

  In place of a direct answer, he said, “Want to meet Buttercup?”

  “That sounds great.” If he preferred not to discuss specific reasons for his anger with the Almighty, so be it.

  A moment later, she found herself balancing on the middle board of a split-rail fence, stroking the cow’s forehead. “Aren’t you a pretty girl!” she cooed. “I’ll bet your milk is as sweet as your disposition.”

  A long pink tongue swiped from Emily’s chin to her forehead, leaving a swath of spittle that smelled like a cross between damp dirt and freshly mowed grass.

  “Well, you’re welcome, Buttercup!” she said, hopping down from the fence.

  Phillip slid a red paisley bandanna from his back pocket, and their fingers touched when he handed it to her. The brief contact reminded her of the time when her older brother told her to test a nine-volt battery. She’d asked how, and Joe said, “Touch your tongue to the terminals. You’ll know!” She hadn’t enjoyed that mini-jolt at all. But this one? Emily wouldn’t mind another pulse!

  What’s wrong with you! Her imprudent decisions were directly responsible for the Barbara-inspired report that, by now, had probably passed throughout the ethics board. You need to go home. Go to work. Leave Phillip and his lovely family alone. Period!

  “Sorry she upset you,” he said, taking back the bandanna. As he oh-so-gently wiped her face dry, Phillip said, “Don’t look that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Embarrassed. You’re a city girl. Cow spit isn’t a regular part of your days.”

  If letting him believe that Buttercup’s kiss was the reason for her distress made it easier to distance herself, Emily saw no reason to correct him . . . even if it did make her look like a whiny, spoiled brat.

  “Does this mean I don’t get the rest of the tour?”

  “’Course not.” He wadded up the bandanna and tucked it back into his pocket and pointed. “The goats are over there.”

  “Hey, you two, wait up!” By the time Pete caught up with them, the kitten had snuggled deep into his shirt collar. “So Phil,” he said, “any tips for discouraging the affections of a pretty young girl?”

  “Sorry, Pete. My knowledge about girls—old, young, or four-legged and furry—is seriously lacking.”

  “Then I might just have to bring this one home.” As if it understood, the cat climbed onto Pete’s shoulder and rubbed her cheek against his. “Aw, now, aren’t you a sweetheart?” She was purring loudly when he said, “How much do you want for her?”

  “You’re kidding, right? After all you’ve done for Gabe and me? If you want her, she’s yours. Why, I’ll throw in her littermates if you’d like.”

  “Well then, looks like I need to read up on the care and feeding of felines.” He smiled at Emily. “You ’bout ready to hit the road?”

  Phillip’s disappointment dulled the blue of his eyes. “I was just about to introduce her to the goats. And the chickens.” He gestured toward the small field behind the barn, where two cinnamon Morgans grazed contentedly. “Nimblewill and Goldenrod, too.” He faced Pete. “With your work schedule, you might want to think about making her into an inside-only cat. All you’ll really need is litter, and a box to put it in. Some treats to reward her when she uses it. Some dry food. Bowls that won’t tip over easily. A brush. And clippers to trim her nails.”

  He paused, looked at Pete. At Emily. “What . . . ?”

  “I thought your mother disapproved of animals in the house. How did you learn all that?”

  “My wife.” He turned his attention to Pete again. “She found a kitten, sort of the way you found this one. And like this one, it wouldn’t let her be.” Another shrug, and then, “She sent me into town for a book about caring for cats. Sent me back again after she’d read it. For food and . . . all the things I just told you about. Named him Trouble, ’cause he climbed everywhere, got into everything.” Phillip hung his head.

  But hadn’t his wife died several years earlier? Her own mother’s cat had lived to be eighteen. Trouble should still be alive. “Where is he now?”

  “Don’t know. Last time I saw him was the day we buried Rebecca.”

  The rational side of her brain told her that neither she nor Pete had anything to do with the sadness in his eyes. But the other side, the side that wished she hadn’t started falling
for him, wanted to ease his discomfort. In a way, by getting too close to him, she had caused his misery. Some of it, anyway.

  Change the subject, you ninny, before you start blubbering like a baby.

  “Mind if I ask why you named your beautiful horses after weeds?”

  A half grin brought some of the light back into his eyes. “After they were weaned, both were picky eaters. Wouldn’t touch grain. Wouldn’t even eat oats. But for some reason, they gobbled up nimble will and goldenrod. Turns out it was good for them, too, so . . .” He shrugged. “Made sense at the time.”

  “Makes sense now, too,” Pete said.

  Phillip ignored the compliment. “What’ll you call that li’l gal on your shoulder?”

  “Not Callie, that’s for sure.”

  “There’s no rush. Just keep an eye on her for a couple days. See how she behaves. If she has habits, that’ll give you insights into her personality. That’s how I chose Gabe’s name. He was three months old, and we were still all calling him Baby Baker. That didn’t seem right. Or fair. So I watched him. Listened to him. He hardly ever cried. Smiled all the time. I kept thinking, he’s such a little angel. But I wanted him to grow up strong. Take control of his life. I didn’t want him to ever feel powerless. Then I remembered that Gabriel was God’s messenger. A mighty warrior.” His eyes lit up a bit more. “Made sense at the time.”

  “Makes sense now, too,” Pete said again.

  Emily didn’t want to leave. At least, not just yet. “That big-box store in town is open twenty-four hours. We have time to meet the rest of the menagerie and buy a few things for your little friend, there.”

  “She’s a barn cat,” Phillip said. “If you wait a while to leave, you might find out she’s wandered off again.”

  “I don’t know much about cats, but seems to me if she was going to wander off, she wouldn’t be up here, purring like crazy.”

  “Have it your way.” Phillip turned, started walking toward the goat pen beside the barn. “My mother enjoys these guys. Refuses to name them, though.”

  She leaned over the gate and held out her hand, and as they nibbled at her fingers, Emily said, “Why?”