by Kelly Long
“Let me,” Stephen ordered in his firefighter’s tell-everyone-what to do voice. He tried to pull her behind him, but she shook him off. “I can outswim you any day,” she breathed, then dove beneath the surface of the pond . . .
* * *
Stephen swam, following the now-frail beam of light as it sank into the water. His heart hammered fast and hard at the thought of Ella and the baby drowning. Please, Gott—let her be all right and her baby and whoever else that You can see in this water . . . One part of his brain prayed in repetition while another tried to peer through the mucky water. He sought to touch bottom and couldn’t, then got to the surface to check his bearings. Ella came up not more than two feet in front of him.
“I’ve got him,” she gasped.
Stephen reached to take the young boy from her arms. “Hold on to my shoulders!” he cried as he turned, but Ella was already swimming past him and soon stood in the weeds of the bank.
They sloshed to land together, and Stephen put the child down on dry ground.
By now, the barking dog must have alerted somebody from town, and Stephen saw the rapid approach of a lantern’s light even as he turned the boy on his side and slapped his back hard.
Blind Lester Pike somehow had gotten to them, and by the light of the swinging lantern the old man held, Stephen could see that the boy’s skin was ominously blue.
“He’s not breathin’,” Lester said softly.
“He’ll breathe,” Stephen snapped, turning the boy back over and pushing on his stomach. Water and mucus spurted weakly from the child’s blue lips, and Stephen felt sick inside. Please, Gott, let this little one of yours live . . . Sei se gut . . . please . . .
“Do somethin’, girl.” Lester’s words seemed far away, and Stephen sank back on his heels and watched in amazement as Ella leaned over and covered the child’s small mouth and nose with her own lips. She also tilted the little blue chin upward as she worked. Stephen gathered her long, wet hair in his hands and held it back so he could differentiate between the light and the shadows, watching her intently.
Lester cleared his throat and spoke with reverence. “’Tis only God Who gives the Breath of Life. We pray that He does so here . . .”
Suddenly there was the sound of a deep inhalation, and then retching, and lastly, the beautiful sound of the boy gagging and spitting up the water that had kept him from breathing. He choked, and Ella sat him up. Stephen saw that the previous blue of the child’s skin was fading quickly into a pale but healthy color.
“He’ll do now,” Lester grunted. Then the sound of the barking dog grew louder, and a beagle rushed under the lantern to land on the little boy’s lap, wiggling ecstatically.
Stephen heard Ella laugh with relief, and the sound filled him like a rushing creek. “You saved his life, Ella.” He realized that he was still holding strands of her hair and quickly let go.
She stared at him in the mellow lantern light, and he swiped at his own hair, feeling water running down his cheek.
“We both did,” she answered briefly.
“I—I’m glad somebody did,” the boy said in weak tones.
Stephen looked up into Lester’s blind eyes, and the old man smiled. “And praise be to God fer that.”
* * *
Mitch stayed on his knees, his heart thumping at the sounds and scene being played out before him. He kept remembering the light and the way the girl had breathed life into the child, then told himself he was an idiot. He had a job to do, and all this God stuff was driving him crazy. . . .
But, deep in his mind, the words hummed over and over in a mocking refrain: You ain’t never killed before . . . You ain’t never murdered more . . . Then why am I willing to do it now? Something primal and savage rose up in him as he remembered all of the abuse he’d suffered. I was dead a long time ago, murdered by my father. What difference does it make if I kill now? No one can punish a dead man anyways . . .
Chapter Six
The next half hour followed in a whirlwind for Ella as the boy’s parents finally came. Stephen introduced them to Ella as Mr. and Mrs. Toole. Ma Toole hugged the soaking boy tight, then shook the child as if she couldn’t believe that he was real.
“I snuck out ta catch bullfrogs, Ma.”
“That’s all right then, Jackie,” Pa Toole said in his mild way. “It just seems that the water must’ve come too close fer comfort.”
Everyone laughed, and Ella and Stephen were both hugged with gratitude.
Lester Pike handed Stephen the lantern and ambled off in the darkness, and now Ella stood alone with Stephen, finally aware that she was soaking wet and that the smell of the pond clung to her.
“You’ve got to come home with me and dry off,” Stephen insisted when she would have turned to go. “It’s too long a walk back to Millie’s for you and the baby—I mean—uh . . .”
Ella whirled and looked up at him. “The baby? How do you know?” And what do you think of me, O Stephen with eyes like the sea . . .
He shrugged. “I just know.”
“That means the whole town must know,” Ella muttered. She reached down to scoop up her purse and had started to walk away when he caught her lightly by the arm.
“Sei se gut, Ella—Friends . . . Remember?”
She stopped and reluctantly turned around. “You still want to be friends, knowing that I”—she paused, then went on with determination—“I gave myself to a man with no wedding?”
“Nee mistake, Ella. The Amish believe that Gott is the Giver of life. You wouldn’t have that life inside you unless it was meant to be. Again, nee mistake . . . and I don’t care about what is past.”
He took a step closer to her, and she wanted to melt into him, to feel him hold her close. What am I thinking? He’s simply being kind . . . She shivered, and he spoke with clear determination. “That’s it. I’m not going to let you and the ba—you—catch pneumonia standing out here.”
She sighed to herself. I am tired after the experience tonight . . . I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go with him and—
“Ella?”
“Yes,” she said finally. “I’ll go with you . . . my friend.”
* * *
Pregnant? The word struck like ice to the bottom of Mitch’s soul as he crouched in the bushes near the pond. Douglas Nichols and the Pit Viper must not know she was pregnant, or maybe they wouldn’t have sent someone to get rid of her. In truth, Mitch knew little of the reasons behind their scheme—only that he’d been paid a great deal of money. Of course, he’d heard rumors in the seaside town that had something to do with a will and that fancy house, the Glass Castle . . . He felt a cramp in his leg that jolted him back to the present, and he almost stood up, but she was still there talking to the tall fireman. Mitch inched backward over the ground, trying to ease his leg. It was dark all around him, but in his head he kept seeing images of the strange light that emanated from the girl.
He decided he needed more sleep to get things right in his head and started to walk in the dark.
* * *
Her friend . . . her friend . . . that’s what I pledged to be . . . Not some lusting man who would love to taste her mouth and—
Stephen snapped back to awareness as Ella came out of Nick’s room, swathed in a burgundy-colored robe.
“Hiya.” He smiled, glad that Nick wasn’t there to see him standing around like some addlepated fool.
“Hi . . . So your roommate is the doctor . . . from the hospital?” She flushed slightly. “I saw all the science equipment in his room . . . He told you that I’m pregnant, didn’t he?”
He reached to rub the back of his neck. “Well—he might have let it slip.”
She nodded, and he drew a deep breath. He was infinitely glad that when they’d arrived at his rooms, he’d discovered a scrawled note from Nick saying that he was out on a difficult case and didn’t expect to be back until late.
Stephen sought a safe topic of conversation as he indicated the chair near the fireplace. He sat
down opposite her. Talk about something other than pregnancy and sex . . . He cleared his throat. “What you did with that buwe . . . how you put your mouth on his . . . I’ve never thought of that.”
She shrugged. “I grew up by the sea and children sometimes get in too deep. Although I know that it’s now called mouth-to-mouth ventilation. You’re trying to breathe for the other person. It’s simple, really.”
“It was wunderbaar to watch and I like your description—breathing for the other . . . I guess that’s what we’re supposed to do sometimes . . .” He didn’t stop to analyze why he allowed his Penn Dutch to slip in when he was with Ella; he only knew that he felt at peace for the first time in what seemed a very long time. He looked at her and found her dark eyes studying him.
“What is it?” he asked hoarsely.
“Have you ever wanted someone to do that for you—breathe for you, I mean?” She laughed in a wistful way. “I probably sound strange . . .”
“Nee,” he whispered. “I know what you mean—someone to support you, believe in you, and help you through the rough patches so that you kumme out stronger—I suppose that’s what love does.”
He watched her turn to study the low flames and waited in the expectant silence, wondering if he’d spoken oddly or out of turn.
“Yes,” she murmured after a moment. “Love should do that.”
Unwillingly, his gaze slid to her stomach in the oversized robe. Somebody didn’t love her—the father of her baby . . . He checked his morose train of thought and was about to ask her about her life by the sea when there was a sharp knock at the door. “Excuse me,” he said, knowing that Nick wouldn’t knock, which could only mean one thing . . . His landlady, Dora Broom, had caught wind of a woman in his room....
* * *
Ella blinked back the tears in her eyes. How is it . . . that in this strange, mountainous place I have found someone who understands my heart, who understands love . . . But the older woman at the door had a carrying voice, and Ella stiffened as she overheard the sharp words.
“’Ere now, Mr. Lambert—What have I told ya? You know I don’t hold with havin’ womenfolk up here, and it’ll do no good to say she’s one of the doctor’s patients, neither . . . Besides, she ain’t the kind for you—she works at Millie’s Social Club.” This last was said so loudly that Ella clutched her hands in her lap. I’m not the kind for him . . . maybe she’s right . . . What am I thinking? Just because he talks about love doesn’t mean much—Jeremy talked about it too . . .
But then Ella heard Stephen respond in even tones. “Just tonight Miss Nichols revived little Jackie Toole when he might have died from drowning in the pond.”
Ella saw the woman’s round face and boot black eyes as she peered around Stephen’s straight back. “Ya don’t say, Mr. Lambert? Well, ain’t that something . . . I know what she needs—what y’uns both need—one of my keg cider hot toddies, that’s what. I’ll have the mister go down into the cellar to fetch a fresh batch. I’ll be right back.”
Ella smiled at the turn of conversation as she heard the woman trot off down the steps. Stephen closed the door with an audible sigh, then came back to where she sat.
“I’m sorry—don’t mind Mrs. Broom. She’s nosy but basically harmless.”
“Well, as tempting as one of Mrs. Broom’s toddies sounds, I think I’d better go. It’ll be quite dark walking back to Millie’s.” She rose in the burgundy robe, but he put out a hand to hold her still for a moment.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please don’t geh.”
* * *
He watched her eyes darken and smiled faintly. “I mean, stay for the hot toddy, and I’ll tell you a story about where I grew up.”
She frowned a bit. “About the place you said no longer feels like home? Stephen, you don’t have to.”
He eased her back into her chair. “Kumme, let me sing for my supper, as it were . . .”
Ella lifted an eyebrow at him. “You mean, you’re spinning a yarn for my company?”
“Jah . . . it is well worth it.” His gaze held hers steadily, and she finally nodded.
He sat down opposite her and stretched out his legs. “Well, let’s see—I got in trouble a lot as a buwe.”
“You were rambunctious?” she teased softly.
“Something like that—but in any case, when I was in trouble at home, I used to visit this auld lady who lived in a cabin in the high timber. I called her Frau Birdy—she could imitate any bird sound on the mountain. It was remarkable—much more than mere whistling . . .”
His mind wandered briefly as he thought of the old woman, now long dead. He owed his life to her, he supposed. When he’d been sixteen, he’d caught a bad chest cold, much worse than he’d even realized at the time—but he hadn’t been home in days and wasn’t about to geh when he was ill and feeling vulnerable. He would have received little care or compassion from his mamm or aenti. And, running wild in the high timber, he’d been too sick to even make it to the healer, so Frau Birdy had taken him in and nursed him back to health.
“What are you thinking?” Ella asked. “You stopped your story.”
He smiled at her and shook his head. “I guess I’m not so gut at spinning a yarn and I—”
A brisk knock on the door brought him to his feet, and he went to open it. Mrs. Broom passed him a laden tray, and he thanked her politely.
“Now you an’ the girl drink these down straight—yours is on the left here, Mr. Lambert—the mister made it a bit stronger. They’ll warm ya up right fast.” Stephen saw the elderly woman shoot a now-appreciative glance at Ella and couldn’t resist a smile as he closed the door.
He carried the tray to a small round table in front of Ella and handed her the steaming mug on his right. He sat down and lifted his own concoction, watching her take her first sip. She shivered as she swallowed. “Oh my.” She smiled. “This is good.”
He took a sip of his own and couldn’t suppress a cough. It tasted like some burning combination of many forms of alcohol, but watching her run the tip of her tongue over her lips, he wasn’t sure which was more intoxicating—the drink or simply Ella herself. The thought warmed him, and as he drank, he began to answer her questions about Ice Mountain more easily.
“So, do you have many brothers and sisters?”
“Nee. I know the proverbial joke is that Amish families have seventeen children or more, but I’m an only child.”
He watched her place a hand over her belly in an absent fashion as she nodded. “So am I.”
“Then we have that in common, but as for the babe you carry, I’ll tell you an Amish blessing: May your lap be full of kinner.”
“Full of children?” she guessed.
“Jah . . . it would be good to have a brother or sister to talk things over with in life.” He knew he sounded faintly wistful but realized that he’d derailed the conversation when she put her glass down quickly.
“I think I’ll need to manage this baby first . . . and I should go.”
He drained his mug and told himself he’d been stupid to burden her with thoughts of other children.
“I’ll take you back.”
“I—I’m sorry—I wasn’t fishing for you to do that.” She met his gaze squarely.
He gave her a rueful smile. “I know. You probably would be the least likely person I know to, um, fish.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, but then went on determinedly. “But you don’t really know anything about me. I could be a—a liar or a gossip or involved in bank robberies.”
She frowned when he laughed softly. “Bank embezzlement? Ella, sei se gut—we all have our secrets, but I trust that you are not out to commit federal crimes.”
She smiled, but felt sad inside when she remembered how much her uncle had taken from her father . . . indeed, from her.
“What is it?”
She almost jumped in her chair as she sought something to say. “Nothing. I—I was wondering what dark secrets you might have . . .” Her
words were teasing but she was surprised by the sudden somber expression on his handsome face.
She heard him draw a deep breath, and then his gaze locked with her own. “Maybe I’m not what you think, Ella . . .”
* * *
He watched her brown eyes widen a bit, but she sat still, listening.
Well, he thought. Here we geh. If I tell her about my past, then she’ll run from me, but what woman wouldn’t? He snapped back to the moment and struggled to find the words to begin. “Ella—I—in the past, when I was living with my Amish community—I was accused of a crime and shunned because of it.”
He watched a pulse beat in her white throat and felt shaken, but then she spoke.
“So maybe you’re a murderer?”
Chapter Seven
She walked alone with him in the dark back to Millie’s, and the cadence of his words seemed to match the sound of their steps on the brick pathway.
A murderer . . . a murderer . . . maybe he’s a . . .
“Are you?” she asked him finally, trying to see his face in the dim beam of the flashlight he’d turned on.
He seemed to know exactly what she was asking and answered after what seemed like an eternity to Ella. “Nee . . . but I was made to feel like one, and when I was shunned, I thought as though I understood what a man who kills another must feel—the guilt, the uncertainty of whether his own life is worth living . . . Of course, I sound like an idiot, but it was so strange and isolating . . . I don’t know.”
“May I ask what happened?” she asked softly.
“I think you can ask me anything, Ella, and I’ll try to answer. In the case of the murder—one of my very best friends was killed as he slept. Dan . . . that was his name . . . The local bishop was coming through the woods and saw me covered in blood. He named me the murderer without any true proof, and I was shunned.”