An Amish Match on Ice Mountain

by Kelly Long

  She thought for a moment and then the words tumbled out of her mouth. “I’d still be your friend, Stephen. Shunned or not.”

  He laughed softly. “Danki, Ella. I think that admission deserves a kiss.”

  She was unprepared for the sudden swooping of his mouth and turned her head slightly. It was both awkward and wonderful; his kiss landed on her cheek, and she had the sudden burning desire for it to be more—much more. She felt her heart pound fast in her chest and was glad that it was dark so that he couldn’t see the secret smile she knew was on her lips. It was strange—his kiss stirred something in her that was both fast and wondrous and also something she didn’t recognize from her limited experience with Jeremy. She wished he’d stop and talk in the dark, but he’d pulled away and resumed walking.

  She fell back into step with him, then thought of something else. “You’ve never asked me—about my darkest secret—this baby and how it came to be.”

  “I told you that it doesn’t matter to me.”

  “But maybe it should. I mean, I work at Millie’s; I could be a prosti—”

  He stopped still and she nearly ran into him. “Don’t finish that word. However you got pregnant, I don’t believe that it was because you were . . . that.”

  “So you judge the girls at Millie’s?”

  “Nee, but I know you’re different somehow. I don’t think you’d . . . give yourself . . . unless you were truly in love.”

  “Well,” she whispered. “I thought I was, but his love turned out to be a sham, an illusion, and I bought it because—because I suppose I simply wanted to be loved.”

  She felt him run his fingers gently up and down her right arm. “And you deserve to be loved; to be honored and cherished . . . maybe we all do.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she whispered. “Sometimes I wonder if God really cares if we are loved.”

  “I understand how you can feel that way, but I believe He does care—it’s just the world that’s screwed up.”

  She half laughed, then sobered as she said what she’d never had the chance to say to anyone. “Well, I miss my father so badly—he was kind and loving, but my mother died when I was born, and I suppose I’ve always felt like I needed more love to fill up the space left by her loss—or simply a mother’s loss. Is your mother still with you?”

  She wondered at the strange quiet that followed her words but then she heard him sigh. “Jah, you could say that.”

  She was about to ask him to explain further when he caught her fingers in his own. “You will be a gut mother, Ella. I know it—I sense it. And that matters a lot.”

  She hoped he’d accompany his kind words with another kiss, but instead he caught her hand in his and started to walk again, leaving her hungry for more of his words and the touch of his lips . . .

  * * *

  “So, our dear Mrs. Broom informs me that you entertained a girl from Millie’s up here in my unfortunate absence?”

  Nick smiled at him, but Stephen wasn’t in the mood to play games. “So I did. What about it?”

  Nick poured himself two fingers of whiskey and sat down by the embers of the fire. “You need to talk, my friend.”

  “I need to go to bed.”

  “But isn’t that where you’ve already been tonight? Bed or bedding or whatever you Amish call it . . .”

  “I didn’t have her, all right? It’s not like that.” Against his better judgment, Stephen flung himself into a chair and stared broodingly at the half-empty hot toddy glass that Ella had left behind. He reached out and thumbed the rim of the glass, thinking of her lips and—

  “So, what is it?” Nick asked, breaking into his pleasant thoughts. “I’ve never seen you interested in a girl beyond a passing fancy. What is it about Ella—um—Nichols—pregnant Ella Nichols—that holds such allure for you?”

  Stephen resisted the healthy urge to punch his friend and shook his head instead. “I don’t know. She’s—she’s in my blood somehow. Her and the babe. I told her that I don’t care who was before, what was before . . . I just . . . I don’t know . . . I want to take care of her.”

  “What if she can take care of herself? Which, I might add, she has done for at least five months of the pregnancy. And she could probably go on with whatever comes her way . . . Look, Steve, I don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.”

  “Why would I get hurt?”

  “Because as far as I know, you’ve only been with that sweet young widow who used to live around here. I remember that you were quite shaken when she left to go back to her folks. You wanted to take care of her, too, didn’t you?”

  “Not like this—Laura knew how to stand on her own, with or without me.”

  “And Ella doesn’t? It seems to me that any pregnant woman who’d jump out of a burning building into a stranger’s arms can pretty much take care of herself.”

  Stephen was beginning to feel frustrated, but he kept a tight rein on his temper as he considered Nick’s words.

  “Look, Steve—I’m no Freudian doctor, but I’d like to suggest that assuming the ready-made care of a woman with baby on board saves you a lot of trouble in the relationship department.”

  “How so?”

  “Because you don’t have to think or concentrate or—do whatever courtship rituals you Amish have to do . . . Ella literally jumped into your arms, and again, I think you could get hurt without really taking time to get to know her and allowing her to know you.”

  Stephen gave him a sour smile and hauled himself out of the chair. “Too late, Nick. I’m already hurt—I’d never be the same if something happened to her . . .”

  Nick shook his head. “You’ve got a bad case, my friend. What happens when she finds out about your past?”

  Stephen smiled and gave a slight bow before he sauntered across the floor. “No worries, Nick, she accepts me—murderer or not.”

  Stephen had the satisfaction of seeing shock and disbelief on his friend’s face before he went to bed.

  * * *

  “And where have you been?” Sasha inquired coyly as she opened the door to Ella’s knock.

  “A boy fell in the pond in town and I needed to help with his rescue.”

  “Well—” Sasha grinned. “I’ve heard it called many things, but never a pond rescue.”

  Ella blinked, then decided to ignore the other girl’s insinuations. “I’ll go to bed now.”

  Sasha caught her arm. “Not so fast, pretty pregnant housekeeper—Miss Millie wants to see you in the library.”

  “Thank you, Sasha.” Ella pointedly removed the other girl’s hand from her arm and wearily headed for the library—a room filled with well-read books, some leather bound and others simply paperback. Miss Millie did her accounts and reading in the carefully dusted room. She sat behind a huge mahogany desk that had carved lion’s paws at its base—it really was a man’s desk, but it suited Miss Millie’s dominating nature perfectly.

  Ella opened the large white door with its brass handle and peeked inside.

  “Come in, Ella. There are some things I need to go over with you for next week.”

  Ella thought of her comfortable bed and longed to put her feet up, but she knew Miss Millie’s “going over” of things usually meant a good hour of instructions or additional housekeeping duties. As it was, the basic cleaning and changing of bed linens was exhausting in itself, but she needed the job and now forced herself to listen attentively to the older woman.

  “The gentlemen from the fire company will be here at the weekend. A bachelor party for the chief... I want to go over the menus and your serving attire. And speaking of what you’re wearing, you look rather damp. I don’t buy those gray uniform dresses for you to go traipsing about the countryside in them.”

  “I helped rescue a little boy who fell in a pond.” Ella was too tired to go on with any details, and Miss Millie must have sensed that she was working with a waning attention span, so she produced several notepads and pushed them across the desk.


  “You’ll see that it’s a buffet—quite elaborate, I think. I’ll have Mrs. Rob in to cook as usual, but I expect you to oversee things. And I’d like you to wear a nicer dress rather than your regular uniform.”

  “Why do I need to dress up?” Ella asked blankly, thinking of all the preparatory housekeeping she’d have to do for the event.

  Miss Millie smiled faintly. “To tell you the truth, Ella, it’s because you seem to have caught the fancy of one of the firefighters, and I think he’d pay just to look at you in a pretty gown.”

  Ella felt herself flush. “He’s my friend, that’s all.”

  “Don’t be silly. What better basis to build upon than friendship? I’ve slept with more friends over the years than I can count—it rather solidifies things, if you take my meaning.” For a brief moment, Ella thought she detected a note of regret in Miss Millie’s voice, but then decided that she’d been mistaken as the older woman continued.

  “I’ve hired Mrs. Rob’s two daughters from town to help as well with preparations and serving . . . Now go to bed before you fall asleep in that chair.”

  Ella nodded, took the notepads, and went to her comfortable bedroom. She undressed slowly, thinking back over the night’s amazing happenings and seeing in her mind’s eye the many facets of Stephen. Stephen, fireman protector trying to outswim her to save a boy’s life; Stephen, admitting he knew about the pregnancy and still accepting her anyway as a friend; and then the way he’d talked about love and his startling kiss on the road home. She hugged these images of him to her as she nestled into bed. In a way, for the first time since she’d known about her pregnancy, she didn’t feel alone that night. Somehow, Stephen and I have a connection, one that feels like the sun and stars . . . She smiled at the fanciful notion but knew also that there was truth in the analogy, because when she was with Stephen, things felt balanced somehow—even down to his darkest secret and the idea of his being an innocent man accused of murder while her secret pulsed with new life . . . She closed her eyes and slipped into the most untroubled sleep she’d had in a long while . . .

  Chapter Eight

  Stephen returned to the firehouse the next day and unpacked his knapsack with pleasure, glad for the moment to be out of Nick’s teasing company. The firehouse had been built in 1922, when the only equipment had been a horse-drawn water tank with a true dalmatian that raced to rescue the townsfolk from fires. Now the Coudersport Firehouse stood strong after a 1957 renovation and the acquisition of an engine and ladders that were the modern face of firefighting.

  “Hey, Steve?” Joe called from the camp-like kitchen. Big Joe was a good-hearted giant of a man who never turned away from danger.

  “Yeah.” Stephen walked into the room and breathed in the good scent of bacon frying.

  “There’s some kid out front who wants to see you—he’s out there petting Midnight.”

  “All right.”

  Stephen walked past the fire engine to where a few of the men were sitting out in front of the fire station, enjoying the relaxed moment and the fine morning air. At least ten men were on active duty at the firehouse at any one time and they all got along well together.

  Stephen recognized the boy from the pond, amazed at the child’s resiliency and further that the huge black dog was allowing the child close enough to pet him. “Jackie Toole?” Stephen smiled and bent down to shake the small hand extended to him. “Shouldn’t you still be in bed?”

  “Nope. Ma said to run over here and give you this—it’s for you and the lady who pulled me out of the pond.” The boy fished in his pants pocket and brought out a crumpled letter that had obviously been white earlier but was now stained with childish fingerprints.

  Stephen opened the note and read carefully between the sticky traces of bubblegum. “Why, it’s a dinner invitation for Miss Nichols and me . . . That’s great!” He ruffled Jackie’s hair. “You tell your mother that I’m on call, but I’ll let Miss Nichols know and we’ll be there come Wednesday night as long as we’re able.”

  “Thank you.” The boy nodded, stroked Midnight’s ear, and then was off like a shot across the road toward town.

  That kid’ll probably need to be rescued more times than not before he grows up . . . Stephen smiled to himself, glad that he had an excuse to see Ella again. He needed to invite her to the Tooles’ dinner and hopefully could escort her there himself. He started to whistle and walked back into the station, passing Big Joe as he turned the bacon in a huge frying pan.

  “Smells good, Joe.”

  “Thanks. I’m aiming for some pancakes here too.”

  Stephen smiled at his friend’s deft turning of the food. It was Big Joe who’d first introduced him to the firehouse and who’d secured him a job with the crew.

  “Hey, where you going, Steve? Breakfast’s almost ready!”

  “Keep something warm for me, will you, Joe? I’ve got to run a quick errand out to Miss Millie’s.”

  “Miss Millie’s?” Joe hollered after him. “At this time of day?”

  “Yep!” Stephen smiled and hurried out the back door of the station.

  * * *

  Ella pulled the white sheet through the wringer washer and sighed to herself. It was wash day—which meant nearly a whole morning doing sheets and bedding, as well as delicates for the girls. Still, the back garden of Millie’s was a secret delight to the senses in the bright morning sunshine. The smell of lilacs and budding roses welcomed the bumblebees that had ventured out to work, and Ella felt a companionship with the little creatures which kept her spirits up as she washed.

  She was so absorbed in cranking the wringer that she nearly jumped in surprise when Stephen spoke to her. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Aren’t you going to say good morning?” she asked sweetly as she continued to work. She glanced at him briefly, long enough to take in his ruffled dark hair and eyes that appeared more blue today than green . . . Probably because he’s wearing a blue shirt . . .

  “Ella?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “This is too hard a job for you to be doing in your condition.”

  She shushed him quickly. “Don’t say that too loud—there are windows open in the house, and I need this job. I’m managing just fine.”

  She heard him make an exasperated sound, and then he took the end of the wet sheet from her. “All right . . . well, I’m going to help you.”

  “You can’t . . . Someone might see you and tell Millie I’m not up to the work.”

  He grabbed the crank handle, and she grabbed his arm, but it didn’t do any good. It was like trying to move a tree trunk. “Stephen!” she hissed in frustration and opened her mouth to further protest. His kiss caught her unawares once more, but soon melted all resistance from her. He smells so good . . . so right for me . . . like sunshine and heat and the mountains . . . She shivered with pleasure when he let the wet sheet drop between them. It clung to her tingling breasts and dampened the blue of his shirt. She made a small sound from the back of her throat and she sensed that it pushed him beyond some veiled restraint . . .

  * * *

  She pulsed with life . . . He felt her on so many levels—body, soul, spirit . . . And he wanted to get closer, like a thirsting man to a fountainhead. He let his tongue trace the contours of her mouth, then slowly began to kiss down her neck and into the heady warmth of her shoulder. His hands ached to find the tight fullness of her breasts, but he rocked hard against her instead, holding her to him until he was sure she could feel his body through the press of skirt, sheet, and pants.

  “Oh, Stephen . . .” she whispered, and he wanted to swing her up into his arms and carry her into the grove of lilacs and make love to her right there. But he vaguely registered that the house behind them had eyes and that Ella was no strumpet to be used and tossed aside . . . Yet she had been—by the father of her babe . . . The chilling thought cooled his ardor a bit, and he pulled away from her long enough to stare down into her flushed face. Her lips looked red and slightly s
wollen and he realized that she shared the same tumultuous passion that he did, especially when she reached for him and breathed his name once more.

  “Oh, Stephen, indeed.” Sasha’s voice was saccharine sweet and had the effect of someone dumping ice water down his back. He pressed close to Ella, unwilling to reveal his arousal to the other girl’s bold gaze, but Sasha ran a fingernail down his sweat-soaked shirt, and he grimaced at the touch.

  “Sasha, let us be.” Ella’s voice had a tired edge to it, which made Stephen all the more frustrated. He straightened finally and turned to look down at Sasha.

  “What is it that you want?” he growled.

  “No, pretty man, what is it that you want? Because if it’s what you’ve been doing with our housekeeper, I’ll have to get Millie to set you up a tab.” The girl smirked, and Stephen set his jaw. He resented what the girl was implying, even though it lined up with his own thinking of only a few minutes before. He didn’t let the incongruity bother him though as he spoke in clear tones to Ella.

  “The Tooles have invited us to dinner on Wednesday evening to thank us for saving Jackie. I’ll see you about five p.m. unless something interferes . . .” He let his gaze brush coldly over Sasha, then took his leave from the garden.

  He hated to think of Ella finishing the mountain of laundry by herself but realized that he’d probably only cause her more trouble if he went back. He walked to the station in a subdued frame of mind, trying to understand how quickly he lost control with Ella Nichols . . .

  * * *

  Ella entered the kitchen later that morning to find Mrs. Rob, a comfortable-looking woman from town, already hard at work baking ham and making piecrusts for the coming party. “Now,” the older woman chirped cheerfully, “you sit right down and have some tea before you do anything else, Miss Ella. Tea is good for a mother’s constitution.”

  “You know about the baby?” Ella asked, accepting the tall, cool glass of tea with gratitude. “And you don’t have to call me ‘miss’—I fear it would only upset Miss Millie and some of the other girls.”