Her eyes were weary, her face beet red. She wore a pair of ragged edged jean shorts with an oversized T-shirt.
She dropped her hoe and grabbed the tail of her shirt. He cleared his throat to expose his presence, but she didn't hear him. She tugged the shirt over her head and threw it. He looked away, but back again quickly, his eyes widening.
Why was she undressing in the yard? She wore a white tank top that fit so snuggly it unveiled every curve of her body. It wasn’t appropriate, but he couldn’t steer his eyes away. She lifted her hoe and started swinging again, oblivious to the fact that he was there.
Apparently, she saw nothing wrong with working outside in her underwear. He would hate himself for it later, but he wanted to memorize every inch. Her long slender arms bulged slightly when she lifted the hoe. Everything about her was beautiful. Paul followed the length of her body until his gaze came to rest on her feet, and the squirming object behind them. Terror stricken, he bolted from the barn.
8
It had been fourteen days since her conversation with Paul in the garden. Fourteen days since she'd seen that smile that smothered her skin with goose bumps. Fourteen days of admiring his handiwork and longing for Friday. The day she'd be home to see him again.
It had finally arrived, but he wasn't here.
Maybe that wasn't a bad thing. Her nerves were like frenzied tentacles coiling through every vein when she found herself anywhere near the man. Serving wrong orders would've been a sure way to lose her job her first two weeks of work.
Feeling faint from the heat, Rachel stopped to rest and admired the first few rows free of weeds. Would Paul approve?
Where is he?
The sun burned her shoulders, and her parched throat ached. She had already taken her shirt off, but that produced little relief.
“Rachel, don’t move.”
Dizziness swept through her at the sound of Paul's captivating voice behind her.
She searched for his buggy, but didn’t see it. Where had he come from?
Oh no, her shirt.
She began to turn for where it lay on the ground.
“Nein! Stay very still.”
Startled, she obeyed, her torso in a half-twist, bringing them face to face.
He was staring at the ground near her feet. “Give me your hoe. Slowly.”
She handed it to him, terrified of his concentrated look.
After he gave one brutal chop into the earth, she turned to look behind her. Not one stride distant lay a separated copperhead, it's body still squirming. She gasped. The sky darkened and foggy white bursts of dots flashed before her eyes as she faded into a world of nothingness.
Opening her eyes, she found herself lying flat on the porch. Paul sat on the balls of his feet leaning slightly over her to her right and uttering her name. He held her gaze, never blinking. She pulled forward, her head pounding at the sudden shift. Regretting the decision to sit up, she leaned back. “What happened?”
Instead of meeting his gaze, she zeroed in on his chest. “You fainted.”
“I’m terrified of snakes.”
He laughed and the deep-throated sound was unexpected and soothing and compelling all at once. “Are you still lightheaded?”
“A little, yes …”
He leaned so close she could feel his breath. A fresh clean scent mixed with damp earth clung to him. “You should take it easy until you feel better. Do you want me to help you inside?”
“No.” She swallowed hard. “But thank you.” Her head continued to pound, and she stretched her fingers across her forehead. “How did I get up here?”
His deep laugh broke through the moment, relieving the tension. “I carried you. Your mom isn’t here, and I couldn't lay you down in the sun.” The color in his cheeks deepened, and his eyes sparkled.
She had fallen into him? “I’m so sorry.”
He pushed himself up with both hands, his muscles bulging from the effort. “I’m just glad you're okay. Let me help you stand.” He took her hand and helped her up, then led her to the swing. “I’ll be right back.”
Her mind raced. How long had he been here? Images of Paul carrying her in his arms assailed her. His footsteps sounded on the porch. Rachel straightened her tank top, leaving a trail of dirt across the white fabric.
He offered her a tall glass of lemonade. “Here, drink this slowly. It should make you feel better.”
Rachel brought it to her dry lips. The juice dribbled down her chin and onto her shirt. Paul reached out his hand as though to wipe it, but stopped.
A frisson of awareness trailed through the air between them.
“Thank you. I’m okay now. I don't want to keep you from your work.”
“I haven't taken my lunch break yet. I'm in no hurry.”
Rachel wanted him to leave. But didn't. Would he stay? What was wrong with her?
“Paul ... I didn’t know you were here. I would've never …” her words caught in her throat.
A small frown appeared. One she couldn't interpret. “It’s okay.” He left the porch and within minutes came back and handed her the neatly folded shirt.
“I should’ve let you know I was there.” He gave her a smile that sank through her skin all the way to her bones.
She blushed as she slipped the shirt over her head. He was watching me. “Thank you.”
He hypnotized her with his gentle gaze as he slid a chair across the porch and positioned it facing her. It was nothing like the first few times he'd looked at her.
His smile faded, allowing nothing but compassion to linger in his gaze. “Drink as much as you can, but slowly.”
Rachel took small sips, avoiding his eyes. They fell on his lips instead, and she instantly wanted to bury her head in her arms.
“You shouldn't weed in the heat of the day.” He glanced at her feet. “And it would be better to wear ... different shoes.” She was struck by the alarm in his features, by the determination in his voice. It was as if he feared something dire would happen to her.
Rachel felt it again, the way her feminine instincts awakened in his presence. She lowered her chin to hide her smile. “I'll be sure to start in the morning from now on. And I promise to wear different shoes.”
“Gut.” He reached toward her, pulled off the glove still attached to her left hand, and placed it on his lap. She stared blankly at her bare hands hoping he didn't notice the heat in her cheeks. “You shouldn't need these for awhile.”
She spread her hand across her shorts, wiping away the sweat gathered on her palm. “I forgot I was wearing that.”
“It's gut to see the color's finally coming back to your face.”
He did notice. And she couldn't even look away. The magnetic pull he had on her was stronger than any embarrassment demanding her attention.
“You had me worried there for a minute.” His tone remained sincere.
“I should've known better.”
He raised his brow. “You've worked a garden before?”
She loved this, sitting across from him. Much as she wanted to laugh, she looked across the yard, binding the giddiness easing to the surface. “No. I've never even thought about it.”
“I've spent a lot of time around other Englisch teenagers, but never have I met one who wanted to plant a garden.”
“Yeah. I sort of jumped in headfirst. I had no idea what I was doing. But I wanted to try something productive.” Anything to give her something to do. She skipped that part. There was no reason to complain. Especially not here, not now.
“I'm impressed.” The look in his eyes took her breath. It was as if he wanted to stretch their time together as badly as she did. “That's for certain sure.”
Losing the battle against his gaze, she blinked several times. “Thank you. That means a lot coming from you, an experienced Amish farmer.”
For several seconds, he only stared at her. Again giving the impression he didn't want to leave yet. “I grew up on a farm, and still do my chores, but I'm no farmer.
I'm much more at ease with wood,” he said, his blue eyes gleaming.
She wanted to say his work was impressive, that she couldn't believe the difference in only one full week, but her mouth and brain didn't cooperate.
“Your mom wants me to pull up all the bushes in front.”
“I knew she would. I'm hoping she'll plant a flower garden.” Her gaze followed the bushes lined below the porch. “The smell of fresh flowers, and all the colors would be ...” healing ...“nice. Especially this time of year.”
“You're into flowers?” He gave her a lazy smile as he stretched out his legs. They were long, and she could tell they were strong. The way he had pulled her to her feet, like she was light as air. There was nothing about this man that appeared weak. She shouldn't keep staring. “I am too.”
She laughed. “No, you are not.”
“Are you saying just because a man isn't a farmer, he's no good with flowers?” His head tilted to the side. “I'm no good at corn or alfalfa, but with flowers, I have the greenest of thumbs.” He held out his fingers and she wanted to touch them.
She pushed her hands beneath her legs. Something about being with him lifted her spirit. Her laughter was once again real.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you.” She shifted awkwardly. “I'm so glad you were there. And so glad I didn't see that snake before you. I would've tried to climb on your head.”
He laughed. It was an easy sound. All those hesitancies she once thought she perceived seemed forgotten. “I'm glad I was there and glad you're feeling better.” He stood, keeping his gaze locked with hers. “I should probably get back to work.”
She didn't want the moment to end. But she had no choice but to let him go.
“I’ll be right over there.” He turned and started down the steps. “Call out if you need me.”
“Thank you.” She waited until he disappeared around the corner before she swayed toward the door, still feeling woozy.
Was the feeling from earlier or the way their gaze lingered? She would die of embarrassment if she passed out again.
She thought of how he'd carried her before … and how, unfortunately, she'd missed the whole thing.
9
Rain beating against Rachel’s bedroom window woke her on Monday morning. She snuggled tighter under the sheets as memories of Friday crept into her thoughts. Pulling the comforter to her face, she couldn't stop dreaming.
He was amazingly easy to talk to, this Amish man who'd entered her life. Every encounter she had with Paul made the scales tip in favor of staying in this small town─of even being happy about it.
After making her bed, she stepped into the bathroom. She grimaced, remembering Mom’s face when she'd first seen the shower and toilet. Puke green, she'd called it.
The changes Paul made were incomparable. She no longer recognized this room. His work was brilliant. He had a gift. There was no doubt. New tile, new shower, new vanity ... new life.
A life without her daddy.
If only her own private world could be as trimmed and polished. Staring at her reflection, she quoted a verse. “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Psalm 5:10.”
After watching reruns for over an hour, she pulled her sweatshirt hood over her head and ran from the back porch to the barn. She climbed the ladder and settled into her favorite, plush softball blanket on the corner bench in the loft. Rain trickled against the tin roof, the sound soothing. Opening her book, she started where she left off, hoping to lose herself in the world of the Amish.
The damp air soaked through her skin, so she tucked the blanket under her chin.
Thirty minutes later, the barn door opened and slammed shut. Rachel’s heart leapt to her throat. God is your refuge and strength ... She pressed her palm to her chest and exhaled. Mom.
“I’m up here.” Her feet scrambled in the hay as she moved to the railing and peeked over the edge. She stiffened when Paul lifted his head at the sound of her voice.
“Hullo, Rachel.”
“I thought you were ... I didn’t realize you were working today.” The thought of another close proximity with him threw her into action. She moved toward the ladder. “I can go back inside.”
Paul shook his head. “Nein, you don’t have to leave. I’m just grabbing my wrench.” His smooth, tranquil voice sharpened her senses. “What are you doing up there?” The brim of his hat shaded his eyes, hiding the gleam that surely matched the tease in his voice.
“Reading,” she said, thankful her voice didn't reveal that horrible quiver identical to the one bouncing all over her stomach as she settled back onto the bench. She reopened the book, but it would be impossible to concentrate with Paul below.
“What're you reading?”
Not expecting that question, she lurched to her feet. She would die if he knew she was reading an Amish romance. “A ... uh, it's fiction.” She stared at the book, like she would a stick of dynamite waiting to explode.
“Do you read a lot?”
“Yep, ... I uh ... when I have time.” The clumsy words fell out, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Something about being alone with Paul again made her jumpy. “I thought I'd have more time here, but haven't had much at all. Surprisingly.” Please leave. Her pulse quickened at the shuffle of his footsteps climbing the ladder. And then suddenly, he was standing at the top. His gaze held hers, as he diminished the distance between them.
As she took a step back, her blanket tangled around her legs. The book slipped from her grasp and landed on the hay bordering his feet.
“Nice reading place you have here.” He removed his hat, rain dripping onto the wooden floor then he grabbed the book. He started to hand it back to her, but hesitated. “Shunned.” He read the title in a whisper. His gaze reclaimed hers, his expression blank, his silence deafening. He handed the book to her.
Heat burned her neck and seared all the way up to her head.
Finally he met her gaze. “You're reading an Amish book?”
“It’s just a silly story.”
Turning, he raked his fingers through his hair before replacing his hat. “I found my wrench and thought I’d say hullo.” He fumbled with it and hurried down the ladder without saying another word.
Rachel followed him. She didn’t know how with her knees quaking beneath the heaviness settling on her. Or why. She just needed to.
He had already reached the yard when she caught up to him and grabbed his arm. “Paul, wait.” A sudden stream of rain drenched her within seconds.
He shifted his focus toward the house. “You should go inside.” His voice sounded rusty, his mouth drawn tight.
She raised her voice, the rain drowning out their words. “I want to talk to you.”
“What’s so important you would come out here and get soaking wet?”
She didn't reply, but drew in a deep breath willing her stomach's foolish fluttering to dissipate.
“Let’s at least go back inside the barn.” Paul gestured with a jerk of his head.
“Are you upset with me?” Rachel asked, ignoring his advice to follow him. The rain beat against her face, stinging her cheek.
“Nein. Please go inside, you’re getting soaked. You'll be sick.”
Her shoulders slumped slightly under his gaze. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
The rain changed direction and beat against his face.
“Eefeldich. This is ridiculous. There’s no reason we should be discussing this. I work for your mamm. You’re Englisch and I’m Amish.” His voice remained calm, though the rain continued to pour.
“What does that matter?” The rain fell into her mouth as she spoke. Mascara was burning the back of her lids, and she could barely keep her eyes open.
“Our lives our different. We have nothing in common.” He stopped and the rain slowed for several seconds.
She heard his words, yet couldn't believe what he was saying. Especially after the way he had protected he
r Friday, the way he looked at her. “I thought we could be ... friends.”
“Rachel, you will make many friends here, but you and I? It wouldn’t be a good idea.” His voice may have been controlled, but his words pounded against her like bricks.
“Okay.” She paused, giving him a chance to change his mind. To tell her he didn't mean it. But he said nothing. He just stared at her with confused interest, proving her foolish for ever having thought otherwise.
She lifted her hands, but then let them fall. Her stark laughter matched the emotions zigzagging through her. Surprise. Anger. Humiliation. “I’m sorry for bothering you.” She took off, running for the house. When she was safe inside, her breath caught and couldn't reach her lungs.
She hadn't been able to take a full breath since that horrible day over a year ago. It felt as though a knot pressed between her chest and heart and suffocated her. Slowly, each day. More and more, until she thought she would give completely out of air.
How could she have let herself believe things would get better here? Or that he would want to be friends? She climbed the stairs to her room, and found her warmest pajamas, the ones she never had to wear in Florida.
It rained all afternoon, and she stared through the window, the tightening in her chest strengthening with each hour. Paul stayed in the barn. She had kept him from working too.
After hours of feeling sorry for herself, she finally trudged downstairs to start dinner. She opened a cookbook and pulled out the ingredients for chicken tetrazzini, hoping it would keep her mind off him.
As the noodles were cooking, Rachel sautéed chopped mushrooms, onions, and peppers. She remembered every word Paul said. Why did it matter that they had nothing in common?
She drained the water from the noodles. After mixing the cream of mushroom soup and sour cream with the cooked noodles, she added the vegetables, and placed everything in a glass dish. Why would it be better if they weren’t friends?
She shredded a cup of sharp cheddar cheese. Despair rolled in her stomach as the meaning of his words settled in. He didn’t want to give her the wrong impression, so he didn’t even want to be friends, because he had no interest in her at all.
Chasing Paradise Page 5