Sarah's Garden (25 page)
She also took time each day to be outdoors or in the barn with the animals. It was her job, in the winter months, to tend the small flock of sheep that Father kept as a concession to
Mamm
, who liked to spin yarn the old-fashioned way for decorative threads in her quilts and rugs. Sarah had discovered in November that one of the older ewes was pregnant and had shared this surprise with the family.
“
Ach
,” Father had laughed. “A Christmas lambing means a blessed spring.”
Sarah hoped that he was right.
G
rant struggled to stay away from the King farm as much as possible. No one had seen or heard from Matthew Fisher, and there were no more fires. Grant busied himself with calls and checking up on past patient animals and accepted more
Englisch
invitations as the holidays approached. He went with Bustle to pick out a large tree that they cut at a traditional Christmas tree farm, and he wrestled it inside and drank Mrs. Bustle ’s secret-recipe hot chocolate afterward. But his heart wasn’t in it, wasn’t in much of anything if truth be told, and he wrestled hard with images of Sarah.
On the day before Christmas, he ’d just settled the last of the boxes of ornaments at the base of the tree and prepared for Mrs. Bustle to offer placement suggestions when a knock sounded at the front door. He dragged himself to get it, and he recognized Sarah through the glass, bundled up in a head shawl and holding a festive basket. He ran his hand through his hair and then opened the door with a smile.
“You’re just in time. Mrs. Bustle ’s least favorite thing to do is decorate the tree, so I do it for her. Now you can help.” He rushed the words out, half-scared that she ’d disappear from sight if he stopped talking or said the wrong thing.
“I brought you and the Bustles a few gifts.” She shifted her feet under the weight of the basket, and he took it from her.
“Did you walk over here with this? It weighs a ton.”
“Exercise is good for me.”
He placed the basket on a side table and reached to help her unwind her shawl.
“Will you help with the tree?” he asked, like a small boy begging for a sweet, and she smiled.
“
Jah
—I never have before, though.” She untied her bonnet and adjusted her
kapp
, and he had to resist the urge to brush a loose tendril behind her ear. He hung up her shawl instead.
“Mrs. Bustle? Miss King is here and has offered to help with the tree.” He led the way into the parlor, and Mrs. Bustle immediately got to her feet.
“Good, I’m glad you’re here, honey. I’ve got pecan tarts to finish baking and the tree is not my favorite thing to do. You two go on and have fun.” Mrs. Bustle started out of the room when Sarah remembered the basket. She ran and got it and then gave the older woman a hug.
“It’s just some simple things I thought you and Mr. Bustle might enjoy.”
“Why, thank you, sweetheart! I’ll take a look right now in the kitchen.” She left with the hefty basket, and Sarah turned to Grant.
“I wasn’t sure I should come. You . . . seem to be busy.”
He looked at the tree. “Yeah, really busy. Come anytime, if you’re permitted.”
She seemed surprised. “Why shouldn’t I be permitted?”
“I don’t know. Do you believe in garland first or baubles?” He bent to the stack of boxes and withdrew a blown-glass ball that mirrored a snowflake falling deep inside.
She smiled. “Whatever you like best.”
I like you best
, he thought, but shook his head. “It’s all the same to me.”
“
Ach
, then the baubles please. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”
“As the lady wishes.” He knelt and with a flourish pulled the lids off the boxes of straw-nested ornaments. “Do the Amish have a Christmas tree?”
She knelt beside him and stroked an iridescent pink ball. “No, we have a present table. And no Santa Claus. We draw names for gifts; I got Luke.”
“And what does that good fellow want?”
“A saddle for Shadow, to race him in the spring.”
Grant rolled his eyes. “It’s either race cars or horses with boys, isn’t it?”
“I suppose they’ve got to have some fun . . . even grown-up boys and their red cars.”
He put a hand out to touch her arm, then dropped it. “I’ve missed you, sassy girl.”
“Me too.”
He wanted to kiss her right then but knew he could not, not without starting the whole process of weaning his heart from her again, so he just smiled instead.
She reached into the folds of her apron pocket and withdrew a small, brown-paper-wrapped gift, tied with a single strand of green ribbon, and handed it to him.
“It’s just a little thing . . . for you. For Christmas.” She blushed and he took the gift with a tightness in his throat. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to get her something. He ’d wandered around Lockport, staring at hundreds of beautiful things, but he thought she ’d find them vain and he hadn’t planned on seeing her, not wanting to upset her father.
He opened the paper and marveled at the craftsmanship of the pocket knife.
“Mr. Stolis . . . he carves them and puts them together. I thought you might use it for work or around the farm.”
He didn’t speak and she rustled among the ornament boxes.
“Do you like it? Perhaps you have another . . .”
“Dozens,” he admitted. “But none like this. I’ll cherish it.” He cleared his throat. “I—didn’t have time—no, that’s not true. I couldn’t decide what to get you because I wasn’t sure. Will you tell me what you want, please? Anything at all?”
She smiled and his heart melted. “Just this. Just this time with the tree; I’m happy.”
He drew a deep breath and nodded in agreement.
F
ather, the ewe is having trouble with the birth. Shall I call for Dr. Williams?” Sarah whispered the words so as not to distract the fun. It was Christmas Eve and everyone was gathered around the fire listening to jokes and familiar family tales.
Father nodded, involved with Uncle Zebediah’s storytelling.
Indeed, all of the family was engaged in the tale, holding their sides or wiping their eyes with laughter.
Sarah pulled on her wraps and
Mamm
’s coat and went out into the brisk cold of the starry night. Christmas Eve. She smiled as she blew out a stream of frosty breath and gazed at the lights in the Fisher farm across the way. She decided that a quick run across the half mile of frozen field would be the best way to reach the doctor. She ’d only gone a few feet when she realized that her feet were freezing and that she had to break through the icy top layer of snow with each step, but she persevered with thoughts of the straining ewe forcing her to plunge onward, despite the fact that it had begun to snow.
When she mounted the steps of the doctor’s house, she could hear the strains of Christmas music playing from inside. It seemed as though the doctor had guests, given the blur of color and movement that she could observe through the glass-paned door, and she bit her lip, not having thought of this. Still, she knocked and Mr. Bustle opened the door.
“Miss King . . . whatever are you doing out in this cold? Please come in.”
Sarah stepped inside, only too aware now of her oversized clothing and soaking feet. The shawl she ’d wrapped around her bonnet also dripped with snow and she stared at the puddle she was making on the floor.
“Why, look what the cat dragged in.” An
Englisch
woman in a startling red dress stopped in front of her. Sarah glanced at the crystal glass the woman held filled with some mysterious bubbling drink. “Grant, come and see, one of those Amish girls, I think.”
Dr. Williams came through the slight crush of guests, dressed in a magnificent dark suit, white shirt, and wine-colored tie.
“Sarah . . . what is it?” he asked, accepting the blanket Bustle produced and enveloping her in it.
“I shouldn’t have come; I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s just that a ewe is having trouble delivering. If you could just tell me what to do . . .”
The woman in the red dress laughed. “Mary had a little lamb . . .”
Grant turned. “Bustle, would you mind serving Miranda some coffee . . . black, if you please. And I’ll get my bag.”
“A case, sir?”
“Yes, at the Kings’. I should be back shortly. Please keep the party going.”
Sarah shivered when they went back out to the car, aware of her sopping feet, but also feeling distinctly angry and curious about the woman in the red dress. Grant turned the heater on full blast. “I’m sorry about Miranda. She’s not always aware of the impact of what she says.”
Sarah said nothing, her teeth chattering, her temper churning.
“Why didn’t one of the boys come?”
“They’re having fun with my uncle,” she explained with a frown. “The sheep are mine to tend in the winter anyhow, but I certainly did not mean to interrupt your party.”
“You didn’t interrupt, but a winter lambing?” He shifted gears as the car began to slip on the icy road. “How did that happen?”
“I don’t think I need to be explaining that to a doctor, do I?” she shot back, and he laughed.
“There’s that sassy mouth of yours. All right, Miss King, you’ve got me, but do tell me how it is that this event is not in the spring. Are you trying alternate breeding techniques?” His voice was serious, but all she could think of was the women in the vile red dress. She tried to chide herself into extending a spirit of goodwill toward the woman but couldn’t quite do it.
“Are you listening?”
“Of course,” she replied icily.
She felt him glance at her. “Okay, well then, I actually can’t think of anything more symbolically wonderful than a lamb on Christmas Eve, can you?”
She shook her head, realizing the importance of his observance. She prayed to herself then that the lamb would survive as a celebration of the Lamb of God’s birth and tried to dismiss the other woman from her mind.
They pulled past the gathered buggies and horses, and Sarah clambered out and headed toward the barn. The doctor looped his bag over one arm and caught her close with the other when she slipped on an icy patch.
When they entered the barn, the warm, mellow light of the kerosene lanterns and the warmth of the animals’ bodies greeted them. Sarah led him to the stall where the ewe labored and was disappointed to see that she ’d made no progress.
Grant took off his coat and suit coat, and he loosened his tie. He rolled up his sleeves and started to scrub up.
“Do you think it’s breech?” he asked, approaching the animal.
“No, but it’s got one foot back and I can’t bring it forward. I’m afraid of hurting her.”
“Well, you’re right,” he said after a brief examination. “The secret is hooking a finger around the front foreleg and then wiggling it bit by bit into place. Do you want to try?”
“
Ach
, no. She ’s been laboring too long.”
“The heartbeat’s strong, and there ’s no twin there. Come here and have a go.”
Sarah sighed and did as he asked, not wanting to be near him when she knew that he had his party and guests . . . or
guest
. . . to return to. She rolled up her sleeves and disinfected her hands and arms, applying the proper lubricant in abundance.
She knelt down, smelling his familiar soaping, and swallowed back tears. She ’d missed him so, even in such a short time as it had been since that afternoon, but he must not feel the same.
“Okay, now picture things inside there in your head. Think about the positioning of the leg; forget about what you’re feeling and try to ease it back around.” Sarah did as she was told, trying to concentrate, and felt the delicate limb begin to slide forward into place. In less than two minutes, the lamb was born and the mother was licking it clean. Sarah laughed aloud for the joy of the moment as they both plunged their hands into the bucket of fast cooling, soapy water that she had brought out from the house.
The doctor began to roll down his sleeves, his blond head bent and his thick lashes catching on the light of the lamp.
“What’s wrong, Sarah?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Lies, and on Christmas Eve too . . . What has become of your virtue, Miss King?” His tone was teasing and she wanted to smack him a good one.
“My virtue? My virtue . . . why, who are you to talk about virtues when you’re attached to that . . . that . . . woman!” She rose to her feet and glared at him.
He got up too, one sleeve hanging loose, and stared at her like she ’d lost her wits. “Woman? What woman?”
“
Ach
,” she snapped. “You’re impossible.”
He caught her by the arm and she jerked away so hard that she would have fallen backward if he hadn’t caught her. “What woman?” he asked again seriously, and she sneaked a glance at him.
“The one in the red dress.”
“Red dress? You mean Miranda?” He threw back his handsome head and laughed and she longed to kick him in the shin.
She was just taking aim when he looked down at her. “Sarah?” He stroked her arms. “Miranda is my cousin.”
She opened, then closed her mouth.
He looked into her eyes. “There is no other woman, none but you.”
She caught her breath at his words as his hands encircled her waist. “I’m sorry. I was—”
“Jealous?” he supplied gently.
“Very. I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven.” He leaned down to press his lips to the delicate line of her throat and she arched her neck.
“Oh, Grant . . . ,” she whispered.
He seemed to shake himself then and let her go, stepping away to concentrate on the wrist buttons of his hanging sleeve while Sarah grappled with her emotions. She watched him struggle with the button and had a sudden urge to do it for him. Though the Amish in her community did not use buttons on men’s sleeves, she saw herself buttoning his sleeve, not only now, but for a thousand times to come. She understood with blinding clarity in the idea of that simple act of service that she loved him. Her heart began to pound, and her mind raced as she tried to trace time through seconds to discover when she had first started loving him and decided that she had all along.
