Threads of Grace (2 page)

Today God had given her roses, and their heady scent called up romantic images of a tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed Amish man, someone who would cherish her and love her forever.

The fantasy gave Grace the sense of floating, flying, defying gravity. But as she approached the farm, her steps grew heavy.

A horse and buggy stood out front, belonging to their neighbor, Silas Beiler. He was a stern old man who owned the adjoining property, and despite her parents’ attempts to hide it, Grace knew that her family was in debt to him after a bad harvest the previous year.

Grace didn’t like the Amish widower. She always felt as though the thickness of her dress and apron were never enough to shield her soul from the pious condemnation in the man’s dark eyes. Whenever she passed by, he would raise his bushy eyebrows in an expression of pained contempt. Just the thought of him made her shudder.

But the roses were wilting in her apron, and she’d dallied long enough. She’d slip in through the back kitchen door, put them in water, and make herself scarce until he left. Thankfully, Mr. Beiler never accepted the courtesy of staying for a meal.

Holding her apron ends together with one hand, Grace eased open the screen door and slipped into the coolness of the kitchen.

Usually the chatter of her little brothers and sister filled the house, but today the kitchen was eerily silent.

Silent, but not empty.

Her
mamm
sat at the pine wood kitchen table with her head bent in her hands. Her father stood near her, his shoulders slumped and rounded while he aimlessly patted her mother’s shoulder.

Only Silas Beiler stood erect, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression one of cold judgment. He looked up as Grace entered, and she felt the familiar chill that always descended upon her in his presence.

“
Mamm
, what’s wrong?”

Her mother looked up as if surfacing from a fog. She grasped Grace’s hand, and her sobs increased.

Grace looked to her father.
“Daed?”

Her
fater
chewed at his bottom lip for a minute, then finally began to speak, not looking at Grace but at a spot beyond her on the wall. “Grace . . .”

His voice faltered, and Grace felt her heart begin to pound. “What is it?”

“Mr. Beiler here . . . well, we’re deep in debt to him. I—I’ve borrowed a lot over the past year, and I can’t seem to get it paid back.”

“Tell the girl the truth,” Mr. Beiler demanded. “You are a failure as a farmer and do not know how to save a penny, let alone a dime. You are in dire conditions through no fault but your own, and because the Lord will not reward the efforts of the wastrel. Your wife is sick with her lungs as punishment for your sins—”

“Stop it!” Grace cried. “How dare you speak to my father that way? What kind of man are you? What kind of Christian? Our people help one another without counting the cost—”

“Grace . . .
ach
, please don’t.” Her mother squeezed her hand.

Silas Beiler stared at Grace. His eyes glittered and a thin smile curved his lips. “
Nee
, let the girl go on. She’s only showing the deficits I mentioned earlier. Which makes my proposal all the more gracious.”

Grace turned to her father. “What proposal?”

Her father’s blue eyes welled with tears. “Mr. Beiler has kindly offered to pay off all our debts, to him and to others. And provide money for the medicines for your mother’s asthma. He will allow us to live and work on the farm as his tenants and will see
that we have food and provisions and medicine if the year grows lean. We will not have to continually rely on the community. The bishop . . . the bishop approves of all of this.”

“Ach,”
Grace murmured. How difficult it must be for her
fater
to submit to becoming the tenant of such a miserable man.

“There is only one thing that Mr. Beiler requests.” Her father paused and drew a deep breath. “He asks for your hand in marriage.”

Grace almost laughed. “What? You can’t be serious?”

Then she saw the old man’s spine stiffen. He
was
serious. Dead serious.

“But,
Fater
, I . . . he . . . surely not.” She groped for words. “It is a . . . a kindness,” she said, stumbling on the word. “Yes, a kind and generous offer, but truly not necessary.”

Mr. Beiler drew himself up and scowled down his nose at her. “I assure you, girl, my offer is in full seriousness, and kindness has
nix
to do with it. The Lord has cursed you with a beauty that draws the eyes of man, but as my wife, you will learn discipline and compliance. I will, in fact, be saving your eternal soul. It is my duty, I have been convicted of this. I do not look forward to the burden, but I will be diligent. You may rest assured of that. Now, what is your answer—and I beg of you, girl, do not be a fool.”

Grace struggled to breathe. For a moment or two she cast about wildly, a small animal caught in a trap. Her parents avoided her gaze. When at last her eye caught her father’s, she saw a pleading in his expression, resignation mingled with grief. She was the eldest, called by the ways of her people to honor her father and mother, to help them. But she could not bring herself to say the words.

Instead she nodded once. Her father let out a sigh of relief. Her mother broke into a fresh round of sobbing.

“Very wise,” Silas Beiler announced. “I will make all of the arrangements. Good day.”

He walked across the scuffed pine floor and out the back door. In his wake, Grace looked down to see a single pink rose, trampled beneath his feet.

CHAPTER 1

P
INE
C
REEK
, P
ENNSYLVANIA

Nine Years Later

E
xactly how many women do you plan on kissing?”

Seth Wyse grinned at his older
bruder
, Jacob. “As many as it takes.”

The early morning sunlight of first summer played through the open barn doors and highlighted the reddish tones in Jacob’s long dark hair. Seth noticed with curiosity the way that same light illuminated the golden hairs on his own forearm. It amused him that newcomers never took them for brothers. Although both of them were tall and broad-shouldered, Seth had blond hair, blue eyes, and a ready smile. Jacob had dark hair, hazel eyes, and a brooding look about him.

“As many women as it takes to get the Widow Beiler out of
your head?” Jacob paused in currying the dark mare and shot a frown in Seth’s direction. “I thought you were over her. Besides, you’re starting to get more of a reputation than you already have among the women folk. One of these days some nice
mamm
is going to catch you in action, harness you to a bride, and that will be that.”

Seth sighed and shifted on the bale of hay where he sat. He had been a bit over the top with the girls lately, but only because he was so frustrated trying to imagine what a kiss with Grace Beiler would be like. Still, Jacob was right about one thing: Seth was obsessed with the woman—had been since the first time he’d laid eyes on her.

“Seth!”

“What?” He snapped out of his reverie to meet Jacob’s glare.

“For the third time, get up and do something. Get over her.”

“It’s not that easy. There’s something in me that’s drawn to the woman.”

Jacob sighed. “
Ach
, it’s the artist in you.”

Maybe Jacob was right. Perhaps Seth’s obsession with the lovely Widow Beiler did have some connection to his secret painting and charged dreams. But ever since Grace Beiler had moved to their small community a little over six months ago, he’d tried everything short of standing on his head to get her attention—or failing that, to get the desire to be near her out of his mind.

“At least Grace trusts you with her
sohn
,” Jacob said.

“Yeah, because of you. And Lilly. She likes Lilly.”

Jacob grinned. “I like Lilly too.”

“That’s right, big
bruder
. Go ahead and tease. You’ve got a
wife you can’t wait to go home to, a babe on the way, and you even have a dog. The perfect life.”

Jacob rolled his eyes. “Do you want a
hund
?”

“I want her to pay attention to me,” Seth said. “I just turned twenty-four. Maybe she thinks I’m too young. I wonder how old she is. Maybe if I was older, she’d look at me.”

“Age has nothing to do with love.”

“Danki,”
Seth said with a sour expression. “That helps a lot.”

A small figure appeared in the doorway and both brothers looked up. It was young Abel Beiler, breathless and sobbing.

“What’s wrong, Abel?” Seth moved toward the child. Abel had autism, a traumatic brain birth injury, and many developmental delays. He was hesitant with his trust. Seth had learned not to do anything with abrupt haste around the boy, as it only seemed to upset him.

The boy’s violet eyes, so like his mother’s, were huge in his pale face as he stared up at Seth. “Mama’s hurt. Her legs are stuck. Under . . . under some rocks.”

“Okay . . . okay. Tell me, slowly.” Seth put a gentle hand on Abel’s shaking shoulder. “Where is she?”

“In the garden at home. The rock wall fell down. She . . . she was planting flowers.”

Seth glanced at Jacob. “I’ll go.”

Jacob stepped in front of him and held out his hand to the boy. “Abel, come here.”

The child moved but still hiccupped with sobs. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” Jacob soothed. “I’ll stay here with you, and Seth will go see to your
mamm
, all right? It’s going to be okay.”

Seth heard the words from a distance as he threw the reins over their fastest horse, and then he began to pray.

G
race winced as she tried to hoist herself up on her elbows. She’d been foolishly working near a low, unstable rock wall, attempting to do some repairs and plant some flowers. Her shoe had caught on a jagged stone and the whole thing had given way.

She blew a dark hair off her brow in exasperation. Her
kapp
was askew. Her right foot hurt badly, and she couldn’t wriggle free of the weight of the stones. She had no choice but to send Abel to the Wyse farm for help.

She knew her son had been scared, and she uttered a prayer for his peace of mind. Yet she could not help hoping, as she gritted her teeth and tried another fruitless movement, that it would be Jacob Wyse who would come. Not Seth.

The less rational part of herself mocked her silent plea.
Of course you want Seth Wyse. Why else have you been avoiding him for six months?

Grace groaned and caught a fierce grip on her wayward thoughts. True, she had been avoiding him, but only because he was so
obvious
. So sure of his charm. And so
young
.

She could avoid him, but she couldn’t avoid the truth: for the first time in her life, she had met someone who attracted her. But for a hundred reasons, she couldn’t take the chance. It was too soon. Everything was too raw. There was too much risk. Too much pain.

She had come to Pine Creek to get away, to heal. To protect
herself and her
sohn
. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—jeopardize that for a handsome face and a quick smile.

Suddenly she heard the approaching hoofbeats of a single horse. Grace shielded her eyes against the summer sun and caught a glimpse of golden hair. She stifled a groan, anchored herself more sturdily on her elbows, and lifted her chin. She could strive for dignity, if nothing else.

He was off the horse and by her side in a moment. “Grace? How bad is it? Maybe we shouldn’t move you.”

He ran strong, practiced hands down the length of her legs to where the rocks lay. Shame burned like her skin at his touch, even through the fabric of her apron and dress.

“Do you mind?” she snapped.

He shot an incredulous look at her. “I’m trying to help you, not
touch
you.”

“Es dutt mir leed,”
she apologized in a whisper. “Of course. I need help. It’s mainly my right ankle, I think.”

As he began to move the rocks away, she took a deep breath and concentrated on looking up at the blue sky. Waves of pain drifted through her. But more than the pain, she was aware of the clean, fresh scent of him, like linen and green grass and life itself.

She bit her lip as he reached the last bit of the wall.

“Can you move anything?” he asked.

She began to ease her left leg out from the debris. Her black shoe looked dented and mashed, but she flexed her ankle and bent her knee. “I think this leg’s okay.”

He exhaled a sigh of relief and turned to the other foot. “I’ll try not to hurt you,” he said, his hand poised above her right leg.

But you will,
a voice inside her said
. You will . . .

She pushed the thought aside. “Go right ahead. I manage pain well.”

D
on’t hurt her. Don’t . . . don’t hurt her.
He repeated the words silently, like a prayer.