A Cowboy at Heart (16 page)

Jonas entered the barn with Amos at his side. The children were not in sight, though he heard the distant sound of childish voices drifting through the open doorway at the back side of the barn. He nodded toward the side wall, where they kept the barrels and boards they used as tables when they had church meals at their house, and Amos moved toward the opposite end of the nearest board.

Before he grabbed hold, Jonas looked at him. “They are
Englisch
, but their words make sense,
ja
?”

Worried creases appeared above Amos’s close-set eyes. “It is not our way to resist evil done to us, and yet what they propose is not resistance.” The crease deepened. “At least, not by us.”

“Is it wrong to grant them permission to follow their own
plans?” Though he was Amos’s elder by at least fifteen years, Jonas respected the wisdom the younger man had accumulated over the years and valued his opinion in matters of propriety and faith.

Amos shook his head. “As long as you do not lift a hand against another man, you are not guilty of wrong. Of that I am sure.”

Relief settled over Jonas, but doubt still nagged at a corner of his mind. “Bishop Miller advised gifting the property to the
Englisch
cow owner.”

“Advised?” Amos’s eyebrows arched high. “Or directed?”

Jonas thought back to the conversation a few days ago, when he’d taken his buggy to the Miller farm with the news that Jesse had been shot while acting on his behalf. The bishop’s exact words had been, “
Much prayer is required in this matter. Perhaps it would be best to make the land a gift
.” Jonas had been hard put to restrain signs of the anger and injustice that rose up in him at the words.

“Advised,” he replied firmly. If the bishop had directed him, he would have had no choice but to obey.

“Ah, then.”

Each man grasped the wide board and, with a silent signal, lifted in unison. They headed toward the opening with their burden between them, Amos walking backward in the lead.

When they arrived at the opening, Amos stopped. The look he gave Jonas was troubled, and he had difficulty maintaining a direct gaze. Instead, he fixed on the place where Jonas’s hands grasped the wood.

“Have you wondered lately if our bishop is…” He paused to swallow. “Distracted?”

Guilt flew at Jonas on powerful wings. The thought had
occurred to him many times over the past months. Before the lot had fallen to him, John Miller had been a jovial man, full of humor and laughter. The role of bishop was one he had accepted with a sense of commitment that few displayed, and the Lord blessed his leadership of Apple Grove. His administration of the district was done with care and the same good-natured humor he had possessed since boyhood. But now the man never laughed. Jonas couldn’t remember a time when he’d so much as smiled recently. Instead, he went about with a perpetual scowl carving lines in his sagging cheeks.

But discussing a bishop in a negative light was serious business. Jonas chose his words carefully. “Samuel’s death haunts him still. Hard, it must be, to lose your only son.”

“Hard for Ella too,” Amos persisted, “yet her soul has once again embraced the peace of Christ.”

Though guilt buzzed inside his mind, the truth of Amos’s words resonated in a deeper place. “
Ja
.” He nodded. “The bishop seems to cling to grief with clenched hands.”

Amos raised his head then, and Jonas found himself caught in a wretched gaze. “A bitter heart leaves no room for compassion. And is not compassion necessary for leadership?”

Jonas considered Amos’s meaning, and to his sorrow found himself in agreement. They had all witnessed Bishop Miller’s harsh judgment in stopping the traditional youth singings because he claimed they led to “inappropriate fellowship” between young, unmarried men and women. The entire district knew, though no one said, that the true reason had lain in the fact that his daughter-in-law, Katie, had emerged from mourning and attended her first singing since Samuel’s death. And had Bishop Miller’s harsh
judgment not threatened to infuriate Jonas not more than a week past?

But to accuse the bishop of letting his grief stand in the way of his administration of the duties
Gott
had bestowed on him?

Jonas did not filter the conflict from the gaze with which he returned Amos’s. Nor did he wish to continue this disturbing conversation.

“We must pray for our bishop,” he replied in an even tone.

A moment’s pause, and then Amos nodded before continuing to walk backward through the doorway with the table for their afternoon snack.

NINE

J
esse opened his eyes Thursday morning and, for the first time since the shooting, he didn’t feel like throwing up. A good sign. He turned his head, testing the pain, and was pleased when the movement resulted in no more than a dull ache.

He spied something on the bedside table that drew his attention. Once again, Katie had forgotten to take the whiskey bottle away after cleaning his wounds the night before.
Maummi
Switzer’s vigilance was slipping. He indulged in a grin as an idea occurred to him. He could have a little fun plaguing her.

Soft female voices drifted through the doorway that had been left cracked open a couple of inches. He heard the clink of a dish and then the sizzle of something frying on the stove. Bacon, judging by the delicious aroma that stirred up a rumble in his empty stomach. If he was real quiet, and they were intent on their tasks, he might have time.

Moving slowly, as much for stealth as caution for his weakened state, he rolled onto his side and then pushed himself upright. His vision swirled dangerously, and he squeezed his eyes shut until the world stopped spinning. There were only a few steps between here and the window, where the curtains waved gently in a cool morning breeze. The window looked out over the garden west of the house, so the sun was not yet visible, but a few clouds overhead glowed with a pink light that let him know the day was underway.

He grabbed the bottle by the neck. Standing required an effort that sent the world careening crazily again, but he managed not to fall or make any undue noise. Thank goodness for the empty chair someone had left beside his bed. The sturdy wooden back provided the support he needed to leave the mattress behind and cover the three or so feet to the window.

Once there, he kept a firm hold on the sill. Grasping the cork between his teeth, he twisted the bottle open. A soft
pop
set his heart to thudding, and not merely because he feared being overheard. The sound called to mind a passel of memories, not all of them unpleasant. For one moment, the sharp smell of whiskey overpowered the aroma of frying bacon, and he was tempted. One taste would do no harm, surely.

But when had he ever stopped with just one drink? Jesse knew that first taste would lead to another, and another, and another. This half-full bottle would be empty in less time than it took to sing a verse of “The Ol’ Cow Hawse.” And he’d be lost in a drunken fog once again.

With a hand that trembled from more than physical weakness, he thrust the bottle outside and tipped it. Amber liquid trickled out to wet the grass below him. Not all of it. No, that would be
sure to cause a ruckus. Only a little, enough to rouse
Maummi
’s suspicions.

That done, he recorked the bottle and, moving as cautiously as before, returned to bed. Only when he had seated himself and arranged the blanket over him did he set the bottle on the table—with an audible thud. Then he leaned back on the feather tick to wait.

Sure enough, they had been listening for him. The door opened and Katie entered. But where was
Maummi
Switzer?

“
Guder mariye
.” Katie’s smile brightened the room more than any candle could. “You are well this morning?”

He returned her smile absently, his gaze fixed over her shoulder. “Truth be told, my stomach’s a bit uneasy. Might have been something I ate yesterday.” He straightened his neck and projected his voice to carry past her. “Or maybe something I drank.”

As he had hoped,
Maummi
Switzer came scurrying into the room. She paused in the doorway, her gray brows gathered low over her eyes as her gaze swept over him.

Concern settled on Katie’s features as she crossed to his bedside. “Have you a fever?” Her hand felt cool against his forehead.

“Nah, I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”

Sure enough, the old woman’s gaze settled on the whiskey. With a sharp look in his direction, she strode to the table and snatched up the bottle. Her eyes flickered from him to Katie, and he clearly saw the struggle on her face. Should she say something or keep silent? Jesse had a hard time trying to hold back a snicker.

Finally, she turned and marched through the door, mumbling something about “
redding
up the room.” Chuckling, Jesse relaxed into the soft feathers. She’d fret about that whiskey all morning.

“I’m fine,” he told Katie. “It’s probably nothing more than an empty stomach tempted by that bacon I’ve smelled for a while now.”

She continued to study him for a long moment, and then she gave a small satisfied smile. “I will bring a plate soon.”

“No need for that. I can eat at the table like everybody else.” He couldn’t lie abed forever, could he? As long as they continued to mollycoddle him, he’d never get his strength back.

Her eyebrows arched, and he expected her to deny him. He released a sigh when she replied mildly, “I will prepare a place for you.”

After checking the wound on his back and placing a clean shirt and his boots within reach, she returned to the kitchen. As he slowly donned the shirt, he contemplated her response with a certain amount of satisfaction. If she’d still been worried about fever and infection and the like, she would have protested. He must be getting better. Certainly the whiskey she’d poured on his scalp last night hadn’t stung nearly as much as before, and he could hardly feel it at all on the bullet scar.

Time to get up outta bed, cowboy, and get back to work
.

Work. He paused in the act of easing the fabric over his weak right arm. And what work would that be? Protecting Jonas and
Maummi
Switzer from the conniving machinations of Littlefield was his immediate task, but what about afterward? Would he return to Luke’s place? The thought left him cold. Though Luke and Emma had gone out of their way to make him welcome, a man couldn’t live off of his friends forever, could he? Maybe he ought to claim his own hundred-and-sixty-acre parcel and start up a farm. True, in all the years he’d run cattle up and down the Chisholm Trail he’d never had much respect for sodbusters, but
in the past year he’d learned to enjoy working the dirt. There was a certain amount of satisfaction in harvesting a crop a man had planted with his own hands. And who said he couldn’t start up a small herd of cattle, as Luke had done? He could even build himself a house, like he’d helped Colin and Rebecca build theirs after the church was finished.

He slipped the shirt over his head and tucked the tail into the waistband of his britches. What good was a house without a family to live in it? On his own he didn’t need more than a privy and a one-room shack for when snow froze the ground and made it too uncomfortable to sleep outdoors. No need to build a whole house without a wife, and no decent woman would have him.