A Plain Love Song (35 page)
“Nothing’s ever your fault, is it?” Jackson’s tone softened to almost a whisper as he pivoted and moved away. The distance between them grew and she had the sudden urge to grab the back of his belt and hang on. The merest shred of dignity held her back. He ducked his head, still muttering. “Man’s best friend, yeah, right!”
What did he mean by that? She rushed into her room, nearly running, and shut the door without posing the question aloud. She leaned
against it, her throat aching with each breath. What was she doing here? What had she done? She felt like the Israelites stumbling around in the wilderness. She couldn’t bear forty years like this. She missed Mudder and the kinner. She missed Matthew.
The thought stung like an arrow that found its mark right below her collarbone. Right by her heart.
Gott, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m sorry. I’m lost.
“Adah, come on. I didn’t mean it. Come sing with me!”
The sound of Jackson’s voice, rough yet tender, hoarse with emotion, wound its way under the door and touched her cheeks and her neck. Shivering, she whirled and turned the old-fashioned key stuck in the door knob. She hadn’t felt the need to use it.
Until now. She couldn’t be sure if she were locking him out or herself in.
M
atthew rolled over and stared at his bedroom ceiling. After a few seconds he rolled to his side again, letting one bare foot hang over the side of the narrow bunk bed. Despite the open window within reach, the night air hung heavy, the humidity nearly choking him. No breeze ruffled the curtains. His nightshirt stuck to his chest, sodden with sweat. The sheets under him seemed hot to the touch.
The heat had never bothered him before. He preferred the deep warmth of the sun to the bitter cold that made his fingers feel brittle and numb even in the warmest of gloves. So why couldn’t he sleep now? He’d spent all day harvesting milo from sunrise to sunset with barely a break for the noon meal and supper. He should be weary to the bone. He was.
Just not sleepy. A song Adah used to sing while they drove into town popped into his head, the words whirling around in a circle. He wanted to capture them and throw them away. He wriggled until he lay on his back again. The darkness above him revealed nothing new.
“Go to sleep already.” Rueben’s voice floated from the big bed he occupied with Abram and Alexander on the other side of the room. “It’s bad enough we’re all packed in this room like sardines. All that tossing and turning isn’t helping.”
Rueben hadn’t complained before about sharing the room and the
bed. Probably because he liked having Elizabeth’s little sister Loretta around the house. “Then sleep.”
“I’d like to. Your wiggling around like a hog in a gunny sack and your bed squeaking ain’t helping.”
“Talking doesn’t help. You’ll wake the twins.”
“They could sleep through a tornado.” Rueben’s whisper grew louder. “Whatever’s eating you, leave it until morning.”
“What do you know about anything?” His brother had barely started going to the singings. As far as Matthew knew he didn’t even have a girl yet. “Your biggest worry is someone beating you to the last piece of bacon at breakfast.”
“With all these folks at the table, a guy could starve to death.” The hiss in Reuben’s voice softened. The boy did love to eat. Just the thought of food made him happy. “I may be younger than you, but I know better than to worry something to death the way you’re doing.”
Matthew knew better too. He simply couldn’t figure out how to stop it. The Bible said not to worry. Luke and Silas said not to worry. How did a man turn it off? Like a lantern knob? “Hush up and go to sleep.”
“If it’s about Adah, go get her back already so we can all get some sleep.”
Matthew sat up, the bed frame protesting. Rueben groaned and threw a pillow over his head.
Matthew ignored him as he leaned against the window and stuck his head out, trying to get a breath of fresh air, feeling as if he would never breathe right again. His chest would hurt until the day he died. Rueben was right about the worrying. Matthew had said his prayers for Adah before he laid down to a sleep that wouldn’t come. He should’ve received the peace that passed understanding. Gott’s will. Gott’s timing. His worry reflected a lack of faith he found troublesome. Gott might bring Adah back. He might not. Whatever happened, Matthew needed to learn to live with it.
Maybe God intended for him to go to Branson and bring her home. To return the lamb to the fold. Maybe God was waiting for him to strike out in faith and convince Adah her eternal salvation rested in returning to her community and her faith.
Luke and Thomas said to wait.
Daed and Mudder said to move on.
Groossdaadi said to follow his heart and not his head.
Even his little bruder had cast a vote.
Too many voices talking in his head. He couldn’t hear himself think. No wonder he couldn’t sleep. He needed a drink of water. He needed to cool his throat and his face. He jerked on his pants and padded barefoot from the room, across the hallway, and down the stairs. Halfway down, he heard a noise in the kitchen. A pot or a pan banged. Something like silverware clattered.
He paused, one foot on the next step down.
A thief stealing pots and pans. Didn’t seem likely. Thieves didn’t take time to cook and he could definitely smell the aroma of beef stroganoff wafting through the air.
They never even locked their doors at night. If someone wanted something, they were welcome to it provided they moved along without bothering anyone. However, he might draw the line at Molly’s beef stroganoff. It was mighty fine.
More likely someone else couldn’t sleep. It had to be at least ten-thirty or eleven. Who would be up at this hour?
He hesitated. Best to make sure it wasn’t Groossdaadi trying to cook for himself. He would start a fire and burn down the house if left on his own.
Suddenly feeling more urgency, Matthew sped down the remaining stairs and across the front room. He popped through the kitchen door, not giving the cook a chance to run out. Molly stood with a pot in one hand, her startled expression illuminated by the kerosene lantern hanging from its hook over the sink. “What are you doing up?”
Matthew followed her gaze to the person sitting at the kitchen prep table. Richard Bontrager.
“I…” He managed to close his mouth as he searched for the thing to say. He had no idea. None. He’d been—he could admit it—jealous when he’d seen Adah talking to Richard. “I was thirsty. I didn’t know anyone was up.”
“Evening.” Richard stretched his long legs under the table and planted both elbows on the pine. “It’s fiercely hot, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Matthew hesitated in the doorway. “I’ll just get a glass…”
“I’m heating up some of my beef stroganoff. Richard said he was a little hungry.” Molly stepped toward the counter, the pot still held high. “You want some?”
“Nee.” Matthew grabbed the first glass on the shelf and picked up the pitcher. His hands didn’t want to cooperate but he managed to fill the glass without spilling all over himself. “I’ll get out of your way.”
“No need to rush off.” Something in Richard’s tone said he was enjoying this strange little encounter. “Have a seat.”
Courting late at night was meant to be between two people. Three definitely became a crowd. “Nee. Got a lot of work tomorrow.”
“True. I’m still working with Peter Daugherty. At least two more days before I head to Tobias’s.”
Matthew edged toward the door. “Don’t look like rain anytime soon. We should be done with the milo by the end of the week.”
“Gott willing.”
“Gott willing.”
Matthew strode through the front room. Molly had a special friend. How could he have missed that? Did Mudder and Daed know?
“Matthew!”
Molly’s loud whisper forced him to stop at the bottom of the stairs. He turned. His sister smiled at him, her eyes bright in the lantern’s light. “Don’t say anything.”
“Courting is private.”
She nodded, her smile spreading. He’d never seen his sister look so happy. “It’s Adah’s doing, you know?”
Adah’s doing. “What do you mean?”
“She did a little matchmaking.” Molly’s expression turned wistful. “I was wrong about her. I wish I could thank her.”
She whirled and disappeared into the kitchen.
Adah the matchmaker. She’d done something nice for Molly before leaving and shattering the lives of her parents. Before shattering his life.
In all of this, Adah remained a mystery he couldn’t solve.
Y
ou need some different clothes.”
Surprised at Jackson’s tone, Adah looked up from the notebook she gripped between two sweaty hands. Her stomach did cartwheels, making it hard to sit still on the plush sofa. The waiting room with its tangerine walls hurt her eyes. The waiting room that led to where Mac McMillan was meeting them. She searched for a wastebasket and found one in the corner, all the while hoping she wouldn’t need to vomit it in. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“You can’t dress like a Puritan and expect people to notice you. Not for the right reasons, anyway.” Jackson shifted his guitar case on his knees. Despite being clean shaven this morning, he looked bleary eyed and groggy. He’d been silent and morose the entire drive into town. There had been no mention of the previous evening. Whatever heated emotion flowed between them only hours earlier now ebbed, leaving a cool expanse of empty space. “This town is all about the sparkle and shine.”
“I thought it was about the music.” She smoothed her apron, dropped the notebook, and leaned over to pick it up. It slipped from her damp fingers a second time. “I don’t want people to notice me. Only my music.”
“It’s a package deal. You gotta market yourself.”
“Market myself? I only want to write songs…and sometimes play
them.” Without being bothered by drunken cowboys. She kept that part to herself. “I don’t need to draw attention to myself with a bunch of shiny stuff.”
“We’ve been over this. With your voice, you could do so much more.” Jackson squirmed on his seat and pressed a hand to his forehead, massaging with two fingers the spot between his eyes. “You don’t have to be so contrary. Or talk so loud.”
“I’m not talking loud.” She raised the volume a little and took childish pleasure in his wince. “People who drink too much can expect to feel bad the next day.”
From what she’d heard. She’d found him sprawled on the couch, head back, mouth open, snoring so loudly the furniture seemed to shake. Even Captain had forsaken his owner and taken refuge in a corner in the kitchen. She’d given him an extra dog biscuit and a good scratch around his ears in thanks for his brave defense of her the previous evening. From the surly look on Charlene’s face at the breakfast table, she’d been the one to clean up the mess. Adah regretted that. Had the circumstances been different, she would’ve done it. The thought of Sam’s putrid breath on her face made her stomach rock again.
“I thought you guys were into forgiveness.” Jackson reminded her of her little brother whining about not getting to go hunting with the men. The thought wedged between her shoulders like the blade of an ax.
Don’t think about Abram. Or the rest of the family.
Jackson cleared his throat so loudly she jumped. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I’m trying not to, but your whining is coming through loud and clear.”
“Are you two fighting?” A tall, gaunt man wearing a gray cowboy hat clumped down the hall toward them in what looked like rattlesnake skin boots. He had an accent straight out of Texas. “No need. You’re both right.”
“Mr. McMillan.” Jackson stood. Adah followed suit. “Thanks for seeing us.”
“Call me Mac.” Mac looked Adah over through round rimless glasses that perched halfway down his bent nose. “I don’t usually do
this, but Clayton has a good ear for talent. I listened to your song and it wasn’t half bad.”
Was that a compliment? From the look on Jackson’s face it surely was. “Thanks. I—we appreciate that.” Jackson had developed a stutter. “Does that mean you’ll represent us?”
“Whoa, hold your horses. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Mac turned to Adah. “Turn around.”
“What?”
“Turn around. I want to see all of you.”
Feeling like a horse at the auction house, she did as she was told. Jackson struck a pose next to Mac. The two of them looking her over made Adah want to run for the wastebasket. Matthew had been right about the ogling.
“I’m thinking an electric blue cowgirl shirt, fringe on the sleeves, a matching skirt, more fringe, white cowboy boots. Hair loose down her back.” Jackson spoke to Mac as if Adah had left the room. “What are you thinking?”
“A little Dale Evans?” Mac shook his head. “Been done. You got yourself something different here. A novelty. A little singing Amish girl. A pretty one. Clayton was right about that.”
Jackson pursed his lips, his eyebrows drawn up on his forehead. “You think folks will go for that? I was thinking bling was the thing.”
“We got a lot of family shows here in Branson. The Amish thing is a different twist, a novelty. I could see one of the traditional shows letting her sing a song or two.”
