An Amish Wedding (13 page)

“Ally?” Rose asked softly, trying to piece the story together.

“
Ya .
. . the shelter is okay, but it’s no place for kids, and every family only has so much time that they can stay. When Sylvia’s time ran out, I just thought . . . I don’t know what I thought—that I could honor my mother by helping Sylvia have some type of home . . . Jim got into trouble with the law a couple months back. He’s in the local jail waiting for trial—I go see him when I can. Take him Ally’s pictures.”

Rose frowned. “But surely there are other
Englisch
means of help—housing, medical insurance . . .”

“Jim was afraid they’d lose the kids—if the police knew Sylvia was in the area and could question her, he was afraid they might charge her too.”

“Charge her with what?”

“Robbery. A series of home robberies. He said he was innocent, and I believe him.”

“But then you robbed from your own people to help them. Why didn’t you just go to the bishop and tell the truth?” Rose asked.

“The bishop . . . who’d want no part of
Englisch
law. Who’d not hide a woman and children—”

“You don’t know that,” Rose cried. “You’ve not only taken on the role of thief but also judge—of your own people, your own community. You’ve tried to do this all alone, and it’s not going to work anymore, Luke. Cold weather’s going to set in, and then what?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I ask you to keep the secret, Rose. Just a little longer. The trial’s bound to be soon.”

“And if Jim is found guilty? What will you do then?” she asked, closing her eyes against the thought.

“Please, Rose. Just keep the secret. Let me worry about the rest.”

“I don’t know what to do,” she said miserably.

He moved closer to her, and she could feel the heat from his body through his heavy black coat. “I shouldn’t have involved you, but this will work out. I promise.”

She looked him in the eyes and said the only thing she could think of. “I’ll pray.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

L
UKE CONCENTRATED ON A PARTICULARLY COMPLICATED
gouge in the wood he was working for Rose’s mantelpiece wedding gift. It didn’t help that he had to do it by candlelight and so late at night, but he couldn’t risk starting the generator up and waking his father.

He hadn’t seen Rose for a few days . . . not since the conversation behind the barn. And he wasn’t sure what she might be feeling about him at this point. She’d raised a lot of issues that made him think, but the thing that struck home the most was her idea that he was judging his own people.

He wasn’t sure when or how it had happened, but some way or another he’d come to a place in his head where he believed that the community would fail him. He sighed as he moved the lantern closer and bent over the wood.

“It was you, my
sohn
,” said a voice behind him.

Luke turned to blink at his father. “
Daed
? Why are you up?”

“I might ask you the same thing. But I can see by that workmanship that it was you and not Mark who did that burled elm piano front. It’s the truth,
nee
?”

Luke laid the tools carefully on the workbench and braced his hands on his crutches, shifting his weight from where he’d been leaning against the table. “It’s just a hobby,
Daed
.”

His father stepped closer and lifted the lantern high over the table with a work-worn hand. “A hobby? Such gifts from
Derr Herr
should never be wasted on a hobby. Wasn’t it you who told me something about speaking the truth and releasing pain? I’m afraid you’ve hidden much pain from me, Luke. And I’ve been too blind and selfish to notice.”

Luke met his father’s eyes in the light of the lamp. “I never wanted you to know,
Daed
. I am content to do the books. I know it’s a help to you.”

“Content? Perhaps, but not joyful, my
sohn
. Not working with joy and purpose as the Lord would desire.”

Luke hung his head. “
Nee
, sir.”

He heard his father put the lamp back on the table, then looked up as he was caught in the older man’s loving embrace. “Forgive me,” his father whispered.

“There’s nothing to forgive. Please don’t worry,
Daed
. We can go on as before.”

His father stepped away and clapped him on the shoulders. “Not one minute longer. We’ll find someone else to do the books. And you will take your place as a carpenter . . . as The Carpenter would have you do.”

Luke’s eyes welled with tears. He felt undone inside, like his secrets were slowly being revealed by
Derr Herr
’s hand, one by one.

“Danki, Daed. Danki.”

A
FTER EVERYONE HAD GONE TO BED
, R
OSE BEGAN TO
work on her wedding dress in earnest. She’d been to see Sylvia and the children only once since she and Luke had last talked. And she wasn’t sure how he was feeling, since she’d had no word from him. She sighed as she fingered the cloth of her wedding dress, wondering what the future held for them. Shadowy images of dark-haired children danced through her mind. Then she looked up from the kitchen table in surprise as Luke maneuvered himself inside the kitchen door with his crutches. She blinked, feeling her heart begin to pound, and wondered if she simply imagined his presence.

“Hiya!”
He smiled brightly.

She glanced with dismay from her wedding dress pieces back to his handsome face and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Nobody’s up. And I’m working on my wedding dress.”

“Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?” He slipped his hat off.

“
Ya
. . . I mean, no . . . I can’t ask you in. I told you—I’m working on my wedding dress. I thought it would be a surprise.”

He glanced at the fabric and pattern pieces spread about the table and turned his head a bit. “Suppose I don’t look? It’s blue, right?”

“You know every wedding dress is blue.”

He balanced on his crutches and swung his injured ankle absently. “True. But there’re all kinds of blue—the sky on a summer’s afternoon, the smoky blue of a kitten’s fur, the creek when the light dances off it until it stings your eyes with its beauty . . .” His voice dropped an octave. “Your eyes, when they’re a sleepy blue-green after you’ve been kissed.”

Rose’s mouth went dry as she tried to shake off the spell of his words. Since when did he know how to speak so . . . like he was touching her, though he stood across the room? She cleared her throat and clutched the pair of shears in her hand closer to her chest.

He smiled. “Nervous, Rose?”

“
Nee
. . . I just . . . need to get this work done,” she whispered.

“Speaking of work—I took your advice and told my father the truth. I’ve got a new job.”

“What?”

“He’s going to hire someone else to do figures for him. I want to work the wood. My hands ache for it.”

She couldn’t help glancing down at his strong hands as he spoke and thought about the moment in the old shack when he’d wound her hair about his hand. “I’m so proud of you,” she said and meant it.

“Are you? That’s
gut
.” He swung himself around to her side of the table and placed a finger against her lips when she tried to protest. “Shhh. I’m not looking.”

She fell silent under his touch and barely noticed when he reached with unerring fingers to lift a spool of blue thread from the table. He balanced on his crutches and started to unravel the thread.

“Luke . . . what are you doing?”

She watched him trail the end of the thread across her bare wrist, which was still the lightest purple from her sugar beets encounter. Then he feathered the blue line up across her arm and shoulder and used it to tickle the tip of her nose. She felt curious, like she was watching herself outside of her own body and could only follow in sensory delight wherever he led the thread. When he traced her lips, she closed her eyes, and soon his mouth followed where the blue had been. She lost herself in the deep silence of the kiss.

When he broke away, his breathing was ragged. “Guess I’m helping you thread your wedding dress.”

She bit her lip as an impulse shook her and she picked up the piece of thread where it trailed against her shoulder. “Are you? Then maybe you should do a little more work.”

She twirled the thread between her thumb and forefinger, then let it drift up across the high bones of his cheeks. She smiled up at his surprised grin and ran the thread behind his ear. Stretching on tiptoe, she let her lips follow the blue tendril down his neck, and he made a rough sound in his throat.

“Any work you like,” he whispered.

But the moment was broken by a frantic knocking on the back kitchen door.

Rose dropped the shears and brushed past him, pulling off the thread. Who could it be at this time of night?

She opened the door to reveal a bedraggled and panicked Sylvia. The woman held Ally in her arms and Bobby was asleep in a backpack on her back. “Please,” she gasped. “I just took a chance that this might be Luke’s house. Please do something. Ally’s having a bad asthma attack. She can’t breathe!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

R
OSE TOOK THE LITTLE GIRL INTO HER ARMS, ALARMED AT
the bluish tinge and the rasping intake of the tiny lips.

“Dr. Knepp’s,” Luke ordered. “I’ve got the buggy outside.”

“
Nee
, it’s too far.” Something compelled Rose’s heart. “We’ll go to Bishop Ebersol’s. His wife is an excellent healer.”

“All right,” Luke agreed reluctantly.

“Please, hurry,” Sylvia urged.

Luke made short work of the drive despite his ankle, and Rose flew from the buggy with Ally in her arms. She climbed the familiar steps of the Ebersol farmhouse and kicked at the solid front door.

A lamp soon cast eerie shadows on the porch and the shimmering fall of the child’s hair as Mrs. Ebersol stared out at them.

“Please,” Rose gasped. “She can’t breathe.”

Mrs. Ebersol was nothing if not practical; she urged them all inside at once. “Is it asthma like our John? Or the bronchitis?”

“Asthma,” Sylvia half sobbed.

Luke had taken Bobby from her back and stood with his weight on his ankle holding the sleeping child.

“The child needs steam to breathe in and some menthol. Our John used to have bad attacks. Bring her in here to the kitchen . . . I’ll wake the bishop when we’re through, though he’s probably already up.”

“Right here.” Bishop Ebersol moved quickly, bringing more lamps.

Mrs. Ebersol flew about the kitchen bringing various salves and herbs to where Rose sat holding the child at the table.

“Teakettle’s always on the boil when you’re a bishop’s wife. Now let’s make a little tent with this cloth and get her face as near to the steam and herbs as possible. The menthol and peppermint oil act like bronchodilators. Fancy word for opening the airways. That’s it. Breathe it in, little one.”

The kitchen was quiet as the child’s breathing slowly eased. Within minutes, Ally opened eyes and then coughed heartily, trying to pull back from the steam.

“No,” Rose crooned, gently holding back the small hands. “Just be still, Ally. It will help you breathe.”

In another ten minutes the asthma attack was under control. Everyone sat drained and silent for a moment when Mrs. Ebersol eased the teakettle away.

“What you folks need is some hot chocolate,” the bishop’s wife announced, tightening the belt of her voluminous housecoat. She rose from Ally’s side and laid a reassuring hand on Sylvia’s shoulder. “It’s all right now.”

She and the bishop moved about the kitchen with the accord of those long married, and soon steaming mugs of cocoa were placed on the table. Rose gave Ally back to Sylvia to hold when the child fussed for a drink.

“Let her have a sip,” Mrs. Ebersol suggested. “Is your car somewhere about? You’re welcome to stay here for the night. Perhaps Luke and the bishop might bring in your things.”

Sylvia raised a worried gaze to Luke and Rose. “I—I don’t have a car.”

Luke rose to his feet. “Bishop Ebersol,” he said clearly. “Might we talk for a few minutes in private?”