At Home in Pleasant Valley (35 page)

“Missed, but I'll get it this time.” He forced his voice to be calm. “Hold on, Becky. Only a few more minutes now.”

Slowly, painfully, he inched back up along the beam. It was harder this time, his strength waning. He readied the rope again. Breathed a prayer. Threw it. This time it swung around the beam, the knotted end dropping almost into his hands.

Gripping the ends, he wrapped them around his left arm, leaving his right free to grab Becky. With the stability the rope gave him, he moved up the beam.

Then he was as close as he could get, and he still wasn't quite close enough.

“Becky, I need you to help me, okay? I need you to bend just a little, so that you can reach for my hand.”

“I can't.” Her lips barely moved. “I'll fall.”

Be honest with her. “Maybe,” he conceded. “But if you do, I'll catch you.”
Please, Lord. Please.
“It's the only way to get you back down to your mammi. All right?”

She pressed her lips together firmly. Then she gave a slight nod.

“Wait until I give you the word.” He strained toward her, stretching until his muscles screamed. Sweat poured into his eyes, and he blinked it away. “Okay, Becky. Now.”

She wavered. Her small body bent slightly—her hand neared his, still a painful few inches away, but he couldn't quite reach.
Please, God—

Then, as her body tumbled from the beam, he got a glimpse of her white, terrified face, heard a cry from below, grabbed, held, and pulled her tight against him.

He couldn't move. He could only balance there, clinging to the rope, holding her close against him, feeling the frightened beating of her heart, so quick, so light, like a little bird in his arms.

Thank you, Lord.

He could breathe again, move again. He edged back down the beam, aware of the sounds below him, the others scrambling up the ladder to the loft.

Finally he reached the relative safety of the crossbeam. Becky's arms were tight around his neck, her tears wet on his shirt.

“Almost there,” he said. “You have to be brave a little longer, all right?”

She nodded, and he felt the movement against his shoulder.

He edged his way to the rough ladder nailed to the barn wall, his strength nearly gone. Would his leg hold them both to get down the rest of the way?

But he didn't have to find out. There was Aaron, already halfway up the ladder, reaching toward him.

“Becky, I'm going to hand you down to my brother Aaron. But you have to let go of my neck. Can you do that? Just hang on to my arm instead. We won't let you fall.”

For an instant longer she clung to him, her cheek pressed against his. Then she let go. Grasping her firmly with his arm across her chest, he lowered her into Aaron's waiting arms.

Aaron carried her quickly down. He could hear the murmurs of those below, the muffled sobs that must come from Rachel.

He should climb down, but he couldn't seem to move. He could only lean against the rough, warm wood, his heart hurting as if the Lord had taken a chisel to it and wrenched it open.

•   •   •

By
the time supper was over, it seemed to Rachel that everyone in the community had heard about Becky's mishap, and half of them had stopped by to marvel and praise God over her rescue. Much as she appreciated their prayers and concern, she'd begun to wish that they would leave the subject alone for a while, for Becky's sake if not for hers.

Her parents had come, too, and stayed to eat supper, with Mamm taking over the kitchen the moment she walked in the door. Although Daad had yet to say anything to her about it, Rachel suspected that his somber expression meant he found this incident just one more reason why she and the children should move home.

“Ach, Becky, you don't have to dry the dishes.” Mamm patted Becky's cheek. “You deserve a reward for being such a brave girl.”

“Don't say that.” The words spurted out of Rachel's mouth before she could stop them. “Don't give Becky the idea that she's done something brave. She was naughty. She did something she knew was wrong, and she caused a lot of trouble.”

Becky's eyes widened at her tone, and her lower lip trembled.

“Rachel, Rachel,” her mother chided. “You should be praising God that she is safe.”

Taking a deep breath helped, just a little. “I'm sorry, Mamm.” She pulled her daughter close against her. “I am praising God you are safe, Rebecca. We owe our thanks to the quick work of Gideon and the others who helped.” She tilted her daughter's face up gently. “But that doesn't change the fact that you did wrong, does it?”

“No, Mammi.” Becky's lips quivered, and she pressed them together for a second. “I'm sorry.”

“Ser gut. Now I think you will help finish up the dishes, won't you?”

Becky nodded and turned back to her work.

Rachel glanced at her mother. Mamm's lips were pressed together much as Becky's had been. Obviously Rachel hadn't heard the end of this, but at least maybe her mother would wait until the children were in bed to discuss it.

By then, she'd have to find some measure of calm to deal with her parents' concerns, and she wasn't sure where that was going to come from.

“I'm going out to check the animals before it gets any darker.” She dried her hands quickly on a dish towel. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

She escaped out the back door before her father could offer to do it for her.

Dusk had drawn in while they were in the kitchen, and the lilac
hedge cast a long shadow on the lawn. There was still enough light to see, though, once her vision adjusted, so she didn't go back inside for a flashlight.

She walked quickly past the greenhouse. Then, knowing she was out of sight if her mother watched from the kitchen window, she stopped, putting her hands over her face.

I'm sorry, Father. I'm sorry. I was wrong to speak that way to my mother. But that is what it would be like if we moved in with them. With the best intentions in the world, my parents would begin to take over with the children. As dearly as I love Mamm and Daadi, these children were given by You for me to raise.

She blotted the tears that spilled over onto her cheeks. Even here, she shouldn't let herself cry, because the signs would be there on her face when she went back inside.

She glanced at the darkening sky. The children were the most important thing in her life. Was she doing right by them? She'd tried to continue handling them as she had when Ezra was alive. Maybe that wasn't enough. What if Becky's foolish act today was a sign that her parents were right?

Shadows deepened by the moment. She'd best get this finished before she couldn't see at all. She started for the barn, and then stopped again.

A buggy stood next to the barn, and a horse was still in the paddock. Gideon's buggy. Gideon's horse. Had he ridden home with his brother, or was he still here?

Her steps quickened. She slid the barn door back and grasped the torch that always hung just inside, switching it on.

The barn's interior sprang to life in the flashlight's beam, and her stomach clenched with the memory of what had happened here earlier. But Becky was safe, thanks to Gideon. She couldn't let the memory control her actions.

She took a step. “Is someone here? Gideon?”

A rustle answered her, and she swung the beam in the direction of the sound. Gideon sat slumped on a bale of straw, his bad leg stretched
out. He lifted a hand to shield his face from the light, but not before she saw that it was wracked with pain.

Lowering the light, she hurried to him. “Gideon, was ist letz? Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, but she knelt next to him anyway, touching his bad leg gently.

“Your leg is paining you, ain't so?”

“It will heal.” His voice was choked, alarming her still more.

“Daad is in the house. I'll get him to come and help . . .”

“No.” He grasped her hand to keep her from moving. “I'm all right. I'll go now.”

Bracing his hand on the stall behind him, he attempted to lever himself to his feet. A spasm of pain crossed his face, and his leg seemed to buckle under his weight.

“No, no.” Sliding her arm around him and dragging his arm across her shoulder, she helped him sit back down. “I'm so sorry. Becky's foolishness has ended up with your leg getting hurt.”

He leaned back, seeming spent, but he shook his head. “The leg will be better in a few days.” He closed his eyes. “My heart will take longer.”

She saw, then, and wondered why she hadn't realized it sooner. “This is about Ezra. When you saw Becky—it was just like Ezra.”

His hand clenched spasmodically on hers. “I can't talk about it. Not to you, of all people.”

She took a breath, reaching inside for calm.
Please, Father. I didn't see that he was hurting so much. Please, give me the words to help him.

“You're wrong.” She saw it now, if only she could make him understand. “It is hard to talk about. Hard to hear about. But maybe we two are the only ones who can really understand. Really help each other. Because we both loved him.”

He shook his head again, but she sensed the need inside him to get it out.

“I know,” she said softly. “When I saw Becky on that beam, I saw Ezra, too.”

“I should have stopped him.” His voice was harsh with pain. “I should
have kept him from going up. If I hadn't been so slow, if I'd moved more quickly, maybe I could have stopped him.”

“Gideon—”

“I shut it away. Tried not to think about it. But it didn't work. And seeing Becky today just tore it open.”

His head moved again, and he was like an animal in pain seeking relief. Her own heart seemed clutched in a vise that tightened with every word. Somehow she had to ignore that so that she could ease his grief.

“You're not thinking straight. How could you have stopped him? You know what Ezra was like.”

Even as she said the words, she realized that she was seeing Ezra more clearly than she had since the day he died. For the first time, she thought of that day without seeing him falling. Instead she saw him laughing, climbing higher just as Becky had, probably chiding Gideon for taking his time.

“He was daring, too daring sometimes. You know that better than anyone else.” The hand that clutched hers feverishly seemed to relax just a little. He was listening to her, and for his sake she had to get this all said, just this once. “I know he teased you about being slow, but that was just his way.”

“If I had—”

“No.” She snapped out the word. “Don't you think I've been down that road a thousand times myself? If I had done something differently, maybe he wouldn't have gone. If I hadn't told him to hurry home, maybe he'd have been more careful.”

“It wasn't your fault.” He leaned toward her, and she knew her words had jolted him out of his absorption with his own imagined guilt. “Nothing you did caused Ezra to fall.”

“No. And nothing you did caused it either.” She gripped his arm with both hands, wanting to force him to understand. “Gideon, think about it. Ezra asked you to go and check out that barn for soundness because he knew that you would do it thoroughly, the way you do everything. He knew you would be careful and methodical—that's why he valued your opinion, isn't it?”

He nodded slowly, almost reluctantly.

“Ezra was a gut man, and I loved him with all my heart. But he wasn't perfect.” She saw him with such precision now, as if he stood in front of her, with no need for a photograph to prompt her memory. “He was always daring, and Becky is too much like him in that. He was quick and impatient, and that day—” Her throat tightened, but she had to say the rest of it. “That day he should have been more cautious. But he wasn't, because that was who he was.”

Something that had been tied up in knots inside her seemed to ease, and she could think of him without pain. “It was an accident, that's all. We both know that, don't we?”

His gaze fixed on hers, and her heart seemed to lurch. Then he nodded. “Ja. I guess we do.”

R
achel
misted the snapdragon seedlings, pausing to touch the creamy edge of a blossom that had begun to show already. These plants would be a beautiful addition to someone's garden.

Maybe hers. If she was going to sell plants from her home eventually, she'd have to have an overflowing flower garden herself. That would be what buyers expected.

William had painted a neat sign for the end of the driveway last year, advertising the strawberries she'd had for sale. Maybe he'd do another one for her plants.

She turned, movement drawing her eye, and her breath seemed to catch in her throat. Gideon was back to work on the windmill. Even as she watched, he pulled his wagon up close to the site, which probably meant he had supplies in it.

Or maybe that his leg was still bothering him and he didn't want to walk. If so, he shouldn't be here at all, although he wouldn't welcome her saying so.

They hadn't talked in several days—not since Saturday evening, when she'd found him in the barn. She'd seen him at worship on Sunday, moving cautiously, his brother or one of his nephews always close to lend him an arm. He hadn't come near her after the service, and she'd tried to respect his obvious wish to avoid talking with her.

He was embarrassed, she supposed, over having revealed so much of his inner feelings to her. He wasn't a man who did that easily in any event, and especially not when it came to something bound to be so painful to both of them.

She put down the mister and tried to focus on thinning out a tray
of marigolds. Without her willing it, her gaze kept straying back to Gideon. He was starting up the structure now, making her hold her breath until she saw that he was wearing a safety harness.

Mostly the Amish didn't do that, and she'd seen enough of Gideon at work to know that it was unusual for him. Was he doing it because his leg was still paining him?

What happened on Saturday had been painful both physically and emotionally. And yet, for her at least, that encounter had been healing, too. She could see Ezra more clearly now, as if the fog of grief and guilt was lifting. She could only hope that was true for Gideon as well.

She finished the tray of seedlings before she let herself look again. And jumped to find someone staring in through the glass at her. William.

Smiling, she went to the door. “William. I didn't see you. Will you come in and look at my greenhouse?”

He took a step forward and then paused. “I—I—maybe I shouldn't. I mean, b-b-bother you.”

“It's not a bother. I want to show you what I've been doing with the flowers.”

She held the door wide in invitation, but still William hesitated, standing a few steps away and surveying the building as if it were a skittish colt about to buck.

“William? Do you disapprove of the greenhouse so much that you won't even come in?”

“No, no. F-f-for sure it's not that.” Clutching his straw hat in his hands, he stepped inside, ducking his head to avoid the hanging pots of plants.

She stepped back, giving him as much space as she could in the confines of the greenhouse that was really made for one. “I thought maybe you agreed with Isaac—that I should forget this foolishness and sell the farm to Caleb.”

He didn't respond, and she immediately regretted putting him on the spot. Hadn't she just been telling herself that she couldn't contribute to a family quarrel?

“I'm sorry, William. I shouldn't have said that to you.”

He shook his head. “N-n-no, it's okay. I'm g-glad for you, that you have the greenhouse Ezra w-wanted to give you.” His big hands
tightened on the hat's brim. “J-j-just sorry G-Gideon was the one to build it for you.”

She paused, not sure what to say to that but knowing she had to say something. “William, you're not blaming Gideon for Ezra's death, are you?”

“You d-d-did.”

Her throat tightened, making it difficult to speak. “I didn't blame him. Not that. I just couldn't seem to forgive him for living through the accident when Ezra didn't.”

“Now you d-d-don't f-f-feel that way.” He said it almost accusingly.

“I think I see things more clearly now.” She tried to marshal her thoughts. If only she could help William take the step that she seemed to be taking, it would be a comfort to him, she was sure. “You remember how Ezra was—always a little more daring than everyone else, always needing to go first, even to take chances.”

“You th-th-think it was his fault.” He threw the words at her.

“No, not at all. I mean that we both know what he was like. It was part of what we both loved about him, wasn't it?”

William jerked a nod.

She was talking out of hard-won insight, and her assurance grew as she formed the words. “It was in Ezra's nature to go first, just as it was in Gideon's nature to move more slowly, to check things out methodically, just as Ezra wanted him to.” She found herself smiling. “Maybe that was why they were such gut friends. They each had something the other one needed.”

William was frowning, but he seemed to be listening, even understanding.

“For a long time, when I thought about that last day, I could only see Ezra falling.” Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to go on. “Now I can see him the way I know he would have been—climbing higher, enjoying it, maybe laughing at Gideon for taking his time. I can see how his eyes would sparkle when he did something daring.” She touched William's hand. “It's better to see him that way. It is. Don't blame anyone else. All right?”

He jerked a reluctant nod. “Ja.” He hesitated. “But I still wish I—w-w-we were the ones helping you.”

She patted his hand, relieved at his acceptance. “Isaac wouldn't want you to be helping me with something he doesn't approve of. He hasn't said anything to me yet about the windmill, but I can guess what his opinion is.”

“He says you are w-w-willful. I don't think that.”

“Gut. I'm glad you understand.” She wouldn't let herself dwell on what Isaac thought. “I just have to take care of the children the best I can. I wish everyone could see that.”

“I—I do.” He gripped her hand suddenly, his fingers tight on hers. “I'm on your s-s-side. Always.”

“Denke, William.” But she didn't feel comfortable with the intense expression on his face. Better to change the subject, if she could. “In that case, come with me and see the new windmill. Once it's finished, this farm will have plenty of its own water. Bishop Mose says that will make the farm more valuable, so that's gut, isn't it?”

She moved around him as she spoke, gently loosening the grip of his hand. She stepped outside, feeling as if she were stepping out of a situation that was getting increasingly uncomfortable.

William followed, ducking his head to get through the door. Funny. She always saw him as Ezra's little brother, but he was growing into a man now, and no one in the family seemed to notice.

She led the way toward the windmill. “The children have been fascinated to see it go up so fast. Isn't it amazing?”

“I d-d-don't know m-much about those things.” William sounded sulky, but he followed her.

Gideon spotted them coming and began to descend more quickly than he had gone up. In contrast, William's pace seemed to slow when he saw Gideon.

“What do you think?” She turned toward William, but he was already stepping back.

“Ser g-gut. I—I have to g-g-go.” And he strode off before Gideon could reach them.

•   •   •

Gideon
unbuckled his safety harness, watching as William Brand strode off toward the barn. What ailed the boy? He'd always been a
bit shy because of his stammer, but he seemed more distant than ever since Ezra's death.

But Rachel was standing there, giving him a tentative smile, and he tried to return it, tried to think of something ordinary and commonplace to say that wouldn't remind either of them of what had happened Saturday night.

“Have I scared young William off?”

Rachel glanced after the boy, a wrinkle forming between her brows. “William's not so young.”

“I suppose not.” What was there about William to bring that worried look to her face? “I guess I always think of him as Ezra's baby brother.”

“His family treats him like a child.” She bit off the words. “They don't see him as he really is.”

“How do you see him, Rachel?”

And what troubled her about him? He couldn't ask that, but he found that he was losing the constraint he'd expected to feel with her. After what happened Saturday, after showing her all his weaknesses, he'd thought he wouldn't be able to talk comfortably with her.

Now, he just wanted to wipe away that anxious expression on her face.

She met his gaze, concern still filling her blue eyes. “I'm not sure. I just know that he's turning into a man now, and no one seems to recognize that. They continue to treat him like a child, just because he doesn't speak normally.”

Rachel's concern seemed to be catching. He looked in the direction William had gone, but he'd disappeared into the barn.

“That's not a gut thing, to be holding someone back from growing. Ezra cared a great deal for him.” Even when they were boys, Ezra had been remarkably patient with his little brother, quick to protect him if anyone should think of teasing.

“He was a buffer between Isaac and William, I think,” Rachel said. “I'm just beginning to see that. I'd like to help William, but I don't know what I can do.”

She probably had enough to worry about with her own situation, but he figured Rachel could no more keep from being concerned about other people than the sun could keep from rising.

“Just listen to him.” The words were out before he realized how close they came to the very subject he wanted most to avoid. But it was true. That was what Rachel did so well. “That will help him more than any advice, I'd guess.”

She nodded, but now she switched the concerned look to him. “About Saturday—”

“You were kind to listen to me, especially when I—when it—”

He was beginning to sound like William, and he understood how frustrating that must be. He couldn't take back what he'd told her on Saturday, and maybe that was a gut thing. But he didn't want it to stand as a barrier between them, either.

“I'm glad you told me.” Her voice went soft on the words, but there were no tears.

“It hurt you. I shouldn't—”

She grasped his hand, silencing him. “Maybe it did hurt to talk about when Ezra died. It hurt you, too. But since we talked, it's been better.”

She paused, shaking her head, as if frustrated in her turn at the inability of words to show what she was feeling.

“You don't need to say anything more—”

“I want to.” She took a breath, seeming to calm herself. “Since we talked, I can see Ezra more clearly now. I'd been so busy blaming you and blaming myself for the fact that he was gone that I risked losing him twice over. I don't know why, but talking to you about it helped me to see him clearly again. That's what I was just saying to William. Ezra wasn't perfect.” She stopped, as if surprised she'd said that.

“No, he wasn't perfect.” Gideon actually managed to smile a little. “If he were here, he'd be the first one to laugh at that, for sure.”

“He would, wouldn't he?” Her face lit with a smile in return, and she seemed to have forgotten that she was holding his hand.

“Ezra was always one for a joke, and he laughed at himself more easily than anyone.” He seemed to hear Ezra's hearty laugh.

Rachel was right, he realized. Just saying the words gave him such a vivid picture of Ezra in his mind, and there was no sorrow with it. No sorrow—just joy in remembering Ezra as he had been.

“Ja, he did.” The smile clung to Rachel's lips a moment longer.

Then she seemed to notice that she was still holding on to him. She let go of his hand.

“Are we friends?” There wasn't a hint of embarrassment in her words or her expression, and he was glad of it.

“Friends,” he agreed.

“Ser gut.” She gave a quick little nod.

He glanced over her shoulder. “It looks as if your little scholars are home from school already.”

“Ach, where has the time gone? I forget it when I get working in the greenhouse, that's for sure.” She turned away. “I'll send Becky out with a cold drink for you.”

She walked briskly across the lawn toward the children, the light breeze tossing her kapp strings and apron, and held out her arms to them.

He turned back to his toolbox, his heart lightened. Rachel had made things all right between them, and he was glad.

He was still organizing the tools he needed when Becky came trotting across the yard toward him, a thermos swinging from her hand. She stopped a few feet from him and held it out.

“Mammi sent this for you.”

“Denke, Becky.” He took it, tilting it up for a long drink of lemonade. “That tastes gut.”

She nodded. “I'll have some with the brownies my grossmutter made for my snack.”

“That was nice of her.” He put the thermos down and began buckling on the safety harness. “She must know you like them.”

“Ja.” Her gaze was fixed on the leather straps. “You didn't wear a harness before.”

“No, I didn't.” He paused, and the memory of Rachel's words made it easier to say what was in his mind. “I thought maybe you got the wrong idea about it when I didn't wear a harness.”

Her blue eyes went round with surprise. “You're wearing the harness now because of me?” Her voice went up in a little squeak.

“Ja.” He fastened the buckle and adjusted the straps. “Working up high can be dangerous, like climbing up high for no gut reason.”