Courting Cate (5 page)

I shook my head. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“But doesn’t it feel good to put your sister first?” Dat asked.

I shrugged. I’d been putting Betsy first my entire life.

By the time I turned Thunder off the highway and into the Bergs’ driveway I felt sick to my stomach. I’d read one time that women don’t remember the pain of childbirth until they start labor the next time. That’s how it was for me and singings. Oh, I remembered that they made me miserable. I
just didn’t remember how badly—until I saw the gathering outside the barn. The boys were congregated in one group, having a pushing contest. The girls were congregated in another, having a gossip fest.

Betsy was already practically glowing, but she lit up like a firefly when she saw Levi. “Let me out!”

I pulled Thunder to a stop.

Levi walked toward us, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re here!”

They locked arms and twirled around, the skirt of Betsy’s dress poofing out a little.

My stomach tied itself into a knot.

Old Daniel Berg started to call the Youngie into the barn for the singing.
The youth.
I was anything but. I turned Thunder toward the line of buggies in the field, but then, instead of going straight, I swung wide and turned back toward the highway. Levi and Betsy were still outside. I called to her, but she ignored me. I called to Levi and he turned. “Can you give Betsy a ride home?”

He grinned again and nodded. Of course he could.

I turned right onto the highway, going in the direction opposite of home. It wouldn’t do any good to show up early. Dat would be suspicious. I wasn’t going to lie to him. But I wasn’t going to be exactly forthcoming either—not if I could help it. I hoped I wasn’t sliding down a slippery slope of deceit. It wasn’t like me. In the meantime I had a good two hours to run Thunder on the back roads of the county. At least I would have if I hadn’t run into Pete first.

He was ambling along the shoulder of the road, a book once again in his hand when I sped by him. Although he was
reading, he still saw it was me. In my side mirror, I watched him leap the fence and run across the field. Ahead was a hairpin turn and then another, and by the time I reached the second, Pete was aiming to jump that fence too, waving as he did. I didn’t slow—until he went sailing over the top rail. I couldn’t tell for sure, but he must have tripped, because he landed in the gravel on the side of the road and rolled onto his shoulder. I thought maybe he hit his chin, too, but couldn’t tell as I watched, again, in my mirror.

I’ll admit there have been times in life when I’ve been coldhearted, but never when someone is hurt. Besides, the Good Samaritan was my favorite story as a child, read to me over and over by my Mamm. I pulled Thunder to a stop, made sure there were no vehicles coming in either direction, and swung the buggy around. By the time I reached Pete, he was bent over the ditch that ran on the roadside of the fence. When he straightened, I saw he’d plucked his book out of the water.

I pulled Thunder to a stop, yanked on the brake, and grabbed the first-aid kit from under the seat. I’d put it together when I was sixteen after reading a book called
Everyday Safety.
Of course the author assumed the first-aid kit would be kept in a car, but I figured it was even more important in a buggy.

Blood oozed from the palm of Pete’s left hand; plus it ran down the front of his chin. “Thanks for stopping,” he said. I noted the book in his right hand was fairly thin and very worn. It didn’t have a cover, and I couldn’t make out the title at the top of the page.

“You really scraped yourself.” I opened the box, taking out several antiseptic-wipe packets.

“It’s not bad.” He held his hand away. “I’ve had worse.”

I handed him a wipe.

“I’m not usually so accident prone,” he said, wiping his hand.

“You just said you’ve had worse.”

He laughed. “Touché.”

I opened another wipe and dabbed at his face, flicking away pieces of gravel. “I’ll give you a ride back to the Zooks’.”

“That’s okay. I’m going to the singing.”

“Then why the detour?”

“I was curious.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You thought Betsy was in the buggy, right?”

He smiled, but before he answered, I proclaimed, “You
are
stubborn.”

“
Persistent
is the word I prefer—remember?”

Funny how the difference between the two seemed to be solely in our perception. “You’ll be happy to know my sister is at the singing. You can see her there.” I wasn’t going to bother telling him Levi would be giving her a ride home. He could find that out on his own.

“And why isn’t Sweet Cate in the Bergs’ barn?”

“Technically I am.” I knew my smile was sarcastic.

His, in return, was even more so.

After I’d picked the gravel out of his hand and then his face, with him bending toward me, I reached for the bottle of antiseptic in my kit and squirted it liberally on his chin.

“Ouch!” He jerked away.

“Hold out your hand.” I was enjoying myself with a man, for once.

For some reason he obeyed, and I squirted out another stream of liquid.

He flinched again.

“Would you rather have an infection?”

He didn’t answer as he dabbed his palm against his pant leg.

“I read somewhere that staph usually starts in seemingly innocuous wounds.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I have no reason not to,” he answered, an impish look on his face.

I ignored the expression and took a look at him. The red streaks on his chin were raw. He opened his mouth and scooted his lower jaw one way and then the other, then gingerly touched the scrape.

“Leave it alone,” I commanded, pulling bandages from the kit. “How’s your shoulder?”

He worked it back and forth. “It’s okay.”

After I affixed the bandages to his chin and hand, I wadded the wrappers in my fist, shoved them into my apron pocket, and started for my buggy.

“How about going back to the singing?”

“I’ll give you a ride.” I climbed in first, scooting the first-aid kit back under the seat.

As soon as Pete landed on the bench seat, Thunder took off, at my urging. Pete grabbed the side of the buggy as we sped around the corner. Ahead the sun was lowering in the sky, sending streaks of pink and orange along the horizon. I’d need to light the buggy lantern soon and turn on the flashing red lights on the back.

On the straight stretch, I drove the horse faster. Pete held his worn hat with his injured hand, the book still in his other.

I couldn’t stand it any longer. “So what are you reading?”

He held the book up. “
The Pilgrim’s Progress.
I found it in a thrift store outside of Cleveland. Ever read it?”

I nodded. “A few years ago.” His copy looked much thinner than what I’d read, though. “Is that the condensed version?”

He laughed. “No, the consumed version. I buy old books and then use up what I’ve read as I travel.”

I gasped. “For what?”

“Sometimes to start a fire,” he said.

I must have had a horrified expression on my face, because he said, “Sorry. I’m a pragmatist at heart.” He held up the thin, now wet, book. “Sometimes I just throw it away, section by section. It keeps my pack lighter.”

I was shocked at the very idea of tearing pages out of a book. And even more so to burn them. Sure, if he was freezing to death, I’d understand, but to preplan it? “How could you?” I gasped.

“Books are heavy,” he said. “On the road, an object that serves two purposes doubles in value for a pauper like me.” He smiled as I pulled into the Bergs’ driveway and stopped Thunder.

“That’s horrid.” I couldn’t imagine he was that poor—although his hat and clothes, the same he’d been wearing on Friday, all had a shabby look to them. “Here you go.” I stopped the buggy twenty feet from the barn, still aghast.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“No.”

“Ah, Cate,” he said.

“Believe me,” I answered. “If I were going to, I would have before, instead of just dropping Betsy off.”

“Where are you going?”

“Driving.”

“How about if I go with you?”

“How about if you don’t.” I nodded toward the barn.

“Why so angry?” he asked.

I gave him a wilting look.

“So waspish . . .” he muttered, gathering his things. “So stingish.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Beware,” I sneered.

“Why do you push people away?”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

I scooted away from him. “You don’t really want to know.”

A pathetic expression crossed his face, and then he looked beyond me and pointed toward the fiery sky. The pink had disappeared and what was left looked like orange flames. His voice deepened as he spoke. “‘Where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury.’”

My face must have given away my confusion at his odd words, because he grinned and then quickly jumped down, tipping his hat. “See you tomorrow.”

His stride was confident as he made his way toward the barn. I turned the buggy around. I couldn’t figure out Pete Treger. I had no idea what he meant by his talk of fire and fury, but he intrigued me.

As I came back by, he stood in front of the closed door. He grinned again and waved. I kept a straight face but flicked my hand in his direction.

There was no doubt about it. Pete Treger was unlike anyone I’d ever met.

The next morning, over oatmeal with Dat, I pondered Pete’s words again, wondering for the umpteenth time what he meant when he spoke of fire and fury.

“Cate?”

My head jerked up. “Jah?”

Dat had a pleased expression on his face. “Thinking about the singing last night?”

“Some,” I answered, hoping to evade a more specific question.

“What time did you and Betsy get home?”

“I was here by nine,” I said. “But Levi gave Betsy a ride home.” I yawned. “I’m not sure exactly what time she came in.”

“Oh.” Dat put his spoon in his bowl. “So how was the singing?”

I took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. “Dat,” I said, meeting his gaze. I’d never lied to him. I wasn’t going to start now. “I didn’t actually go. I tried. Really I did.”

His face fell as I spoke.

“It’s just . . . once I got there and saw all the young people going into the barn, I couldn’t.”

He pushed his bowl away. “Cate.” His voice had that tone of despair that made me feel an inch tall.

“I know, I know. You have every right to be disappointed in me.”

“How am I ever going to be a grandfather if you won’t even go to a singing?”

“Just let Betsy court. She’ll be married within the year, and then you’ll be a grandfather by the next.”

Dat sighed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“What?” I nearly choked on the word.

“Betsy’s too young to decide who she’ll spend the rest of her life with. And she’s far too young to be a mother.”

I shook my head. “She’s so good at homemaking, though. And”—hard to believe, but I wasn’t so sure of the word I was looking for—“relationships.”

“Starting relationships, jah, but it’s not as easy as that. Just a little more time can make a big difference when it comes to being a wife.”

I stood and headed to the sink.

“You, on the other hand, are mature enough . . .”

I turned on the faucet, drowning out my father’s words. He still didn’t get it. No one wanted to court me. Why did he have to keep throwing it back in my face?

Fifteen minutes later, I was in my office, adding Pete’s information to our payroll database. I used a computer and copy machine, powered by solar panels atop the building, for business purposes only. We also had Internet to e-mail our Englisch customers and distributors and to check to make sure our Web site, maintained by a designer with photos of the cabinets we sold, stayed in good order. Plus, I did some research for the business, mostly checking out competitors and ordering supplies.

The operation of the office and the management of our house remained in stark contrast to each other. With the population of our people in Lancaster County growing exponentially, there was less and less farmland for the younger generations. So, although farming was our community’s preferred way of life, we had to adapt to support ourselves. Thankfully our family had the small property and could remain in the country—and make a living, thanks to Dat’s business skills.

At seven o’clock, the shop crew arrived. Soon I was engrossed in the flyer Dat had asked me to make for his business-consulting clients. He was offering a free hour for every referral sent his way. As I wrote the ad copy, I toyed with an article idea about what a person needed to do to start a small business, an Amish person in particular, wondering if it was perhaps an article I could write for one of the Plain newspapers or magazines.

At seven forty-five, as I was proofing the flyer, someone knocked on my office door.

“Come in,” I said absentmindedly, sure it was Dat with some new idea for me to implement.

It wasn’t my father; it was Pete. My heart fluttered at the sight of him. He smelled fresh, like the cold spring air mixed with the scent of goat’s milk soap, and wore a clean shirt and nicer pants than the ones he’d had on the other times I’d seen him, but they weren’t anywhere close to new. The scrape on his chin was noticeable around the bandage but had started to scab over.

“Am I supposed to check in with you?”

I shook my head. “With Dat. He’s in the shop, getting everyone going for the day. He’ll show you where the time clock is.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Okay. Have a good day.”

“You too,” I responded as he closed the door.

Throughout the entire morning, I was aware of Pete in the showroom. I imagined Dat explaining the products to him and the company’s sales philosophy. I imagined Pete asking questions, intent on learning everything he could.

At eleven thirty I started up to the house for dinner.

On nice days, the crew members ate their lunches at a group of tables Dat had made and set up between the shop and the herb garden. The workers were already outside for the dinner break, and I saw Pete sitting at a table reading a book. I felt a little foolish for noticing him but couldn’t help myself. He didn’t look up. Beside him sat Mervin, and across the table, Martin, who wore his insufferable sunglasses. The twins stared at the house, most likely waiting for Betsy to appear, which she often did when the men were outside, coming out to the garden for a sprig of rosemary or a handful of chives.

Mervin nudged Pete as I approached, and at the same time Betsy came through the back door. She wore her mauve dress with a perfectly pressed apron over it. Her Kapp was bleached and starched. She’d looped her arm through the handle of a basket, making her look as if she’d just stepped out of a picture book.

She pulled out her kitchen scissors and snipped a clump of parsley and then a few stems of thyme. Next she turned toward the waning tulips along the border and cut the best of what was left.

As I approached the garden, she straightened up and greeted me, but in a half second it was clear she was looking beyond me, most likely at Levi. I turned. He was off in the doorway, talking to Dat. But Betsy wasn’t looking at him. She had her eyes on Pete. But he, still engrossed in his book—one much
thicker than last night’s
Pilgrim’s Progress—
didn’t notice her. Martin did, though, and he nudged Pete again. This time he did look up, showing the bandage still on his chin, meeting Betsy’s eyes and smiling.

A long moment later Betsy shifted her gaze to Levi. Poor thing, he had no idea just how short his courtship with Betsy would end up being. Dat must have felt the earth shift a little, because he turned toward us and started up the pathway.

I spun around and headed toward the house. The lone cloud in the sky drifted over the sun, casting a shadow over the yard. A single swift flew out of the barn window. The leanest of our calicos ran between my legs. I stepped wide and hurried on, my face growing warmer with each step, embarrassed that I’d wasted my time thinking about Pete.

“We’ll eat in fifteen minutes,” Betsy called after me. “After Levi takes a look at the roses.”

I didn’t answer. That gave me a little time to read. And at least Betsy had the courtesy to follow up with Levi’s offer to give her some gardening tips.

When I reached the back steps, I turned again. Betsy ambled toward the rose garden with Levi at her side. Beyond them, Martin twirled his sunglasses between his thumb and index finger, stood, and pulled Pete up beside him. Mervin stepped around to the other side of Pete. And then both twins pointed at me.

Knowing they were up to no good, I hurried through the house and out the front door, circling through the far side yard and back around, willing to sacrifice a little reading time to figure out what was going on. I stopped behind an apple tree and held my breath as the white petals floated down around me.

Levi was bent down over a rosebush, gazing up at Betsy as he spoke.

Mervin and Martin stood on either side of Pete, whom I could barely see. Mervin slapped him on the back and then Martin shook his hand.

“All we ask is that you do your best,” Mervin said.

“Well, right now, my best needs to be in the showroom,” Pete answered, stepping away from the two, his book tucked under his arm. “But I appreciate your”—he hesitated—“interest in my future.”

My eyes narrowed as Pete strode away.

I couldn’t discern what was going on, exactly, but I knew the evil twins were up to no good, so as Pete stepped through the side door to the showroom, I marched from behind the tree and toward M&M.

“What are you scheming?”

Both of the twins froze.

“Tell me,” I demanded.

“Nothing,” Marvin sputtered.

Betsy’s voice floated down from the rose garden. “Cate!” Her quick steps followed. “Let’s go up to the house.”

I ignored her. My hands landed on my hips. “Tell me now,” I demanded of the twins.

Betsy reached me, linking her arm through mine. “Don’t,” she whispered. “You’re making a fool out of yourself.”

“I need to know.” I pulled away from her.

“They’re not up to anything.” She turned toward Martin and Mervin. “Are you?”

They both shook their heads adamantly and then said in unison, “It’s time to get back to work.”

“Come on.” She grabbed my hand and started dragging me toward the house, waving at Levi as he headed toward the shop, a concerned expression on his face. “You’re not going to have much time to read before we eat if we don’t hurry.”

I cooperated then, following her obediently, desperate to escape, if only for a few minutes, knowing sooner or later I’d have to deal with M&M—and with Pete Treger.

The next day when it was time to go up to the house to eat, I slipped out the back door of the shop after the crew members had all gathered outside in the sunshine. I intended to circle around the barn to the house, avoiding Pete. I wasn’t going to be made a fool of, not again.

Admittedly, before I had been feeling as if I could fall for Pete, but after yesterday’s encounter between him and the twins, I willed myself to feel absolutely nothing for the newcomer.

As I stepped behind the apple trees again, one eye on the picnic tables, Pete scooted off the picnic bench and marched toward me. I increased my pace.

“Cate!” he called out.

I hid behind the next tree, my pulse quickening.

“Cate!” he called out again.

The back door opened and out came Betsy, carrying the same basket.

“Would you give me a minute,” Pete yelled, presumably to me. “I have something to ask you.”

I made it to the barn but then stopped, not wanting to draw any more attention to myself.

He caught up with me. “Would you take a look at my chin?” He jutted it out. “And my hand?”

His face looked fine—the bandage was off and the wound had completely scabbed over. He held out his hand but I didn’t take it. Instead I motioned for him to raise it. The palm was red and looked sore. “Have you put more antiseptic on it?”

He shook his head. “But I’m thinking I should.”

“Don’t the Zooks have some you can use?”

“Not in their barn.”

“They probably do. Try the bag balm. That will do.”

“How about for today?”

I nodded my head toward our barn.

He frowned a little. I sighed. “Come on.” I led the way to the house, figuring Betsy would be right behind us soon, wanting to hear what Pete might say. But she continued on toward the herb garden.

When we reached the back door, I instructed him to wash up in the utility sink while I opened the cupboard where we kept the antiseptic and bandages.

When he finished, I sprayed his hand and rebandaged the deepest cut while he kept his attention on the back door. Obviously he was anticipating Betsy’s appearance too.

“All done,” I said, tossing the wrappers into the woodstove. The coals, still hot from the chilly morning, consumed the paper in a second with a quick sizzle.

“I need to ask you something,” he said. “Would you be interested in going on a hike Saturday afternoon? With me and a few others?”

“Such as?”

“Levi.”

“And Betsy?” I crossed my arms.

He nodded. “And Mervin and Martin.”

I may have been scowling by then.

“Think about it,” he quickly said, holding up his injured hand. “Don’t give me an answer right now. In fact there’s no need to tell me until Friday. I promise I won’t be”—his eyes sparkled—“
stubborn
about it.”

I uncrossed my arms, and he turned and walked, in his usual
confident manner, toward the back door. But then he turned and said very sweetly, “Thank you for taking care of me.”

I nodded curtly.

And then, his brown eyes dancing, he winked at me.

I crossed my arms again, but before I could respond, Betsy came banging into the kitchen, yelling, “Cate! Cate! You’re never going to believe—” Her voice fell. “Oh, hi, Pete. What are you doing in here?”

“I was just leaving.” He turned back toward me, smiled again, and slipped past her, out the back.

Betsy lowered her voice as she reached for my crossed hands, but couldn’t contain her excitement. “Pete wants you to go on a hike with the rest of us.”

I must have still had a scowl on my face.

“Please,” she begged, pulling my hands apart and then swinging my arms. “You have to go. This is our lucky break.”

I scowled, sure Martin and Mervin had put him up to it. There was no way a man like Pete would be interested in spending time with me.