Promise Lodge (7 page)

Once he was outside in the shade, Noah sucked in air. Now
he
was shaken, rattled by Deborah's distress. Her expression had suggested that he'd made her lose her balance, yet he'd truly been unaware that her ladder had been so close behind him. Voices drifted out the cabin's open windows.

“You'd better wash your hair before that paint dries,” Amos suggested gently.

“
Jah,
and I've made a mess of Phoebe's dress, too,” Deborah replied. Then she chuckled. “Truth be told, I think Noah was more startled than I was. I'll be back after I get cleaned up.”

Noah strode to the shed to fetch a can of the white enamel they were using for the cabins' windowsills and trim. Deborah sounded a lot calmer than he felt. She'd apparently regained her sense of perspective, too—no finger-pointing, and no tears as she set herself to rights again.

You, on the other hand, are skittering away like a whipped pup,
Noah thought as Queenie bounded across the lot to greet him. As his Border Collie wagged her bushy tail, seeming to smile at him as her tongue lolled from her mouth, he knew he should apologize to Deborah now rather than letting the tension between them fester. Yet as he came out of the shed with the paint, some rags, and a bucket of water, Noah waited for her to disappear into her cabin before he returned to number four.

Amos, crouched beneath the sink to finish installing the faucet, looked up as Noah entered the cabin. “So did you bump her ladder, son? Or did she reach too far with her roller?”

“I have no idea,” Noah replied with an exasperated sigh. He plunged a rag into the bucket, wrung it out, and began wiping the paint from the floorboards. “I finished my window and was going to eat another cinnamon roll. Next thing I knew, Deborah was squawking like a bird about to fall from its nest.”

“Would it be all that hard to apologize? Even if you weren't to blame?”

Noah sighed. It was just like Amos to foster goodwill and positive communication—especially when folks were least inclined to initiate such things. “I suppose not.”

Preacher Amos stood up to run water into the sink, testing the faucets. “Would it be so difficult to grant her the forgiveness she's asked for?” he went on in a low, purposeful voice. “I was hoping I wouldn't have to prod you about this matter, Noah. No one expects you to court Deborah again if that no longer feels right, but ignoring her request for forgiveness flies in the face of Jesus' teachings.”

There it was, the bigger issue he hadn't dealt with. Noah kept wiping the floor and rinsing the paint out of his rag. There was no denying what Amos had said, so he saw no point in responding.

“Why did you two split up, anyway?” the preacher continued. “You're both fine young people, entering adulthood with your faith intact and as much potential for success as any couple I've seen.”

“Breaking up was
her
doing,” Noah blurted, scrubbing harder. “I have no idea what came over her. If you want the details, you'll have to ask Deborah.”

“I believe I will. At least she'll give me an answer.”

Noah felt about an inch tall. Amos Troyer had been the preacher his family had respected and relied upon all his life, especially after Dat had passed last year. Although Noah had been apprenticed to Preacher Eli Peterscheim, he'd always maintained a cautious emotional distance from Deborah's father. With Eli, it was strictly a business relationship, even though they'd nearly become related by his marriage to Deborah. In contrast, he considered Amos a good friend.

“If she tells you anything interesting, let me know,” Noah said more flippantly than he'd intended to. “Far as I was concerned, our courtship was going just fine—until she informed me things were moving too slowly to suit her.”

Amos shut off the faucets with a twist of his wrists that suggested he was finished with this conversation. “Don't let the sun go down on your anger, Noah,” he warned as he collected his tools. “And don't forget that anger is not our way. It's a sin as grievous as whatever has come between you and Deborah. Deal with it.”

The preacher left the cabin, whistling under his breath. Noah finished wiping the floor, wondering if he should paint the final section of wall for Deborah as an apology. Or would she assume he'd completed her job because he didn't think she was doing it right?

Noah decided to putty the other window in the cabin's main room, as that was his assignment—and finishing the windows would get him out of Deborah's presence sooner when she came back to work. He eyed the cinnamon rolls but left them on the plate. His mission was to prevent further confrontations, simple as that.

Chapter Six

Deborah turned on the shower in her cabin and stepped aside as the water spurted out. She removed her dress and stuck it under the water as it warmed up, scrubbing vigorously to remove the trail of beige paint down its back. After she hung up the dress, she washed the saturated kerchief and draped it over the shower stall's door. Phoebe had been kind enough to loan her these clothes, and even though they were old and faded, Deborah was determined not to ruin them.

Lord, I'm grateful for latex paint that washes out and for polyester blend fabric that'll dry without wrinkling,
she mused as she unpinned her hair.
And I'm thankful You kept me from falling off the ladder while I was gawking at Noah.

Deborah rubbed her scalp briskly with her fingertips and lots of shampoo to remove the sticky paint. She was glad to have this time away from Noah and Amos to collect herself, to recover from her embarrassing mishap. Laura and Phoebe were on the other side of the campground planting more of their garden, or they'd be hooting and laughing when she admitted how she'd made such a mess.

It
was
funny, the way she'd squawked and Noah had run off as though she'd been chasing after him with the roller. Deborah sighed as she turned off the water. Once upon a time she and Noah might have engaged in such play with the paint, not caring how messy they got. What could she do to make him smile again? She missed the sound of his laughter, and the love he'd so gladly shown her.

But that was before she'd made the biggest mistake of her life by becoming too impatient with him.

Deborah dried herself and wrapped the towel around her waist-length hair, tucking it up turban-style. She put on her oldest dress, knowing she'd have to be careful not to splatter it when she resumed to her painting—she hadn't brought many clothes. After she arranged her hair in a bun, she tied on the wet kerchief and returned to cabin number four.

Preacher Amos was stretching a new piece of screen across a wooden frame that went in the door. “Back for more?” he asked with a smile.

“
Gut
as new,” Deborah replied.

“I tightened the bolts in that old ladder. I'm sorry I didn't fix it before you started painting,” he remarked. “You're doing a great job. Who knows how many years it's been since these cabins have seen fresh paint?”

“I'm happy to help. It's the least I can do while I'm here.”

Deborah stepped inside the cabin and paused. She couldn't see Noah, but the squeak of a crank-out window told her he was in the far bedroom. Silently crossing the main room's plank floor, she peered in to watch him work. It had always amazed her, how Noah handled his tools so effortlessly, as if they were extensions of his hands . . . strong, well-shaped hands that had once grasped hers and gently stroked her cheek.

Noah turned as though he'd read her wistful thoughts. His dark brown hair framed his suntanned face in a mop of unruly waves. Even though he wasn't Sunday-best clean, Deborah longed to touch him, to coax a boyish smile to his lips.

“Hey,” he murmured. He took a deep breath. “I'm sorry if I bumped your ladder—”

“It was my fault!” Deborah insisted as she hurried toward him. “I was watching
you
instead of paying attention to how far I'd reached—how the ladder was swaying. You're always so intent on your work, and so
gut
at what you do, Noah. It's a joy to watch you.”

On impulse, she flung her arms around him. “I'm sorry if I've been a bother,” she murmured. “I just had to tell you I was wrong—to see if we couldn't patch things up and be together again.
Please,
Noah?”

As she hugged him, Deborah wondered what had gotten into her. Why was she behaving so boldly? No matter what Noah might think, however, she couldn't let him take the blame for the painting incident.

She felt him softening, returning her affection. Maybe this impulsive hug would bring her closer to becoming his wife....

* * *

Noah's arms tightened around Deborah's waist before he realized what he was doing. She smelled fresh and clean. Even though her hair and kerchief were damp, he felt a rush of warmth and longing that made him close his eyes. He'd forgotten how perfectly she fit against him, how firm and strong her body felt . . . how her voice teased at him and could convince him to do just about anything.

For a few blissful moments he savored an embrace that took him back to happier times.
Why is it again that you can't allow Deborah back into your life?
Noah nuzzled the damp hair above her ear, noting how the kerchief set off the line of her jaw—

The bruise on her neck brought him back to reality. The handprint was less distinct, blurring from purple into a greenish yellow, but it was still the mark of another man.

Noah touched the bruise lightly with his fingertip as he eased away from her. “Did your
dat
do this to you?” he whispered. He couldn't help himself. Deborah's injury held the key to his feelings for her.

Her face clouded over. Noah reminded himself that she'd never been much good at fibbing, even as doubt and pain furrowed her brow and her cheeks turned splotchy and pink. “No,” she finally murmured.

Noah took another step away from her. “Wrong answer.”

“Wrong question!” Deborah shot back. She crossed her arms tightly, as if to hold herself together when she turned away from him. “Why did you have to ruin—why can't you trust me? Don't you understand that I didn't go
asking
for trouble when—”

“You didn't come to Promise Lodge just to see
me,
either.
Did
you, Deborah?” he countered in a harsh whisper. “Why would I want you back if you're really here to get away from somebody else?”

When she rushed off, he had his answer, didn't he?

A few moments later Noah heard the
swish
of Deborah's roller in the front room. He squeezed putty between his fingers, considering the possibilities. Isaac Chupp still appeared to be the likely culprit, and Noah got a nasty tightness in his gut when he envisioned the details of the encounter. Deborah claimed she had no feelings for the bishop's son, yet she'd been within arm's reach of him. The Bender barn had been on fire, so why hadn't she run in the opposite direction to alert the men in town? Once she'd known Isaac and his English buddies were drinking in there, why had she gotten involved?

In his mind Noah saw the old red barn with its gambrel roof standing staunchly on the rise behind the Bender family's white farmhouse—except now it would be a charred shell, a testimony to the trouble that had festered like an untreated wound in Coldstream. Noah had always wondered how Isaac Chupp could afford beer and cigarettes when the only job he had was occasionally clerking for his
dat
's auction company. What was wrong with this picture? Why hadn't Bishop Obadiah insisted that his son take up a trade?

Why doesn't Deborah tell you exactly what happened?
That was the real question, wasn't it? If she was so innocent, it would seem the easiest, most natural thing for her to tell everyone here the details—the truth—rather than letting them assume the worst.

Noah glanced at the putty in his hand. He rolled it between his palms to form a rope and then pressed it into the crevice between the wood and the glass with his thumb. Life would be a lot easier if he could press this situation with Deborah into a tight, controlled space, as he was doing with the putty.

Preacher Amos came into the room and stood beside Noah. “Better luck next time, son,” he murmured. “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith—to name a few of the benefits God grants us if we live in Him.
Long-suffering
is an old word for patience,” he pointed out. “And patience is a virtue.”

“I'm not feeling very virtuous.” Noah sighed and drew his scraper down the vertical line of putty he'd just applied. “
Long-suffering
fits better right now. Accent on the suffering part.”

“This, too, shall pass. Don't give up on her.”

When Amos left, Noah wished he had more than the preacher's platitudes for reassurance. For those few shining moments when he'd held Deborah, he had imagined becoming her husband again—had envisioned the house with the rose trellis he'd promised her. Now, however, he seemed more in touch with the thorns than the blooms of the vision they'd once shared.

Noah rolled another rope of putty. Old Order members believed the best antidote for any misfortune was hard work and prayer. If he worked hard enough, long enough, he could put his troubles behind him, couldn't he? The praying part would have to wait. He wasn't in the right frame of mind for that now.