The Amish Bride of Ice Mountain (6 page)

Chapter Eight

“Do you mind if we stop at the Ice Mine before we head out?” Jude asked the next morning as they hiked the moss-covered trail down the mountain with the still-pungent Bear in the lead.

Mary glanced round at him for a moment. “I was going to suggest the same thing.”

He smiled. “It was the first place we met, really.”

“I know.”

Jude indulged in the memory as he watched his footing, balancing his backpack and her satchel.

Three months before, when the mountain air had filled his lungs with sweetness and promise, he’d slid a yellow notepad from his backpack and grabbed a pen. He’d sketched out his first impressions of Mary as he’d walked behind her. He’d had to focus, he remembered ruefully, on something other than the enticing sway of her hips beneath her blue dress and apron strings.
Should have known better
... And he’d been surprised at his reaction; he was never one to be caught by the swing of a skirt—
Englisch
or
Amisch
. But following in the trail of her lithe form as they approached the place of his dreams had been enchanting.

But if someone had told him that his last walk down the mountain today would be filled with the stark but confusingly pleasant reality of having Mary as his
Amisch
wife, he would have told the person that he was crazy and put the thought far from his mind.

Yet there was no denying the reality and the fact that he felt as if taking her from the mountain was like removing some exotic wild creature from its natural habitat without a clue how to maintain its life in another world. He sighed beneath his breath as daylight broke over the trail and played on the gray firmness of the paved road.
There’s no going back for now . . .

It was a brief walk from the trail’s end to the entrance of the Ice Mine, and Jude couldn’t subdue the feeling of excitement that flooded him as they approached the protruding base of the mountain. A five-foot-wide boarded gap marked the entrance to the mine, the base of the wood covered by ferns and long grass.

“Would you like to try and transplant some ferns, Professor?” Mary teased.

Jude knew the joke now. He’d discovered in his research that the type of fern that grew outside the mine was peculiar and native only to the mountain, and the many attempts made by science in the past to transplant and grow the ferns elsewhere had failed. It was only one of the small, intricate mysteries related to the mountain.

“
Nee
, thank you.” He smiled at her. “You forget that I’m transplanting my own mountain flower and I must put every effort into that venture.”

He admired the blush that stained her white cheeks at his obvious compliment. Then he indicated the grass with the toe of his boot. “I doubt anyone’s been in here since us.”

“Probably not,” she agreed.

Jude knew, of course, that the
Amisch
didn’t own the mine itself. It was maintained by the community but belonged to an
Englisch
farmer who had long ago left the area.

Mary turned to look up at him with consideration while she laid small, capable hands on the second gray board. “I’ve never asked you directly—why did you want to come here so badly?”

Jude blinked. It wasn’t a question that he was prepared for, even though he had answered it a hundred times when he had sought funding from the university for the project. He pushed aside the thought that his father had offered him twice as much money not to come; that was beside the point.

“My grandfather always told me about this place when I was a boy. He and my grandmother visited the mine while they were on their honeymoon. Of course, that was when it was open for business and tours. One of my grandmother’s most prized possessions was a snow globe of the mine she’d often show me, and I guess I was hooked.” He trailed off, thinking hard. There was so much resonance in her question, so many layers. He knew he was giving the best answer he could, but it was simplistic. How could he truly explain the deep internal call he felt to the place—it had something to do with his spirit, and he was not yet ready to explore that ground.

But Mary nodded, a half smile on her pink lips as she pulled on the gray board. The wood gave when she slid a hammer from a crevice of rock—proof that this had been done before. He stood back, knowing that she needed no help. He allowed his gaze to travel to the bottom of her skirts and realized that she was barefoot, despite his reminder earlier that day to bring her shoes. The barefoot thing was something he’d read about her people but had found a bit hard to believe at the time. Now he knew.
Carol was right about one thing in her derogatory remarks, but I bet every woman in Atlanta would prize ankles so delicate and exposed . . .
But Ice Mountain, in
Amisch
terms of community, was Mountain Amish and probably about a hundred years behind the times. In fact, when he’d asked around Lancaster on a previous trip, the Paradise Amish community had referred vaguely to those of Ice Mountain as being a bit “odd.” He could testify now to that oddness, but even after his shotgun marriage, he had to call the values system more old-fashioned and honor-driven than odd.

“Where are your shoes?” he asked, sliding off his gear and putting down her satchel.

She shrugged. “You’re carrying them. They rather hurt my toes.” She piled the boards neatly and Jude moved to stand on the precipice of the entrance to the cave, feeling the refreshing icy blast of cold air. Mary drew a lantern from inside the darkness, where he knew it hung on a convenient peg. She lit it while Bear whined a bit, then went into the cave. The animal returned a few seconds later, as if satisfied that it was safe to enter.

“
Sei se gut
—please, Professor. After you.”

He took the lantern from her and stepped inside, feeling the ground both slick and rough at the same time. He looked up as the lantern light cast eerie shadows about the icy, jewel-like walls of the cave and down into the deep mine shaft, an ice-lined hole in the floor, more than eighty feet deep. He absorbed it all in a flash—the Native Americans using it as a cache to keep meat cool; the miners abandoning the site when they could not find the silver they sought; the hundred or so years of tours of people standing out on the remains of the wooden platform over the shaft, marveling at the natural wonder. And now him . . .

But it was a far different cave than when they’d visited at the beginning of the summer. Then ice had still clung thick to the walls in a dazzling display, with some icicles thicker than a man’s thigh. Now the ice was nearly gone, except for what coated the shaft and a thin sheeting on the walls.

“It’s still hard to believe,” he said, swinging the light in Mary’s direction. “I mean, the whole ice in the summer, no ice in the winter thing.”

“As you gaze upon this mysterious ice, your life appears to unfold before you. Dreams seem more enduring and so does your faith. You feel the surge within you and the unknown becomes palpable, even unto the mystery of self . . .”
Mary’s soft voice echoed with times past.

“Isn’t that a reflection from one of the earliest visitors to the mine?” He turned to gaze down at her with wonder.

She nodded. “I—I read everything you loaned me.”

This last bit seemed like a confession and he knew it was because advanced reading was not especially approved by the elders of her community. But he smiled in pleasure at her recitation and he thought of something as he gazed back at the wet walls of the cave in the mellow light.

“You feel that kind of faith when you’re here, don’t you, Mary?”

“Jah.”
She paused. “But you don’t?”

“No,” he murmured. “I don’t know how.”

 

 

Mary remembered the consternation she’d felt when he’d admitted earlier in the summer to essentially not having a sense of faith. She’d never heard anyone be so negatively definitive about the subject before. To her, faith was as natural as breathing. She’d always been taught that worshipping God as Creator was as precious as life itself.

She knew by instinct that she must tread softly when he was willing to talk about it, like now.

She found herself praying in her spirit that she might have wisdom and discernment as to what to ask this man so different from she, yet still her husband. “Why don’t you know how?”

She watched him bow his handsome head in the shifting light. “I—I don’t have what you have, maybe the gift of what you have. When you’re in this place, there is nothing here but the touch of
Gott
’s hand— I know that’s true for you. But I—have to have logical answers. I have to understand why things are the way they are. I guess my father taught me that.”

“You sound sad at the teaching,” she ventured.

“Yeah, he taught me well—by always crushing everything I was interested in. He didn’t care how I felt; he needed proof that it was a worthwhile interest. I’ve never told you, but he didn’t want me to come here.”

“Why not?”

“He wants me to give up the
Amisch
.” He half laughed, a hollow sound. “He’s a businessman, a huge contractor in Atlanta. Building things, you know? He wants me to put away the book and the professorship and work for him. And I can’t do it.”

Mary bit her lip, wondering what this new father-in-law would say about her, but she thrust the insecurity away. She needed to focus on Jude for the moment.

“So, you cannot be what your
fater
wants, and you do not know how to have faith? These two seem related somehow,” she mused aloud.

He swung the lantern. “I suppose they are, but it makes my head hurt to think of it, and your feet are probably cold. Come on. Let’s go. And thank you, Mary, for listening to me.”

She knew the moment was broken but the talk had given her hope.

 

 

Jude was about to douse the lantern when something that seemed to shine caught his eye far down in the ice mine pit. He took a step nearer the edge and somehow lost his footing, dropped the lantern, and felt engulfing horror as he slipped into the pit. He caught the icy edge, dug his fingers in, and felt his legs dangle into nothingness. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as he watched the lantern roll, still lit, then looked up into Mary’s terrified face. She’d caught his wrists but he knew she didn’t have the strength to pull him up. The dog was barking, a faraway sound, and Mary’s sobbing breaths mingled with the heartbeats he heard pound in his ears
. I’m going to die, right here, with her hands on mine . . .
And then, in the mixed light of the cave and the lantern, the shadow of a man appeared behind Mary. Somehow, someone had happened by . . .

He felt himself lifted by tensile strength, inexorably pulled from the pit until he lay on his belly on the wet ground, his cheek against the ice and gravel, his breath coming back to him in retching gasps. Mary’s tears wet his face, and the dog licked at his raw fingers.

“Sugar,” he managed to whisper. And then he felt her rifle through his pockets to find two hard candies and slip them between his lips. He sucked hard, eyes open, wondering who the man was and knowing he owed him his life.

 

 

It took a full three minutes before he felt up to standing, and even then, he leaned against Mary and the dog for support. As she led him out of the cave and into the warmth of the morning sunlight, he glanced over her head, looking for his rescuer.

“Where did he go?” he asked, regaining his bearings.

“Who?”

“The man.”

He felt her eyes upon him, as if assessing whether he was truly all right.

“Do you need more sugar?” she asked, reaching toward his shirt pocket.

He caught her small wrist in his hand. “No, really, where did he go? Who was it?”

She stared at him, her beautiful eyes wide and uncertain. “What man?”

“The one who helped you pull me out.” He was beginning to feel angry and confused. “Mary, you didn’t pull me out alone. You don’t have the strength. I saw the shadow of a man and felt myself lifted up.”

She shook her head. “There was no one. Only me and Bear.”

He let her go, staring down at his backpack on the ground. Perhaps, in his panic, he’d imagined the shadow, and nothing but adrenaline had helped Mary pull him up. But the explanation didn’t feel right and he wanted to put the experience behind him.

He’d felt rattled as it was by how close he had let Mary come to his deepest feelings. He made it a rule never to talk about his father to anyone, let alone dwell on the man himself. But something about Mary’s gentle concern moved him.

He helped her replace the boards after a few moments and noticed that she rubbed her toes with apparent delight on the thick moss of the ground.

“Your feet are freezing,” he scolded, dropping to one knee in front of her. He bent and cradled one of her feet against his thigh while she giggled and caught at his shoulders for support. Bear hovered near, his smell more than obvious.

“Jude, I’m fine.”

He rubbed her foot and ankle hard, thrusting aside his desire to glance up the length of her leg beneath her skirt. “We’re going to have to go shopping and get you some new shoes.”

“Do—do you like women in shoes?”

He smiled up at her, opting not to tell her the
Englisch
adage about a wife being “barefoot and pregnant.” Then he thought of Carol’s obsession with shoes—the higher the heel, the better. Mary would probably kill herself in anything but sneakers. “No, I don’t think I do. Shoes are too high, too cramped, and leave no room for a delicate arch such as yours, but they are a necessity on the hot pavement of Atlanta.”

“Ach,”
she mumbled.

He finished with his brisk movements, then stood to reach in his backpack. “If—uh, Bear will stand it, you’d better put him on a lead near the road here. And I don’t know how he’ll react to riding in a car.” He handed her a length of rope and she slipped it with surprising ease around the dog’s neck.