The Beekeeper's Son (The Amish of Bee County Book 1) (19 page)

Everyone seemed to know where they were going. The boys took off for the shore, fishing rods over their shoulders. Frannie took Hazel and Hannah by the hand. “Let’s play in the water.” She glanced back. “You coming? The water will feel great after all this heat. I can’t wait to swim.”

“In our dresses?”

“Jah. I do it all the time. In the sun, they’ll dry fast.”

“With the alligators?”

Frannie grinned. “The swimming area is safe. I dunk the little ones there all the time. They love it.”

Frannie was one for exaggeration. Deborah glanced back at Phineas. He’d already had his binoculars to his eyes in the direction of the picnic shelters grouped along the shore. Several birds were clustered around a shelter that had a sign F
ISH
C
LEANING
A
REA
on it. A couple of elderly Englischers were hard at work cleaning their fish. Phineas veered their direction, but the birds, chattering in what sounded like a fierce argument, took off for the top of the trees.

Phineas stopped and changed directions, headed toward a wooden sign with words etched into it that read Nature Trail with an arrow underneath. He had his book under his arm, a canvas bag on his back, and the strap of his binoculars slung around his neck. He looked perfectly content. She chewed her lip and tugged free of Frannie. “You go on. I think I’ll take a walk first, stretch my legs after that drive.”

Frannie’s gaze went to Phineas and back to Deborah. Her dark eyebrows lifted and her eyes widened. “Are you sure, cousin?”

“It’s just a walk.”

“Jah, a walk. I’ll cover for you.”

A silly grin on her face, Frannie giggled and put her hand over her mouth as if to stop the sound.

“I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“I know, go on. Take your walk.”

Deborah picked up her pace but kept back a few yards, watching as Phineas opened his guidebook and thumbed through the pages, his head down, not even watching where he was going. He lifted his binoculars and looked out at the lake, then back at the book. A few seconds later he glanced up at a tree, then stopped, his gaze lifting toward something in the highest branches. Deborah hung back, stooping to admire a mess of black-eyed Susans along the trail. After a minute or two, he started walking again.

“Stop following me.” He slung the words over his shoulder without slowing his pace. “It’s annoying.”

Deborah slowed but continued to walk toward him. Phineas swiveled and stared at her. “Stop following me.”

“Aren’t you going fishing?”

“Later.”

“What are you doing now?”

“Looking for birds.”

“What kind of bird are you looking for?”

His gaze bumped her shoulder and then veered toward the water. “You really want to know?”

“You told me you would take me bird-watching.”

He stared at the binoculars in his hands as if he’d never seen them before.

“What kind of bird are you looking for?”

“Bullock’s oriole for one. Also a Vermilion Flycatcher.”

“Why?”

“Because one is bright orange and the other bright red.”

“Pretty fancy.”

“I reckon, but they’re also easier to see because they stand out against the brown land and the pale-blue sky.”

She moved past him and continued on the trail, casting her gaze from side to side, trying to see it as he saw it. “What have you seen so far?”

Giving an exaggerated sigh, he tugged a skinny spiral notebook from the bag slung over his back and produced a nub of a pencil. “So far, some olive swallows nesting in the eaves of a picnic shelter and a Bell’s Vireo nesting in the brush. The White Egret, of course, and the wild turkey.”

“Not interesting?”

“Pretty average.”

“Why is color important?”

“It’s not. Some birds are more beautiful to look at. Mostly birders like to find the rare birds, endangered species, ones you don’t see too often. That’s considered special. But I like the ones that are beautiful too.”

“But most of them fly just the same.” At that moment a white bird with a long, graceful neck took off from the shore, soared along the bank, and then landed near the dock next to a bird with blue-gray feathers. “What’s that other bird, not the white one, but the other one?”

“The white one is a Great Egret. The other one is a Blue Heron. They like the water, and we’re close to the coast so we see a lot of tropical water fowl here.”

He stopped long enough to scribble in the notebook some more. His writing was tight and narrow with skinny loops. Nothing like Aaron’s neat block print.

“Why do you write it down?”

“That’s part of birding.” He started walking again. “You write down what you see and share it with other birders.”

“You do?”

His lips twitched. He almost smiled. “Nee, I mean, that’s what the Englischers do. They write about it on the Internet.”

She had heard of the Internet but never experienced it. From the beginning of her rumspringa, she’d avoided it for fear of disappointing Daed. He was firm about some things, technology being one of them. He didn’t want his kinner to lose their innocence. He’d told her as much on her sixteenth birthday. Took her into the barn and gave her a talking to.
“Just remember, there are some things you can never get back and some roads are dead ends. You can’t get back your innocence, your purity. Hang on to it. It’s a gift you’ll give to your husband one day. A gift like no other. One only you can give.”

She hadn’t known exactly what he meant by all that, but the love and the angst in his voice and the way he looked at her as if she were the most important person in the world to him, it was enough to make her tread with care. She’d seen some movies, watched TV, even played pool at a little tavern in town, but she’d never dated an Englisch boy or gone to parties where alcohol was served. She’d been good. She’d done her best to please him.

And then Daed had died. And now Aaron didn’t want to wait for her. And Jesse was interested in Leila. And Phineas thought Deborah was a pest. She chewed on her lip, holding back tears that seemed to pop up at the slightest provocation these days. She cleared her throat, determined to move on. “You ever been on the Internet?”

“Jah.”

“Really?” In this place where they barely had food on the table, he’d been on a computer? “Where?”

“There you go calling me a liar again.”

“Did not. I didn’t mean that.”

“I went to the library in Beeville. The librarian helped me find information about birds in this part of the country.”

“After you started your rumspringa?”

He nodded. “But even before.”

“What about the Ordnung?”

“At the time I didn’t care.”

“It was after the accident and your mudder . . .”

He nodded again, his lips curled down in a frown as he let his hand run through the branches of a bush along the trail, the branches popping behind him. “It just seemed like, what harm could it do? I know all about the slippery slope, so don’t preach at me.”

“I won’t.” She hadn’t personally experienced it, but she’d watched a friend or two hit that slope and end up on their behinds at the bottom. “It’s not my place to judge.”

“I needed to be away from the house, and I couldn’t work in the fields at first so Daed took me to the library.”

“To read the books.” She stopped to watch a turtle trundle across a fallen log and slip into the muddied water mixed with weeds along the edge of the lake. “And lightning didn’t strike you when you got on the Internet?”

“Nee. I didn’t see anything that drove me into the arms of the world. But there was information and I did learn some things. I believe in the rules. I follow them every day. But at that time I was . . . so . . .”

“Melancholy?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He shook his head, a sardonic smile spreading across his face.

“What?”

He shrugged. “I thought that about you. You feel melancholy.”

Her heart squeezed in a painful contraction. That he’d given any thought to her state of mind surprised her. “What a thing to have in common. It’s the same as being discontent with Gott’s plan for us.”

“I’m not discontent.” His sniff held undisguised disdain. “But I’m not always thinking about how ugly this place is or how I want to leave as soon as possible.”

“Instead you’re always thinking about how ugly your scars are and how no one will ever love you.”

He halted with a jerk. His knuckles went white around the notebook in his hand. His gaze seemed fixed on something far beyond the horizon. “You don’t know me.”

She’d gone too far. Her big mouth needed a muzzle. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Nee, you’re not. You’re following me around because you think you can fix me.”

“Nee, I don’t. I feel like . . . I don’t know what to call it . . . I feel there’s something about you that is like me and I’m like you. I think you can feel it too.”

His gaze dropped to the book in his hand. His grip loosened. He raised his head and looked at her. His jaw worked, but his eyes captivated her. They sparked blue green like flames turned up too high on a gas stove. “Well, all I know is we’re not going to find a Vermilion Flycatcher standing here yapping.”

“Yapping.” She breathed again. An invitation of sorts. “You call this yapping?”

“That’s what Daed calls it.”

“I call it getting to know a person.”

Phineas ducked his head, his expression once again unreadable. “I don’t understand why you would want to get to know me.”

“I told you.” And she didn’t intend to repeat it. “Besides, you’re different from most men.”

“I only look different.”

“You must think I’m awfully shallow.”

“Nee. I don’t.”

“Then what makes you think I care what you look like?”

“It’s human nature.”

“You don’t set a very high standard for our behavior.”

“I’ve seen the pitying glances.”

“It’s in your head.”

“Nee. It’s not. You don’t have to pretend you’re interested in bird-watching or bees or me. I don’t need company.”

Deborah stood toe to toe with him. “Jah, you do. You do. Just like I do. Stop pushing people away and you’ll see that people want to be friends with you—I want to be friends with you. You’re the only one making it hard.”

His chest heaved and his breathing sounded loud in the still, heated morning air. He turned his back and walked away.

“Phineas!” She gritted her teeth, counting to five, then breathed. “When I look at your eyes, I don’t see those scars at all. Gott gave you beautiful eyes. I look at them and I see right into your heart. I see how you feel about things. You’re not hiding anything from me.”

His pace slowed, but he didn’t turn.

“Fine. Be that way.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. She might not be able to draw her next breath, such was the angry welter of emotions that pressed on her. Why did this man make her so agitated? Aaron never did. What did that say about her feelings for him? Or for Phineas?

“Someday you’ll stop feeling sorry for yourself and start living the life Gott wants for you.” Deborah itched to stomp her feet. Only her last shred of dignity kept her from taking that last childish step. “When you do, you’ll let me in.”

“Why should I? You’re leaving.”

Deborah put her hand to her mouth to corral the words banging around in her head. He was right. Maybe her advice to him would be advice well taken for herself. Putting someone else’s house in order when hers was a mess. Tennessee seemed so very far away and Phineas King was right here. Right now. And something about him tore at her heart.

Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to have the same feelings about her, and Deborah didn’t have an answer for his questions.

Until she did, she should stay far, far away from Phineas King.

TWENTY

Inhaling the scent of seasoned salt, fish, and hot oil, Abigail slid the chunks of breaded fish into the skillet and adjusted the flame on the Coleman stove Susan had placed on top of the picnic table. They had done well, considering they’d fished for only a couple of hours. Enough catfish to feed the whole family. The farmer who visited the store had been right. Stink bait did the trick.

Abigail’s stomach rumbled. She loved a good piece of fried fish with buttered, boiled potatoes and corn on the cob. The fish and potatoes, her sore mouth could handle. Corn on the cob would be more than her tooth could bear. She needed to go to the dentist, but dentists cost money. She sighed and breathed a prayer for healing.

All in all, it had been a good morning. Mordecai squatted next to a bucket he’d filled with water from a nearby spigot. Butch lay at his side, as if keeping watch, his panting loud in the still afternoon air. A skinny white bird with a long neck ambled toward them, two babies following after. It seemed they wanted their bite of fish too. His ears up, Butch lifted his head and growled low in his throat. The birds trotted away.

Mordecai washed his knife and the board he’d used to skin and fillet the fish in the fish-cleaning area as fast as the boys brought him their catches. He hummed the tune of a familiar German hymn as he scrubbed the knife, then his hands. The off-key, breathy effort made her smile as she scooped another chunk of fish onto a paper plate for Samuel.

Despite the heat, the flies, and the sweat trickling between her shoulder blades in an irritating tickle, Abigail felt content. At peace. Mordecai had been right about this day of rest. The only place she felt closer to Gott than Sunday prayer service was when she worked in the garden. This park, with its lake of lapping water and tree branches rustling in the breeze and birds jabbering from their perches on wooden pilings that stuck up in the water and atop picnic benches, came a close second.

Mordecai looked up at her and smiled. She smiled back. His eyes were more blue than green today against the blue of the sky and lake. The smile spread and became a knowing grin. Her own grew to match. “What’s so funny?”

He shrugged and straightened. “You have flour on your nose.”

“Do not.” She scrubbed at her face with the back of her hand. “Well, maybe a little. You smell like fish guts.”

“Best smell around.” He tossed the water into the grass and settled the bucket on the cement. “Next to bread baking.”