The Captive Heart (2 page)

But that name haunted her. Cualnezqui, he called her. A Nahuatl word, it had been Domingo's pet name for Miriam alone, from the day she and her family arrived.
“Friend,”
he explained when she asked him what it meant, and for an entire year she believed him. But last night, as he was riding away, Rachel told her the truth, and the earth shifted.

Cualnezqui did not mean
friend
at all.

It meant
beautiful one
.

So why did he not speak when she gave him the chance? Had he been teasing her all this time? Was he treating her like a child? The questions consumed her.

Never before had she met such a man. She was smitten and she knew it, though she had always tried to hide it—partly because she was Amish, and partly because she was Miriam. Her dreams and desires were her own, jealously guarded lest they make the rounds of the gossips' tongues and come back in whispers to ridicule, or worse. The church would take a dim view of her feelings for a man who was not Amish. He was not even American, but a half-breed native Mexican.

And then, with a shock, she recalled the brief prayer she'd uttered before falling asleep, asking for a sign.

She had gone to sleep with a plea for help on her lips and awakened to a vivid, pointed dream. Now she was plagued by the nagging fear that perhaps the dream was the answer to the prayer. Could it have been a cryptic warning from Gott himself? Would it somehow be up to
her
to save Domingo?

Knowing she would not go back to sleep, Miriam slipped out of bed and dressed herself in the dark so as not to wake her four sisters sleeping in the same room. The house had grown cold in the night; she went downstairs to stoke the stove.

Chapter 2

W
hen the rooster crowed, Rachel awakened with such excitement that she barely noticed Miriam was already gone from the bed. She sprang from under the covers like a child on Christmas morning and rushed to the window again, just like yesterday, to make sure nothing had changed.

The wagons and buggies and hacks were still parked in a row by the lane. Tents glowed in the yard, their lanterns already lit, while down by the kitchen garden a flurry of sparks leaped from the red embers of a dying campfire as one of the men dropped a fresh log onto it.

Their new neighbors had been here since Friday night and she still hadn't gotten over the excitement, because
Jake
was with them.

She'd waited a whole year for Jake Weaver to come, the last two months without hope because she received word that his father had decided not to bring his family to Mexico. Rachel's own father was the cause of it. Caleb Bender, because it was his duty and it was the truth, had written his friends in Ohio and told them about the bandit troubles. His candid letters had changed Jake's father's mind about moving across the border into such turmoil.

The news that Jake would not be coming had driven a nail through Rachel's heart. Yes, she had barely reached courting age before her family pulled up stakes and moved to Paradise Valley. But she and Jake had known each other all their lives, and in the midst of the storm that the state of Ohio unleashed upon the Amish, the two of them discovered strengths in each other that they had never noticed before.

“I would do a great many things for you,”
Jake had said, and it was as if a veil lifted and her future unfolded before her eyes with astonishing clarity. They both knew with a calm and unwavering certainty—suddenly, yes, but beyond any childish doubt—that they were meant for each other. That certainty, and their faith, had now been tested by a separation of a thousand miles for an entire year.

But now he was here. At the eleventh hour Jake's father had relented and allowed his son to leave the family farm and come to Paradise Valley as a hireling of John Hershberger.

The eastern sky had only begun to turn purple. A sharp snore came from simpleminded Ada, sleeping in the other bed with her two youngest sisters. Rachel woke them, then rushed to put on yesterday's dress and pin her long red hair under her covering. She wanted to finish her chores quickly and leave plenty of time to change into her Sunday clothes for
gma
. Today there would be church services in the Benders' barn.

And Jake would be there.

She hurried downstairs, past the living room, where her brothers were just beginning to stir from their blankets on the floor, through the kitchen, where Miriam and Mamm were already starting breakfast, and stopped by the back door to put on her coat. She lit a lantern, grabbed her bucket and stool from the back porch and headed for the barn.

Setting her bucket and stool down at the milking corner, she put a little feed into the manger and went out to rouse the cows. As usual, she found them lying in the grass not far away, waiting. When the cows saw her lantern, they hauled their heavy bodies up and plodded toward the big door, long accustomed to the routine. Her bare feet were freezing from the dew, so she stood for a minute in the impression left by a cow, absorbing the warmth before she followed them inside.

As she went back through the door of the barn someone laid a hand on her shoulder. She gave a little shriek and nearly dropped the lantern as she spun around.

“Good morning,” Jake said, smiling sheepishly. “I'm sorry I scared you.”

She melted into his strong arms and warmth flooded through her. She said nothing. No words were necessary.

He gave her a too-brief hug and said, “I'll help you with the milking. I'll have to round up John's cows and milk them too, so I'll be needing the space.”

She nodded, stifling a giggle. “Miriam will be here in a minute. We wouldn't want her to catch us like this.”

Milking was no longer a chore with Jake beside her. Nothing was the same. Her whole world had taken on new and vibrant colors.

That morning, for the first time since the Shrocks and Hershbergers arrived, the three Amish families gathered for church services in the Benders' barn. Miriam sat on a backless bench alongside her sisters, but part of her was elsewhere. Despite the pure and palpable joy in the air that morning—for they had been reunited and were a community again—Miriam's mind kept wandering, reliving an all too vivid dream.

They sang a few songs from the
Ausbund
, Hershberger said a long prayer of thanks for traveling mercies and then her dat got up to speak. He fidgeted and shifted uneasily from foot to foot, for Caleb Bender was not sanctioned by the church as a preacher. It was one thing to speak in front of his family on Sunday morning, but a crowd of fifty was very different.

“I was thinking on it this morning at breakfast,” her father said, standing before the assembled families, the women seated on one side and the men on the other, all of them dressed in their Sunday best. “I was thinking about how in the beginning, every time Gott made something new He always said it was good. And it goes along like that until after He makes a man. But then comes the first time Gott says something is
not
good. He said it was not good that the man should be alone.”

Now he had Miriam's full attention.
Alone.
The word struck a chord in her. It meant almost twenty and unmarried, with no prospects.

Her dat paused, biting his lip, choosing his words carefully.

“Gott meant for Adam to have a wife, a helpmeet,” he said slowly. “But I think mebbe there is more to it than that. I believe the thoughts of Gott are truth, whether He thinks them in a small way or a big way.”

There was great stillness then as everyone stared at him blankly, not sure what he meant by this. Miriam glanced at the faces of the boys sitting across the aisle. At the mention of a wife, Jake Weaver's attention drifted subtly from Caleb's face to Rachel's. The faintest trace of a smile touched the corners of his eyes before he turned his attention back to her dat.

But then she saw Micah, the strapping big twenty-one-year-old son of Ira Shrock, sitting next to Jake. She couldn't help noticing that he glanced at her too often for it to be accidental.

Micah had been there too, on the wagon with her on the way back from Arteaga when the bandits struck and tried to take her. In her mind it was Domingo who had saved her, taking down the bandit whose pistol was aimed at Micah's back, but Micah had done his part, too. When the second bandit tried to climb over into the wagon to drag her away, it was Micah who stopped him. At the very least, Micah had helped save her life. She was indebted to him.

Caleb cleared his throat. “What I'm trying to say in my clumsy way is that if Gott says it is not good for
the man
to be alone, then it is probably not good too for
people
to be alone. We—my wife and children and me—have been alone in a strange land for a year now . . .”

His thoughts overwhelmed his voice for a moment and he paused to collect himself.

When he looked up again, his eyes found John Hershberger and he said quietly, “I think mebbe Gott meant for us to be with Him
and
with one another. I cannot tell you how full my heart is this morning when I look out and see that we are no longer alone. It is very, very good.”

Miriam knew from personal experience that it was definitely not good to be alone. Keeping her eyes on her father, avoiding Micah's glances, she felt a pang of guilt. Domingo was not Amish. It was inevitable; any sort of relationship with him would surely bring the censure of the church, but she couldn't help herself. His voice echoed in her head.

“Cualnezqui.”

Beautiful one.

Chapter 3

T
he youth held a singing at Caleb's that evening, boys and girls facing each other on benches in the barn. There was the usual jockeying for position as boys tried to sit across from a girl whose eye they wanted to catch.

Rachel paid attention. Jake was there with the Hershberger boys and their sister Lovina. As a teenager alone in a strange land, Jake would naturally be treated as one of the family by the Hershbergers. He would be paid, of course, but he wouldn't see a penny of it. John Hershberger would mail Jake's earnings home to his father, as was the custom. Until he was twenty, or married with a home of his own, everything Jake earned would go to his father.

Ira Shrock's children came to the singing, too—his four older sons and two of his daughters. Both of Rachel's brothers were there. Harvey Bender never missed a singing, but now even Aaron came and sat with the other boys, which was unusual. At twenty-two he didn't have to attend, since it was mainly a social function for older teens, and he hadn't been to a singing back home since his twin brother, Amos, died four years ago. But back in the fall his older sister Mary had delivered twins, a boy and a girl, and named the boy Amos, after the lost brother. It was as if Aaron's twin had been reincarnated, and the dark cloud of loss that hung over him vanished like a morning mist. Awakening from his doldrums, Aaron smiled more often and began to mix with the other young men. He talked more and walked a little taller, held his shoulders a little straighter.

Jake Weaver took a seat right across from Rachel, as expected. Though it was something of a thrill for her, by now their courtship was old news to the rest of the girls and didn't cause much of a stir. What
did
pique Rachel's interest was when Micah Shrock shoved Aaron aside so he could sit directly across from Miriam.

At nearly twenty it was getting late for Rachel's older sister, and separated from the large Amish community in Ohio, Miriam's prospects were slim. Even now, with the arrival of two more families, the two older Shrocks were the only Amish boys in the entire country who might remotely be considered a match for her.

Rachel did everything she could, elbowing Miriam and nodding in Micah's direction, but her sister's face was drawn tight and she shook off all of Rachel's hints, steadfastly refusing to make eye contact with Micah. When the singing was over Miriam went straight into the house with the adults, giving him no chance to talk with her alone.

Later, when they were in bed and the rhythmic breathing from the other bed told Rachel the younger girls and Ada were already asleep, she touched Miriam's shoulder in the dark and broached the subject.

“What's wrong with Micah Shrock?” she whispered. No point beating around the bush.

Miriam drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Nothing. Micah's a nice enough boy. I just think he's a little immature.”

“Boy? Miriam, he's six-foot-three, and he's the oldest unmarried
boy
in Paradise Valley.”

Miriam didn't answer for a second. “That doesn't make him a man. He just seems so . . . I don't know.”

“Seems so
what
? Amish?” She let the word hang for a moment before she went on. “I think you only have eyes for Domingo, Miriam. I know he's handsome, and I like him too, but he's not one of us. You're playing with fire.”

Miriam's head turned toward her and she raised herself up on an elbow. “Domingo is not interested in me, Rachel. He has never said anything to make me think he sees me as anything but a friend.”

“Cualnezqui,” Rachel whispered. “Why would he call you
beautiful
if he didn't have feelings for you?”

Miriam hesitated for a long time. “Who knows? Maybe he was teasing, the way you tease a little girl, calling her pretty. Besides, it's a Nahuatl word and he thinks we don't know what it means. I bet after he finds out we're onto his little joke he won't say it anymore. So you can relax, Rachel. He's our friend, and that's probably all he's ever going to be.”

“But you like him.”

“Everybody likes him. Even Dat is crazy about him, so don't make it sound like it's just me.”

“Dat doesn't look at him the way you do. I've seen it, Miriam. You should be careful what you want. Why, Kyra said he's not even a Christian. Kyra's mother raised her to be a good Catholic, but she said their father made a Nahua warrior out of Domingo. He doesn't even go to church.”

“Domingo is a good man, and it's not our place to judge outsiders,” Miriam whispered. “The condition of his soul is between him and Gott.”

“But he
is
an outsider, Miriam. If you married him it would break our mother's heart.”

Miriam's voice came across the darkness more like a hiss than a whisper. “So now I'm going to
marry
him, Rachel? First of all it's up to the
man
to choose, not the girl. I told you, Domingo has never once said he wanted to be anything more than a friend. I don't know where you get these crazy ideas!”

Miriam punched her pillow twice and flopped back onto it with a sigh.

Rachel waited a minute to let her calm down and then whispered, “I only wanted to know what was wrong with Micah, that's all. He's a good worker. Strong. For a girl in your position, he seems like a good option.”

“A good worker,” Miriam echoed. “What you really mean is a good provider—a good
husband
. You might want to consider that I'm not just a girl in my
position
; I'm a human being with thoughts and desires of my own. I barely know Micah, so I don't like to say anything bad about him, but he seems a little pushy if you want to know the truth. Besides, I don't know what we would talk about. As a friend, I don't have anything against him, but if I ever find the man I want to marry—
if
, I say—he'll be a man I can talk to, a man who can think and carry on a conversation about something besides farming.”

Conceding defeat, for now, Rachel rolled over to face the other way.

“Good luck,” she whispered into her pillow.

Domingo showed up for work at dawn on Monday morning, and Caleb had him hitch up the surrey. After breakfast Domingo went along while Caleb took Ira and John on a tour of the valley so they could pick out their plots.

“That's a fine-tempered mare,” Caleb said to Hershberger as he snapped the reins and his new buggy horse broke into a smooth pace. John Hershberger had brought him a two-year-old standard-bred mare to replace the one taken by bandits last fall. “You chose well, John. You always did have an eye for a horse.”

“They had another mare at the sale for a cheaper price,” John said, “but it wasn't near as good as this one. All I did was pick the one you would have picked, Caleb. Anyways, it's a lot easier to spend somebody else's money.”

Caleb chuckled at John's little joke. He had known John Hershberger all his life and trusted him like a brother.

Ira Shrock, sitting beside Domingo in the back seat, had remained silent up to now, his eyes nervously scanning the horizon as the surrey crossed the main road and headed into unbroken pasture on the other side of the valley. Now he leaned forward and revealed the reason for his nerves.

“Caleb, what are we going to do about those bandits?”

Caleb's eyes went wide and he scanned the horizon himself. “What bandits?”

“The ones who attacked you on the way back from Saltillo. Have you already forgotten?” There was a trace of indignation in his voice, and a fear that he had not shown in front of the women and children. “They threatened us—and they said they would be back. What do we do if they come back, Caleb?”

Domingo chuckled, answering Ira in High German. “Those two won't come back here.”

Ira looked around at him in surprise. “Well, they
said
they would. What makes you think they won't?”

Domingo shrugged, glancing at Ira from under the flat brim of his hat. “It was in their eyes. They know I am here, and they are afraid of me now.”

“Jah,” Ira said, his red face growing redder, “but mebbe this time they bring more of their friends.”

Domingo shook his head. “I don't think so, Herr Shrock. If you want to know what these men will do, you have to think like a bandit. They were defeated and had their weapons taken away—by a couple of farmers and a girl. Herr Bender even took one of their horses. They were shamed, and they knew their compadres would have no mercy. Men like that will not go back to camp and tell the truth about what happened. They will make up a grand lie about how they were attacked by an army of fierce warriors, and they were lucky to escape with their lives.” Domingo cast a wry smile at Caleb and added, “The last part is true enough—they
are
lucky to be alive.”

But Ira was not persuaded. “I still think we have to do something, Caleb—for our wives and children. If men like that come with guns to Paradise Valley we will be at their mercy.”

Caleb pondered this for a moment. “Ira, I have lived here for a year already and I have seen many bandits, but most of the time they only want food and water. Those are the only two who ever tried to do us harm, and Domingo is right—they probably will not come back.”

———

The four men climbed down from the surrey in the shadow of the ridge on the opposite side of the valley and walked through the grass, smelling and tasting and seeing for themselves the quality of the soil and the lay of the land. Even in February the midday sun was warm enough, and a gentle breeze ruffled the prairie grasses. A gray hawk cruised high over their heads, riding the upward air current along the face of the ridge.

“This is a mighty fine parcel,” John Hershberger said, slinging his coat over his shoulder and gazing back across the valley at Caleb's place. “If the weather truly holds like this, why, we can grow vegetables year-round, just like that salesman said.”

Caleb smiled. “Jah, I'm beginning to believe it myself. Winter is nearly over and we only had snow a couple times yet. I'm thinking I'll start planting this week.”

“Well I guess we'll find out then, won't we?” Ira said. Eyeing a hummock a quarter mile to the west, he mused, “I like the look of that rise yonder. Good spot for a house and a banked barn, if it only had a tree or two on it. What do you think, neighbor?”

John Hershberger squinted at the place and nodded. “I think we should go and take a look, Ira. The good thing about being first is we get to choose, and we got plenty here to choose from. No need to be hasty.”

The sound of hoofbeats turned the three men around. A Mexican cantered across the open field toward them on a tall, heavy-boned black horse with a long mane and untrimmed hair obscuring large hooves.

Ira Shrock tensed, his brow furrowed. “Would that be a bandit, Caleb?”

“
Neh
,” Caleb said, a trace of a grin on his face. “Bandits don't dress so good. I know this man. His name is Diego Fuentes, the overseer from Hacienda El Prado. A decent man—or at least he has been kind to us.”

Fuentes was dressed in corduroy pants, a hunting jacket with a leather shooting patch on the shoulder, riding boots and a narrow-brimmed city hat. He tipped his hat to the three Amishmen as he dismounted and walked over to them, leading his horse by the reins.

“Buenos días, Señor Bender! I see your new friends have arrived.” Fuentes's English was quite good.

Caleb introduced Hershberger and Shrock, and they gave Diego Fuentes a strong, one-pump Amish handshake.

“That's about as stout a horse as I ever seen,” Hershberger said. “Friesian?”

“Sí,” Fuentes answered, reaching up to rub the jaw of his black stallion affectionately. “They are rare in Mexico. He was a gift from the
hacendado
—smart and docile, and strong as a plow horse.”

The four of them walked over the land a little ways, Shrock and Hershberger checking out potential home sites and talking to Fuentes.