A Marriage of the Heart (28 page)

He got to his feet, brushing himself down from the hay, and
spied a pair of work gloves near the feed bags. He grabbed them and headed down the ladder before his new father-in-law could come looking for him.

He walked across the open field, listening to the stray, gentle mooing of the cows and the busy chirps of sparrows as they sought seed from the autumn’s bounty. He resisted the urge to stretch his arms wide and lift his head in praise of
Derr Herr
for such a day. No matter the bonds of his marriage, he felt free. The grass beneath his feet did not seek to hold him, nor did the tree line of pine and oak condemn his every move. The Lord’s nature was new and clean and healing, and it was what he remembered most from his time away.

He’d been a fool; he knew that. He’d tried in desperation to fill the void of emptiness with a multitude of the world’s things. But nothing had worked, at least nothing that was life-sustaining. But here, even on the borrowed ground of his father-in-law, he felt the potential for peace, and he savored it to his very core.

The unmistakable high-pitched cry of a cat in distress cut into his thoughts. He turned his head to listen again. Then he walked with quick steps across the field to the ribbon of highway that bordered the farm.

CHAPTER FIVE

A
BIGAIL WASHED THE LAST OF THE LUNCH DISHES IN A
dreamy fashion. She still couldn’t believe her boldness at taking a kiss from her husband. She half smiled at the thought, then frowned again when she wondered what he’d really been thinking. He’d probably kissed a hundred
Englisch
girls during his years away, and maybe she just didn’t measure up. The teasing thought that practice makes perfect drifted through her mind, and she snapped the dishcloth to get her thoughts back in focus.

She’d have warm-ups for dinner and bring out a few of the desserts she’d held back, and then she’d worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. She left the kitchen and wandered over to the quilt frame that was permanently set up with the sheet-covered, unfinished quilt her mother had been working on when she died. The quilt pattern was called Abby’s Wish, but only fifteen of the eighteen stars had been completed. Abigail often tried to imagine what was in her mother’s mind when she’d been quilting and what her wish might have been for the young daughter she left behind.

Father allowed her to dust the frame, but finishing the quilt or packing it away was always out of the question for some reason. And since the frame was “in use,” or occupied anyway, Abigail could quilt no new work in her own home. Not that she really knew how.

She sat down in the rocking chair by the front window and gazed out at the sunny day, wondering how Joseph was getting along. Normally at this hour she would sneak upstairs to look at
her hidden magazines of the
Englisch
world, but she didn’t feel like it today. She longed for the visitors of the morning, even with their gentle nosiness. The house was too quiet, as usual.

Suddenly heavy footsteps sounded from the back porch and Joseph entered, his arms and shirt splattered with blood. Abigail jumped to her feet.

“What happened?”

“It’s not me. An old mother cat got hit by a car up by the highway. I tried to do what I could for her, but it didn’t make any difference. She was carrying a kitten in her mouth. I can’t tell if it’s hurt much or not.”

He extended his hands, and Abigail took the tiny animal. It, too, was splattered in blood and meowed in pathetic cries. Its eyes were open, but it couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old, judging by the slightness of its weight. She took it to the kitchen counter and got a damp cloth and began to swipe at its fur with gentle hands.

The blood came off, revealing no major injuries. “I think she’s okay,” Abigail said, peering at the animal.

“
Gut
. Well, you can keep her for company, then, if you want.”

“My
daed
’s never allowed pets.” Her voice was wistful, but then she frowned, not wanting to appear weak in front of him.

Joseph shrugged. “We’ll tell him it’s a wedding gift, from me to you. There’s not a whole lot he can say about that now, is there?”

She gave him a reluctant smile.

“All right. So do you think you can get the blood out of this shirt?”

He started to unbutton his shirt, and Abigail turned her full attention to the kitten, wrapping it in a towel and setting it in a wooden box she pulled from beneath the counter. She wanted to watch Joseph, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing her interest.

“
Ya
, I can try to clean it,” she said.

“Thanks—I only have this and one other, plus my one for church, so I’d like it to last.” He held out the shirt to her, and she took it, darting a quick look at his muscle-toned chest. He turned away and headed for the stairs.

“I’ll just grab my other shirt,” he called.

She stared down at the shirt in her hands, still warm from his body, and wondered how on earth to get bloodstains out of fabric. She decided she’d better look efficient before he came back, and hurried to pump some water into a basin. Opening the spice cabinet, she stared at its contents. Some of the spice jars were older than she was. She grabbed baking soda and a stray bottle of alcohol and dumped both liberally on top of the shirt. She began scrubbing in haste just as he jogged back down the steps.

He patted her shoulder as he passed by on his way back outside.
“Danki,”
he said, and she heard him walk off the porch.

She frowned and leaned her hip against the counter. The casual touch on her shoulder when no one else was about teased her consciousness with a warm tingle. She supposed he had touched her just to irritate her. It worked. Maybe she should give him a little of his own back. A small smile grew on her lips as she resumed scrubbing, plotting her next move.

CHAPTER SIX

T
HEY MOUNTED THE DARK STEPS TO THEIR ROOM TOGETHER
while her father rocked in his after-dinner chair next to the fireplace. Abigail lit the lamp on the bedside table and set the kitten in its box on the floor next to the bed. Then she went down the hall to raid a cedar chest for some extra quilts and a pillow. She returned to find Joseph standing, staring out the dark window with his back to her. She closed the door, then laid the quilts on the floor.

“Will you—will you stay turned, please, while I put on my nightdress?”

“Ya.”

She hurried despite his answer, wondering if his idea of “playing” might be to sneak a peek. And despite her resolve of the afternoon to get a little of her own back in teasing him, she found that she couldn’t quite bring herself to anything so bold at the moment. So she wriggled into her gown, then grabbed her hairbrush from the bureau and jumped into the bed, pulling the quilt up to her neck and unpinning her
kapp
.

“You may turn.”

“Danki,”
he said with slight irony. He dropped to his knees and started to make his bed, then he reached for the buttons on his shirt. “Only my shirt, dear wife. Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” she said, turning her gaze away and concentrating on releasing her braid. She ignored the nagging, innate curiosity that wanted to watch him and ran her fingernails through her scalp. She loved the moment each night when she might take
down her hair. It was one of the things that she envied most about
Englisch
girls—their freedom of hairstyle. She had no choice but to let hers grow, as it had done from childhood, and never might she even so much as take shears to create bangs across her fair forehead. Her hair hung past her waist, and now it spilled over the side of the bed as she brushed it with long, even strokes.

A small sound made her turn and glance down at Joseph. He was kneeling on the quilt, shirt off, suspenders around his waist, and he appeared frozen as his dark eyes followed the movement of the brush. Her hand stilled.

“Don’t stop.”

“Why?”

“It’s like a waterfall of gold, all shimmer and shine.”

She blushed then, knowing it was only her husband who might view her hair unbound. It seemed he was claiming his right. She finished the remaining count of strokes, then laid the brush before her on the quilt. “There.”

He seemed to shake himself as if from a dream and dropped to his back on the floor. She watched him stare up at the wooden slat ceiling as she had so often done herself and wondered if she should say something.

“There’re thirty-seven,” she remarked. “Boards, I mean—up there.”

“Thirty-eight, if you count the half board at the end.”

“I never count by halves.”

He laughed. “
Nee
. . . for you, it’s all or nothing.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Maybe not, but it leaves little room for negotiation.”

“You mean our marriage, don’t you?”

He rolled over and propped his head up on one elbow, reaching to rub a tendril of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s true; there was no room for negotiation. But there’s always time.”

She felt skittish at his touch and longed to pull her hair free.

“But,” he went on, “I’d wager it’s you who’s been caught in your own web more so than me.”

She lifted her chin. “I’m not caught.”

“Aren’t you?” He wound the white-gold strands around his hand.

She chose to ignore his game, but he only smiled, the dark growth of his beard making him look like a pirate, except for the glasses.

“Abby Lambert—now that’s a name I never expected to hear. Time was you probably wouldn’t have even looked at a Lambert. My family wasn’t the best-regarded in the community before we left.”

A sudden, pressing thought intruded on her consciousness as she studied his handsome face and flash of white teeth. “Well, what name did you expect to hear?”

“Hmm?”

She rolled over, inadvertently giving him better access to her hair. “You know what I mean.”

He looked up at her. “
Ach
, you mean another girl?”

“Ya.”

He wound and unwound the golden strands. “There was no one.”

“You’re lying!” she declared, yanking on her hair.

“How would you know that?”

“Because you looked down and not at me.”

He shrugged his bare shoulders. “So?”

She felt her temper rise at the thought of some unknown
Englisch
girl, though she couldn’t understand why. “Let me go.”

She pulled free, leaving him with several long strands of hair entwined in his fingers.

“That must have hurt.”

“It did not. Now tell me about the girl.”

He gathered the hair together and slipped it under his pillow, took off his glasses, and buried his face in the quilted sham.

“No girl,” he mumbled, muffled by the pillow.

She watched the lamplight play on the golden muscles of his shoulders and back, and pursed her lips. “Was she very pretty?”

“I’m going to sleep.”

“Not until you tell me the truth, you’re not.”

“You’d be amazed at what I can sleep through.” He nestled against the pillow.

She grabbed her own pillow without thinking and threw it at his head as hard as she could.

He lifted his face with his hair standing a bit on end and arched one dark eyebrow at her. “So you want to have a pillow fight?”

She shrank back in the bed. “No,” she squeaked.

There was a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. He sat up, the quilt sliding from him as he lifted his pillow.

She scrambled out of her bed toward the door. “My father will hear.”

“That’s
gut
, for your father to hear.”

He stood up, and she leapt back onto the bed and then dived over the side, snatching up her pillow. She faced him, heart pounding and bare toes digging into the wooden floor.

“Ladies first.” He bowed.

She raised the pillow.

“Wait,” he said. “My glasses.” He bent to retrieve the lenses, and she smacked him across the back of the head and then jumped back on the bed.

He set the glasses on the bureau and grinned up at her. “Mrs. Lambert, I believe that you don’t quite fight fair.”