Arms of Love (11 page)

He had not intended the break to be so soon nor so profound. He had told himself that he would put it off until Lena had time to recover from her mother’s death. But the reality of her need for someone to watch over her and protect her was a pressing issue, and he knew that marriage would be all too easy a way to dismiss what hope he had given to her mother.

Lena moved slightly, to rest against a nearby fence rail, as if for support. He wanted to tell her the truth, but he could not. Not when he’d discovered that enlisting might help him build a free life the fastest.

“And what of your faith?” she asked in ragged tones, surprising him as always with the way she understood the darkest of his thoughts.

“There are some things worth fighting for,” he said, wondering if it were really true.

“You would give up being Amish? Deny what others endured and were martyred for . . . our way of life?”

He couldn’t answer; he didn’t know the answer. And more than this, he realized that if he did enlist, did manage to build a new life, he would have to ask Lena to give up being Amish one day—if she would still have him.

And then her voice softened and she spoke in careful tones. “Adam . . . I will accept it if you say that you no longer want . . . want me. But you know I have seen you act—differently—before. Could— could this be one of those times . . . when you are not quite yourself?”

He flushed with embarrassment. He knew exactly what she spoke of—the flashbacks to something namelessly horrible, the nightmares . . .

“Do you remember the time we were together in the field, and you slept?” she asked.

He remembered all too well . . .

It was high summer, the fields dark green, and patches of violets lay thick upon the ground. They were seated beneath one of the old oaks on her father’s land, having walked far from the house. He had fallen asleep, lulled by the soft comfort of her shoulder, though he always worried about touching her, never wanting to trespass against propriety, even though he wished that he could. Then he began to dream, and the nightmare came in the daylight, and he’d awakened with a low moan. Lena was looking at him, gently wiping the damp hair from his forehead.

He had snapped fully awake then, rolling from her and knocking a stray elbow against her arm. He’d stared at her blankly until he shook himself. “Don’t ever let me do that again,” he’d ground out.

She smiled in confusion as she rubbed her arm. “Do what?”

“Fall asleep.” His eyes scanned the green fields as if searching for something.

“I can stand a few nightmares, Adam. Everybody has them at one time or another.”

He shook his head and stared at her hard. “I mean it, Lena.”

She blew out a breath in frustration. “Well, then, how exactly are we going to sleep togeth—”

She’d broken off, blushing, and he’d shivered, torn between fear and desire.

He looked at her fully, and a deep sadness drew over him. “Together?

As man and wife? I—I do not know.”

He’d crawled closer to her and bent with tenderness to stroke her arm where she rubbed it. “I know I cannot risk hurting you in my sleep, as I did just now.”

“It is nothing,” she choked, and he knew she feared the soberness of his attitude, the strangeness of his behavior.

Now he blinked away the confusing memories and stared at her in the moonlight. “
Nee
, Lena. I am sound of mind. I mean what I say.”

She nodded, and he watched her delicate neck bend as if yoked to comprehension. Then she raised her chin and looked him in the eye, and he could not help but admire her spirit.

“I do not understand fully, Adam, but I will accept what you say. Gott is for me . . . and for you. I will pray for you, for I can’t turn off my feelings like damming a spring. But I will go on, and the
kinner
and I will be well.”

She pulled away from the fence post and brushed past him, her cloak touching his arm and sending tiny sensations of longing through his chest. He turned to watch her go and told himself that he was mad to have spoken to her as he did. But then
Gott’s
voice came to him, a heart echo of soothing over the tumult in his chest.
Faithful servant
. All
will be well . . . but wait . . . wait
.

He had no choice but to hope in the comforting words, though he felt far from anything faithful or good. He heard the farmhouse door snap closed and shut his eyes against the sound as tears pressed and fell at the foot of Mary Yoder’s fresh grave.

Chapter 8

I
t grows late.” Ellen Wyse spoke from where she stood near the dining table. Her hand stroked Adam’s pewter plate with nervous fingers.

Joseph turned from his contemplation of the flames in the fireplace and looked at his wife. She was, in truth, a beauty still. He knew he had chosen well in marriage—not that he’d had any instruction in the matter of choosing. His parents had been . . .

He dragged his mind back to his wife, away from the gnashing images of his younger life. It mattered little that Ellen had only managed to produce two healthy sons; the small family graveyard bore testament to the other three she had lost in attempting to perform her duty. He could ask for nothing more.

“Serve the meal, Ellen,” he said, ignoring her obvious worry and moving to his seat at the head of the table.

Isaac soon joined them, and Joseph saw him glance toward his brother’s plate.

“Adam’s late again. I wonder where he eats half of the time.”

Ellen bore the kettle of fragrant squirrel stew to the center of the table and stepped away to catch up the basket of biscuits from a tall wooden shelf. She took her place, then glanced wryly at Isaac. “Likely he does not eat at all.”

Joseph’s hand came down with a rap against the wood of the table. “Then he does not eat. Stop fussing, Ellen.”

He watched her delicate neck bend in submission before bowing his head for silent grace. The moment was broken by the opening of the front door.

Adam entered, looking chilled and disheveled.

“Forgive me,
Fater, Mamm
, for my lateness.” He moved to take his seat, his eyes sweeping the table.

Joseph lifted a single finger, and Adam gave him a wary look. “You have missed the blessing of the food your mother has worked to prepare. You need not participate in this meal, Adam.”

“But, Joseph,” Ellen spoke up. “The long walk . . . He must be hungry.”

He gave her a quelling glance, and Ellen dropped her head.

Adam rose to his full height. “I find that I am not hungry after all,
Mamm
. In truth, I do not think I can stomach another morsel.”

Joseph fingered the edge of his pewter
messer
at this unusually level and challenging response to his command. Something was wrong with Adam. The boy looked surprised himself at his own words. Jospeh felt a surge of fear in the recesses of his mind.

“Why do I think that you speak of more than mere food, my
sohn
?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet. The candlelight played on the edge of his knife.

Adam swung an intense gaze in his direction, and Joseph had to force himself to remain calm.

“What do we talk of here,
Fater
?” Isaac asked, breaking the tension of the moment.

Joseph lowered his
messer
and lifted a biscuit. He broke off a piece and crumbled it between his fingers. “Nothing to trouble you, Isaac. I’m sure Adam is simply tired.” He glanced back to the golden eyes of his son and saw the confusion there, the return of the boy’s usual vulnerability. He felt a surge of relief in his belly and cursed the weakness within him that feared his own son and the truth.

“
Ya, Fater
. I am tired, ’tis all. Please forgive me. May I go to bed?”

Joseph gave a brief wave of dismissal but did not begin to eat again until Adam’s footsteps had faded up the oaken staircase. It was clear that the boy had experienced something to produce his unusual flare of restlessness and attempt at noncompliance. He needed to be watched more closely.

Adam looked up at the knock on his door. It was far into night and the candle burned low on his bedside table.

“
Kumme
in,” he said, hoping it was not his father. But then, Fater never knocked.

To his surprise, it was Isaac, looking rumpled, with his white shirt untucked, his brown hair tousled, and a raccoon in his arms.

Adam leaned up on one elbow on the bed.

“New pet?”

“He has a bite on his hindquarters. I thought I would keep him awhile until the wound heals.”

Adam nodded. His brother’s love of animals was something that had existed for as long as he could remember. Along with his books, Isaac seemed to lose himself in the comfort of tending smaller creatures.