At Home in Pleasant Valley (34 page)

“We appreciated the food you brought on Thursday,” Daniel said. “That was kind of you. Cheered Leah up, it did.”

Rachel nodded, hoping he was right. She saw Leah just as often as ever, of course, maybe more often, as she tried to help at this difficult time. On the surface, things were the same between them, but the truth was that she'd felt a constraint since the day she'd told Leah her plans and come away shaken by her lack of support.

“Can Elizabeth walk around with us, Mammi?” Becky held hands with her friend.

Rachel glanced at Daniel, but he shook his head. “Not this time. We're going to pick out desserts for everyone and then be on our way home.”

“Ja, we'll be going soon as well. I have one almost asleep on her feet already.” She patted Mary's shoulder as she smiled at Elizabeth. “Maybe you can come to spend the afternoon sometime soon, ja? We'd like that.”

Becky and Elizabeth brightened immediately, the hint of a pout vanishing from Becky's face. “Soon, Mammi?” She obviously wanted to nail it down.

“As soon as Elizabeth's daadi and mammi say it's a gut day.” She glanced at Daniel. “Just let me know. Anytime. And give our love to Leah.”

He nodded. “We will.” He raised his hand in farewell and shepherded his children away.

“Leah is doing all right?” Mamm asked as they moved on.

“The midwife is happy with her progress, she says. But Leah frets at having to be off her feet so much, wanting to tend to the family herself.”

“Well, she'd best listen. It's no easy thing to have a first boppli at her age.”

“She's just as old as I am,” Rachel protested.

“But you've already had three. That makes it easier. If you were to
marry again . . .” Her mother darted a look at her, as if waiting for a reaction.

Rachel did her best to keep her face from expressing anything at all. If she were to marry again. Everyone seemed to have ideas about that. Everyone but her.

“Rachel?” Her mother's voice was questioning.

“We'll have to wait and see what the future holds,” she said. Mary stumbled, and Rachel bent and lifted her into her arms. “And right now, I think the future must hold bedtime for this little girl.”

“Ja, you're right about that. I'll tell your daadi that we're ready to go.”

Mamm moved forward briskly to intercept Daad and the children, who'd gotten a few yards ahead of them while they'd talked. Rachel stood where she was, Mary heavy in her arms, and suddenly found her breath catching in her throat.

Johnny. Johnny came toward them, walking with an English woman, carrying a paper plate of funnel cakes in his hand. His head was bent toward the woman as she talked, and he didn't see them until he was almost upon them.

He stopped. Daad stopped. For a moment Daad's face softened, as if he would reach out, would say something.

And then Daad turned sharply away, muttering, “Komm,” over his shoulder. Mamm sent Johnny one pleading, loving glance before clutching Joseph and Becky by the hands and following.

Rachel reached her brother in a few steps. “I'm sorry,” she said softly.

“Don't be.” Johnny's face hardened until he no longer resembled the brother she loved. “I didn't expect anything else.” Taking his friend by the arm, he walked off.

Rachel made her way toward the buggy, her heart as heavy as the child asleep in her arms. Was there no possibility of peace between them?

She already knew the answer to that, didn't she? As long as Daadi believed there was a chance to bring Johnny back to the fold by his attitude, he'd continue, no matter how much it hurt.

Maybe that was the answer when it came to asking Daadi to fund the building of the windmill. She'd be asking him to pay for something that allowed her to continue on a path he didn't approve. Whether he said yes or no, it would create tension between them.

And tension was something they already had in abundance. There had to be another way. She'd just have to find it.

•   •   •

Gideon
settled on the polished bench in the hallway of the medical clinic, his hat on his knees. The English woman behind the reception desk had given him an odd look when he asked for John Kile, as if that was an unusual request.

Well, it most likely was, at least coming from an Amishman. Every Amish person in Pleasant Valley knew that John was under the bann, even those who weren't members of his former church district. They wouldn't willingly seek him out. But Gideon had to.

He'd been turning Rachel's problem over and over in his mind for the past few days, methodically considering all the possibilities for a solution. Ezra had often chided him for his slowness in coming to a conclusion about things, but he wasn't inclined to change now, and the situation between Rachel and Isaac was too delicate for any rash solutions.

Rachel certainly knew that Bishop Mose would intercede if she took the problem to him. Isaac would not be acting in accordance with Scripture or the Ordnung if he went so far as to cut off Rachel's water, and Gideon doubted that any member of the church would support his action.

But the decision wasn't up to him; it was up to Rachel, and he understood why she'd long for just about any solution that would avoid such an open breach in the family. To take her late husband's brother to the judgment of the community—such a thing could not be undertaken lightly.

Indeed, he wondered how serious Isaac's threat was. Would he actually follow through with it, knowing it could bring the condemnation of the community? Or did he hope to bend Rachel to his will without the need to carry it out?

Gideon frowned down at the brim of his hat, considering, and then quickly changed the frown to a smile when he realized he was being watched by an Amish mother and child from the waiting room. The little boy, probably not more than four or five, had the golden skin and yellowed eyes that marked children who suffered from Crigler-Najjar syndrome.

Gideon didn't know this family, which told him they weren't from the valley, but Dr. Brandenmyer's work with the genetic diseases that afflicted the Amish was widely known. This family might have come from as far away as Ohio or Indiana to seek out his help.

The door beside him opened, and John Kile came through with a quick, businesslike stride. He glanced around, and his face registered surprise when he saw who waited for him.

“Gideon?”

Gideon rose. “John. You look well.”

Actually he was nearly unrecognizable. The Amish boy Gideon had once known seemed present only in the shape of his features. His hair was a bit darker now, and cut so short that it appeared even darker. He wore a pale blue shirt with a pair of tan pants, topped by the sort of loose coat doctors wore. If Gideon had passed him in a crowd of English, he wouldn't have known him.

“Gideon Zook.” John said the name slowly, his eyes narrowing a bit. “When the receptionist told me an Amishman was waiting to see me, I found it hard to believe.”

Would Johnny have thought—or hoped—that it would be his father? Everyone knew how strict Amos Kile was when it came to holding to the bann. And Gideon knew how much that situation was hurting Rachel and her mother.

“I'm sorry to interrupt your work. I'd like a few minutes of your time, if you can spare it.”

John's jaw tightened. “Aren't you afraid someone will see you talking to me?”

Natural, maybe, for John to be less than friendly. It couldn't be easy for him to be back in the valley and have folks avoid him. Still, leaving had been his choice. As had coming back.

“I wouldn't be here if I were worried about that. We need to talk about Rachel.”

John just stared at him for a moment, and Gideon couldn't begin to guess his thoughts. Then he held open the door he'd come through. “Come on back. We'll find someplace private to talk.”

Nodding, Gideon followed him.

This side of the building was entirely different from the ordinary medical clinic that occupied the opposite side. He glanced into the rooms they passed as they walked along a hallway that seemed to run the depth of the building. Medical labs and computer rooms lined the hall—the tools of Dr. Brandenmyer's trade, he supposed. And John's now, as well.

They passed a door marked Conference Room and came to an outside door, which John pushed wide. “Come out on the porch. Nobody will bother us back here.”

The porch was furnished with a small table and a couple of chairs, and some cartons were stacked at one end, as if a delivery hadn't been put away yet. A driveway curved around the building, and beyond it pasture stretched all the way to the distant line of trees. A hitching post had been conveniently placed under the shade provided by a couple of maples.

It was a pleasant spot; some would probably say a funny spot for a medical research laboratory. Dr. Brandenmyer had been smart enough to know that he'd have to go to the Amish if he wanted to study their diseases.

John leaned against the porch railing, as if he didn't expect to prolong this visit. “What brings you to visit me today? Nothing medical, I'm guessing, or Rachel would have come herself instead of sending you.”

“No.”

Gideon would know how to talk to the boy he'd grown up with, but John Kile was English now. There was pride in him, Gideon would guess—pride in his education and his position. That might make it more difficult to gain his agreement.

John raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

No choice but to plunge into it and trust to the gut Lord that he was doing the right thing.

“You maybe know that I've been helping Rachel out some.”

John nodded, his face softening at the mention of his twin. “She told me you were building that greenhouse she wanted so much. That was good of you.”

He shrugged that off. “She's been working with her plants a lot—taking things to sell at market, at my brother Aaron's stand.”

“She always did have a green thumb, didn't she?”

John smiled, and all of a sudden that made him look like the boy he'd been. The antagonism Gideon had felt at first disappeared once John mentioned Rachel. Those two had always been as close as two halves of a heart.

“Ja, she did. She still does.” He took a breath. He was skirting the issue, and that wasn't helping either of them. He'd best get to the point. “But she needs help.”

John seemed to stiffen, his hands pressing hard against the railing, his face shuttered. “What business is that of yours? Did Rachel send you here, or is this your idea?”

Looked like he'd said something wrong, but there was nothing for it but to push ahead now. “Rachel didn't send me.” He felt a twinge at the thought. No, Rachel hadn't asked him to do anything for her.

“Then what are you doing here?” John's tone made it a demand.

“I guess I'm interfering.” He shrugged. “Somebody has to. And Ezra was my friend. I feel like I owe it to him to do what I can.”

“You two always did hang together, didn't you?” John seemed to take a cautious glance at the past they'd shared. “All right. So tell me what it is that's so serious you have to butt in to it.”

Gideon's tension eased a hair. Johnny would listen, anyway. That was progress.

“Rachel maybe told you that she's thinking of expanding what she's doing with her plantings, maybe even turn it into a regular nursery. She could make enough money from it that she wouldn't have to sell the farm.”

“I knew money was tight. And that she doesn't want to let go of the farm. I guess that's as good a solution as any. So where does the problem come in? Does she need financing to get started?”

Gideon hesitated. Isaac's role in this wasn't his story to tell.

“The water supply from the well isn't always reliable. Putting in a windmill would solve it, and I'd be glad to do it. But she won't let me unless she can pay.” He shrugged. “Your sister can be a stubborn woman at times.”

John's jaw clenched. “I've already offered her money. And been turned down. You can guess why.” His very tone was a challenge.

“That's so,” Gideon said slowly, his gaze on John's face. “But it seems to me that a smart, educated man like you could figure out a way around that, if you really set your mind to it.”

For an instant anger flared in that set face, and Gideon thought he'd failed. Then slowly, maybe reluctantly, John nodded. “You have an idea how we could accomplish that?”

Relief moved through him. This was going to work. “Not exactly. But I know who will help us, because I've already asked him. Bishop Mose.”

I
just can't believe this is happening so quickly already.” Rachel stared from her kitchen window at the windmill that had risen almost overnight, it seemed, in the field beside the barn.

“The children aren't getting in the way of Gideon and the workers, are they?” Leah grasped the kitchen table, as if she was about to heave herself to her feet. “Maybe I should check on mine.”

Rachel got to her in two quick steps and nudged her gently back into her chair. “You'll do no such thing,” she chided. “It's a wonder to me Daniel let you come over here today. If you overdo, he'll never let me hear the end of it.”

“But the children . . .”

“Are playing in the barn, well out of the way. Did you think Gideon would let them climb the windmill tower?”

Leah chuckled, subsiding. “I guess you're right.” She smoothed her hand down over her bulging belly. “Seems like the closer this little one comes to being born, the more I fuss and fidget. Please tell me that's natural and not just me.”

“Definitely not just you.” Rachel sat down opposite her and stirred her own cooling tea. “I remember driving Ezra and the oldest two crazy with my fussing the month before Mary was born.”

Funny, now that she thought about it, that she could talk about Ezra so naturally now. It felt gut—bittersweet, maybe, but gut.

Leah stroked her belly. She wore that looking-inward expression that pregnant women seemed to get, as if communicating with the babe inside them was far more important than anything that happened outside.

“The midwife says I've probably three weeks to go, but I keep feeling
as if this little one won't wait so long.” Her lips curved in a soft smile. “How much I want to hold him. Or her.”

Rachel had to blink back tears. She remembered that feeling, too. “That will come soon enough. But hopefully not before the quilting bee at your house.”

Leah nodded. “If everyone comes, there will be enough to finish two baby quilts that afternoon. People are being so kind—it's almost overwhelming.”

“You were our schoolteacher for nearly ten years,” Rachel reminded her. “Lots of folks have reason to be grateful to you. They want to share your happiness.”

Despite her pleasure in having Leah here for a visit again, she couldn't prevent herself from taking another quick glance at the windmill, rising raw and new against the sky. That was Gideon on the top level now, working steadily and without hurry, as he always did.

And how she could recognize him at this distance in a group similarly garbed, she didn't want to think about.

“Enough about the baby,” Leah said, putting her cup down on the table. “I want to hear all about the windmill. How did this come about? I didn't even know you were thinking about building one.”

“It's not so surprising, really. You know we often had trouble with our water supply in the summer.”

Leah nodded, not saying the obvious—that Ezra and Rachel had always been able to count on pumping their water over from Isaac's. But she was probably thinking it, wondering about it.

“Anyway, I needed to do something.” She hurried on past the difficult patch. “Gideon suggested that the windmill would let me be . . . would increase the amount I could pump. Ezra had talked about that several times, but it seemed like there was always something else to spend the money on.”

“Now Gideon is doing it for you.”

If there was a double meaning in the words, Rachel decided to ignore it. “Not for free. I couldn't let him do that. And the truth was that I didn't see how I'd ever pay for it.”

“Your parents . . .”

Rachel shook her head. “I didn't feel right about asking them. They're so eager for me and the children to move back in with them. They see this as just another thing holding me here. No, this help came from Bishop Mose.”

“Bishop Mose gave you the money?” Leah leaned forward, face alive with interest.

“Not gave. It's a loan, and I'll pay him back.” Rachel hesitated, the longing to talk this over with Leah strong. “I'm not even sure how Bishop Mose knew about it to begin with. It wasn't as if I was going around talking about it.”

“Gideon must have told him.” Leah glanced toward the window in her turn.

“I suppose so. Of course I told Bishop Mose no, but—have you ever tried to tell him no about something?”

Leah's lips twitched. “I can't say I have.”

“For every argument I had, he had an answer. First he was rational. It was a gut investment and it would increase the value of the farm, so that even if I sell sometime, I'll get more.”

“He's probably right about that. But if I know you, you didn't give in that easily.”

“Well, no.” Rachel fiddled with her teaspoon, balancing it on her fingers. “But he questioned my pridefulness, saying that's all that was keeping me from accepting help from one of the brothers when I needed it.”

The spoon dropped from Rachel's finger, landing on the wooden table with a tiny
clink
.

“If the bishop tells you that you're falling into sin, you sit up and take notice. Thing was, I could see how he had it right. I
was
being prideful, thinking that I was the only one who could take care of my children, and not trusting others to help me.”

Leah leaned across the table and put her hand over Rachel's, her grip warm and firm. “I'm glad.”

“Are you?” Rachel flushed. “I mean—I know you don't think I can succeed at this nursery business, and that's mostly why I need the windmill—”

“Not think you can succeed?” Leah interrupted her, her fingers tightening on Rachel's. “Rachel, where did you get an idea like that?”

“That Sunday, after worship, when I told you about my idea. You . . . Well, you discouraged me. As if you didn't think I had it in me to make a success of it.”

“Ach, Rachel, that isn't what I meant at all.” Leah's face crinkled with such distress that Rachel had to believe her. “I was just worried about you, that's all. I was afraid you'd work yourself to death, not accepting any help and thinking you had to do it all on your own. That's what I was thinking. Goodness, I know you'll do anything you set your mind to.”

Rachel flushed, this time with pleasure. “I thought—well, never mind. I'm just glad you feel that way.”

Leah's eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I've felt, lately, as if there was something between us. I didn't like the feeling. Are we all right now?”

Rachel nodded, her own throat thick. There had been something between them, thanks to her own misunderstanding.

“Ser gut,” Rachel murmured.

Before she could say another word, a ruckus erupted outside. Men's voices, shouting—something had happened.

She and Leah exchanged one quick, frightened look, and then she was rushing to the door, with Leah following more slowly.

She burst out onto the back porch and took the steps in a jump. Men were running toward the barn, Gideon in the lead. Rachel's heart thudded against her ribs.

Something was wrong—something bad.

Please, Lord, please, Lord.
She didn't know what to pray, only that prayer was needed.

Elizabeth raced to them and clutched Rachel's apron with both hands, her face tearstained and frightened.

“Elizabeth, what is it? Tell me!” She grasped the child's shoulders.

“Becky.” The word came out on a sob. “Becky climbed up into the barn rafters. She can't get down. She's going to fall.”

Becky . . . please, God, protect Becky.

“Go to your mamm,” she ordered, and she set off running toward the barn, fear clawing at her heart, breath coming in terrified gasps.

Please, Father. Please.

•   •   •

Gideon's
leg throbbed as he reached the barn seconds ahead of the other men. He thrust the door wide and plunged in, blinking, trying to adjust his vision to the gloom after the bright sunshine outside.

He spotted the two boys standing in the middle of the barn floor, their heads tilted back, faces pale, shocked ovals as they stared upward. He followed the direction of their gazes, and his heart seemed to stop.

Becky. High in the rafters, thirty or forty feet up, Becky teetered on a beam, hands outstretched to clutch nothing but air.

For a second he couldn't move—couldn't do anything but utter a wordless prayer. Then the others rushed in, and his mind started working. Be calm, be rational, think only of what must be done, and not of what was at stake.

“Get a rope,” he ordered. “And a tarp, a canvas, anything you can use to stretch out in case—”

He didn't finish. He didn't need to. They understood. In case she fell.

Murmurs of agreement. He grasped the ladder that led up to the loft level. “I'm going up.”

“No, I will.”

He hadn't seen William come in, but he was often around the farm. His round, beardless face was pale, and his voice had shaken on the words.

Gideon didn't stop his scramble up the ladder, but he threw the words over his shoulder. “I'm more used to working at heights. Stay with Rachel.”

Not waiting to see if the lad agreed, he scaled the ladder to the loft and then paused to assess the situation. A rough ladder nailed to the wall led upward into the angled timbers that braced the roof. Becky must have gone that way, but how she'd gotten that far out on the crossbeam, he couldn't imagine.

“Gid, here.” Aaron, who'd been helping with the windmill, tossed a coil of rope up to him.

Gideon caught it and slipped it over his head, then thrust his arm through the middle so that it crossed his body.

“What else?” Aaron said the words softly, as if afraid of disturbing Becky on her precarious perch.

Gideon measured the angle at which he'd have to bring the child down if he reached her.
When
he reached her. “Stay here on the loft. I might need to lower her down to you.”

He wouldn't consider any other conclusion to this. He couldn't.

Aaron nodded, seeming to understand all that he didn't say. “Da Herr sei mit du,” he murmured.

The words seemed to follow Gideon as he started up the ladder.
The Lord be with you.

Gideon's gaze was fixed on Becky. He could see her better now that he was higher. Her face was as white as her kapp, her arms stretched out in an effort to balance herself.

Below, he heard the rush of running feet. Rachel. It had to be. She'd look up; she'd see her child in danger. Pray God she didn't cry out. The slightest thing could disturb Becky's delicate balancing act.

Straining his ears, his body tense, he heard a faint gasp—that was all. Rachel would see, would understand. She'd be strong, no matter how afraid she was.

And he—he couldn't look down, couldn't let himself be distracted by the pain he knew she was suffering. All his attention had to be on Becky.

He reached the top of the ladder. Not close enough to reach her yet, but at least he could probably talk to her without causing her to move.

“I'm coming to get you, Becky.” He kept his tone low and easy. “Got yourself in a bit of a pickle, I'm afraid.”

She didn't speak, but her head moved in the faintest of nods.

A diagonal beam crossed beneath her. That must be how she'd gotten up there, but he couldn't imagine it. Still, if she had done it, then he could.

He eyed the beam she stood on. If he could loop the rope over it,
that would help to stabilize him as he worked his way up the diagonal toward her. But he'd never do it from here. He'd have to edge his way up closer first.

Meanwhile, Becky was visibly tiring, and that increased the danger. He risked a glance down. If she fell from where she was now, she'd miss the loft edge where Aaron stood. The other men were already positioned below with a canvas stretched between them, their eyes and their prayers fixed on the child.

“Becky, can you sit down on the beam instead of standing, do you think?”

Frowning, she bent her knees slightly. Her arms waved, and someone below them gasped.

Then she caught her balance again, shaking her head slightly.

“That's all right.” He edged upward along the beam. “You're fine just where you are. That beam is nice and wide. I'd guess you could stand there all day if you had to.”

She seemed to straighten a little, as if she were trying to prove him right.

He edged a foot closer and grasped the beam with one hand while he lifted the rope free with the other. He would not let himself imagine the day Ezra had been above him in another barn. He would not think about Rachel, far below, watching in terror. He would only concentrate on the child.

“Becky, I'm going to throw my rope up around your beam. I don't want you to move or reach for it, okay? I'm just going to use it to help me balance.”

Seeing that she understood, he loosened the loop, measuring the distance to the beam with his gaze. He knotted the end of the rope to give it a little more weight, swinging it several times to get the feel of it. Then he swung it upward.

It missed, falling back toward him. The momentum of his swing threw his body off balance. He lurched, stumbling on the beam, clawing at thin air, nothing beneath him but the canvas, which wouldn't hold his weight. He was going to fall—

His left hand brushed the beam, caught, held, and his body slammed into it, his legs dangling.

Hug the beam, don't look down, don't think about the pain, he thought, as his bad leg took all the weight when he dragged himself back onto the beam . . .

Gripping it, he looked up, shaking off the red haze that clouded his vision. Bless the child, she still held her position, though every muscle must be trembling with the effort it took.