Saving Gideon (4 page)

“Down the hall on the left.” He pointed the way.

Avery padded across the so-cold floor in the direction Gideon had indicated. Thankfully the bathroom wasn’t much different than a regular one, except it had a newer feel than the rest of the house. The walls weren’t marked up where things had been knocked against them over the years. The ceiling looked recently painted. There was a sink and a toilet and a deep claw-footed bathtub. There were—of course—no lights. But the window over the tub let in enough of the waning sunshine that Avery could finish her business without difficulty.

She washed her hands in the sink, the water as cold as melted icebergs, and studied her reflection in the mirror above the lavatory. If she hadn’t known it before, it was certainly evident now—the Amish were not a vain people. Or at least not Gideon Fisher. The mirror over the sink was actually a hand mirror held up with a nail through the hole at the end of its faded pink handle. Avery could make out only parts of her reflection, but that was probably a good thing. Her hair was in bad need of a washing, matted and squashed to one side where she had slept on it. Day-old mascara added dark smudges beneath her eyes. An angry-looking bruise added unwanted color to her forehead just over one eye and adjacent to a cut that looked as if it had been glued together. She shuddered as a vague memory of her Amish rescuer tending her wound in the night flitted across her mind’s eye. All in all, she looked a mess. No wonder he stared at her like she had crawled out from under a rock.

With a small sigh at her disastrous reflection, she turned and made her way back to the living area. Gideon stood right where she left him, staring into the fire as if it held all the answers.

“Are you hungry?” he asked as she approached, his gaze still riveted on the dancing flames.

Surprisingly she was. Or maybe not so surprisingly. She had eaten nothing but some rumaki and a handful of crab puffs in the last twenty-four hours.

As Avery warmed her hands in front of the fireplace, Gideon seemed to pull himself from his thoughts, and headed toward the kitchen. He opened a strange-looking upright box—some kind of refrigerator, maybe?—and started pulling out containers.

His motions were quick and capable as if he had been taking care of himself for quite a while. He pulled a large knife from one of the drawers and bread out of a wooden box, slicing it with efficient precision. In minutes, he had plates on the table, silverware crossways on top instead of next to them, glasses of milk poured and waiting, and platters of meat and bread sitting in the center.

“Come,” he said with a jerk of his hand.

The wooden planks of the floor were cold against her feet as she made her way to the table. She scooched sideways into the chair, keeping the quilt around her as best she could for both warmth and covering. As she slid into place, Gideon sat a big bowl of potato salad on the table.

Her mouth started watering as he took his place and started dishing out generous helpings of the food onto his own plate.

He nodded toward her. “Help yourself.” All the people she had met from Oklahoma sounded like a perfect cross between the country twang of western Arkansas and the elongated drawl of East Texas. He had the accent of his German ancestors.

Avery did as he bade, helping herself to the thick slabs of rye bread, stacking them together with slices of cold roast beef and a side of the potato salad.

She was surprised when Gideon picked up his fork without praying.

“Aren’t you going to say grace?” The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them.

He paused for a split-second before dishing up the bite to his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. He took his time swallowing before he answered. “Plain people do not pray out loud at the supper table.” Then he scooped up another bite and shoveled it into his mouth. Though Avery hadn’t seen him bow his head and give even a silent thanks for their food, she had the feeling the subject was closed.

The food was delicious. Cold, but filling. And Avery felt better than she had in a long time. Warm and content, very close to happy. Only one thing put a damper on her mood.

“Gideon,” she started, sitting her fork down beside her empty plate and watching him finish off the last of his own meal. For such a big man, he didn’t eat much. “Do you have a phone? For emergencies, you know?” Her cell phone was still in her car, but it might just as well have been on another planet.

He wiped his mouth and stared at her for a second or two, but it seemed like an eternity. With that one innocent question, she felt like she had insulted his entire way of life.

“No.”

“I . . .” Why was she having such a hard time talking to him? Maybe it was the guarded look that had returned to his eyes. “My father might be worried about me and—”

“As he should be.”

Avery stopped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gideon leaned back in his chair, tilting his head to one side in a thoughtful pose. “Not many fathers let their daughters traipse around the countryside wearin’ next to nothing. Even
Englischer
ones.”

“I’m not . . .” She stopped herself. She
was
an
Englischer
, as he said. She
was
traipsing around the countryside, as he said. And she
was
wearing next to nothing—just as he said. Even worse, her make-do covering had slipped.

He looked at her bare shoulder, pointedly.

Avery jerked the quilt back into place. “I left Dallas in sort of a hurry.”

Gideon crossed his arms. “Not in so much of a hurry you couldn’t manage to bring your mutt along.”

“Louie V. is most certainly not a mutt. He’s pedigreed, bred from champions and—”

“Punier than a barn cat.”

Avery opened her mouth, then shut it, opened it once more and realized yet again she had no comeback to his observation—however true and hurtful. “He was very expensive,” she muttered, thankful he made no comment about the cost of her dog.

Instead he pushed himself back from the table. “I’m goin’ out to the barn to check on Molly and Kate.” Before she could utter a word, he pulled on his mud-caked rubber boots and headed out the door.

Gideon held the match to the bowl of his pipe and puffed on the end. Fragrant smoke billowed around him, mixing with the smell of wet earth, hay, and horseflesh. He took another puff, eased himself down on a hay bale, and rested his head against a brace post.

He didn’t need to tend to the animals. He had done that right before splitting the firewood. No, what he needed was a clear head. And the barn was as good a place as any for that. Still, he’d come out here and given them—Molly, Kate, and Honey, the one milk cow he’d kept—a fresh toss of hay and a few extra strokes with the brush. And now he would have a little smoke.

Maybe when he returned from the barn she’d’ve . . .

She’d’ve what? Disappeared?

Regardless of what he had thought the first time he’d seen her, she was not a pixie. She was not magical. And she’d be at the house when he returned.

All the more reason to keep to the barn.

He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the creamy white curve of her shoulder, so he opened them again. He’d had to get out of the house, take refuge lest he give into temptation and reach out a hand to see if her skin felt as smooth and soft as it looked. He hadn’t given her
Englisch
dress a second thought in the middle of a snowstorm when he was trying to get her to warmth and safety. But now that she was out of danger, it filled his mind. It had been a long time since he’d thought about touching a woman. A long, long time.

When he’d sold his farm and bought this one, he’d had one purpose in mind—to come out here and wait to die. That was all he deserved. Miriam and Jamie were dead, and it was his fault. Not God’s will as the People would like to believe, but the avoidable mistake of a man. A man who wanted his family back. Since he couldn’t have that, he was eager to join them.

He knew it was wrong to be prideful and since he couldn’t help it, he had always kept those thoughts to himself, but he had been proud of his family. Miriam was everything he could have wanted in a wife—sweet, gentle, and obedient—the quintessential Amish woman. Jamie was the best son a man could ever ask for. He’d been blessed with Gideon’s dark hair and Miriam’s clear blue eyes. The purtiest child he’d ever seen. Active, inquisitive, and unwavering in his faith and devotion to God and to Gideon.

And he had failed them. Sent them to their deaths. Killed them both.

Gideon shuddered, swallowing down the tears that threatened at the back of his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry anymore. He had shed his tears. He had asked God why. He had asked God to take him too. And then he’d asked God why some more. But he hadn’t been given an answer. So he stopped asking God for anything.

Now all he could do was wait until the unmerciful God decided to take him and relieve him of the torture he faced here on earth. He’d moved out here, away from the others, to find solace in the days, even if the nights were filled with terrible dreams.

But now what little peace he’d claimed had been shattered.

By Miss Avery Ann Hamilton.

What kind of name was Avery, anyway? Wasn’t that the brand of those stickers the Fitch girls used to label their jellies to sell in the market? Who named a woman like that after sticker labels? She should be a Belle or Misty, or Anastasia, some type of otherworldly name that went with her pixie face and big gumdrop eyes. But she wasn’t a pixie, a fairy, or otherworldly. She was a woman.

An
Englischer
.

And she didn’t belong here.

Four days—at the most—and she would be gone, back to her world where people carried rat-sized dogs around in oversized bags, wore shiny dresses, and drove expensive cars. Not in the world of the Plain people.

Until that time, until the effects of the storm had passed, he was stuck with her. He needed to make the best of it. And that would start with an apology

He stood and tapped out his pipe, then walked over to the feed bins. He opened the middle one, scooped out a cup of dog food, and headed for the house.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Avery glanced around the disheveled kitchen. Really, it was only fair. He had, after all, prepared their meal. The least she could do was clean up. Not that she had ever been called to “clean up” before. But honestly . . . how hard could it be?

Except she couldn’t move around in the kitchen wrapped in a quilt, so she’d shed her covering in favor of convenience. Now she was cold. Even activity didn’t help. Her feet felt like popsicles on the ends of her legs. Goose bumps covered every inch of her body and now she was beginning to wonder if she would ever be warm again. Not because it was so cold in the house, but the water!
Brr . . .

She closed up the containers and placed them back into the refrigerator, and she figured out how to work the sink—mainly because it was no different than a regular one. But no matter which way she turned the handle, and no matter how long she let it run, the water didn’t warm up.

She found a bottle of commercial dish soap under the sink, poured some in, and plunged her hands into the icy water.

She wasn’t sure why it was so important for her to do this—and to continue past the point of torturous discomfort—but it was. Maybe because he looked at her like she was useless fluff. She knew that look well, that indulgent, “Isn’t she sweet?” look all her father’s cronies gave her. From them, she was used to it. She could take it, even. But from Gideon Fisher . . .

Something about him challenged her, made her want to step outside of herself and try things she had never done before. Like washing dishes in icy water!

She had just placed the last glass in the drainer, when Louie V. barked. Avery turned to find Gideon there, one hand on the door knob, the other holding a plastic scoop half-filled with some type of food.

All at once she wished for the quilt back.

Without a word Gideon poured the food in one of the small bowls sitting to the right of the fireplace. Avery hadn’t noticed them earlier, but before she could comment, Gideon headed past her toward the back of the house.