The Amish Heart of Ice Mountain (4 page)

Chapter Six

The slender white feathers were speckled with blood, proof that one of the barn cats had had a go at the dove but had lost a meal. Still, the bird hobbled, off center, with pathetic flaps of its useless wing, and Mahlon watched his
dochder
, twelve-year-old Sarah, instinctively catch up the bird, hold it close, and feel the certain frantic pulse of its heart with her fingertips.

He ignored the look of shock in her gray eyes and busied himself with some loose harness. He was surprised when he heard her burst out with a sharp cry.
“Nee
. . . I won't. She's still alive.”

Mahlon realized he'd broken out into a cold sweat as Letty's shrill voice penetrated the fog in his mind.

“Sarah! Is Charlotte all right?”

Mahlon caught his hand on the table's edge and stared over his daughter's shoulder at the mud that smudged the little girl's eyelid. Sarah moved her fingertips and looked into the blue iris, and he feared,
Gott
forgive him, he feared, even before Charlotte blinked, that sight had been given to the child in her previously blind eye.

 

 

The grapevine of the small
Amisch
community had tendrils in every corner, and Ice Mountain knew about Charlotte Zook's wasp mishap with a rapidity that defied explanation. Of course Letty's loud praise of the new healer helped, but when Edward came into the cabin to find Sarah, he saw his wife slumped at the kitchen table while her
fater
whispered frantic words over her, his breath coming in audible gasps.

“How could ya try to do it, Sarah? Here . . . today . . . with everyone about. They'll think you a hex and you know it, and then . . .”

“And then what?” Edward asked, trying to keep a rein on the inexplicable anger he felt at seeing Sarah berated.

Mahlon Mast rounded the table's edge and thrust his face close to Edward's. “You shut up . . . you got no call to be speaking here. You think you can understand when I've been prayin' fer her near to ten years?”

“I think if you're worried that your daughter will be thought a witch that you might not have been praying hard enough.”

“Edward, don't . . .” Sarah spoke tiredly.

“Don't what? You think I'm going to let him behave like this in your—our
haus?
A hex? Ha . . . Next he'll be expecting that the neighbors will be taking up pitchforks against you.”

Mahlon gnashed his teeth and inched closer. “All right, then, Edward King. You whose wife she be—explain it to me. Explain how she can . . .” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Explain how she can do some—things, and tell me you haven't found it strange yerself.”

“I haven't found it strange at all, and all she did was remove a stinger. You'd think she made Charlotte Zook see or something. . . .” But here he broke off as his eye met Mahlon's, and a strange fissure of sensation rushed through his consciousness.
What if she could really heal the blind?
He blinked and Mahlon snorted.

“Uh-huh.”

“Look, Sarah healed my
fater
—you know that,” Edward said, low. “Without her, he'd likely be dead now.” Edward couldn't control his words or the pulse of memory they produced in his mind.

He didn't want to remember . . . because it was one of the oddest things he'd ever experienced in his life. But still, he saw himself and Joseph as they watched helplessly while their
daed
had struggled for breath, knowing for certain he surely would die. But then Sarah had come and run calming hands down his
dat
's arms and across his cancer-shrunken chest.

“It's not the cancer. I think he's had a heart attack,” she'd said softly, almost to herself.

“A heart attack?” Edward had groaned aloud.

But Sarah had continued to work quietly, slipping herbs beneath his
fater
's tongue and speaking to him softly.

And that had been all. Edward had held his breath and watched, amazed, as his
fater
's face was suddenly suffused with color as he drew a deep, full breath. He opened his eyes and reached up to stroke his beard. Then he looked at Sarah. “
Danki
,” he'd whispered.

Edward had watched her nod with a humble bow
.
“
Gott
be praised,” she'd said. “Now give him something to eat and drink and let him be still for today.”

She'd gotten up, nodded to Edward, and slipped from their midst.

Even now, Edward couldn't recall the moments without a distinct chill running down his spine.
Sarah . . . my Sarah . . . a healer. And it wasn't only my
daed
's heart—the cancer went into full remission that day, too.... So strange . . .
Gott
, Mahlon's right.... I don't understand.

Edward inched past his father-in-law's bulk and went to Sarah. He had to restrain himself from putting his hand on her fine-boned shoulder. Instead, he stood rigid and tall. “We'd like to be alone now.”

Mahlon jammed on his hat. “
Jah
, I bet you would.... I'll be takin' the children and yer
mamm
home, girl. Jest think on what I said. . . .”

Edward sighed when the cabin door closed. “What did he say, Sarah?”

Chapter Seven

Sarah wished she could turn into the comfort of Edward's shirt and burrow like some small prey animal, but she sat still as a field mouse in the open, staring at the knotholes in the kitchen table, very conscious of his lean hip near her shoulder.

“It doesn't matter what he said,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because he's said it all before . . . I—I try not to listen
.
”
There, that was an admission I shouldn't have made to him. It does no
gut
to appear weak as water when he's sworn never to touch me. . . .

But suddenly, he stooped down next to her chair and her breath caught in her throat. She half-turned to look at his handsome profile, made more intriguing by the black eye patch against his sun-drenched hair.

“I promised not to touch you,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“And I won't.” His voice was tight, and something in her responded with heat low in her belly.

She nodded, confused by his nearness, the sunshine and male scent of him—earthy but like the mountains. He drew closer to her, facing her fully.

“I won't touch you with my hands, Sarah, or with my body. But I never said my breath or my words were off limits, did I?”

“
Ne—nee
,” she stuttered.

“Gut
. . . because I want to say things to you to make you forget your
fater
's words. I want you to gasp and hurt with wanting and to feel the thick hardness of the chair beneath your bottom. Can you feel it?”

She half-shook her head, mesmerized by his voice, entranced by his language and the slow pull of syllables. “I—
jah
.”

“Mmm—
gut
. Very
gut
. And now I want you to think about the rigid oaken chair and to imagine that you're sitting on it in the pulsing coolness of the creek. But . . .” He smiled, a wolfish flash of white teeth. “You've forgotten your clothes, sweet.... Can you see yourself ?”

“I—can't. . . .” she managed.

“Shh,” he soothed. “You've lost your clothes and you're all alone; no one can see—I promise. And the hard chair sits steady on the creek bottom while the water tickles your toes and licks at you, laps you with a silken rush.”

This must be a sin
, she thought wildly, her fingertips pressing into the wood of the table, but she could see it in her mind, see herself as he so languorously described.

“So,” he murmured and leaned to blow softly against her exposed throat. “The water is so much more than wet; it's slick and the air is hot. You bend over and trail your hair in the wetness. Do you feel it, sweet?”

She drew a deep, trembling breath. She couldn't let him do this to her, no matter his motives. “Edward,” she gasped and rose in abrupt haste. “I—
danki—
but I—I've forgotten about my
fater
's words.”

She stared at his boots, unable to look him in the face, then turned and fled to the relative seclusion of the bedroom.

 

 

Edward blew out a harsh breath and rubbed his head against the side of the chair
. I hurt, dammit, and it's my own stupid fault. . . .

He eased himself to his feet, feeling dizzy, and had the overwhelming urge to drink. It seemed a natural solution to the faint pain in his head and the deep ache elsewhere. His gaze fell on the crock jug that protruded slightly from the curtain at the bottom of Sarah's herbal cabinet, which had been strangely preserved from the tree damage.

He took a step closer. His fingertips itched. Of course Sarah used whiskey or bourbon to mix her tinctures and such. He swallowed hard.
One drink. I should be able to have one drink and stop . . . but what if I can't?
He thrust the intrusive thought away and shot a furtive glance at the closed bedroom curtain, then bent to swing up the jug with familiar ease. He uncorked it and drew a deep, stabilizing breath of the alcohol.
Whiskey . . . pure and simple.
He took a quick swallow, enjoying the burn, then closed his eye and drank deep.

 

 

Sarah put a hand to her chest to try to still the rampant throb of her heart, but it seemed a fruitless task. Edward had gotten her so riled up inside that she didn't know what to do with herself, and even the spacious, bright new bedroom did little to distract her until her gaze fell on the bed.

She'd noticed Joseph carving the headboard from the abundance of wood of the old tree, but now she paused with a smile to run her fingers down the stripped oak with its natural knots highlighted by a thin sheen of varnish. She trailed her hand to the expanse of quilt and the blue and yellow Double Wedding Ring pattern, its gentle loops and vivid intertwining of fabric unfamiliar to her from what she remembered of
Grossmuder
May's cupboards. It must be a gift from the women of the community, she thought, her mouth softening in tenderness. Kind hands must have made up the bed while she was treating Charlotte outside . . .
a new quilt for a new bed for a new marriage....
She flushed at the train of her thoughts, recalling exactly why she'd escaped to the bedroom. Still, she couldn't help but suck in a deep breath of air and close her lashes for a brief prayer.

O
Gott
, let it be a new marriage in truth. Help us to work together through both hard times and
gut
and give me wisdom to see my husband's true heart....

She opened her eyes and glanced at
Grossmuder
May's journal, which she'd placed in a prominent spot on a hand-carved tabletop near a Mason jar of late summer flowers. Sarah crossed the hardwood floor and found herself paging for the entry that followed her mentor's wedding. She longed for a simplistic and easy explanation of life, but as she read, the breath caught in her throat as the words seemed to leap up at her from the aged page.

Sarah felt tears fill her eyes as she reread the brief entry.
October 16—three days—only three days after their wedding . . . Yet
Grossmuder
May had seemed so indomitable, such a strong and true one to seek counsel from . . . How could she not simply go home and tell her
fater
?
Then Sarah lifted her head—would she herself tell her
daed
such a thing? Give up on her marriage?

Her conscience provoked her, and for some reason she wanted to see Edward and talk with him, maybe apologize for running away from his wanton but well-meant words. The journal entry reminded her confusedly that she was blessed with a gracious husband. Then she half-smiled. . . .
Gracious? No. Grumpy and irritable and delicious? Yes . . .
She closed the journal and put it down, then moved to slide aside the curtain that separated her from her husband.

 

 

“Edward!”

He choked as he stared in frustration at his wife's outraged face.

“I came out to apologize,” Sarah cried.

“What the devil for?” he snapped, letting the jug slide down to his hip as he swiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“For—for—
ach
, I don't know, but drinking
Grossmuder
May's medicinal jug is . . .”

“Medicinal?” He laughed harshly. “Well, maybe it is medicinal for me at that.”

She marched her small frame over to snatch the jug from his hand. He let it go easily and watched her step back, the container hugged to her abdomen.

She'd look pretty pregnant....
He scowled at his wayward thought and thrust it aside. “Tell me, sweet, what exactly is the difference between you using whiskey as a base for your tinctures and me drinking it straight? All you're doing is mixing in a few herbs and . . .”

“You don't understand the first thing about what I mix or how much. I don't even think you want to know what I do, but
jah,
I use the whiskey—you abuse it. That's the difference.”

He was a bit taken aback by her level and factual statement and it irritated him beyond measure, especially when he realized yet again that he couldn't kiss her quiet.

“What now, sweet,” he snapped instead, “do you judge others' motives as well as healing the sick?”

Her bottom lip quivered like a hurt child's, and he could have kicked himself
. Spineless fool . . .

“That wasn't fair,” she whispered finally and he nodded.

“You're right, my frau
,
but neither is life. You'd best hide that jug where I can't find it again.” He brushed past her and made for the front door, slamming it behind him. Then he leaned against the wood, wanting to go back in and comfort her but unable to bring himself to do so.

He stepped unsteadily off the porch and started a careful climb away from the cabin, glad that his stomach roiled with so much whiskey after a dry spell.
If I throw up, it'll be exactly what I deserve....

He swallowed and took a misstep, carefully righting himself, then wishing it might be as easy to be better in life . . .
but I don't know how . . . I don't even know what better looks like. I only know what my grandfather did and that is pain, plain and simple. And Sarah deserves so much more as a wife . . . so much more than I can give....

He kept moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other, knowing that going back was simply not an option.