The Amish Heart of Ice Mountain (5 page)

Chapter Eight

Sarah swiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands as a brisk knock sounded on the cabin door. She frowned.
I don't care if he's out there on his knees, I'll still . . .
She flung the door open and blinked in surprise at Martha Umble, the bishop's gray-haired, dark-eyed frau.

“Frau . . . Umble,” Sarah stuttered.

Martha Umble was insightful but usually dour, and Sarah wasn't sure she was ready for any pious wisdom at the moment. She bit her lip at the irreverent thought, but then her face cleared; perhaps the older woman merely needed her services as a healer.

Sarah widened the door. “
Sei se gut, kumme
in.”

Martha grunted and entered, then proceeded to make herself comfortable at the kitchen table, placing the typical hand-sewn blue bag the
Amisch
women often carried in lieu of a purse on the wood in front of her. Sarah quickly took a chair opposite her.

“Is there—something I can do for you?” Sarah asked.

“Tea. Rose tea. But
nee
, there's nothing you can do for me, though I think there's much that I can do for you.”

“Ookaay.” Sarah smiled in a vague manner and got up to set the rose petals brewing, then took her chair again.

Frau Umble leaned forward. “It's like this—you lost May—your teacher but also your friend, right?”

Sarah nodded, wondering where the conversation was headed as the other woman continued.

“And I lost—though we talk through our letters—my friend, Mary Malizza, 'cause she went back to run her inn.”

Sarah recalled the flamboyant Mary Malizza, whom Edward had brought to the mountain earlier that summer for a visit. Mary and Martha Umble had become, oddly, strange and fast friends until Mary had to go back to West Virginia to run her inn for the rig workers.

“Well—” Martha slapped her aged hands down on the tabletop and Sarah jumped. “That's it then, child. I've
kumme
to be your friend, if you'll have me.”

Sarah had to laugh with pleasure. Only among her people could one perceive a need and be so calm in offering to fulfill it. She didn't know Martha Umble any more than the man in the
munn
, but she had a
gut
inkling that there was much more beneath the surface than met the eye. She leaned across the table with both hands extended.

“I accept with pleasure, Martha . . .
danki.”

Martha squeezed her hands with a half-toothed smile.
“Gut!”
Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Now let's talk about that one-eyed wild husband of yours.”

Sarah dropped her gaze and wondered what she'd gotten herself into....

 

 

Edward picked his way down to the main path that led past Ben Kauffman's store and decided abruptly that he'd rather not meet anyone from the community at the moment. Instead, he turned onto a side trail that wound into the forest and nearly stumbled over an exposed root. Clearly, being half drunk and half blind was not a particularly
gut
combination, and he pulled a long stick for support from the heavy brush with reluctance.

He'd only gone about ten feet when he nearly bumped into an
Englischer
dressed in khakis, a flannel shirt, and a hard hat.

Edward scowled. It was not always unusual to find an outsider on the mountain, but the man's dress of a rig engineer set off all kinds of alarms in his head.

“Hiya,” the man said, shifting the backpack he carried to extend a hand. “I'm Jim Hanson with R and D Incorporated.”

Edward didn't return the handshake, and the other man smiled a bit nervously. “I'm an engineer working for a company on the Marcellus Shale find—do you—know about it?”

No, I'm a dumb
Amischer
who never hears news beyond the latest cow's birthing. . . .
“I know about it.”

The man broke into a smile. “Great! Well, R and D has done some initial testing and it looks like it might be possible to put a well up around these parts.”

“A well and then a rig?” Edward asked, clearly surprising the engineer with his question.

“You know the difference? I didn't think the Amish concerned themselves with things like that, but then again, I heard it was an Amish man who wrote to our company, suggesting we take a look.”

Edward squeezed the stick he held hard, longing to take a swing at the guy for his obvious ignorance and then wanting to knock himself flat, too, for being the writer of the now deeply regretted letter.

“Look, why don't you forget about wells and rigs?” Edward said finally. “These mountains can be dangerous for someone who doesn't know his way around. I'd go back where I came from if I were you.”

The engineer's face cleared and he laughed a bit and shrugged. “Sorry, but I've got a job to do. I came to find an Edward King—he's Amish. Any idea which direction I should take?”

A starling darted overhead, drawing out the moment with its shrill cry, and Edward shook his head, then extended his hand.

“Edward King. Not exactly happy to meet you.”

 

 

Mahlon moved his milking stool to the next cow and tried not to think about the strange ache in his heart. He was willing to acknowledge to himself that he missed Sarah, but it was something more.
Fear . . .
The word drifted across his consciousness with a sinister power, and he immediately tried to ignore it, muttering part of a Bible verse aloud and startling
auld
Bessy so that she kicked.

Truth be told, he'd been afraid for as long as he could remember . . . of his
fater
, of knives, of guns, of women, of his own children. He grimaced as he recalled the time
Grossmuder
May had come to this very barn to make her case for Sarah studying to become a healer for the community.

He'd heard the tap of her cane first against the wooden floor and had peered blankly up at her from his milking stool. The
auld
healer had no call to visit his barn—he was as healthy as a horse.

“You'd get a fair sight more milk, Mahlon Mast, if you wouldn't pull so hard on that left teat.”
Grossmuder
May gave him a toothless smile and he'd felt himself flush.

“I've been milkin' since I was a
buwe
,” he'd retorted, but there was no true strength to his words; May had always made him nervous.

“We all have somethin' to learn, no matter how long we've been doin' a familiar thing.”

He'd felt like there was more to her words than just teats and milk and he'd let his hands drop to rest on his thighs. “What can I do for you,
Grossmuder
May?”

She'd sniffed. “
Ach
, somethin' ye won't be wantin' ta do, I wager. But I'll ask it jest the same—I'm not long fer this world, Mahlon, and Ice Mountain needs a healer. I feel yer
dochder,
Sarah, has the right spirit fer doin' the job.”

He'd swallowed at her words, heard the cow shift restlessly in the dry straw, then felt a shiver go through him as he thought of the mysteries of healing....
Sarah . . . my Sarah . . .

“
Ach,
don't give in to the fear that haunts ye—give the child a chance fer a different sort of life.”
Grossmuder
May had nudged him with the tip of her cane and he'd nearly jumped.

“I ain't afraid.”

The
auld
woman had cackled out a laugh, but then he'd seen her wrinkled face soften in the dim shadows of the barn. “
Ach
, but ye are—and one day, ye'll face those fears. But fer now, we talk of Sarah. What do ye say to me teachin' her how to serve our people?”

I'll face those fears
, he thought, hearing the words echo again and again in his mind. But when it came to Sarah, and the way May put it, he knew in his heart that he had no choice.

“
Jah
,” he'd muttered. “
Jah
, she may serve.”

Chapter Nine

Edward found his way back to his new home before dark; the whiskey had long before lost its glow in light of the appearance of the engineer. He sighed as he eased open the front door, hoping Sarah would be asleep. Instead, she was reclining in a high-backed brass tub. She'd moved the kitchen table and chairs to the side to make room for her bath. His gaze was transfixed as the water formed rivulets of steam around her surprised face.

He almost backed out of the room; it could fast turn into a torture chamber, he realized painfully. But he steeled his resolve, closed the door behind him, and pulled the latch tight. He turned to face her, fighting to keep his gaze above her shoulders, then dropped his leg over a turned hard-backed chair. He pillowed his chin on his fist, watching her.

She pulled her slender knees up to her chest and hugged her arms about herself, but there was no mistaking the gentle and enticing curves of her body as the water caught the kerosene lamplight and glistened on her skin.

“Get out,” she finally managed, the shock still on her face.

Yet he couldn't leave. He'd never seen how long her hair was before, but now, piled in a haphazard mass atop her head, a few honeyed brown strands fell loose to touch the floor, while a few more lay against the slender curve of her neck.

“
Nee
,” he whispered, mesmerized. “I've been out all afternoon and done my penance for stealing your drink. Now I'm thinking that a husband's right to watch his wife bathe may be a gift—one I'd not thought of before.”

She arched a dark brow. “I would have supposed you'd thought of everything before.”

“In regard to physical pleasure?” He lowered his gaze. “Why, thank you, I think.”

His lone eye didn't miss the rosy flush coloring her cheeks as she glared at him before looking away. He ignored the fact that his knuckles were white where he clenched them beneath his chin and wondered exactly what she imagined he knew . . . the ideas were as tantalizing as she was, sitting there.

“I wish you'd give me some privacy.”

“I wasn't aware that was part of our agreement.” He was teasing her, and working himself up at the same time. “I'm pretty comfortable right here.”
Liar.

She shook her head, the loose, damp strands sticking to her shoulders. “If the situation were reversed, I'd let you take your bath in peace.”

“I'd rather you wouldn't.” He continued to look at her, this time meeting her eyes. Keeping his gaze on her face gave him a little relief. He didn't want to take the teasing too far.

But if she only knew what she was doing to him simply by sitting in a tub of bathwater . . .

She tried to finish her bath as demurely as she could, making sure to keep herself as covered as possible with her arms. After a few minutes, he saw her shiver. He immediately rose and moved near the tub while she floundered, sloshing water over the sides, still trying to cover herself from his view.

“
Kumme
. Enough of this foolishness.” He picked up a towel from the pile on the floor and opened it wide. “You'll catch a chill if you sit there much longer, and I'll not be responsible for the healer becoming ill.”

She stared at the outstretched towel with a doubtful look. “Close your eye,” she demanded.

He obliged with a smile, but not before taking a quick peek as she hoisted herself from the water to her feet.

Rosy breasts, the curve of her hip and bottom, and long, long legs all caught in a flash in his mind, forcing him to grip the edges of the towel hard as she stepped into its embrace. He swore he could sense the warmth of her freshly bathed skin through the towel between them. Unconsciously, he inched the fabric closer to him so that she nearly stumbled to reach for it as she stepped on the floor.

He caught her close, breathing in the heady scent of citrus and rain, all of which struck him with painful familiarity. It was her own beautiful scent, one that reminded him of deep kisses and stolen touches. He dipped his head toward her neck so that he might breathe more deeply of her; then he opened his eye.

“Edward,” she squeaked, her small hands against his chest, burning like twin brands. “You said no touching—remember?”

 

 

Sarah felt herself grow both more aroused and frustrated. He thought this was a game, one that she didn't necessarily want to play on his terms. She looked up into his face and saw the faintly teasing glint in his eye. She realized with vague intuition that he probably enjoyed playing with her as much as a cat did a mouse. But he was crossing a line—one he had drawn himself.

He smiled down at her lazily. “I'm not touching you,” he said, holding up the towel a bit and forcing her nearer his tall frame. “At least not now.”

She gasped as she was caught by the rapidly dampening cotton against her back and the press of his body at her front. She shifted nervously, inadvertently rubbing her hip against his waist.

He winced, and she felt him. He was more affected than he was letting on—just as she was.

She looked up to see his blue eye flash with pain and passion, mingling in a simmering heat that brought her restless hands to a stop as she grasped his blue shirtfront.

But then he drew the towel across her shoulders and purposefully stepped away. “Go to bed,” he growled with abrupt hoarseness.

But she couldn't move, not even when his gaze raked her bare front from head to toe. She was being bold. Brazen, even. Yet a part of her somehow realized she wanted him to look. She wanted him to see her.

“Sarah.” His tone held warning and want.

She bit her bottom lip, watching his reaction, still not making a move to cover herself.

He muttered a curse and snatched up a second towel, tossing it over her. “For
Gott
's sake, Sarah, I'm not a saint.” He turned his back to her, raking his hand through his hair. “I'll sleep out here by the fire tonight.”

A sudden flush of shame came over her as she grasped the towels to her body. His words released her from the enchantment that had thrilled and confused her at the same time. But now embarrassment drove her from him. She wanted to get away from him as soon as she could. She hurried to the bedroom, pulling the curtain closed behind her, wondering what she'd done.

 

 

Sarah squirmed on the hard church service bench, trying to discipline her thoughts into some semblance of worship. But even the usual hymns, sung low and without music, did little to soothe her when she thought of her husband's body so close to hers after last night's bath.

I'm wanton . . . I confess that I'm wanton for desiring my husband's touch,
Derr Herr
. . .

An abrupt poke in her ribs brought her crashing back to the present as Martha Umble gave her a smile.

“Thought you were drifting off,” the older woman whispered.

Sarah flushed and shook her head.

Though she tried to keep her attention on the bishop, her gaze wandered until she saw Edward's bright blond head. He was sitting next to Joseph, both
bruders
head and shoulders above those men nearest them. She had to control her rampant thoughts once more until Bishop Umble rose to preach, and soon she was caught up as usual in the
auld
leader's odd but provoking manner of speaking.

“The most difficult type of forgiveness is often that of forgiving ourselves.” The bishop's voice echoed in the Zooks' biggest barn, startling a stray pigeon and breaking the fragrant silence of the somnolent summer day.

Sarah watched as he paced before the community, his hands behind his back, his wrinkled face introspective and lifted to the sunshine that made its way through stray cracks in the weathered wood.

“If we are to ‘love our neighbor as our self,' then it follows that we are to love ourselves. Yet many of us carry
auld
wounds,
auld
guilt—and we stay—unforgiven inside.”

Sarah sucked in a breath as she thought of her own
fater
, and her gaze darted to where the graybeards sat together.
Surely he carries the mystery of some wound inside of him. . . .
Ach
,
Derr Herr
, let him somehow be healed and learn to forgive himself....
Then her thoughts caught and held as her soul prayed of its own volition.
And let Edward be healed as well . . .

Even when he'd been fully sighted, Edward had hated the milling about that normally took place after the bimonthly church service. But now he felt positively trapped behind his eye patch by the general babble and blur of faces and found himself searching for his wife's trim frame in the press of the community.

Joseph nudged him gently. “She's over there, to the right, by the barn door.”

“Is it so obvious what I'm thinking?” Edward asked sourly even while he managed a polite nod at Ben Kauffman, the general store owner.

“Probably only to me—and your frau of course.”

“Yeah . . . right.”

“You don't think Sarah knows you?” Joseph asked mildly as he shouldered a way for them through the crowd.

“
Nee
,” Edward returned, then felt himself broadsided by a female form. He half-turned, putting up a hand instinctively so he wouldn't fall, and came in contact with a full breast. He jerked his hand away as Deborah Zook, the eldest of the Zook girls at twenty-two, cooed softly at him and then burst into a sultry giggle. He felt himself flush at his lack of coordination.

“Why, Edward King, and just out of service, too . . . whatever will my
fater
say?”

“My apologies, Deborah,” he muttered stiffly. “But I'd wager your
fater
would remember that I'm newly married.”

“I know, and lucky girl, too but I'd like to think that a man like you is wasted on someone as sedate as the new healer.”

Edward felt an unexpected surge of anger at hearing his wife maligned and would have said more if Joseph hadn't obviously taken the situation in at a glance.

“Won't your
mamm
be expecting your help with the food, Deborah?” His voice was cold, level, and Edward appreciated the interruption for once.

The girl flounced away without another word and Edward exhaled slowly.

“Forget her,” Joseph said, “though she looks at you like something she could eat with a spoon.”

“
Danki
you lout.” Both
bruders
laughed low together as they cleared the barn doors and stepped into the late summer sunshine.

Edward moved away from Joseph to make his way to Sarah, but his steps slowed as he realized she was surrounded by her entire family—including her
fater
.

Great . . .
Edward sighed to himself, then decided he might as well get things over with and started to walk forward to greet his new in-laws.

Then an odd sound cut through the air. The pervading noise came from overhead, and Edward felt the press of those gathered as they exited the barn to stare into the sky. A helicopter broke the nearby line of trees and flew almost directly overhead. A long rope and a bright red satchel hung from the base of the aircraft, then was detached as the copter roared away.

Edward heard the questions swirling around him and knew he was the only one who was seemingly unmoved by the appearance of an aircraft so close to the mountain. He . . . and Sarah. He watched her separate herself from her family and walk toward him, her gray eyes wide and set.

“Edward, what have you done?” she asked above the concerned murmurings around them.

“Only what I've already confessed, sweet. Are you surprised?”

She took a step closer to him. “You know as well as I do that the helicopter was carrying surveillance equipment—for Marcellus Shale. They're surveying to see if the gas find runs under Ice Mountain.”

Edward squinted at the blue sky, then looked back to her. “How do you know that? And what if it does? It could mean a lot of money and a change of life for our people.”

“An end of life for our people, you mean.” She hugged her arms about herself. “We have to tell the bishop.”

He caught her elbow. “No need, sweet. I imagine our resident engineer is about to do that for us.”

Edward turned her to face the tree line as Jim Hanson, the engineer he'd met in the woods, started toward the gathered group. He walked with easy strides, carrying a roll of maps in one hand.

“Who is that?” Sarah asked softly, and Edward steeled himself against the pain of her question.