An Amish Match on Ice Mountain Page 12

  * * *

  He wanted to throw up, but he wanted to get this over at the same time. And he didn’t want to cause Ella any discomfort. He began softly, then cleared his throat. Finally, his voice rang out steady and true.

  “You all know me, but perhaps you do not know me well. Some words may come to your minds as I stand here—I know they come to me: wild, bad, drifter, murderer. . . shunned. Well”—he smiled—“I’d like to ask you all to put aside those thoughts for a moment as I request your help and offer what I can to the community to help you. I’ve been working as a firefighter in Coudersport and I’ve learned a lot about structural fires. Consequently, I have learned what makes a good structure—so I can both fight fires and build. I can also help you learn what to do or not do to prevent fires in—our—commu-nity. I also would like to ask for sanctuary for a time for the Englisch maedel I’ve brought back with me.” He sought Ella’s dark-eyed gaze, then went on slowly. “Ella Nichols is pregnant, as many of you may know. She was deserted by one who claimed to love her but did not, and I guess we can all understand that a bit—perhaps many of you have felt unloved for at least a moment in your lives . . . Anyway, she needs help—protection—from her aenti and onkel, who live far from Ice Mountain by the sea. They want to be sure Ella never shows up again because she is the rightful owner of the home she grew up in, not them. I would ask you for this favor but have you know that there’s risk involved to your own safety—Ella and I have already stopped one man from harming her . . . or I should say that Derr Herr stopped him. So I offer this plea humbly and would ask you to remember also what it is to be Amish and to remember that we were once hunted in the Old Country ourselves . . . Danki.”

  He waited, never taking his gaze from Ella. The silence seemed interminable. Then Sol Kauffman, the big store owner, boomed out a response.

  “Sure and why shouldn’t we give safety to the maedel and her boppli? And firefighting is something I’d like to know more about from young Stephen here.”

  “Jah,” Herr Mast, an elderly member of the community, agreed. “It is not right to turn away a mother in need.”

  Stephen listened and soon a myriad of voices were raised in affirmation and he had the absurd desire to cry.

  Then Joel broke in. “I think you have your answer, Stephen. Thank you for shedding light upon your and Ella’s situation. As bishop, though, I would ask one thing. . . Perhaps it would be more fitting if Ella were to remain in the home and care of our new local schoolteacher, Miss Christy King, and her mamm. This, I think, would give you a chance to help us build a fire brigade, Stephen. In addition, you can then freely move about the community and be on the lookout for anything suspicious.”

  Stephen stared daggers into Joel’s blue eyes, but Joel merely shrugged and returned a sunny smile. Finally though, as well-wishers of the community surged forward to greet him and Ella, who had joined him, he saw the ironic humor in his gut friend’s move. Joel is forcing me to choose whether I want to court Ella—formally . . . and I could wring his neck . . . He felt Ella’s tentative pull on his shirtsleeve and glanced down to reassure her. “It’ll be all right, Ella,” he whispered to her quickly. “You’ll see.”

  It was only after the crowd had thinned that he got Joel alone for a moment while Ella spoke to the young schoolteacher and her mamm.

  “Some friend you are . . .” Stephen began.

  “I am the bishop as well as your friend. Besides, don’t you think that Ella deserves a proper courtship? I have no doubt you’ve been—uh—poaching upon her lips on more than one occasion.”

  Stephen gave him a sour smile. “You’ve seen it for yourself.”

  “There we have it, then.” Joel slapped him on the back, and Stephen slapped the bishop’s back in return—hard.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ella discovered, much to her pleasure, that Christy King was a cheerful, charming young teacher and that her mother had a spirit to match. The two women enveloped Ella in a cocoon of comfort and grace that left her feeling like cherished china.

  The King women lived in a small cabin not too far from Sol Kauffman’s store, and it was only later on the same night as the church service that Ella had a chance to begin to truly miss Stephen. She lay tucked up in a thick featherbed and stared out of the small bedroom window at the dark sky of the evening. She thought back to when Christy King had gently led her out of the barn and away from Stephen; she’d felt as if she were losing a lifeline. But he’d flashed her a beautiful smile—a you’ll-be-all-right smile—and she’d clung to that memory throughout the afternoon and evening.

  She’d tried to help set the table for dinner, but Christy’s mother, Mercy, had waved her away from the simple, pale blue plates that were stacked at the ready. “Nee, my maedel, sei se gut, sit down. You’ve enough work to do in carrying the boppli.” Mercy had smiled with a tender expression, as if remembering when she’d been pregnant.

  Ella had wondered where Mercy’s husband was but didn’t ask the older woman, and his absence wasn’t mentioned.

  She’d sat down to a delicious meal of roast beef, creamy mashed potatoes, and sugar snap peas, fresh from the kitchen garden, while dessert was blueberry cobbler. Ella’d had hardly any room in her tummy after the meal and had been glad to sit at a small side table with Christy while she prepared some work for the Amish students for the following day.

  Christy had given her a good-natured smile when she’d stared with interest at the array of papers, showing many different levels of work.

  “How many grades do you teach?”

  “It’s all one class with students of all different ages, and this is our last week of school. I teach first through eighth, and then the students spend a year learning a trade or staying at home helping to learn to run a farm or household.”

  Ella had thought back to her father’s desire for her to study art, but she’d wondered if such a thing would even be thought of among the Amish. When Christy had passed her a pencil and some paper to lay out some cursive letters, Ella had automatically begun to sketch as her attention wandered. Without thinking, she had seen in her mind’s eye the piratical curve of a fine mouth and dark hair and deep-set sea blue eyes, as well as an aquiline nose and quirk of black brows. She had started abruptly when Christy leaned over to peer at her efforts.

  “It could be no other than Stephen Lambert, though we Amish tend not to see ourselves drawn or photographed.”

  Ella had stared down at her sketch. “I—I’m sorry. I meant no offense.” She had moved to tear it in half when Christy stopped her with a quick hand.

  “There’s no offense given, and how could you know, in any case? Besides, perhaps you’d like to keep the sketch as a memory for when time passes by.”

  Ella had nodded, quickly folding the drawing and placing it in her apron pocket. But Christy’s light words came back to her now as she lay in bed. She moved from beneath the beautiful, rose-colored quilt that covered her and crossed the room to where she’d hung her apron on a peg earlier. The paper rustled in her hand, and she knelt down in the light of the moonbeam that crossed the hardwood floor to study the face that had become so dear to her. Her friend, but perhaps so much more . . . Yet the sketch and Christy’s reaction to it raised many questions . . . There is much that I don’t know about Stephen and his people, and perhaps it’s wrong to presume upon his friendship . . . I am not Amish, despite my dressing as if I am, and Stephen deserves to have someone in his life who knows who he is at heart and what his values are . . . She ruthlessly pushed thoughts of his tenderness from her mind and reminded herself that he’d brought her to Ice Mountain for her safety . . . not for any romantic reasons, despite his kisses . . . She sighed, then glanced up, alarmed, when a gentle tapping sounded outside the window above her head. She felt the grip of fear clutch her heart . . .

  * * *

  Mitch Wagner lay on his cot in the Coudersport jail. The night air drifted in with the pleasant smell of honeysuckle through the bars on the wi
ndow of his cell and he drew a deep breath of contentment. It mattered little to him that he faced trial for arson—he knew now that although he must pay the consequences for his act, the Lord had already forgiven him.

  He sat up when he heard the police chief’s chair slide back across the cement floor with the accompanying sound of a jangle of keys. The police chief was probably back from supper. Mitch had grown used to a visitor or two during the evening time—usually either Lester Pike or Pastor Rook—each bringing words from the Bible to cheer and encourage him as he faced an uncertain future. But tonight he heard the unmistakable sound of a scuffle and the grunts of two men engaged in fighting. Mitch stood near the bars of his cell and was trying to look down the brief corridor when there came a solid thump, as if someone had hit the floor hard.

  Mitch blinked as a few seconds later a match was struck in the hall and the smell of cigarette smoke drifted near. Mitch saw a tall, blond-haired man in a fine suit approach his cell.

  “Mitch Wagner?” the other fellow asked as casually as if they’d met on the street.

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “It doesn’t really matter except for the minor fact that I’m here to end your incompetence.”

  “Huh?”

  The younger man laughed and jangled the ring of keys he held. “Come now, let’s get you out, shall we?”

  Mitch watched in strange fascination as the man undid the old-fashioned lock on the cell door, then dropped the keys to the floor with a jangling crash.

  Mitch considered the new peace he’d found in life and shook his head slowly. “I ain’t going.”

  “Of course you are.” The stranger laughed low as he withdrew a small revolver from his pocket. “Now, move.”

  Mitch’s right arm slashed out and his fist connected with the man’s cheek just as the gun went off. Mitch grasped his side and fell back in time to see the man grind his cigarette into the floor, straighten his hair, and walk off down the hall, leaving him for dead.

  Mitch knew, through a haze of pain, that whatever it cost him, he had to somehow find Ella Nichols and her baby before the city slicker did. And he staggered with determination out of his open cell.

  * * *

  Stephen tapped softly on the glass window of the Kings’ spare bedroom and was pleased when he saw the fall of Ella’s red hair, but then he noticed her expression of fright in the bright moonlight.

  “It’s me,” he called, pressing nearer the glass. He didn’t want to make a scene and wake the King women, but he badly wanted to see Ella, to talk to her and touch her and to remind himself that even after so short a separation as an afternoon, she was real . . . I’m probably narrish, he thought as he watched her white fingers carefully slide open the window.

  “Stephen? You scared me half to death. Are you allowed to be here?” Her whispered words made him smile.

  “Jah . . . why?”

  He watched her bite her bottom lip and longed to soothe the spot with his tongue.

  “Well, I thought Joel said . . .”

  “Joel wants me to court you—if you’ll have me, that is.” He waited, held in tight anxiety, not realizing how much her answer would mean to him. But he saw puzzlement rather than acceptance on her sweet brow.

  “What does ‘court’ mean to the Amish?” she asked tentatively.

  “Courting is—a time to get to know each other better,” he began. “A time to see if maybe—we want to spend more of our life together.”

  Her face cleared and she gave him a brilliant smile. “Oh, well, that would be wonderful. In fact, I was just thinking that I’d like to know more about you and about your people’s ways.”

  He nodded, feeling both relieved and joyous at the same time. Then he heard the rustle of paper and leaned into the window, resting his forearms on the sill. “What do you have there?”

  She laughed, clearly flustered. “This? Oh, it’s nothing . . . I mean . . .”

  She looked all of about fifteen with her hair flowing down her white nachtgown and the mysterious paper tucked suddenly behind her back.

  “Should I climb through the window and find out for myself?” he teased.

  “No . . . Anyway, I’m sure that’s not proper courting behavior.”

  “Ach, you might be surprised.”

  “I didn’t court . . . before,” she confessed, pressing a hand against her belly.

  He wanted to gather her in his arms and make her forget that any other man had ever existed, but instead, he found himself praying for the right words to say to her. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Ella . . . I don’t want some phantom man you did or did not court to be between us . . . as we court. In truth, every day that I have with you feels fresh and new and so full of promise that part of me has to be glad for all that . . . Jeremy wasn’t, because that gives me the opportunity to be those things.”

  She tilted her head to one side, as if considering his words, and then stepped closer to the windowsill. “Did you ever court before, Stephen?”

  Against his will, he thought of Rose Raber, whom he’d once considered courting. Then an image of diminutive, dark-haired Laura Keller, the young widow in Coudersport, rose up before him. But even his zeal at being with a woman for the first time didn’t match the consuming feelings he had for Ella. Before he could respond, Ella ran a fingertip along his bare forearm, where his green shirtsleeve was rolled up.

  “Because even if you did court someone, Stephen, I am no fool . . . I benefit from whoever taught you to kiss.”

  Amazed at her candor, he felt himself flush and was glad for the cover of shadow and moonlight that hid his face. “Danki, Ella . . .” But I’d be glad of a lifetime to practice with you . . . He pushed aside the thought of what the future might bring and concentrated on the moment at hand. “Bend closer, sweet Ella, so that I can display my—talent at kissing once more.”

  She complied with a shy tilt of her head and he reached to run his fingers through her long, soft hair until he found her shoulders. He kissed her slowly at first, deliberately holding back until he heard the sweet whimper of want come from the back of her throat. Then he pulled her closer and kissed her with hard, deft strokes. He ignited a fire in himself that he knew needed to be slowed to a smolder, because kissing through a window was inconvenient, if not downright uncomfortable. He pulled away and sucked in some hard, deep breaths; then he smiled at her as she stood with her eyelashes half resting on her creamy cheeks and her mouth looking delectably red and swollen, even in the moonlight.

  “Maybe I should tell you more about courting in the Amish culture,” he whispered with a pained laugh.

  “All right,” she sighed. “Tell me about Amish courting.”

  “Well,” he began, ducking his head to lay his chin on his arms, “we could start with bundling.” He swallowed as she gently touched his hair and tried to concentrate on her words.

  “What’s bundling?”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s really quite an old tradition. Sometimes it’s called ‘bed courtship,’ but it isn’t as intimate as it sounds . . .” He was watching her face as she studied him with interest.

  “So we lie in a bed together?” she asked, eyeing him in the moonlight.

  He pushed aside the physical longing her innocent question conjured up and smiled at her vaguely. “Something like that . . .”

  “I thought that the Amish were supposed to be . . . well . . . conservative.”

  “We can be.” We . . . we . . . the word didn’t sit quite right with him, and he looked down for a moment.

  “Stephen—what’s wrong?” He felt her ease her fingers around the back of his neck, and he shivered, then swallowed hard. He glanced up to meet her dark eyes.

  “I—I don’t know if I’m Amish—I mean, really a part of this community here. I’ve always felt—like I was some wild thing . . . existing on the fringes of what everyone else considered to be normal.” He blew out a breath of frustration. “I mean, I know that Joel and Martha accep
t me, but my mamm and . . .”

  Ella knelt so that their faces were level. “Stephen—you came back here to protect me . . . It’s not worth it if it’s causing you this much distress.”

  He half smiled and reached to run his thumb down her soft cheek. “I think Gott wants me to have this out here—on Ice Mountain—this battle within myself, once and for all. And your protection is my privilege, sweetheart.”

  He leaned forward by inches so that his forehead touched hers. “You should not be kneeling so, with the baby . . .”

  But Ella silenced his mouth with a bold intention, drinking from his lips until he felt like a sweet blackberry wine, and he forgot his protests about her position for a long while . . .

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Well, whoever he was, he wasn’t a great shot—fortunately for you. Even though it was fired at close range, the bullet only grazed you.” Mitch drew a deep breath as Nick stitched calmly and closed the bloodied gunshot wound with a few stitches.

  “Thank ya, Doc.”

  Mitch felt the weight of the other man’s gaze and resisted his normal habit of looking away. He knew now that his True Father was in Heaven and that he was His son, so he had no cause to feel worthless inside.

  The doctor finally spoke. “If what you tell me is true, the chief was only knocked out cold. The police will be searching for you, but for some strange reason, I believe you when you say that someone is after Ella—and consequently that Steve is in trouble too. I know where they are and I’ll take you there, but if you do anything to hurt my friend, I’ll take your stitches out . . . with my teeth.”

  “I understand,” Mitch said solemnly.

  And Mitch remained solemn as Nick loaded him in the back of his car and covered him with a dark blanket. They were nearly out of town, as far as Mitch could tell, when the car was stopped and a flashlight played over the inside of the automobile.