An Amish Match on Ice Mountain Page 14

  And vow they’ll bundle when they please.

  ‘Some mothers too, will plead their cause,

  And give their daughters great applause,

  And tell them, ’tis no sin nor shame,

  For we, your mothers, did the same.’”

  Ella laughed softly with him, then reached her arm over the board and let her fingers trace the contours of his face with feather-light strokes, skimming his thick eyelashes and high, flushed cheekbones, then moving lower to touch his lips—firm yet tender. He opened his mouth and drew her index fingertip inside.

  She was shocked at the sultry, wet touch of his tongue and then he began to suck and she felt her nipples harden. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath when he edged his teeth over her tender skin, alternating the burning movements of his mouth and tongue until she felt a strange ache deep inside. She squirmed against the board, wanting something, but she wasn’t sure what. And then he stopped and she couldn’t swallow the soft cry that came, heady and high, from the back of her throat.

  * * *

  Stephen tried to control the pulsing rush of blood that thrummed through him. He knew he was playing a dangerous game with his senses, but he had a reckless desire to continue—It’ll keep her mind away from Jeremy . . . He tried to ignore the fact that her obvious reaction to him simply sucking her fingertip promised a responsiveness that overwhelmed anything he’d ever experienced before. And he wanted to share with her . . .

  “Ach, Ella . . . you’re so beautiful.”

  He saw the gleam of appreciation enter her eyes and her voice took on a teasing note. “Beautiful yet pregnant?”

  He laughed low. “Beautiful and pregnant. Now talk to me about something so that I might be distracted from your beauty and your body.”

  “All riiight, I tried buttered noodles today for supper.”

  “Mmmm . . . buttered noodles.” He had the irreverent thought that he’d like to slather her in cream and taste . . .

  “Stephen, are you listening?”

  “Of course. What did you say?”

  She giggled and he was struck by how intimate and cheerful a sound it was. Have I ever laughed with a woman so easily? I could spend a lifetime doing so with Ella . . . a lifetime . . .

  His train of thought shook him, and he wondered at himself. Do I love her? Is this what love feels like?

  “What’s troubling your mind, Stephen?”

  He saw the concern on her face and shook his head. “Nothing. Just thinking about the next way to kiss you . . .” Right . . . you coward . . .

  Ella looked at him in surprise. “Are there other ways to kiss?”

  Her innocent question spurred his desire, but he nodded warily. Bundling . . . talking . . . that’s what we’re supposed to be doing . . . Not teaching her things like the ways to kiss . . .

  But she looked so genuinely interested that he thought one more kiss couldn’t hurt.

  “I’ve heard the girls at the Social Club in town talk about French kissing, but if that’s when you stick your tongue in my mouth till I gag—I’m not interested in that one.” Her tone was flat and he choked back a laugh. But then he realized that some other idiot had kissed her in such a fashion, leaving her uninterested if not plain disgusted.

  “Ella,” he asked earnestly, “did Jeremy . . . uh . . . kiss you like that?”

  “Yes.” She nodded so vigorously that several stray tendrils of red hair escaped her kapp.

  He reached to tenderly place them behind her right ear, then thought about how best to proceed. He’d spied a wooden bowl of fresh blueberries on the table by her bed when he’d entered, and now he got to his knees in the center of the bed, leaning against the bulk of the quilted bundling board.

  “Ella, can you reach me those blueberries?”

  She looked confused but nodded her head. “Of course.” She rolled over a bit and brought back the berry bowl. He took it from her, then offered her a hand.

  “Now, will you kneel like I’m doing?”

  She complied easily and he stared down into her steady, dark eyes as he lifted a plump berry from the bowl he’d placed beside him on the bed.

  “Gott made our mouths, agreed?”

  She nodded, clearly wondering where he was going with the topic.

  “And He made our lips—to kiss.” He took the berry and rubbed it lightly across her lips, trying hard not to notice the fact that her breathing had become shallower and faster.

  He leaned closer to press his lips against the side of her neck. “And he made our tongues, sweet Ella, to touch, and twine, and lick . . .” He punctuated each word with a damp kiss and felt her pulse throb against his mouth. “So . . .” He knelt back upright. “Somebody kissed you like a fool and I would remedy the situation, if you’ll allow?”

  She nodded with limpid-eyed eagerness and he swallowed hard against a wash of desire. He took the blueberry and held it up before her gaze, then gently and purposefully crushed the fruit until drops of juice appeared on his thumb and forefinger. “Open your mouth a bit,” he encouraged, then rubbed the juice across his own lips and bent close to her once more, steadying her with his hands on her arms.

  “Now,” he whispered. “Taste me with your tongue . . . and tell me a secret.”

  He felt the muscles of his back tense when she leaned in with a dainty tongue tip to lick at the juice droplets, and he suppressed a groan. “Kiss and tell. I’ll have your secret now.”

  “I used to steal red tulips from the beach cottage next door.”

  He casually reached for another berry. “Ach, flower thievery . . . Did you remember to shake off the dirt from the stems?”

  She smiled. “No . . . not always.”

  “Wicked child. So, now you, sweetheart.” He passed the berry into her warm fingertips and waited while she seemed to consider the fruit with a calculating eye. He watched her squeeze the berry and his heart sped up. She trailed the juice across her pink lips and he waited.

  “Taste me with your tongue and tell me a secret, Stephen Lambert.”

  He leaned forward and let his tongue play between her lips for a long moment. When he pulled away, he felt like he’d run a long mile in a winter’s field.

  “And your secret?” Ella asked softly.

  He stared down at her as trivial confessions vied with truth in his mind. My secret . . . I love you . . . I love you . . .

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A pink sky was the early morning backdrop for the mountain, warning of a storm to come later that day. Mitch Wagner was both surprised and happy that the Amish bishop had asked him for an early-morning walk.

  “So yer like the preacher hereabout?” he asked Joel as they set out on one of the myriad trails that Mitch couldn’t keep straight. He was too used to the concrete and bustle of a town, even though he found Ice Mountain to be a strangely wonderful place of peace.

  “Preacher?” Joel Umble replied. “You could say that. Why do you ask?”

  Mitch gestured with an awkward hand. “Well . . . all you Amish seem to be peace-loving and calm inside—must have a pretty good preacher to have those things going on.”

  “Danki, Mitch. But the Amish are just like any other people—we get jealous, angry, sick to death of each other . . . you take my meaning. In any case, I wanted to walk with you today to ask what your feelings are about helping to search for this Jeremy Collier . . . After all, he’s shot you once.”

  Mitch laughed. “Without much aim, and I guess the Lord was watching out for me. But I don’t mind helping at all. I know that I’ve got charges to face and prison also for setting that fire and even thinking of hurting the red-haired missus and her baby. I’d like to see this Jeremy fella in a cell next to mine. Maybe I could try and talk some sense into him.”

  They walked on and Joel satisfied Mitch’s curiosity about different birds he heard calling and the names of plants he’d never seen before. The trail broke after about half an hour and the bishop pointed across a wide field to some smal
l wooden cabins on a hill.

  “The Ice Mountain Amish own those little cabins. We usually rent them out this time of year, but no one’s come asking yet.”

  Mitch shrugged in wonder as he gazed at the beautiful space. “Must be like heaven livin’ up here.”

  Joel clapped him on the back as they turned to the trail. “Heaven? Well, you might just be right, at that!”

  * * *

  Ella was helping Mercy wash berries that morning and she had to try to hide the flush she knew burned her cheeks when she thought of her time bundling with Stephen the night before.

  “There’s a bad storm coming,” Mercy murmured, breaking into Ella’s heated thoughts. “You can feel it in the air.”

  “Oh, yes.” Ella smiled. “It reminds me of the sea. You can always tell when a storm’s coming, and I used to love to listen to the wind and the rain.”

  “Ach, not me! I’d rather scrub the floors than hear a storm. But since you aren’t afraid and the clouds seem far away for now, perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking a quilt pattern over to Martha Umble? Stephen’s due to be here soon and he can walk with you, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Oh, I’ll be glad to go see Martha. I liked her from the moment I met her.”

  Mercy smiled. “She is a beautiful young woman, and I don’t mind risking vanity in saying so.” She went over to the neat desk against the living room wall and brought a carefully folded pattern back to Ella. “It’s a baby’s quilt. . . maybe you two might start one together, seeing how Martha’s due at the end of summer as well.”

  “I’d love to!” Ella smiled with enthusiasm. “One thing I can do very well is sew, and I’d love to try my hand at an Amish pattern.”

  “Well, here’s a cookie—sugar and cinnamon today. Why not wait out on the porch for Stephen?”

  Ella accepted the large round sweet with pleasure and nodded happily. She went outdoors, pleased that Mercy was not so worried about Jeremy that she would try to keep Ella indoors, especially when the wind was beginning to whip about.

  She waited for a bit, then decided that she knew the way to Joel and Martha’s, or at least had a sense of the direction. She decided to set out before it began to rain, thinking she would probably bump into Stephen on the way.

  The first flash of lightning cracked the gray sky with eerie yellow light, and Ella hurried her steps and was glad when she caught sight of the large Umble cabin. She followed the wooden slatted walkway and climbed the steps, giving an easy knock just as the first raindrops began to pelt the ground.

  Martha opened the door with a cheerful smile, and Ella shivered with anticipation of the storm as she was urged inside.

  “I’ve brought the quilt pattern Mercy had for you,” she explained.

  Martha laughed. “Gut! I’ve got so many squares that we can share and make our quilts together while we talk. I hope you will stay for a while. I know that Joel went out to meet Stephen and the Englischers a bit ago. So, we can have some fun!”

  Ella was only too happy to agree.

  * * *

  Stephen met Joel and Nick along one of the paths. “Where’s Mitch?” he asked.

  “I asked him to keep guard at the trailhead,” Joel said. “Are you stopping to say gut morning to Ella, or do I even have to ask?” Joel teased over the rising storm.

  “Don’t ask,” Nick snickered, and Stephen punched him in the arm good-naturedly.

  “I only want to check on her.”

  “Right.” Nick rolled his eyes. “And I want to meet May Miller before I leave and see what herbal healing secrets she knows—and I’d like to get there before we’re soaked.”

  Stephen nodded as the rain began to stream down in sheets. “You two go on to May’s. I’ll only be a minute at the Kings’ cabin.” He practically had to shout over what was now a deluge, and soon all three men were running along the path.

  Stephen gained the front porch of the King cabin and watched the other two men pound merrily along in the now-muddy way. Stephen turned and knocked on the door, wiping at the rain that dripped from his hair with a quick hand.

  Mercy answered the door and looked up at him in obvious surprise. “Stephen, where’s Ella?”

  “What? I thought she was here.”

  “She was about half an hour ago. She came out onto the porch to wait for you. I asked her to take a quilt pattern to Martha.”

  Stephen tried to slow his heartbeat and pushed down a feeling of alarm. “Don’t worry, Mercy. She’s probably at Martha’s right now. I’ll backtrack and check.”

  “Well, sei se gut, let me know.”

  “I will.” He stepped off the porch and waited until Mercy closed the door before he broke into a run in the direction of the Umble cabin.

  * * *

  Ella had the uneasy feeling that something was wrong with her new friend when Martha kept shifting positions on the old, comfortable couch where they both sat sewing.

  “Martha, are you all right?”

  “Hmm? Why, jah . . . I just can’t seem to get comfortable. Maybe if I stand up . . .” Martha got to her feet, and suddenly something splattered to the floor. Ella leaned forward and stared in horror at the small puddle of blood that had come from between Martha’s legs.

  “Ach, dear Gott, the baby,” Martha whispered.

  Ella stood up and forced herself to speak calmly. “All right, Martha. It’s all right. I want you to lie down on the couch here. Come.” Ella helped her lie down and automatically put a pillow between Martha’s legs to try to slow the bleeding.

  “I’m going to go get help, Martha . . . Maybe Nick is still on the mountain—he’s a doctor.”

  But Martha shook her head with a sudden pained gasp. “Nee . . . don’t leave me, Ella . . . sei se gut . . . I know I’m miscarrying.”

  “You don’t know anything for sure right now.” Ella gulped back a sob as more blood appeared. But she knelt down to take Martha’s hands in hers.

  Ella looked up in alarm a moment later as the front door banged open and Stephen stepped inside, dripping wet. She watched him take in the situation at a brief glance.

  “I’m going for Joel, and May Miller and Nick.”

  Ella was glad for the calmness of his voice as he turned and ran back out into the rain, and then she began to pray.

  * * *

  The storm had passed, leaving a welter of young rose petals on the Umbles’ porch steps. Stephen stood, numbly leaning against the banister rail, while Joel sat, staring out at the dripping trees. Ella was inside. Martha had asked for her while May and Nick finished up, and Stephen struggled to find something to say to his best friend.

  “We will call him John,” Joel said with a definitive nod of his head.

  “That’s a gut name.”

  “Jah . . . gut name.”

  “Listen, Joel, I’m so sorry. You know I love you and Martha both, and if there was anything that I could do—” Stephen stopped. Words seemed senseless in this grief. He decided he could only sit with his friend and listen.

  After a few minutes, the screen door was eased open and May Miller came outside carrying a carefully wrapped, very small bundle. Stephen saw the tightness in her usually calm features, and he swallowed hard as she bent to give Joel the baby’s body.

  She slipped back inside and Stephen felt his eyes fill with tears as he watched his friend tenderly feel beneath the soft covering.

  “His face is small but he has a gut nose, I think. Would you like to see?”

  Stephen nodded and stepped forward, then dropped to his knee beside Joel’s chair. Joel showed him the dear little face, then bent his head as thick sobs of grief wracked his body. Stephen reached out and encircled his friend with his arms, and they cried together.

  * * *

  “When will they have the funeral?” Ella asked Stephen listlessly as they made their way back to the King cabin later that afternoon.

  She was exhausted, mentally and physically, and was grateful for Stephen’s arm around her waist.<
br />
  “Probably the day after tomorrow,” he said after a moment.

  She nodded, then whispered solemnly, “I don’t understand, Stephen.”

  “Neither do I . . . but Joel seems at peace, sitting there with the little fellow. He and Martha will grieve together, and Ice Mountain will mourn with them.”

  “Martha was so calm. I was terrified.”

  “Of course you were,” he said soothingly. “I felt the same when I ran for Joel to kumme.”

  “Martha was so kind to me—after. She said that Gott would bless me and my baby, and she seemed as though she herself had been blessed even though it was such a loss.”

  “Joel and Martha are special people, I guess. They don’t always see things from an earthly perspective but rather from the long-range view of heaven.”

  She glanced up at him. “Thank you, Stephen—for listening to me and giving me perspective. I think I got the best end of the deal when I jumped out of that fire and into your arms.”

  He shook his head. “Nee, that was my privilege and my pleasure. And, Ella, I want you to know that—”

  A sudden, strange click sounded on the air and she looked up to realize too late that they had approached Mercy’s cabin and that Jeremy sat smiling on the front porch in a hickory rocking chair, an ominous revolver pointed directly at them.

  * * *

  Stephen stopped, the way he did on a trail when a big yellow rattlesnake lay sunning itself across the path. His first instinct was to tell Ella to run, but he realized that might put her in more danger, so he stepped in front of her instead.

  The thin blond-haired man on the porch snickered. “My, my, Ella Nichols, if you haven’t found yourself a defender . . . But I have no need for an Aimish superman. You—” He waved the gun briefly. “Step away from the girl—oh, and her brat.”

  Stephen knew that he had to remain calm. If nothing else, he wondered vaguely where Mercy King was and if she was still alive. Jeremy Collier seemed reckless, and he looked half-deranged from what was probably lack of sleep.

  “Jeremy,” Ella cried. “There is no will . . . no letter from my father. They were burned to ashes in a fire at my boardinghouse just weeks ago. Uncle Douglas and his wife own the Sea Castle without dispute. You can go back and tell them so!”