The Patch of Heaven Collection Read online

  She swiveled around in the chair to open her mouth in a tirade, and he bent to place a long finger against her lips.

  “Shh . . . I’m sorry; I’m just teasing. You bring it out in me. Here, proof of my goodwill.” He laid his hat on the desk and dropped a stack of the latest seed catalogs in front of her. She forgot all about him as she lifted the top edition.

  Ach . . . I’ve been waiting for these.” She studied the pages like “a visual feast and started scribbling notes on a pad and murmuring aloud. “Catskill Brussel Sprouts, Schoon’s Hardshell American Melon, Purple Podded Pea . . .”

  “Is it English you’re speaking?”

  She looked up to find him studying her with amusement, his hip leaned against the edge of the great desk. She bit her lip.

  “Sarah King, it’s a shame to treat lips like yours in such a manner.” He leaned closer, his eyes more green now than brown.

  She scrambled backward and out of the chair like a scalded cat, hugging the seed catalog to her chest.

  “What? Haven’t you been kissed before?” He hadn’t moved but arched a dark eyebrow in disbelief.

  “Of course.”

  “Ach, that’s the problem then,” he said drily. “Still holding out for the first kisser, aren’t you?”

  She turned her back on him to face the window. “No . . . at least, I’m trying not to.”

  He moved to stand behind her. “Then let me help.” He laid warm hands on her shoulders and she closed her eyes, allowing it. She felt him bend to press his mouth against the nape of her neck and then trailed gentle kisses up to her ear. She tried to feel the same passion she had with Grant, but it just wasn’t there, only an empty ache that left her feeling adrift and lonelier than ever. She turned in his arms and stared up at him. His dark lashes lay heavy on his flushed cheeks and he lowered his head to find her mouth.

  “Jacob, please. Stop.”

  He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I went too fast.” He stepped away and leaned back against the desk, his fingers clenched white against the wood.

  “No . . . it’s just . . . me,” she whispered miserably.

  “No, it’s not you. Look, I felt awful when you got sick; it was my fault for taking off your shawl.”

  She shook her head. “No, it was my fault. I think I was sick for a long time, just heart sick.”

  “Can we agree, then, that you’re wounded right now, and just—just try to be the friends we’ve always been?”

  She took a long time to respond. “I’ll try.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll come by later to take you sledding if your health permits?”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  She listened to his steps echo as they receded and stared out the window to the muddy ground below as she whispered aloud, “Ach, Grant Williams . . . where are you? Where are you, my love?”

  Grant Williams was less than two miles away studying Pennsylvania Dutch grammar at the home of the bishop. He bent his powerful mind to a differentiation in tenses between the spoken language and the High German used at church meetings and then flung himself back on his narrow bed with disgust. He should have taken a language in school besides Latin, he thought, gazing out the small window to the mackerel sky above. He missed Sarah so much that he hurt, but he had no choice but to finish the course he’d laid out for himself—no, the one that the Lord had laid out.

  A brief knock on his door broke him from his reverie.

  “Kumme,” he called.

  The bishop, Ezekiel Loftus, entered, and Grant contained a groan. The little man had been gracious enough to talk in private to all of the deacons, and they had all, including Mr. King, agreed that Grant might study to become part of the community through baptism. However, Mr. King had requested that the studying and preparation might be done confidentially so that Grant would discover if baptism was of a man’s heart or Der Herr’s desire.

  Ezekiel had latched onto the secrecy idea like an old dog with a bone but still loved to bring Grant bits of community gossip, mostly about Sarah, in an attempt to do Grant was never quite sure what. Sometimes he believed that the man cared for the relationship between him and Sarah, and sometimes he just thought he liked to tease. In either case, any news of her was welcomed as he felt like he was half-starving for want of her company.

  He pillowed his arms behind his head and looked at his friend, teacher, and jailer. “What is it today?”

  For once, Ezekiel looked hesitant and Grant sat up.

  “What’s wrong?’

  “Nee—there’s not really much wrong.”

  “Not much?”

  The old man produced a satchel from behind his back. “I’ve brought you a disguise.”

  “What? What for?”

  “Ach, you just have to go . . .”

  “What’s wrong?” Grant asked again, beginning to be alarmed. Perhaps Sarah was ill or worse.

  Ezekiel raised a placating hand. “There’s nothing wrong with your Sarah, just a bad cold. There’s nothing else wrong, not yet, anyway.”

  “Bishop . . . my patience is about out.”

  “All right. You know Jacob Wyse?”

  “Yes, so?”

  “Word has it that he took Sarah King for a sled ride last week.”

  “What?” Grant looked as though he’d been struck a physical blow.

  “Now, now, here’s just what Ephraim King was speaking of. Are you here studying for the girl or for the community?”

  Grant frowned at him and thought hard.

  “I want to be Amish, to be part of the community, and I feel closer to the Lord.”

  “Fair enough. But I say there’s no reason that you can’t take a look at the competition, so to speak. And word is they’re supposed to be out for a ride again today.”

  “I can’t go out and about. You know how people talk!”

  “Which is why I’ve brought you your own Amish man disguise.”

  “Amish man . . . I sound like a bad superhero. What do you mean ‘again today’? And how bad is the cold? Does she need a doctor?”

  “Just a cold, nearly passed now. The midwife saw her. And just for a little bit of a drive—not like the Englisch do it, sliding down hills on their backsides. A sled ride, in a cutter.”

  Grant was emptying the disguise satchel. “A cutter?”

  “A hand-tooled sled—Jacob’s got a way with horses, you know.”

  “Yeah, well, he can just dream on when it comes to having a chance with Sarah. Why, I’ll—”

  “Remember, restraint, governance of the self, yielding of the will.” Ezekiel ticked off the virtues on stubby fingers.

  “Right. You’re right.” I’ll knock Jacob Wyse flat, Grant thought while he tried to appear submissive. The Amish thing was a lot harder than it looked.

  “Now put on your disguise. I brought airplane model glue to put the beard on, and the wig should stay with a couple of Ellie’s hairpins.”

  “Where did you get this?” Grant asked, holding up the too large pants and suspenders in one hand and the black fake beard in the other.

  “Lockport—last Halloween. I used it in a sermon to illustrate the falseness of ‘putting on’ Amish when the man inside is not right with the community.”

  Grant looked impressed as he crawled into the clothes. He peered into the small mirror and squirted on the small tube of glue. The beard stuck. He added the wig and the hat and stepped back. “Well, how do I look?”

  “Like you, in a bad Amish costume.”

  “That’s great.”

  Nee . . . nee . . . I have a good idea. You’ll rub yourself down “with some manure, then no one will get within ten feet of ya.”

  Grant snorted. “I don’t think so.”

  “I guess it all depends on how bad you want to see Sarah and Jacob.”

  Grant growled something beneath his breath, and the bishop looked satisfied. “Come on, we’ll go out to the barn and then we’ll try it out on Ellie first. S
he always gives an honest opinion.”

  “Fine . . . let’s get it over with.”

  They went downstairs to the side door and headed outside to the manure pile.

  “Whooeee . . . you stink!” The bishop rubbed his hands together. “One more thing—put on these dark sunglasses to hide those blue eyes of yours.”

  “But the Amish have blue eyes,” Grant protested.

  “Not like fire and ice, they don’t. No—one look at your eyes and Sarah would know you for sure.”

  “All right.” Grant put on the round sunglasses and didn’t feel like himself. “Let’s go and scare your wife.”

  The bishop laughed; Ellie screamed.

  “Ezekiel,” she yelled from where she’d shooed Grant off the porch. “I know the good Lord wants you to bring home the poor and the homeless, but this one needs to stay in the barn! The barn, I tell you! Why, when I think of my kitchen floor—”

  Grant removed the glasses and smiled at her. She screamed again.

  “Dr. Williams! What are you doing out of this house? Do you know how many womenfolk I’ve had to drive off because they come sniffing the air like there’s a secret just wafting about?

  You go take a bath and get right back upstairs!”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Loftus. I promise no one will find out.”

  “Ezekiel, if this is about that sleigh ride, just let the poor man here alone. It was only a two-hour ride in an open cutter—it meant nothing.”

  “Two hours?” Grant repeated.

  “Ach, Ellie, you let him alone. We’re just going out for a little while; We’ll be back before supper.”

  “And you’ll both bathe . . . in the barn!”

  “Let’s go,” Grant pressed.

  “We’ll use the wagon, Doctor, if you don’t mind. You’re a foul-smelling man.”

  “At least my soul and conscience are clean.”

  “That will be determined one day, but for now, not even the good Lord Himself would step near enough for you to have your judgment.”

  “Then I should be able to look at Sarah all I want, if she won’t come near enough to recognize me.” And that thought sent a chill down his spine.

  “We’ll see, Doctor. We’ll see.”

  Jacob was as good as his word. Later that afternoon, Sarah watched from the window as the cutter came down the lane. She put on her wraps, wanting to avoid any interaction or comment from Mamm, but that good lady already had the door open and chattered merrily away.

  “Mamm, We’ll be back shortly.” Sarah sidled past her parent.

  “Jah, take all the time you like, child. And stay out of the snow in your skirts.”

  “I’ll keep a watchful eye,” Jacob promised. Sarah sighed and waited for him to escort her to the sled.

  “You do love to tease,” she scolded when he’d seated her and spoken to the horse.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “What’s your horse’s name? I’ve never asked.”

  “Thunder. He’s a good boy but was a bit hard to handle at first. He’d been badly broke by some Amish man down in Lancaster. I had to talk to him for quite a while to build his confidence back up.”

  “I remember you telling me when we were young about how you talk to the horses.”

  Jah . . . and I’ve told no one since.” “

  “Well, it’s a gift anyway.”

  “I suppose.” He shrugged, and Sarah knew he’d rather not talk about it, that he didn’t like to be the center of attention. They were so much alike, she thought. If only she could have just fallen in love with Jacob, things would have been so much easier. But, then again, she didn’t expect that love on any course was easy.

  “Your mamm did beautiful work at my quilting,” she praised, changing the subject.

  He smiled at her. “Danki, Sarah. She loved your quilt. Talked about it ’til I was tired of listening actually.”

  She smiled back at him. “Men don’t really have much to do with quilting.”

  “Oh, but I’m a good hand with the needle.”

  She gazed at him in wonder, finding it strange that he’d admit such a thing.

  He laughed. “You forget that I do leather work, saddles and satchels and stuff.”

  “So do my brothers; they’re getting ready for the spring fair in Lockport.”

  “I need to do that one year—”

  A stray piece of ice flew up and nicked his strong-boned cheek. Sarah gazed at the trickle of blood and used the end of her scarf to wipe it away as he spoke to Thunder and slowed the horse for a passing wagon.

  Why, there they are,” Ezekiel hissed to Grant, then drew back from the smell. “And in case you’re wondering why I’m so deadset on showing you Sarah and her life without you, it’s because I want you to be sure . . . very sure . . . that it’s Amish that you want to be, not just Mr. ‘I Married an Amish Girl.’ ”

  “Thanks.” Grant’s voice was dry, but his eyes behind the strange dark glasses welled with pain. Sarah was so achingly beautiful in the clear light of day that she surpassed all of his remembrances of her, but she was also gently wiping her scarf against the face of the handsome, dark-haired Amish man.

  Jacob Wyse, Grant thought, a feeling of anger coming over him. How could he be furious with someone he barely knew? Then again, it was easy when he watched the other man clearly enjoy Sarah’s attention.

  The bishop pulled the wagon up against the cutter, nearly startling Thunder off the road. Jacob Wyse leaned forward and spoke to the animal, and Grant was quick to see that the horse responded and calmed.

  “Hiya,” Ezekiel began in a jovial manner. “Sarah King and Jacob Wyse . . . it’s a pleasure to see you out and about. Sarah, are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, danki,” came her soft answer, and Grant longed to speak to her so much that his throat ached.

  “And you, young man, Jacob. I see it’s true that you have a way with horses.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Who’s your passenger?”

  Grant’s handsome mouth thinned atop the fake bushy beard. He didn’t like the other man’s attitude or knowing grin.

  “Ach, just a wayward soul I happened to pick up along the way.”

  “When the wind drifts wayward then, it’s a smell to offend a lady I think. Perhaps we should drive on.”

  Ezekiel looked at Grant as if grasping for the next piece of conversation.

  “Ach, sure, sure, but I—uh—I’m havin’ a bit of trouble with one of my wagon wheels. Perhaps we could take a look—”

  Jacob handed the reins to Sarah and jumped down with a grin. “I don’t mind, but your stranger looks hearty enough to help you if he cared to.”

  Grant wanted to growl, and he didn’t like the way the horse was beginning to prance in absence of his master at the reins. Sarah looked nervous.

  “Perhaps you’ve a mind to see to your horse before you’ve got a runaway,” Grant said roughly. Sarah looked up then, seeming to study him. Grant could sense Ezekiel holding his breath, then she looked away as the wind carried the smell of manure thick through the air.

  Jacob grasped the bridle of the dark horse and spoke to it. Then he looked up to Ezekiel. “Your wheels look fine, Bishop. It must have been the road; we’ll be moving on to enjoy the afternoon.” He was back in the cutter, the reins in his hands, and the last Grant saw of Sarah’s beautiful face was a passing profile, for he could not turn around to look without arousing more suspicion.

  “Well, there we go. And here’s your lesson question for today. Could you live in this community and see Sarah married, perhaps to another?” Ezekiel sounded grim, and Grant swallowed.

  “I know how the Lord has been calling my heart these many months to ask to become Amish. I lost my parents and have never felt that secure sense of belonging in life since, not until I came here and felt like I was observing it from afar. It’s a way of life that brings peace to my soul—with or without Sarah.”

  The old man glanced at him through squinting eyes. �
��Then you’ve answered well.”

  Grant nodded. “It was a pleasure, though, to see her face.”

  “Ach, you’ve got it bad.”

  “Thanks—that’s helpful.”

  “Don’t be touchy; it’s not my fault you smell like manure.”

  Grant resisted the urge to wring the good bishop’s neck and concentrated on breathing the air, free and clean. He’d become too used to taking his exercise late at night, when no one was about, and he longed to pull off the beard, which was beginning to itch.

  “If you don’t like the airplane glue, just wait until it’s your own hair growing in. Marry a girl, and it’s a beard you’ll have as your wedding ring.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good, that means you’re studying to some purpose, then.”

  Grant repressed the urge to show him how much he’d been studying by uttering a few good oaths in Pennsylvania Dutch and instead flapped his coat in the wind. The bishop nearly gagged.

  “What are you tryin’ to do, boy? Kill the driver?”

  “Jah,” Grant answered with some return of his good humor. “I think I am.”

  CHAPTER 25

  The land was wide awake following a hard spring. The last weeks of April were the best time to plant pumpkins, and Sarah added each seed to the earth in the predawn light. She then went inside to wash her hands, surprised not to find Mamm awake. Instead, by the light of a single lamp, Father was sitting at the table with his Bible.

  “Father, where’s Mamm?”

  “Ach, she spent a restless night, so I convinced her to have a lie in for once.”

  He turned to her, looking tired and wan himself, and Sarah feared for his heart once more. She knew that she had been distant from him ever since he’d told her the truth about his telling Grant that he did not favor a relationship between them. She felt ashamed and went to lay her hand on his aged shoulder.

  “Father, I’ve been like a foolish child, crying for the moon—ever since you told me of what you spoke of with the doctor. I owe you an apology and much more. Please forgive me.” She bent to kiss the work-worn hand that had always treated her with love, and Father stroked her hair with his other hand.

  “Ach, Sarah, my little woman, now. There’s nothing to forgive, and you must keep your faith in what Der Herr can do, even when we least expect it. He is in control, not me. He is in control in your life as well, though you may not always see Him working.”