An Amish Match on Ice Mountain Page 8

  “Your old home?” he asked softly.

  “No—sea glass can be found along the beaches. It’s old glass from bottles or dishes that has been polished smooth by the pounding of the water and then washes back ashore.”

  “As we do in life sometimes,” he replied. “Gott shapes something new from the old, broken pieces, and we find ourselves back where we started—washed ashore.”

  Ella turned beneath his arm, pressing against him instinctively. “But that new shore can be a new beginning.” She watched him smile grimly in the light of the lantern and wanted to do something to change his mood. She stretched on tiptoe and gently pressed her lips to his mouth.

  * * *

  Stephen almost dropped the lantern. He was unprepared for the hot rush of feeling that fired through him at the touch of her lips. He caught her close with his free arm and couldn’t seem to think rationally, caught between the fused heat of their mouths and the surrounding chill of the ice. The dual sensations were heady fuel for his heart, and he found himself returning her kiss with flagrant delight. He kissed her until he felt her bend over his arm, and then suddenly, it was as if reality crashed into him with one subtle movement . . . He felt the insistent kicking of the babe inside her belly.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered roughly as he lowered his arm and set her on her feet.

  “Don’t be,” she said lightly. “I kissed you first.”

  He noticed she was shivering and took her hand. “Kumme, it’s too cold in here for you.”

  “It wasn’t a few seconds ago,” she mumbled.

  “What was that?” He paused as he walked her to the door and decided she’d merely said something about the cold.

  Once outside, he blinked in the bright sunlight and looked down at her. “I didn’t hurt you or the baby, did I?”

  “Not at all. I—liked it.”

  “Gut . . . that’s good.” He cast about for something more to say, then looked to the mountain and the small path that led upward behind the mine. “I’m afraid there’s quite a hike in front of us, but I can carry you, if you’d like.”

  “Stephen, I’m pregnant, but I can hike. If I get tired, I’ll tell you.”

  He nodded, trying to gauge her response. He wanted no harm to kumme to her, and he realized that his heart was starting to follow where his body had begun . . .

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ella paused to catch her breath beside a blooming mountain laurel, and Stephen shook his dark head.

  “That’s far enough,” he said, and she felt herself being swung easily up into his strong arms.

  It was an odd feeling—being carried. It reminded her of the night of the fire and the surety of his arms then . . .

  “Relax,” he whispered against her hair and she did. She was lulled by the gentle coos of mourning doves and the sound of Stephen’s heartbeat as she nestled more cozily against him. She was more tired than she realized and saw no harm in closing her eyes for a moment . . .

  * * *

  Stephen crested the trail and drew a deep breath of the clean, fragrant mountain air. He gazed down at Ella, sleeping in his arms, and had to resist the urge to kiss her for fear of waking her. He took a few more steps, letting the mountain flowers and ferns brush his pant legs. Then he became aware that an Amish woman stood a small distance from him, and when she turned, he drew a sharp intake of breath.

  “Mamm,” he acknowledged.

  “What is this?” His mother’s green eyes swept darkly over Ella.

  “Everything that matters,” he returned, and realized that he spoke the truth . . .

  * * *

  Ella rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and became aware that Stephen was speaking—low, level, yet somehow angry. She looked up at him and realized that they were in a clearing with high pine trees surrounding them.

  A shrill female voice broke Ella’s appreciation of the trees, and she stiffened in Stephen’s arms.

  “You dare to return here with a woman in your arms—an Englisch woman?” The words were provoking.

  Against her will, thoughts of her uncle’s cruel voice surfaced, and Ella struggled to get down and face this accuser.

  Stephen lowered her slowly, solicitously, but kept his arms about her waist and placed a firm hand on her belly. “Jah—an Englisch girl. And we kumme bearing gifts—she’s ime familye weg.”

  “Pregnant?” The older woman’s voice rose an octave. “You married an Englischer?”

  “Did I say we were married?” Stephen drawled softly. Ella wasn’t sure who was more shocked—herself, or the shrewish little woman dressed in Amish black. And yet, he’s told no lie—just insinuated . . . But still, if the woman before her was representative of the community at large, it was no wonder Stephen didn’t especially like the place.

  Ella laced her hands over Stephen’s against her belly. She was unsure of exactly what to say but knew she longed to defend Stephen somehow from this stranger.

  “You bring us shame,” the woman accused.

  Ella felt rather than saw Stephen’s stiff half bow.

  “Shame . . . as always,” he said clearly. “Ella, meet my mother.”

  * * *

  Viola Lambert entered her mountain home with a heavy heart. Her sister, Esther, looked up from some darning she was doing and gave her a sharp glance.

  “What is it, Vi?”

  “Stephen is heiser. I saw him by the tall trees. He has a pregnant Englisch woman with him.” Viola felt some relief in saying the words, but still, her heart pounded with the idea that he wasn’t married.

  Esther put aside her sewing and Viola felt the weight of her stare. Always Esther, the older, the wiser, had given Viola direction in life—even when Viola had married and borne Stephen. And then, when Ben was killed in a hunting accident, Esther had told Viola that it was the will of Derr Herr and that she’d never approved of Ben in the first place.

  Viola drew herself away from such thoughts and carefully put her herb basket on the kitchen table. She was ready for the next question but did not know how to answer.

  “Pregnant?” Esther snapped. “So he married an Englischer? Well, knowing the bishop, he’ll welcome the two back to Ice Mountain with open arms.”

  “They’re not married.” There. It’s out. Viola fingered the handle of the woven basket and looked away from Esther, but her older sister’s words still cut deep.

  “First an accused murderer and now a fornicator—Well, Viola, I’d say he’s like his father and you can expect nothing more from him. Shun him, I say.”

  Viola’s throat grew tight. “Haven’t I shunned him already?”

  * * *

  Stephen was all too familiar with the mocking guise he kept up around his mamm and aenti—it was much safer than allowing any room for their barbs. He supposed it was childish in a way, to coldly close up instead of facing the women head-on, but he knew no other way to keep the pain from cutting deep.

  “Stephen? Are you all right?”

  He looked up and smiled at Ella’s soft question. They were sitting in a small field of spring wildflowers because it was a place he’d often run after a scolding from his mother and aenti. Now it seemed like an opportune time to show Ella some of his favorite spots on the mountain.

  “I’m as right as I can be, given our welcome an hour ago.”

  “You let her think the baby was ours—I mean, yours—you know what I mean.”

  He reached out and covered her thin fingers with his hand, not wanting to see her flustered. “I did, Ella, but if you want me to undo it, I will.”

  “Are you ashamed of me?”

  “What?” he exclaimed, dropping the daisy stem he’d been toying with as he moved closer to put an arm around her shoulders.

  “Well,” she said, exhaling softly, “it would make a lot of sense. I’m pregnant, unmarried . . . your people are innocent, guided by their Old Order faith and—”

  “My people are just like any other people,” he said drily. “Some go
od, some bad, and a whole lot in between. And nee, I’m not ashamed of you. I just instinctively claimed the babe as mine—not for any other reason,

  Ella, than perhaps I wish it were so. That the baby is mine—ours.”

  “And the unmarried part?” She arched a dark eyebrow, and he laughed. He couldn’t help it—it seemed as though a whole color spectrum of emotion was open to him when he was with her, and he easily dropped a kiss on her mouth.

  “The unmarried part—well, jah, to irritate Mamm, but I didn’t want to claim something that you might not want.”

  “Oh,” she whispered, turning to put her hands on his chest. “I might want . . .”

  He heard the soft note of desire in her voice, and it flared through his senses like flame to a powder keg.

  He kissed her without reservation, trying to drink her in as his fingers played through her long hair. He laid her down gently in the sweet-smelling grass, then cuddled beside her, slanting his head to deepen the kiss.

  “Ahem!”

  Stephen eased up, annoyed to be interrupted from such pleasure on a fine spring morning.

  “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

  Stephen smiled when he saw who had spoken, and he helped Ella to her feet with quick tenderness, then reached out to pull his old friend into a hearty hug.

  * * *

  Ella watched as the two men embraced like brothers. She studied the lean, black-haired stranger and then felt like she wanted to turn away when his keen blue eyes swept over her. But he reached out an easy hand and spoke with gentleness.

  “I’m Joel Umble. I hope Stephen might have said that he has some gut friends on Ice Mountain.”

  Ella decided she liked his smile and made a brief half curtsy in response. “He might have mentioned one or two—especially the local bishop.”

  “Well then, will you both do me the pleasure of coming home to my family? I know you and my frau will have much to discuss, as she’s expecting a baby about the same time as you are.”

  Ella blinked in surprise and looked to Stephen, who shrugged with a grin.

  “Joel knows things, sort of like Lester does.”

  Ella smiled. “Then we will be in good company.”

  Stephen nodded. “Jah, Joel and Martha have many family members living with them, and they are all wonderful people. Joel’s mother- and father-in-law as well as his great-grandmother by marriage are all invalids . . .”

  “But that doesn’t stop them from causing trouble,” Joel joked. “Especially now that they can get more sun in their wheelchairs.”

  “How is your mamm?” Stephen asked his friend as Ella listened.

  “Freed—is the only word I can use . . .” Joel smiled. “But kumme, we’ll go home and have some coffee cake—it’s Martha’s specialty.”

  Ella nodded, glad for the chance to meet more of the mountain people.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Stephen wondered when the question would arise, and he didn’t have long to wait. He’d left Ella and Joel’s wife, Martha, busily chatting, while he and Joel went out to walk the grounds where the sheep were kept.

  “It’s not your child?” Joel asked softly as the sound of the creek bubbled pleasantly in the background.

  Stephen looked into his friend’s keen eyes and shook his head. “Nee.”

  “But you want it to be . . . And you’re willing to risk everyone thinking you’re just a negligent rogue who won’t marry even when he should—it’s sort of the same thing you did with the murder—letting everyone think what they might.” Joel’s voice was calm, knowing, and Stephen understood that his friend wasn’t digging, but rather was being supportive.

  Stephen shrugged. “So it’s what I do.”

  “Ella seems like a nice maedel,” Joel said cheerily, and Stephen rolled his eyes.

  “She is, but let’s cut to the chase, all right?” He knocked shoulders with Joel and his friend came back at him with a laugh.

  “Ach, in one way, it feels so good to be here,” Stephen said, smiling. “But definitely not in another. Do you know we met my mamm when we first arrived?”

  “Are you forgetting the Amish grapevine?”

  “Jah, I suppose.”

  “I knew you were on Ice Mountain within ten minutes.”

  “Ha! You knew when I was carrying Ella up the trail.” Stephen spoke lightly.

  “You love her, don’t you?”

  Stephen stopped, his friend’s words ricocheting off his heart. “Jah,” he said finally. “For all that I know what love means—jah, I love her.”

  * * *

  Ella gazed out at the beautiful kitchen garden that Martha Umble had invited her to see.

  “Perhaps Stephen has told you that for our Amish ‘there is no beauty without purpose,’ so our gardens are not created just to be pretty. Rather, we gain peace once the work has been done.”

  “That’s a wonderful thought, Martha.” Ella smiled, glancing at the delightful young woman beside her. “When I was younger, I loved to paint the sea, but here you paint with your flowers and plants.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Martha put her hand to her belly as if contemplating something, and Ella recognized the expression.

  “Does your baby kick often?” Ella asked.

  Martha laughed. “Jah, and it is still a wonder of Gott to me.”

  “Oh, I’ve never thought of that, but I suppose you are right.”

  “You don’t sound so sure, maybe?” Martha asked shyly.

  Ella shook her head. “About God? No—I haven’t been, though I heard a good message about faith when we were in Coudersport.”

  Martha nodded her kapped head. “The Bible says that Gott knits us together in our mother’s womb.”

  “I’ve never read that.” Ella placed a hand on her own belly, then reached an impulsive hand out to Martha, who took it graciously.

  “Friends?” Martha asked with a smile.

  “Oh, yes,” Ella answered, seeing serenity in the other woman’s eyes. “Friends.”

  * * *

  Stephen knew it would have been all too easy to stay with Joel and his family. Joel, as the new bishop, would have been a place of refuge for him and Ella. But Stephen also wanted to protect Ella from anyone searching for her, and hiding her at his reclusive mamm’s haus might be the best way to do that. But it would not be easy for him . . .

  “Do you want me to carry you?” he asked softly when he felt her steps lag.

  “No, I’m fine. I was only thinking that if there was a hotel here, it might be a little less awkward—than staying with your family and all.”

  He laughed then as she did about the hotel joke and pulled her close as they came out of the woods to a fair-sized clearing. “This is where my mamm and aenti live,” he said, his voice level.

  He felt Ella clutch his hand reassuringly. “It’ll be all right, Stephen. You will see.”

  Stephen bent and swiped her mouth with a gentle kiss, then led her to the cabin.

  * * *

  Viola Lambert went to answer the firm knock on her door and resolutely undid the latch. She stared into the gloaming at her tall sohn and the maedel holding his hand.

  “Kumme in,” she said finally.

  “Danki, Mamm,” Stephen answered, and she nodded, clearing her throat a bit.

  “Esther is lying down with a headache. I—I want to say—ach, what is your name?” she asked, looking at the other woman.

  “I’m Ella Nichols—thank you for letting us stay with you.” Viola froze when the girl bent forward and embraced her.

  It felt foreign, odd, and somewhere—deep inside—touched a heart that had long been cold. Certainly Stephen has not embraced me, but what reason have I given him to do so? Viola realized that they were staring at her as she stood thinking, and she swallowed hard.

  “Ella, you look tired. Sei se gut kumme to the table and I will give you something to eat and drink.” She turned, then remembered with startling clarity—she hadn’t invited her soh
n to eat. She turned back to him and looked up into his beautiful eyes—his fater’s eyes. “Stephen, will you kumme to eat as well?”

  * * *

  Stephen stared down at his mamm, unsure of how to respond, but then he nodded and went to slide onto the simple bench at the table next to Ella. When was the last time I was asked to come to the table? Normally, before he had been shunned from the community for being accused of murder, Stephen had too often been seated at a hated side table as punishment for whatever infraction he’d committed: coming in late, breaking a neighbor’s window with a volleyball—all typical teenage stuff . . . But his isolation had hurt, and he supposed that was what the two women had been trying to accomplish.

  Now he held Ella’s hand under the main table and waited as his mother brought fresh bread, crocks of butter and preserves, raw milk, and a blueberry buckle to the table. His mamm was a gut cook, and he noticed that Ella didn’t waste time before complimenting his mother.

  “Oh, Mrs. Lambert—what good things you make! I guess I’m more hungry now with the ba—” She trailed off, and Stephen cleared his throat.

  “Mamm—there’s something we have to tell you, and the fewer people on the mountain who know it, the better. I think maybe you might not even tell Aenti Esther, but you will have to decide. Mamm, Ella’s life is in danger. Her onkel and aenti want to kill her. We don’t know why, but I risked bringing her here to keep her safe. I told Joel—I mean, the bishop earlier today, and he agreed to let her stay and thought maybe since your cabin is a bit remote, that it might be the right place for her to hide.”

  Stephen watched and waited as his mamm carefully buttered a piece of bread; then she looked up. “Ella Nichols may stay, but there is only one spare room. Where will you sleep?”

  Stephen met Ella’s worried glance and shook his head slightly. “It’s all right. I will sleep in the room with her, the better to guard and watch over her.”

  His mother arched a dark eyebrow. “It is what I would expect you’d do . . . I will give you extra quilts so that you may sleep on the floor, Stephen.”

  He almost had to laugh, amazed that his mamm had consented without an argument . . . It was strange how different she seemed, but he was sadly sure her old self would surface sooner or later. Still, he might enjoy the moment while it was here . . .