Courting Caleb, page 3
* * *
Caleb woke with a pounding headache. The shifting air pressure of the mountain made his sinus cavities throb. He wanted to lie in bed, but once he turned and nearly rolled into Birchbark’s armpit, he decided getting up was better. And he knew that tonight he’d sleep on the floor, no matter how cold it might be.
He fed Fred some rehydrated jerky that he’d had in his pack, then quietly opened the cabin door to reveal the beautiful scenery outside. He stepped out onto the snow-encrusted porch, then reached up to snap off a low-hanging icicle. He sucked at the tip of the ice reflectively, wondering what the day might bring and when his headache would subside.
“Ya got the door open, buwe!”
“Sorry.” Caleb stepped back inside and closed the door behind him. Birchbark’s brownish hair stood on end and Caleb could now see some gray strands in the mess.
“Are ya gonna stand there and stare at a mon or git ta makin’ breakfast?”
Caleb blinked as his head pounded at the aulder man’s subdued roar. “Breakfast,” he mumbled, the icicle between his teeth. He was hoping that the burning cold would distract him from his headache as he stepped over Fred and lifted a massive cast-iron skillet to the cookstove top.
He was a dab hand at cooking, mostly because of the necessity of eating back home. As the youngest, he’d often been stuck with what his fater called “the woman’s work.” So, it was with minimal fuss that he whipped up scrambled eggs, pancakes, and slab bacon, as well as hot coffee. He was aware of Birchbark moving behind him, and heard the mountain man give an appreciative sniff. Then Caleb plated the food, grabbed a maple syrup tin from a nearby open shelf, and joined his host at the small hickory wood table at the side of the stove.
For several long minutes, there was no sound but Birchbark chewing. Then he gave a long belch and slapped his huge hand down on the table, making the salt and pepper shakers jump.
“By all that’s gut, buwe! Ya can cook!”
“Danki.” Caleb nodded, swallowing his own food.
“Don’t let yer woman know.”
“Hmmm?”
Birchbark sighed and burped again—a sound so prolonged that it seemed to come from some dark pit. “Don’t let her know right off. Surprise her with yer cookin’.”
Caleb got to his feet, then scraped the remains of his breakfast into a bowl for Fred. “Well, I don’t, er, have a woman, Birchbark, but your idea is gut. A great meal served by lantern light might make for an interesting evening of courting.”
Birchbark grunted then looked down at Fred. “He wants two more eggs, sunny-side up.”
Caleb got up and cracked the eggs with mute resignation, wondering what else his dog would want.
“Well, I best git on. I’ll be gone overnight,” Birchbark announced.
Caleb turned. “You’re going to work? Uh, what do you do? Won’t the snow hold you up? I imagine you’ll have a hard time getting through.”
“Ha! Love waits fer no man.”
Caleb tried to follow the trail of the conversation as he watched Birchbark swipe back a green curtain to reveal one of the most abundantly stocked pantries he’d ever seen. A towering shelf was chock-full of preserves, and jams, and pickles, and canned tomatoes, as well as potatoes and sacks of sugar and flour.
Caleb watched as Birchbark pulled a large, wood-framed backpack from a corner, then turned back to the shelf and ran his work-hardened hands over the various jars and supplies with surprising care. He seemed to be making a very purposeful selection of items to add to his pack.
“What do you mean about love not waiting?” Caleb asked once the pack was nearly full.
“Jest what I said, buwe. You’ll find out fer yerself someday.” Birchbark added a final quart mason jar of blackberry preserves, then set about pulling on his long fur coat. He hefted the pack onto his back and nodded at Caleb. “Open the door, buwe. I’ll be back tomorrow sometime. And Fred wants ta remind ya not ta burn the cabin down.”
“You can count on me,” Caleb said drily as he opened the front door. He watched Birchbark make his way off the front porch and out into the knee-high snow; then Caleb went back into the cabin. He caught sight of the lantern Birchbark had left on the table and hurried to take it outside.
But when he stood on the front porch, he realized that Birchbark was gone. “Odd,” Caleb muttered to himself. The aulder mon must have been moving amazingly fast to have already cleared the slope and disappeared into the tree line. Caleb went back inside and looked down at Fred, wondering what the dog was thinking....
* * *
Mercy fed the goats, then trudged through the snow, feeling rather exhilarated despite the sodden condition of her skirts. She’d always loved the snow. She’d prepared a kettle of sweet baked beans and bacon and wanted to make sure that Abigail had some for lunch. She worried that her younger sister didn’t eat enough or even take the time to eat while she was involved with her pottery. And now, with this narrisch courting scheme, who knew when Abigail would find time to eat properly?
She supposed she might have sent Joshua over, but the buwe already was busy with his chores and she’d promised to let him geh sledding with Tad, though visions of broken arms and legs danced behind her eyes. But still, Joshua deserved some fun. She deliberately pushed aside thoughts of her sohn’s excited talk with Phillip Miller the evening before; she didn’t trust the mon one bit....
She finally reached Abigail’s cabin and struggled briefly with the latch before plowing inside. She stopped cold, feeling her face flame, as Phillip Miller rose from the small kitchen table to kumme forward and help steady her.
“I’m fine,” she snapped, and he moved away with the small-handled kettle that she reluctantly gave over.
“It’s barely ten o’clock in the morning,” Mercy hissed at Abigail. “What is he doing courting at this hour?” But she got nothing but a shushing smile from Abigail, which only served to make Mercy feel more frustrated.
Abigail was helping her with her wraps and cloak and sopping bonnet. “I don’t need to stay. I—”
“Mmmm . . . baked beans with brown sugar and bacon. These smell delicious.”
Mercy turned with her sister to look at Phillip, who’d set the kettle on the table and lifted the lid.
“They’re for Abigail,” she huffed.
Phillip replaced the lid. “Sorry.”
Mercy watched as Abigail calmly hung up her wet things. She felt foolish somehow—and it surely was all Phillip Miller’s fault . . .
* * *
Phillip felt vaguely sorry for Mercy but knew instinctively that she wouldn’t appreciate the sentiment. And, although she was quite pretty, he’d never met a more cantankerous woman . . . Abigail’s sister or not.
He sat back down, then caught Abigail’s eye. “Perhaps you need some extra firewood cut? It would give you ladies time to visit.”
“Jah,” Mercy snapped. “Geh cut two cords full.”
He frowned, thinking he had better leave the two sisters alone, but Abigail laughed a bit and waved him back into his chair.
“Mercy, come and sit and have some cocoa. I think that you need to get used to Herr Miller. After all, he may become your bruder-in-law one day.”
Phillip waited for the retort he’d expected from Mercy and hid a smile when she sat down opposite him at the small table, blatantly glaring. She might be feisty, but I like her willingness to defend her sister at any cost. . . .
Abigail served them the hot cocoa in large, blue glazed mugs.
“Some of your own work?” Phillip asked, indicating his mug with a smile.
He watched Abigail give a modest smile. “Jah.”
“They’re beau—”
“Beautiful?” Mercy queried in a saccharine tone. “Of course they are. Abigail is the most talented potter in the mountains. What about making a toast to her eyebrows and telling her they’re beautiful too—which they most certainly are.... You’ll have to do more than pass compliments to win my sister’s heart.”
“Mercy, let him be,” Abigail admonished.
“Nee.” Phillip chuckled. “I rather like your sister’s temper. It matches her hair.”
Abigail groaned faintly and Phillip raised a quizzical brow while Mercy looked as if she was choking with temper.
Abigail glanced at him with a faint smile. “Mercy positively hates when anyone comments on her—well, hair. Don’t you, Mercy? Now if it had been russet, or strawberry blond . . .”
Phillip flashed Mercy a commiserating smile. “Ach, vanity! And in an Amisch woman at that. At least it’s not purple, you know? Though dyeing it some outrageous color might lift your spirits a bit or at least calm that fiery temp—”
“That’s it!” Mercy slammed her hands flat on the table, then got to her feet. “I am not going to sit in my sister’s haus and be baited like—”
“A hungry trout?” Phillip supplied, keeping a look of innocence on his face. It was simply too much fun to tease Mercy, but he was surprised at his own persistence.
Mercy flounced to the door and Phillip smothered a laugh. He decided that apologizing to Abigail might be worth it since he loved to tease, but then he realized he’d have to apologize to Mercy as well, and that thought gave him regretful pause....
Chapter Five
Abigail spent the rest of the day in her pottery shop, which was really nothing more than a large back room in her cabin. She was finishing a set of large cereal bowls for Tabitha and Matthew, who were still growing their supply of dishes.
As she worked, she reflected on the visit she’d had from Phillip Miller. Certainly, it might have ended with some more interesting conversation if Mercy had not left in a huff. Phillip, too, seemed to have abandoned his seed catalogs and bid her gut day.
He had promised to come back the following day though, and of this, she was glad. She found him quiet and companionable, even though his interest in the seed catalogs seemed intense. But she knew how she got when there was a book on pottery around. She smiled as she turned the clay. She was usually very quiet as she worked, the motion of her hands bringing her great peace.
She’d learned from her fater the Word of Derr Herr about a “peace that passes understanding.” She let her mind move back through time with the fluidity of the clay she touched. For a moment, she was a child again, never afraid when she accidentally broke a piece on the dusty floor of the pottery.
Her fater would chuckle reassuringly and pull her close for a hug. “Never mind, my maedel. We will make a new thing.”
Abigail came back to the moment when she heard a knock on her door. She grabbed a rag and tried to dry off the clay, opening the door latch with both her elbow and hand. She couldn’t help but wonder who might be calling so late.
Caleb took his hat off and stepped through the potter’s door.
“Hiya.” He nodded at her. “Danki for letting me in. I know it’s late.” He tried to hold Fred’s inquisitive nose and wriggling frame back with his leg.
“I’m always up late,” she admitted, and he watched her pretty face flush becomingly. “You and your pup are welcome to kumme in. I just need to wash my hands quick.”
He entered the kitchen of her neat home and Abigail soon returned briskly from washing her hands. “Here, let me have your coat, sei se gut.”
He slipped out of the thick, damp wool and then waited in awkward silence as she hung it up and smoothed its folds absently with her slender hands. He shivered, feeling a tingling warmth across his shoulders, almost as though she were touching him instead of the coat.
He was grateful that she misunderstood his shiver and urged him inside, out of the cold.
“I’m in the back room, finishing some glazing,” she said.
He and Fred followed her trim form into another room of her neat cabin. Here, it was ordered chaos—with potter’s tools, clay, and ceramic pieces in various stages of completion surrounding the wheel. He stopped to touch a teapot with a gentle finger, marveling at the perfection of the curved spout. There was something inherently sensual in the flow of the design that made him think of slim arms tangled about his neck. He cleared his throat.
“You’re a talented artist,” he said softly as Fred settled under the table.
“Danki, but I still learn new things every day from the clay and the wheel.”
He nodded. “It’s gut to keep learning in life, though I can’t see how you’d improve on this teapot, no matter how you might try.” He glanced over at her where she stood, haloed by rich lantern light, and he remembered that he was here for their first courting.
“Tell me how you learned all of this work.” He gestured to the room at large. “I’ve never been inside a pottery.”
She smiled, revealing a slight gap between her two front teeth, then started to show him around. “First, there’s the treadle wheel—it looks like a kick wheel but makes a much more rhythmic sound when you move it with your feet.”
He watched her hands run lovingly across the surface of the wheel. “So, no electric wheels?” he teased suddenly.
“Nee. Though I long to try one. . . .”
She bit her lip at the admission, and he shoved away the irreverent thought of what it would be like to kiss her with passion. Then she moved, gesturing to the right side of the room.
“Here’s the kiln—the flue runs outside. The ventilation is more than adequate, and I can open the transom windows if needed.”
He gestured to the arranged glaze buckets and the unfamiliar tools on the workbench. “How did you learn all of this?”
She shrugged. “My fater taught me.”
He sensed that she would try to deflect attention from herself, but he wanted to get to know her. Before he could frame a response though, she took a step closer and spoke in soft tones.
“What did your fater teach you?”
The quiet question threw him, as much as if someone had punched him in the gut, and he struggled for a moment to kumme up with a suitable reply.
“Farming—chores, things like that.”
She tilted her head a bit and he felt the weight of her gaze. “Mmm-hmm. So, you’re a farmer then?”
“No,” he admitted. “I guess I’m more of a handyman. I can get along by fixing most things.”
“There’s always a need for a gut handyman.”
He nodded and reached to pick up a pea-sized piece of clay. He rolled it gently between his thumb and forefinger.
She laughed, an even, melodious sound that struck him as something unusual and fine.
“What’s funny?” he asked, looking at her.
“I was remembering—throwing pea balls of clay at Fater and Mercy when I was five or so. My sister never wanted to be here and my daed was always consumed by his artwork, so I’d get their attention by pelting them with clay.”
“So, you had fun with your family?”
“Jah, though we worked hard too.”
He nodded. “What else did your daed teach you about the clay?” He waited for a response, hoping to skitter away from any mention of his own fater.
“He talked a lot about the truth that Gott is the Master Potter, as it says in His Word.”
“That’s hard to remember sometimes when we would like things our own way.”
She smiled at him, a faraway expression on her pretty face.
Acting on impulse, Caleb threw the heat-softened clay from his fingers to land directly on her cheek.
“You’ve picked the wrong target, Herr King.” She grabbed some damp clay and pelted him with ball after ball until he threw his arms up in mock surrender.
“I give up.” He chuckled, beginning to pluck the clay from his face and shirt.
“Here. Let me help you. I’m afraid that wasn’t quite fair.”
He let her help him remove the bits and watched her dark eyes sparkle as she stretched to pull a piece from his forehead. But then she stopped and ran her free hand down through the length of his hair. He stilled, unsure of what she was thinking.
He knew it was an intimate thing—touching his hair—but then she was an artist and maybe she needed to touch to experience things better. In any case, he waited until he heard his own heartbeat in his ears.
* * *
Abigail looked up into his blue eyes as she stroked the fall of his blond hair. She marveled at herself, making so free with his person. Then she swallowed hard. What am I doing? Just because he’s a mail-order groom doesn’t make him mine to ... examine. She stepped away, leaving him visibly frozen in place.
“I—forgive me, Herr King. I was admiring your hair—an artist’s eyes and all that.” She felt herself flush.
He moved a bit, shifting his weight from one long leg to the other. “That’s what I thought—you being an artist. Touch must matter. . . .”
His voice was hoarse, and she nodded, telling herself it was her own imagination that his gaze had skittered across her bosom. She was thinking how she could change the subject when there was a loud knock on the front cabin door.
She had almost left the pottery when Caleb spoke. “Sei se gut—let me answer. It’s late and you never know who—”
“Might kumme courting?” she asked with a smile.
She watched his blue eyes dance in response. “You’re right, Abigail. Perhaps it’s time I was formally introduced to my rival.”
She was conscious of his nearness as they walked to the door, and she turned to smile over her shoulder at him. “Actually, I don’t think it’s a suitor.”
She opened the door to the dark nacht, and a slightly built Amisch man crossed the threshold of the door followed by a passel of snow-dusted hounds. She bent to greet each dog in turn, then rose to make introductions. “Caleb King, please meet Pork Chop Lulu or Herr Lapp, if you prefer.”
“Herr Pork Chop,” Caleb responded after a moment, extending his hand.
Abigail hid a smile. “Pork Chop works late in Farwell, the nearest Englisch town, and it’s a long hike back to Blackberry Falls. I’ve got an order ready for him. I’ll be right back.”
She hurried to the shop, listening to the low rumble of the men’s voices. She liked Caleb’s manners. And his hair, her mind whispered naughtily. She frowned, suppressing the thought, then carefully lifted Pork Chop’s platter from a high shelf.
