Courting Caleb, page 4
She shined it with the elbow of her dress, pleased at how the pattern had turned out, then went back to the kitchen. The two men were sitting at the kitchen table, but both quickly rose to their feet when they saw her.
She nodded and then held the platter out to Pork Chop. She was conscious of Caleb looking on over her shoulder and wondered what he thought. The platter was a gift from Pork Chop to his aunt—Grossmuder Mildred. Abigail had carefully painted red roses and ferns in the center of the white platter before it was glazed and then fired.
“It’s beautiful, Abigail.” The short man smiled, showing two front teeth missing. “What do I owe you?”
“No charge for the painting. And twenty even for the platter.”
The cheerful Amischer handed her two twenties and spoke in a low aside to Caleb. “Never charges enough, she don’t.” He took the platter and whistled to his dogs, then set out into the nacht with a tip of his black hat.
“Pork Chop?” Caleb asked when the door had closed.
“You’ll find that a lot of Amischers around here have nicknames. It’s really kind of a way to know you’re home—having an odd name.”
Caleb smiled, and she was once more drawn to his height and shape. She told herself that she was being ridiculous. Of course, he’s good-looking, but I don’t want to press him in clay. . . . Then she blinked when she realized that she’d absolutely love to shape his body in her art.
She felt warmth in her cheeks when she glanced up at him, but he seemed flushed as well. Almost as though he caught fire from the heat of my thoughts....
“It’s late,” he said. “I’d best be going. But . . . danki, Abigail, for our first nacht’s courting.”
She held her breath for a few moments, wondering impulsively if he might kiss her goodbye, but he simply swung on his heavy coat and headed out into the nacht. . . .
* * *
Caleb dug his fisted hands deeper into the pockets of his coat and thought about the evening with Abigail. He was glad for the bite of the cold; it did much to drive away the pleasurable lassitude that had built up inside of him in the potter’s presence.
There was her general air of kindness and her pleasant speaking voice, which made him consider her ad in the Renova paper—that the mail-order groom might write poetry. In truth, the only poetry he knew was an inappropriate little rhyme about a girl named Sue . . . but still, he could try his hand at writing and remember to cut his hair less often as Abigail enjoyed touching it.
As he made his way through deep drifts of snow, he considered the fact that she had taken the time to show him her pottery room. It seemed a warm and intimate thing, and his mind flashed through the tools, lantern light, and the clay in quick succession. He’d enjoyed their play with the dabs of clay and discovering that part of her was a free spirit though she dressed plain, and her posture was carefully erect. He had a sudden vision of holding her, kissing her, and imagined what it would be like to feel the lithe movement of her body. He was enjoying the fantasy when he fell far into a drift and ended up facedown in the snow.
“Well, that’s what I get,” he muttered to himself aloud. “For thinking about a woman when I should be watching my footing.” He retrieved his hat and floundered out of the drift, determined to keep his mind on the snow and not the potter of Blackberry Falls.... Besides, he knew that Birchbark would somehow get the whole story out of Fred....
Chapter Six
The next morning, Phillip brought in an armload of firewood for Grossmuder Mildred, then sat down to listen to the elderly, blind woman who was his host until Valentine’s Day or perhaps his wedding day—if he could ever get past Mercy’s defenses so he could talk to her sister.
“I sure enjoy havin’ ya here, buwe. Gets a mite lonely at times. Tho’ dontcha geh spreadin’ that around none. Folks have enuff doin’ fer me as it ’tis.”
“Well, I’m glad to be here. I’ve heard that the other—um, mail-order groom had to hike up past the falls.”
“Sure did. He’s stayin’ with Birchbark, but I think ya got the better deal.” She laughed, and Phillip couldn’t resist giving in to laughter as well. He admired the auld woman. True, she had no sight in her raisin-black eyes, but he had the feeling that she could see in other ways.
“So, what do ya plan ta do to help out in the community like I heard Bishop Kore said you ought?”
Phillip sighed. “I’m a farmer, and though there’s plenty of small jobs I can do in winter, there’s not a lot—”
“Seeds!” Grossmuder Mildred clapped her hands.
“What?”
“Heirloom seeds! ’Round here everybody got their own idea of how ta preserve seeds best, but I betcha can teach ’em how ta do it right proper. And after the Christmas holidays, we have a community seed swap—makes the days seem shorter ta plantin’—Derr Herr willin’, that is.”
“I’d be glad to help,” Phillip said, feeling relieved that there was something he could do that would produce a future crop in Blackberry Falls. He pushed aside the thought that he and Abigail might one day grow a crop of their own....
He was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of a gun cocking. Grossmuder Mildred stood beside the table, a shotgun balanced perfectly in her auld arms.
“Shhh,” she whispered. “Now geh on and open the door real quick.”
Phillip rose to his feet and tried to decide what would be worse—dying while wrestling a gun from an auld woman or getting shot by her poor aim. He opted to open the door, but first leaned over to whisper in the blind frau’s ear, “Don’t you think we should ask who it is before we shoot?”
“Nee—ach, well, all right. Ask who it is, just for fun.”
He cleared his throat. “Who is—”
The roar of the shotgun seemed to shake the small cabin’s foundations, and Phillip doubted he’d be able to hear right for a week. Worse still, was the peppering of shot that let in numerous points of morning light. Phillip rushed to open the door, afraid of what he’d find on the other side.
To his great surprise, Mercy Mast stood back from the door. Her pale skin was flushed red on her cheeks and he noticed that her crossed arms bore no sign of shot.
“Mercy?” he exclaimed. “Are you all right?” He was surprised at the tightness in his throat as he asked the question.
She glared up at him, her bonnet slightly askew. “Of course, I’m all right, you—you . . .”
“Mail-order groom,” he said with a smile, relief that she wasn’t hurt washing over him.
He turned back to look inside the door and saw Grossmuder Mildred standing with the gun at her side.
“Mercy! Why, I forgot that ya wuz comin’. Hurry inside now, or you’ll catch yer death of cold.”
“It would be better than being shot to death,” Phillip said in a low undertone to Mercy. He caught the scent of her skin as he spoke—something like vanilla—warm and homelike, then he shook himself mentally.
“You’re rude!” Mercy snapped hotly.
He found himself nodding in agreement.
“What’s goin’ on?” Grossmuder Mildred called. “Best hurry or the oatmeal will get cold in the kettle.”
Phillip had to resist the urge to help Mercy up the slight slope to the door. Instead, he beat a hasty retreat. “I’ll go get some wood and try to mend this door. Gut morning, ladies!”
* * *
Mercy muttered to herself as she entered the spare bedroom in Grossmuder Mildred’s cabin. It, of course, had to be her day to help Grossmuder Mildred when Phillip was about. She put down her bucket and scrub brush on the wooden floor and stared at the tangled bedsheets on the big rope bed.
She marched forward to grab the end of a sheet and, against her will, images of Phillip Miller in various states of undress and repose flickered through her mind. The fact that his bed bore the manly scent of fresh cedar soap only added to her discomfiture.
“Stupid mon,” she said aloud as she bundled the linen sheets in her arms. For some reason though, as she held her light burden to her breast, she felt tears prick her eyes. She couldn’t understand why.
She felt things falling backward in her mind, and she remembered Joshua being born—the intense pain, the squalling of her sohn, and then, the incredible loneliness that had swamped her.
Mercy sighed aloud when she heard Grossmuder Mildred call and decided she’d better stop her silly notions and get working before Phillip Miller returned.
Herr Troyer
Miss Smucker
Anke Mast
John Stolfus
Aenti Fern
Caleb read the list out loud, then glanced up at Birchbark. The mountain man had returned that morning, his large pack noticeably empty.
“Jah.” Caleb nodded. “It’s a list. What do I do with it?”
“Heard ye’re a handyman of sorts—well, these folks need yer handiness. So, git movin’.”
“Wait, I only just told Abigail last nacht that—”
Birchbark’s fierce eyebrows arched like two caterpillars dancing. “That ye’re handy? Well, word gets ’round, buwe! My toolbox is out in the shed. You might as well walk until the drifts settle down. Then we’ll git your horse, Tommy, hooked up to the sleigh. I’ll stay here and doze a bit with Fred—who’s bored, he says.”
“Uh-huh,” Caleb muttered, pulling on his coat and hat and trying to avoid Fred’s baleful gaze. “I’ll be back.”
He trudged out of the cabin, squinting in the snow glare, and made his way to a shed that looked like it might collapse at any moment. It was odd that there were no tracks to walk in, he thought. Birchbark should have left prints in the snow as big as a bear’s. . . .
Caleb managed to get the gray woodshed door open and pulled out an old-fashioned toolbox. Then he started down the mountain. He had no true idea of where he was going. Someone named Herr Troyer was at the top of his list. He did know pretty much where the pottery was and thought about asking Abigail to give him more formal directions. But he decided that he’d bide his time and wait to visit her at nacht unless, of course, the other mail-order groom got there first.
He eventually saw what appeared to be the general store and decided to ask for directions there. A hand-painted sign over the white door read CUBBY’S and he entered with the heavy toolbox in hand.
The place was surprisingly quiet and didn’t seem to have the bustle and aromas he’d kumme to associate with bulk stores back at home. It seemed to lack a woman’s touch, especially in the arrangement of the goods. After all, they were coming up on the days of Christmas in a matter of weeks.
“Can I help ya?”
Caleb identified the storekeeper by his white apron and walked to the back of the place to offer his hand in greeting.
“Caleb King,” he said with a smile that was returned only briefly. “I’m one of the mail-order grooms traipsing to Blackberry Falls these days.”
“Uh-huh. Sam Fisher. So, what can I do for ya?”
Caleb ignored the storekeeper’s lack of sociability. “I’m staying with Birchbark and—”
“Birchbark, huh? Not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, if you ask me.”
Caleb felt an unexpected surge of anger on behalf of his host up the mountain. And he wasn’t used to Amischers being uncharitable. Unless it’s my fater we’re talking about. . . . Caleb frowned and held out his list. “Do you know where these folks live?”
Sam Fisher gave brief directions, and Caleb left the store, not even willing to buy some licorice if it meant giving the man who insulted Birchbark any cash in the till.
He walked along the fresh tracks of a runner sled and smiled to hear the voices of children sledding down a nearby hill. He continued on his way and soon reached what he hoped was Herr Troyer’s cabin.
He mounted the clean-swept steps of the neat cabin and was about to knock when the door was yanked open from inside. A frazzled-looking Amisch man stood there with a screaming toddler hanging on each pant leg.
“Ach, thank Derr Herr you’ve kumme. I know Aenti Fern got word to Birchbark that she would be away today, and we never expected . . . I mean we expected—but you know what I mean.” The stranger walked as he babbled, and Caleb followed him into the chaos of the kitchen. In addition to the two toddlers screeching, a puppy gamboled around the table, sweeping up scrambled eggs with an eager mouth. Caleb could smell burnt bacon grease, and something else seemed to be burning on the cookstove.
“Uh, Birchbark said you needed—”
“Help! Dear Gott in Heaven, jah! Ach, you brought a toolbox; that’s funny!” He tugged Caleb’s coat off. “Okay, here’s the bedroom door. Gut luck!”
“Wait, but I—” Caleb was pushed into the room, and the door slammed summarily closed behind him. He considered going back out, but the poor Amischer seemed so shaken that surely Caleb could try to fix whatever was broken in the bedroom. He scanned the lamplit room and nearly jumped a foot when a low, keening wail came from the bump of quilts on the bed.
“Uh . . . hiya . . .” he choked out. “Do you want me to get—”
“Henry? Neeeeee—he faints dead at the sight of blood, even so much as a drop.”
“Okaaay.” Caleb cautiously lowered the toolbox to the floor. “So . . .”
“Sei se gut, jest kumme and git on with it! I’m sorry for fussin’ but it huuurrrts.”
“Right.” Caleb felt himself propelled forward by the intensity of the woman’s cry. He rounded the bed and cautiously lifted the top quilt to reveal a tousled mass of dark blond hair. Her blue eyes were filled with pain as she lay on her side and clutched her protruding belly. A shapeless cotton nachtgown covered her.
“I’m Nan,” she panted.
“Uh—Caleb King.” He felt his heart begin to pound.
She nodded, turning her perspiring face into the pillow for a moment then looking back up at him. “Hadn’t ya better wash up? The bowl and pitcher’s over there.” She gestured with her chin, and Caleb, propelled by the urgency in her voice, rolled up his sleeves and set about washing well.
When he turned back to the bed, Nan had moved onto her back and her cries competed with the children’s screeches outside the door. Caleb felt as if he was trapped in some Englisch horror film and shuddered even as he moved to stand awkwardly next to the laboring frau.
“Praise Derr Herr it’s not breech,” Nan gasped. “I can tell because one of the twins wuz. Ach, I think it’s time ta push!”
“Dear Gott,” Caleb mumbled.
“Jah,” she said, nodding. “Prayin’ will help. But I bet yer experience will be even more useful.”
“My exper—”
“Now!” Nan screamed and Caleb moved instinctively.
The next half hour passed in a stress-filled blur until finally, Caleb was able to step back and admire the baby girl that snuggled at her mamm’s breast.
Nan smiled at him. “Danki, Dr. King. We couldn’t have done it without ya.”
“Doctor? But I’m just an average—” He paused as the bedroom door eased open a crack.
Herr Troyer peered in with a worried eye. “Nan . . . the uh . . . doctor’s here from Farwell.”
“Ha!” his wife retorted. “Tell him Dr. King beat him ta it.”
Caleb tried once more to explain but then gave up. He passed the dandy-suited doctor in the chaotic kitchen and accepted a smoked ham as payment for his services—such as they had been. He bid everyone a brisk gutbye, then started on to the next name on the list—a Miss Smucker. “Dear Gott, let her not be pregnant,” he muttered as he lugged the twenty-pound ham through the snow. Wait until I get hold of Birchbark. A handyman’s list, my eye . . .
Chapter Seven
Abigail closed the pottery up after deciding that she needed a few more ingredients for some of the dishes she planned to make for the community dinner that Herr Stolfus, Tabitha’s fater, was hosting in his sprawling carved wood cabin. While it was unusual in a Mountain Amisch community for such a vast cabin to exist, Herr Stolfus had dedicated the place to Derr Herr, to be a community gathering location even though church services rotated from barn to barn.
Engaged in her thoughts, Abigail almost missed the strange sight of Caleb King crossing her path with a brown-paper-wrapped ham. “Caleb? Is that a ham?”
He gave her a wry smile from his handsome mouth, and she fell into step with him.
“Yep. Smoked ham, it is.”
She felt the absurd urge to giggle—something she hadn’t done in years. “Are you giving it to someone?”
“Now that’s a gut idea! Do you know Miss Smucker? Could she use a ham?”
“Well, I—”
He leaned in closer to her. “She’s not pregnant, is she?”
“Caleb!”
“You can never be too sure.”
She shook her head. “Why do you have to see Lilly Smucker?”
“Birchbark gave me a list of folks who need a handyman. She’s second on the list.”
“Who was first?” she asked curiously.
“It doesn’t bear repeating. Hey, would you like to kumme with me to Lilly Smucker’s place? You never know when a woman might be necessary to a situation.”
Abigail swung her empty shopping basket and considered. On one hand, she didn’t want to appear too eager but, on the other, she would be glad to spend time with Caleb—there was no use denying it. “Jah, I’ll kumme to Lilly’s. I don’t really know her well. She only moved here this past autumn. She had some distant family here, but there was a shooting and a murder—”
He stopped abruptly and she would have fallen into the snow if he hadn’t caught her by the arm. “Wait—a murder?”
She nodded. “Didn’t Matthew tell you that Tabitha was kidnapped?”
“I clearly need to have more conversations with my older bruder! Nee, he didn’t.”
“Well, in any case, we need to see Lilly Smucker for who she is, not for her unsavory relative.” She gestured to a cabin to the right of the path that had a small plume of smoke curling gently in the air. “Here we are.”
