An Amish Wedding Read online

  Rose returned the smile to her kindly future father-in-law and decided Luke must have handled things all right. She crossed the beautifully pegged oak floors of the Lantz farmhouse with a familiar appreciation. Luke had suggested that they might move into the small house adjacent to the farm soon after they married, but Rose wouldn’t think of it. She’d loved the woman who would have been her mother-in-law, and part of her longed to bring back the feminine touches that were missing from the home—the watering can of red geraniums on the kitchen windowsill; the sheen and patina of the beautifully carved furniture, which in recent months seemed always to need a dusting; and just the general feel of a woman about the place to cook and clean, heal and listen. She was no fool though, and knew that unless she drew upon Derr Herr’s spirit, drinking from the Living Water to nourish herself first, she would have nothing to bring to her new family.

  This thought filled her mind as she moved to the bottom of the staircase and glanced upward. Over the years Rose had climbed the staircase to Luke’s room more times than she could count, having always been treated like a daughter by the Lantzes. But today something was different as she gripped the smoothness of the simple balustrade with one hand and swiped at a stray piece of lint on her dress with the other. Today she was nervous, uncertain, and she hesitated at the closed wooden door at the top left of the steps. It wasn’t just her friend who lay within, but her betrothed—and the thief of her heart.

  She knocked softly, half hoping he slept, but his voice rang true through the wood.

  “Kumme in.”

  She took a deep breath, plastered a pleasant expression on her face, and opened the door. Luke gazed at her with that same rich smile he seemed to have grown out of nowhere, and she felt herself flushing for no reason.

  “Rose, kumme. Close the door and sit down.” He patted the edge of the bed near his hip, and she swallowed.

  “Ya, but maybe I should leave the door open—your daed . . .”

  “My daed knows you’ve been up here a hundred times with that door shut, but suit yourself.” He stretched his long arms behind his head so that his suspenders strained across his white shirt, and shifted so that his ankle was better positioned on the heap of pillows. “Will you sit down then?” he asked.

  Rose forced herself away from the idea of the chair near the window and went to perch on his bedside, trying to keep away from the length of his black-clad leg.

  “How’s the ankle?”

  “Not too bad as long as I stay off it a bit here and there.”

  Rose nodded and cast about for something else to say.

  “So, it’s my fault, I’m guessing,” he observed.

  “What’s your fault?”

  “You meeting strangers in the woods.” He smiled up at her, but his eyes were searching, compelling.

  She hadn’t been sure how to bring up the subject of his disguise and her enticement with him, but since he’d provided an opening . . .

  “Ya, it is your fault. Both for being the stranger and for being—well, a stranger to me—your supposedly best friend.” Her voice wavered a bit. “But I could have told you I recognized you.”

  “You told that stranger you wanted freedom,” he said seriously. “Why did you agree to marry me, Rose?”

  She caught her breath. She couldn’t tell him the things she’d told Aenti Tabby when she’d asked the same question, so she sat silent and miserable, staring at the quilt top.

  He reached to toy with her fingers and took a deep breath. “It’s not too late for anything, Rose. Engagements can be broken. Friendships can remain.”

  Her gaze flew to his handsome face, and her heart hammered in her chest. “Is that what you want?”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “No fair, Rose. Tell me what you want.”

  You, her mind screamed with sudden certainty, but she wet her lips cautiously. He’d betrayed her trust, and she did want things from him—the truth, for a start. Yet she hadn’t been truthful either. She decided on plowing ahead in the discussion and getting to her own accounting later.

  “You have no idea how it’s been for me,” she declared. “I’ve known you forever but haven’t really known you at all—at least, that’s how it seems.”

  “So you feel like I’ve taken advantage of you in a way?” he asked quietly.

  She blew out a frustrated breath. “No . . . ya . . . I don’t know. And you’ve never seemed to well—desire me—when you were—are—really you—”

  “Why are your fingers purple?” he interrupted.

  “Beet juice sugaring.”

  “Ach,” he sighed, squeezing her fingertips. “Well, I have taken advantage of you, I guess. I didn’t mean to. And as far as desiring you, Rose—do you have any idea what it’s been like holding back for all these months—these years even?”

  “Then why did you?”

  “Because I felt like the same kid who chased bullfrogs with you and brought home stray dogs. I felt like you’d grown into something beautiful while I was still this awkward person. And then . . . when Mamm died, I guess I just sort of distanced myself, unintentionally, but the feelings were there, Rose.”

  “Well, I thought you couldn’t stand the thought of touching me, and I wanted—well . . .” She thrilled at the thought that he’d fought back his feelings for her.

  His hand drifted to stroke her arm. “What did you want?”

  She shook her head stubbornly in reply, and he shifted his weight fully onto his back. “Rose, listen . . . I’m sorry. I’ll prove it to you. Come here.” His eyes burned like dark blue flame as he reached out for her.

  Rose leaned forward and reached one purple fingertip to trace the contour of his mouth. She brushed her lips against his, following the trail of her finger. His arms drew her closer and he deepened the kiss, and she felt his chest rise and fall in uneven rhythm.

  Rose pulled away. There was more she wanted from him . . . answers, for a start.

  “Luke, tell me about the thefts,” she whispered. “And the Englisch ways of dress and doings. You were baptized last year.”

  “I know.”

  “And?” She trailed her lips to the line of his throat, finding a spot behind his ear and tasting the salty sweetness of his skin.

  “And I can’t go hobbling out there in the dark anymore . . . at least, not until this ankle heals up.”

  She broke away from him at his words, forcing herself to focus on the matter at hand.

  “What were you doing in the first place? Why would you steal from your own people when they’d gladly give you anything you asked for?”

  He opened his eyes with visible reluctance. “Would they?”

  “Ya, you know that.”

  He shook his dark head slowly. “They’d give for me, but maybe not for someone else.”

  “Someone else?” Her heart began to pound in dismay. “Who else?”

  “I can’t say, Rose. I’m sorry.”

  “You can’t say?”

  “Nee, but I do need your help.”

  Rose was rapidly losing patience. “You need my help—but you can’t say why? Are you wanting me to pick up where you left off—rebuilding tumbledown shacks, thieving from the neighbors, and pretending I’m Englisch?”

  “Actually, something like that.”

  Rose bounced upward so fast that the bedsprings twanged.

  Luke grimaced with pain as the pillows under his foot shifted. “Just sit down and listen.”

  “Nee. Not until you start telling me your secrets.”

  “It’s not my secret to tell,” he said finally.

  She bristled at his words. “Then whose secret is it?”

  “Another woman’s.” He looked grim. “An Englisch woman.”

  LUKE’S CALLS TO ROSE WENT UNHEEDED, AND EVENTUALLY he sank back against his pillow and covered his face with his bandaged hand. He looked up in surprise when the door creaked back open.

  “What’s all the fuss?” Mark asked, almost apologetically. “I was next d
oor fixing that windowsill for Daed.”

  Luke lowered his hand, feeling like his mouth still burned from Rose’s attention, and glanced at his bruder. “What?” he asked finally.

  “She sure gets riled,” Mark offered.

  Luke smiled. “I like that.”

  “It’s no wonder—you like thunderstorms too.”

  “Did you hear much?” Luke’s brow furrowed.

  Mark shook his head sheepishly. “Told you I was fixing that sill. I wasn’t trying to listen.”

  “All right. And?”

  “Josh and I have been talking. We know you don’t like being cooped up in that office all day. And—well—now that you’re about to marry, you might find the place even more confining. Women can be a passel of trouble sometimes . . .”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Shut up. I’m trying to help you. Josh and I want you to tell Daed how you really feel.”

  “How I really feel?”

  “Ya, you know, about fooling with the books and the customers. Tell him you want to do woodworking—even if it’s just part of the time. It’ll be gut for you.”

  Luke smiled, but rolled his eyes. It felt good to be cared for and thought of with such kindness, even though his brothers could drive him narrisch. But he didn’t want to listen to another lecture on doing what was true to himself. He had enough trouble just being true, or so it seemed.

  “I’m fine, Mark. Really. Somebody’s got to do it, but danki for caring.”

  His brother snorted. “You’re not going to brush me off that easily. After I got over Daed’s praise—which rightly belonged to you—I found something of yours in the workshop.”

  Luke shrugged. “What?”

  “This.” Mark pulled a folded piece of paper from his pants pocket and strode across the room to hand it to Luke.

  Luke opened the drawing, already guessing what it was. “I wondered where this got to. I must have left it one night.” He stared down at the intricate design for a mantel shelf that he had hoped to carve for Rose as a wedding gift.

  Mark cleared his throat. “That’s a fine vision of work, Luke. Better than anything me or Josh could design. You owe it to yourself to work a talent like that. Maybe you owe it to Derr Herr too.”

  Luke exhaled slowly at his brother’s unusually serious tone and leveled his own voice in response. “I said I’m fine as I am. That’s all.”

  Mark gave a wry shake of his head. “All right. I tried. Suit yourself.” He cuffed Luke lightly on the shoulder as he turned from the bed.

  Luke smiled at the veiled affection. Then he carefully folded the drawing and slid it into his pants pocket.

  “Hey.” Mark paused. “Do you want me to drive you over there tomorrow to talk to her? It’s no fair runnin’ away on a one-legged man.”

  “Would you?”

  “Ya, but maybe she needs a while to cool down.”

  Luke smiled. “Told you. I like it when she’s riled. Keeps me on my toes.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  ROSE KNEW HE COULDN’T CHASE AFTER HER WHEN SHE slammed the door on his pleas. She jogged down the steps, feeling a bit guilty, and slowed briefly to say good-bye to Mr. Lantz.

  “Is everything all right, Rose? I heard the door . . .” He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “I know the engagement time can be stressful.”

  Rose gave him a wan smile. “It’s nothing. Luke is just tired, and I should leave. Please forgive me for hurrying so.”

  “All right, child. But if there’s anything you’d like to talk about—I’m always here.”

  Rose nodded her thanks and slipped outdoors. She knew exactly where she was going . . .

  CARRYING A FLASHLIGHT, ROSE RETRACED HER WAY through the woods. The light faded fast in the fall evenings, and the dense trees made it appear even darker. She huddled more deeply in the folds of her cloak as she approached the tumbledown shack. She felt nervous for some reason—not afraid of the twilight or the crack and rustle of small creatures among the forest branches, but rather of what she might find at the shack. It was pure instinct that drove her, searching for something, anything—a clue to the Englisch woman Luke spoke of and her place in his life.

  Rose shone the flashlight over the open threshold of the door and shuddered a bit when she saw the pile of rubble from the caved-in roof. Luke could have been hurt a lot worse. The small circle of light played against the walls with their peeling dry wood and then back to the floor again. She almost turned away, feeling foolish, when a piece of paper poking out from under a board caught her attention. She tiptoed across the creaking floor and scooped the paper up, then rushed back outside. She had no desire for another board to come tumbling down while she was out alone.

  A safe distance from the shack, she balanced her light in one hand and unfolded the lightweight paper with care. It was the page of a coloring book. Amish parents would sometimes allow coloring books and wax colors to occupy very young children during the long Sunday church service, but the pictures were of simple objects like a wagon or an apple. This was an outline of a beautiful rainbow and clouds, obviously colored with diligence and signed by its artist in uneven block letters—TO DADDY LUV ALLY.

  Rose bit her lip to stem the sudden welling up of tears that threatened to pour from her eyes.

  Chapter Seventeen

  LUKE KNEW HE WAS DREAMING, BUT HE WAS TOO CAUGHT, too enmeshed in the images playing inside his mind to force himself to wake. He was losing Rose in a thousand different ways; fast-forwarded images—Rose in a boat on storm-tossed waves drifting away from him, the eerie lights of a carnival’s Ferris wheel and Rose spinning high to the top in a swinging singsong motion, Rose standing on the edge of a cavernous drop while he tried desperately to reach her. Everything that was human in him recognized the fear, the distance, and he knew he had to tell her the whole truth. It was the only way he was going to be able to stay close to her, but when he opened his mouth to speak, he awoke shivering and knew that dawn couldn’t come fast enough.

  “SURE YOU’RE NOT GETTING SICK, ROSIE?” HER FATHER asked with genuine concern when she appeared wan and sleepy at the breakfast table.

  “Nee, Daed.” Though she wondered if she actually was sick, as awful as she felt inside. She had spent the night clutching the child’s drawing, examining it by the light of a kerosene lamp from every angle, and was no nearer the truth than she had been standing outside the shack the night before.

  She tried to think logically. Ally was not a traditional Amish name, yet she had no doubt the drawing had been a gift of some kind to Luke. It must have slipped from his jeans pocket when he fell. She noticed that the child had drawn faces on the clouds, so that their raindrops looked like tears. What would clouds weep for? And for so young a life’s imagination?

  And then that single word: Daddy. The letters had rung through Rose’s mind with all the cadence of a loud and clanging bell, merciless in intensity and reverberating possibility. Luke was twenty-three . . . The child had to be at least four or five, judging from her letter formation . . . That would make Luke eighteen if he were . . . She couldn’t finish the thought, not once the whole night through nor now as she tried to concentrate on her scrambled eggs.

  But like a bad canker sore that attracts the tongue, her mind kept running over the possibilities with drawing pain. She and Luke had both had a rumschpringe, but it had been nothing like some she knew. At least for her it hadn’t been . . . She’d ridden in a car once, gone to two Englisch baseball games, and stayed out all night singing round a campfire with some of her Amish friends. She racked her brain for what Luke had been doing and realized she couldn’t fill in all the blanks of time. He’d been to her then what he always was . . . devoted. But friendship or not, she didn’t see him all the time. Could he have met an Englisch girl? Could he have had a relationship that she didn’t know about?

  She poked at her eggs and wished now that she would have stayed and listened to his odd request for help instead of running away
like a child. She began to pray for guidance as she determinedly ate her food under the watchful eyes of her father and thought that life could be as difficult as navigating in the dark sometimes. Then she recalled the Bible verse that said “all the dark was as light” to the Lord; it gave her something to cling to as she ate her eggs.

  LUKE KNEW THAT HE WAS PROBABLY CATCHING ROSE’S family right at breakfast, but he hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. Consequently, he’d poked Mark out of bed with one of his crutches just after dawn, and they now rode through the chill morning air in the buggy.

  “I don’t mind takin’ you.” Mark’s teeth chattered as he spoke. “But isn’t this kind of early for working out your differences?”

  Luke waved a vague hand at his brother. “Never too early to make things right.”

  “Well, I hope breakfast is still on the table. I’d love to have a stack of pancakes made by a woman’s hand.”

  Mark soon had his wish. Mrs. Bender hustled them in out of the cold, and Mr. Bender filled their coffee cups before they could get their coats off. Luke glanced at Rose and found, to his dismay, that she looked worn and weary. He had to get her alone to talk, but the Bender men appeared to love company at any hour.

  And in truth, though he was worried for Rose, there was something infinitely soothing about the stack of pancakes that was placed before him, steaming with goodness and light as air. He toyed with his fork, wondering whether to take a bite or just ask to see Rose alone for a moment first.

  “Eat up, sohn,” his future father-in-law urged him. “And tell us how you’re feeling with that wrist and ankle. Rosie wasn’t quite straight on how it all happened.”

  Luke caught the daggered look Rose threw him across the table and decided she was still mad enough. He also had no clear idea how to answer her father. He took a careful bite of pancakes and smiled at Mrs. Bender. “Wonderful.”

  “Ach, ya,” Mark agreed with him.