“Ach, Emma, there is no ‘us two.’ I wouldn’t want anyone to think—”

  Emma grinned. “Do you think I’d say anything inappropriate about the woman who helped bring my daughter into this world?”

  Fern looked into the other woman’s eyes and knew that she had found an unexpected friend.

  Abram watched the jubilant movements of his friend as he swung his young son up in the air and felt faintly envious. Joe and Emma’s farm might be small, but it was a place of love and security. He wondered at himself that he had thought Joe trapped—perhaps it was he himself who was trapped, kept by his own fears from taking the risk to love.

  “So let me get this straight. You went to Tabitha’s to visit and Fern saw you there?” Joe laughed out loud as he set his toddler down.

  “Ya . . . so now she thinks . . .”

  Fern slipped out the back door of the Mast house to hang the sheets she’d hand washed on the clothesline. She couldn’t help but hear Joe’s laughter and smiled at the sound. Then she heard the rumble of Abram’s deep voice and found herself listening without meaning to do so.

  “Now she thinks that there’s something . . . I care for Tabitha a great deal . . .”

  Fern stilled like a doe on a frozen pond. He was talking about how he felt for Tabitha Yoder, and Joe was laughing as if it were a joke—Fern seeing them together. The barking of the family dog alerted her that a buggy was coming, and she looked with tear-filled eyes to see the midwife pull up. She blindly stuck the last wooden clothespin on the line and slipped inside the house, swiping at her eyes to say a quick good-bye to Emma. She made the excuse that she had to get a remedy to someone, then prayed that Derr Herr would forgive her the lie. Then she quietly left the house by way of the back door and cut across the small cornfield to reach the familiar back road. She never wanted to see Abram Fisher again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ABRAM FINALLY MANAGED TO GET ALL THE KIDS LOADED back in the wagon and set off for home, but he couldn’t stop thinking of Fern and wondering why she had left so suddenly. His mind strayed to the amazing moment when his mouth had brushed hers, and he felt a thrill go through his chest. Then he heard a suppressed whimper and anxiously turned to look at his siblings behind him.

  “What’s wrong? Who was that?”

  “It’s John,” Matthew informed him. “I think he has a bellyache. He had an awful lot of those cookies at the Masts’ house.”

  Abram shook his head. So much for time to think on sweeter things.

  “John? Are you all right? Do you want to come up here and sit with me?”

  John wailed aloud then. “I think I’m gonna throw up. I want Mamm!”

  There was a general scramble to get as far away from John as possible, and Abram felt the wagon shift. “Sit down where you’re supposed to!” he ordered over his shoulder just as he heard the unmistakable sound of retching, followed by simultaneous cries of “Yuck!” He shook his head and pulled the wagon over to the side of the road. He couldn’t let his bruder be sick alone.

  Fern walked hard, trying to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Finally she found a place in her spirit that was willing to pray.

  Dearest Fater, help me not to be hurt by what a man does or says to me. Help me to focus on the job of healing that You have blessed me with and make me truly able to serve others before myself.

  Then she reached into her apron pocket and felt the bottle that was meant to aid the Widow Yoder, and she knew what she had to do. She turned in the direction of the woman’s home with determination, knowing that she was getting a chance to have her prayers answered sooner rather than later.

  The afternoon had nearly waned to twilight as she marched up the steps to knock at the door.

  Tabitha Yoder appeared in a moment, looking beautiful as ever, and Fern had to swallow to find her voice.

  “I-I’m sorry I left so abruptly earlier; I’ve got your stinging nettles.” She offered the bottle, hoping the other woman would not want to make conversation, but she was disappointed.

  “Sei se gut, won’t you come in, Fern?”

  Fern decided that she could either live out what she prayed for or hide, and she was not one to hide, so she went in to have a glass of lemonade.

  After a brief discussion of the other woman’s sinus ailments, Fern rose to excuse herself when Tabitha caught her eye with a slight smile.

  “So, did Abram catch you?”

  Fern felt her face fill with color. She wished she could pretend that she didn’t know what Tabitha was talking about. “He—he wanted to speak to me, ya.”

  “You’re a lucky girl,” the widow observed.

  “I really must be going. Thank you for the lemonade, and I hope your sinuses get better.” Fern started for the door, and her hostess followed.

  “Fern, I meant what I just said. To have that man pursuing you is wonderful.”

  Fern could only nod, speechless, as she headed out into the evening air.

  Abram had begun to wonder how many times a person could throw up when John could finally stand a few sips of water and curled up in bed. Abram got the rest of the kinner bedded down, then told Matthew he was headed to the creek for a quick bath. He grabbed a bar of his mamm’s oatmeal-and-honey soap, a thick towel, and some clean clothes, and headed down the narrow path that led to the water. He hoped nothing disastrous would happen while he was gone, but he was half-prepared for the event nonetheless.

  He hurriedly stripped off his soiled clothes and walked into the cold creek water, savoring the refreshing feel. A few lightning bugs were putting in an appearance as he soaped his chest and then his hair. Quickly he submerged, then sloshed out to dry ground to towel off and don clean clothes, glad that so far he had heard no screaming coming from the direction of the house. He was halfway there when he heard someone else coming up the path.

  Several keen sensations assailed Fern at once—the firmness of a male chest, a spicy masculine scent, and an innate awareness that it was Abram Fisher whom she sought to steady herself against. She tried to draw back, but a firm arm curved around her back and she dropped her hands to push against him.

  “Fern,” he whispered.

  She looked up into his shadowed, handsome face and almost melted against him. But then his remembered words burned through her like a hot brand, and she stamped a small foot in the area of his own bare feet.

  “Ow!” He half-laughed. “What’s the matter? Tell me where you went today; I wanted to drive you home from Emma and Joe’s.”

  “Let me go!” Her anger had increased at his casual words, and she pushed against him in earnest. She couldn’t still the rapid play of her heart beneath her blouse—she told herself that it was fury, not passion.

  “Fern, what’s wrong?” he asked softly, tilting his head closer to her.

  She shook her head to break the spell of his closeness. It didn’t matter that his question sounded earnest. The man had said what he said; she had heard him—he had feelings for Tabitha Yoder. He was simply having a joke at Fern’s expense. “Exactly how many women did you go about kissing today, Abram Fisher?”

  There. That stilled him, though she thought for one wild minute that she could feel his heartbeat echo in time with her own, some thrumming tattoo dancing in her brain, heating her skin.

  “I only kissed you, Fern,” he said finally, almost confusedly. “Though I hardly would call what we had time to share a true buss. Can we try again?”

  She squirmed against him. “Nee.”

  He let her go, so abruptly that she almost fell. “I don’t understand.”

  “You do,” she snapped, not wanting to hear any more of his honeyed words. She needed to get home.

  “Fern . . . today, the baby, us together . . . I thought . . . What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Why don’t you ask the next girl you feel you want to kiss, Abram Fisher, because I will not be speaking to you again.”

  She spun on her heel, nearly tripping over an exposed root, then hurried along the path, knowing he stared after her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ABRAM DID SOMETHING THAT NIGHT THAT HE HADN’T done since he was a child; he slid out of bed and dropped to his knees on the hardwood floor to pray. Though he knew he could talk with Derr Herr anywhere, the position seemed to matter. Tonight he needed guidance beyond the ordinary. He had no explanation for Fern’s behavior, unless she had seen him offer a friendly hand to Tabitha and in truth believed that the other woman was someone he was in love with. And yet, what right did he have to question what Fern did or didn’t do? He realized that he wanted that privilege, but had no idea how to go about it.

  Fater Gott, I surely have changed over the last few days. Yet You are one who never changes. Help me to manage these new feelings for Fern. Bless her and her life. Help me to get along all right with the kinner and the farm until the folks get home. Give me the right words of comfort and kindness to say to everyone, but especially to Fern. Let me serve her one day, Fater, as I seek to serve You. Amen.

  He rose from his knees, feeling a peace inside, along with a resolute decision to go tomorrow and ask Fern what she was feeling. He had just put his head to his pillow and drew the light cover over his bare shoulder when the night was cut by an earpiercing scream.

  Abram’s eyes flew open and he jumped from bed, knocking his knee against the bedside table. He hobbled out of his room in the direction of the screams, knowing it was one of the boys who cried. He burst into Mark and Luke’s room, prepared for anything from a hippopotamus to a bed fire.

  Luke sat in the middle of his bed howling like a banshee, while Mark danced around making vain efforts to hush his brother.

  “What is going on?” Abram struggled not to raise his voice.

  “My mole!” Luke wailed. “I had him under the bed in a cardboard box. But Mark took him out and now he’s gone. His name’s Moldy. What are we going to do?”

  Abram sagged against the door frame. “A mole? Do you know how big a fit Mamm would have if she knew you were keeping one of those pests in the house? Why, she’d—”

  A scream from across the hall made Abram nearly jump. He rushed to Mary’s room and flung open the door. The little girl stood in the middle of the bed, looking petrified.

  “Abram,” she cried. “There’s a mole under my bed!”

  “Of course there is,” he muttered, then bent to look for the errant pet.

  Fern knew that her grandmother wondered at her quiet behavior during their warmed-up supper, but for once the older woman didn’t seem to question overly much. So Fern washed up their few dishes, then cast about for something to do that would not involve thinking of Abram Fisher.

  Her grandmother called from her bedroom, and Fern hurried to the cozy, first-floor room with its nine-patch quilt and carved wooden furniture. A single kerosene lamp burned on the bedside table, illuminating the well-worn Bible open on the bedside table. Her grandmother had slipped into her nightgown and was sitting up in bed, her long, gray braid undone.

  “I remember how you used to come in here every night for prayers and a story when you were a little girl.”

  Fern smiled as she sat down in the rocking chair next to the bed. “I did, didn’t I? You made me feel so loved. You always have.”

  “But,” her grandmother said, eyeing her shrewdly across the top of her reading glasses, “it is a man who makes a woman feel loved the best at times. Your grandfather did that for me.”

  Fern nodded, wanting to avoid treacherous ground in the conversation. But her grandmother wanted to talk.

  “The licorice plants are coming in thick this year,” she said.

  Fern smiled. “I know. I used to love to taste the leaves.”

  “Ya, we’ve had many a gut taste from our herb garden, eh? But there are some things in life that we must taste that cannot be grown but by the Master Gardener.”

  “Like what?” Fern asked softly, pleased and comforted by her grandmother’s insightful mood.

  “Ach, a taste of faith, for example.”

  “What would that be?”

  The old woman smiled, the light catching on the faded blue of her eyes. “A taste of faith is a taste of love. It’s one step nearer to the Master, to understanding His heart, His desire and plan for our days.”

  “You make it sound so beautifully simple.” Fern thought of her tangled emotions about Abram and longed for the peace she heard in the dear voice. Perhaps such wisdom was meant only for the old, the truly wise of heart.

  “Fern, is there something that troubles you, child?”

  Fern thought. She didn’t want to break the moment with burdens of her own, so she shook her head, then rose. She went to the bed and laid her cheek close to her grandmother’s while the old woman wrapped her with arms of love and comfort. It was more than enough to bring balm to Fern’s troubled soul, and she slipped from the bedroom with a tender smile on her lips.

  Abram surveyed the tired faces of his younger siblings as they sat down to breakfast on Saturday morning. He was tired too, having spent half the night looking for the mole, which had probably made its way back outside where it belonged. But he was determined to get the kitchen into some kind of order before approaching Fern. He knew his mamm would be disappointed to see the messy state of things, and he planned to make sure that everyone worked together to get things in running order.

  He glanced down at a short list he’d made before breakfast. “Mark . . . dishes.”

  “Awww . . . Abram, why can’t I—”

  “Not another word. Matthew, you put the dishes away once they’re dried, and water the plants on the windowsills if you think you can revive them.”

  Matthew nodded readily.

  “John and Mary, the floor. Get everything off of it and put it where it goes, including crumbs. You can use the small broom and dustpan.”

  The children nodded, and he began to relax.

  “And, Luke . . .” He glanced at his bruder, whose bottom lip still trembled over the loss of his mole. “You’ll help me scrub the floor and countertops and table. We, uh, might find a trace of that mole.”

  Luke’s face brightened considerably.

  “All right. Let’s work, and then we’ll take a little walk.” Abram rose with a clap of his hands.

  “Where will we go?” Mark asked.

  “Never mind . . .”

  “I bet I know.”

  “Dishes,” Abram said. “Now.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SATURDAYS WERE ALWAYS BUSY AT THE ZOOK HOUSE, because everything needed to be done by one thirty so that Fern and her grandmother could get to Our Daily Bread in time for their weekly hour of prayer. This Saturday was no exception, with two callers needing medicinal help. The first was Esther King with her nine-month-old daughter, Abby. Fern glanced at her grandmother before she even opened the door to the telltale wailing of the child.

  “Teething,” she murmured.

  Esther was a first-time mother and a bit nervous; Fern sought to reassure her once she’d taken a peek inside the baby’s mouth and saw the reddened gums.

  “She’s teething, Esther. A bit frustrating for you, I know, but there are several things we can do to help. First”—Fern accepted a bottle of diluted oil of cloves from her grandmother— “this will act as a numbing agent. Second, and perhaps even better . . . celery.”

  “Celery?” Esther repeated blankly.

  Fern went to the deep freezer and pulled out a plastic bag full of large pieces of celery. She opened it and brought a chunk of the frozen vegetable to Abby. She put it in the baby’s mouth and rubbed it gently against the sore gums. Almost like magic, Abby stopped her crying.

  “A frozen carrot will do too, but some think there’s actually an enzyme in the celery that helps the gums.”

  The women basked in the sound of silence as Abby gnawed cheerfully on the celery.

  “Just make sure it’s a big enough piece that she can’t get it all in her mouth and choke,” Fern said.

  “Ach, it’s such a relief to see her not in pain.” Esther smiled, then shyly offered a plastic bag to Fern. “Crocheted washcloths. I thought you could use a few extra.”

  Fern looked in the bag at the deep, pretty colors and gave an exclamation of delight. “Danki, Esther. They’re beautiful.”

  Fern saw mother and daughter out and returned to wrapping the gingerbread for the prayer time when someone knocked heavily on the door. For a heart-stopping moment she thought it might be Abram, but then she pushed the thought aside. She opened the door with a firm look, only to gasp in horror at the sight of James “Lanky” Miller bleeding all over her doorstep. He was holding a can, and when she realized the blood was coming from his big hand, Fern had a numbing premonition of what might be inside.

  “Cut my finger off, girlie. It’s right here.” He thrust the can toward her and she took it automatically, smelling the kerosene he must have used to soak the finger in.

  “Uh, Lanky, you’ve got to get to Dr. Knepp. We can’t—”

  “Doc’s not home; his missus neither. It’s you or nuthin’.”

  Fern swallowed and glanced down at the swimming finger. “Nee, it’s the hospital for you, but I’ll try to stop the bleeding as much as I can.”

  “Hate hospitals, all them white walls . . . though I got my buwe in the buggy. Suppose he could drive me.”

  “Fern, don’t try to stop the bleeding,” Mammi Zook called. “Time matters if they’ll try to get it reattached.”

  “Right,” Fern agreed, extending the can back to Lanky with haste. “The hospital’s only a fifteen-minute buggy ride away. Keep tight pressure on it . . . the site of the wound, I mean.”

  The man tipped his hat and turned, sloshing kerosene out onto the porch as he went. Fern closed the door, wishing she could have been more help. She leaned back against the door and muttered a quick prayer for Lanky and his finger.

  Abram considered that things were going relatively well. The children, for once, were quietly engaged in their kitchen work, and he was on his hands and knees finishing scrubbing the hardwood floor with pine oil soap. He was working out in his head what he’d say to Fern and how exactly he’d accomplish it with a wagon full of kids and her grandmother present. But he was determined.

 

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