A Marriage of the Heart (10 page)

“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.”

L
UKE’S CALLS TO
R
OSE 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 door 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 onelegged 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

R
OSE 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 . . .

C
ARRYING A FLASHLIGHT
, R
OSE 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—T
O
D
ADDY
L
UV
A
LLY
.

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

Chapter Seventeen

L
UKE 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
, R
OSIE
?”
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.