At Home in Pleasant Valley (36 page)

Her gaze slid away from his, and she kicked at a clod of mud. “Mammi says I should thank you for helping me on Saturday.”

He studied what he could see of her averted face, but couldn't make out what she was thinking. “You don't have to thank me if you don't feel it. It's better to be honest with people, I think.”

“Elizabeth told on me.”

He hesitated, thinking this conversation should be between Becky and her mamm. But she had said it to him, and he owed her an honest answer or he'd be running counter to what he'd just said.

“Elizabeth is your friend, ja?”

She nodded, her lower lip coming out. It made her look like Ezra as a little boy. His bottom lip would come out like that when he was told he couldn't do something. His grossmutter had teased him, saying that a bird would come and perch on his lip if he weren't careful. Funny, how fresh that memory was after all this time.

“A friend has a duty to see that you're safe.” His heart twisted. He hadn't kept Ezra safe, had he? “She thought you were going to fall, so I think she did the right thing in getting help. Wouldn't you have gone for help if it had been Elizabeth up on that beam?”

“Elizabeth wouldn't climb up high. She's scared of that.”

The words shot back at him, almost defiantly.

“It's sensible to be scared of some things.”
Father, give me the right words to say to this child.
“I was scared when I climbed up after you.”

“You were?” Now her gaze met his. Now she was listening.

“Ja, sure. It's gut to be scared, so long as it makes you careful. If I hadn't been careful, I might not have made it all the way up to you. Then what would you have done?”

“I . . . Maybe I could have got down by myself.”

He looked at her, not speaking. She needed to face the truth of this one herself.

“I guess I couldn't have.” She pressed her lips together, as if she wanted to say more but wouldn't let herself.

“No. You couldn't.” What would Ezra have said to her in this situation? Gideon didn't know. He could only offer what he felt in his heart
was the right answer. “It can be gut to dare enough to try new things. But it's foolish to risk your life doing it.”

She didn't look convinced. Probably Ezra wouldn't have been at her age, either.

“Your daadi was my friend from the time we were younger than you.” He hadn't spoken of Ezra to her before, and maybe it was a mistake now, but he had to try. “I wonder what he would say if he'd been the one to climb up in the barn to get you.”

Becky stared at him for a long moment. Tears sparkled, beginning to spill over onto her cheeks. Then, without speaking, she turned and ran back to the house.

He'd hurt her, maybe. But it was worthwhile, wasn't it, if it kept her from taking foolish chances? He wasn't sure, and not knowing made him feel like he'd failed.

•   •   •

Rachel
glanced into the living room once the stew she'd decided on for supper was well under way. All three children were there, instead of outside as they usually were at this time of day. She'd called them in when she realized that dark clouds were massing over the hills to the west. Rain was coming, and they were better off inside.

Joseph and Mary stacked blocks into a tower, which Mary was certain sure to knock down sometime soon. Becky sat in the rocking chair with a book, her gaze pinned to the page.

Was she actually reading? Or was she thinking about whatever it was that had brought her into the house earlier, trying not to cry?

Becky had been talking to Gideon. She'd come into the house upset. And that was all Rachel knew. Becky had shaken her head to questions, saying nothing was wrong.

But something was. And it was something Becky didn't want to tell her. Rachel's heart clutched. Her daughter was keeping secrets from her already. What had happened to the little one who'd leaned on her so confidingly? She'd changed in so many ways in the past year.

Rachel walked back to the kitchen, pausing automatically to check the heat under the stew. Maybe she should have asked Gideon what was
wrong, but that seemed like interfering. She pressed her hands on the edge of the stove, staring at the pot without really seeing it. If something had happened that she should know about, Gideon would tell her, wouldn't he?

A few fat raindrops patted against the windowpane, and she went to lean on the sink to peer out. Gideon, ignoring the rain, was stowing his tools with steady movements.

At least he was off the windmill tower. She was developing a dislike for seeing anyone working up high, no matter what the circumstances. She'd have to conquer that feeling before the next barn raising.

If she talked to Gideon—

“Mammi, Mammi.” Joseph rushed into the kitchen. “I didn't feed Dolly yet. I have to go back outside.”

He was headed for the door when she grabbed him by the suspenders that crossed his back.

“It's starting to rain outside. Dolly can wait until later.”

“But she's hungry. And she's going to have her babies soon, so she needs to eat.”

“It won't hurt her any to wait a bit.”

“Daadi always said the animals have to come first, 'cause they depend on us. And I won't melt in the rain. Remember how he used to say that?”

She heard Ezra's voice for a brief second. “I remember.” She managed to smile at him. “But you go back and watch Mary for me. I'll take care of Dolly.”

“Dolly's my job, Mammi.” He pressed his lips together, for a moment his expression very like his father's.

“Well, you're my job, ain't so?” She ruffled his hair. “And I don't want you getting wet. I'll do it. Now scoot.” She turned him toward the living room and gave him a little shove.

Fortunately the rain wasn't heavy yet. She swung her shawl around her as she went out the back door and started toward the barn. Sure enough, Dolly was bawling in her pen, used to having Joseph show up promptly with her dinner.

“Hush, now, you spoiled creature. I'll get your feed for you.” She
picked up the grain bucket and headed for the shed where the chicken and goat feed was stored, hunching her shoulders as the rain began pelting down.

Lifting the latch, she stepped inside. Then stopped and stared, dismay building. The lid to the large metal can where she stored the goat's mixture lay on the floor, and even as she watched, a mouse scurried out of sight.

Worse, water dripped from the roof, directly into the barrel. She blinked back frustrated tears. If the grain spoiled—

A sudden gust of wind tore the door from her hand, slamming it back against the shed wall and driving cold rain into her face.

“R-Rachel! What are you d-d-doing?” William was behind her, reaching out to grasp the edge of the door and pull it so that it shielded her from the worst of the wind. “Go in. I'll t-t-take care of the g-g-goat.”

“The feed.” She grasped the edge of the barrel and tried to drag it out from under the drip, which was rapidly becoming a steady stream.

William, seeing what was wrong, ducked his head and stepped into the shed. In an instant, he had wrestled the container out from under the leak.

Rachel put her hand on the surface of the grain. It felt as if only a small amount of the top layer was wet, thank the gut Lord.

“H-h-here.” William picked up the bucket and began scooping out the damp grain. “It's not t-t-too bad.”

“Be sure to get it all.” Seeing how quick he was, she stepped back out of his way. “I'd rather throw away some that might be all right rather than risk mold spoiling the whole barrel.”

“Ja.” He focused on the grain. “Gut thing you c-c-came when you did to find it.”

“The lid was off.” She stared at it, as if the circle of metal could answer the questions that buzzed in her mind. “I can't believe that Joseph would be so careless.”

William didn't answer, but he shrugged, as if to say anything was possible.

The door swung wider, and Gideon peered in, water dripping from the brim of his hat. “Was ist letz? What's wrong?”

She gestured mutely toward the barrel. “When I came to feed the
goat, I found the lid off. And it was right under that leak in the roof.” She frowned up at it. “I don't understand. How could it get so bad so fast? It was fine and dry in here during that heavy rain we had last week.”

Gideon reached up, exploring the roof with his fingers. “I'll have a look and . . .”

“I—I—I'll fix it.” William slammed the lid back on the can. His voice was determined, almost angry.

For a moment the two men stared at each other, and animosity seemed to sizzle in the close confines of the shed. Finally Gideon shrugged.

“Gut. I'll help you do a quick patch so Rachel doesn't get any more water in here today.”

“Denke,” she said quickly, before William could reply. “You're both very kind.”

“Why don't you go inside? The children will be worried when you don't come back.”

Gideon's tone was persuasive. It was clear he and William wouldn't be content until she'd gotten out of their way. And he was right, as well. She didn't want Becky or Joseph to come looking for her.

“I'll feed the goat on my way in.” She grabbed a dry pail and scooped up the grain mixture, putting the lid back firmly.

As she edged past Gideon on her way out the door, she sent a worried glance toward the shed roof. Surely that was odd for such a bad leak to develop so quickly. She glanced at Gideon, to find that he was staring at the roof, too, a frown deepening on his face.

Drawing her shawl tightly around her, she hurried to Dolly's pen and dumped the feed in. The goat's complaints ceased abruptly, and Rachel ran for the house, wishing she could outrun her worries as easily.

“Mammi?” Joseph was waiting on the porch. “Was ist letz?”

She shepherded him inside the kitchen and shook out her wet shawl, draping it over the drying rack beside the stove. Then she turned to look at him.

“Joseph, are you sure you put the lid on the grain barrel the last time you fed Dolly?”

His mouth formed an O. “I did. Really. I wouldn't forget that. Honest.”

She didn't think he would, either, but the fact was that the lid had been off. “The lid was lying on the floor beside the barrel. Are you sure you didn't do it in a hurry and forget?”

“No, Mammi. Anyway, I don't ever put the lid on the floor. I put it on top of the chicken feed when I get Dolly's meal out.”

True enough. She'd seen him do that numerous times. “Maybe a raccoon got in and took it off. They can get into all kinds of things. I'll have Onkel William check for any hole where they might get in.” She patted his cheek, wanting to chase the worry from his small face. “We won't worry about it. All right?”

He nodded.

“You go and watch Mary for me while I finish supper.”

“Ja, Mammi.” He ran toward the living room, his worry disappearing.

Getting out a bowl, she began mixing up dumplings for the stew. She did it at the counter where she could look out the window, staring through the rain at the men moving around the shed.

By the time the dumplings were ready, Gideon was approaching the back door. Setting the bowl aside, she went to meet him.

“Come in.” She gestured. “You must be drenched. Do you want some coffee?”

He shook his head. “I'm too wet to come into your clean kitchen, and I'd best get along home anyway. I just thought I should tell you what we found.”

She stared at him, dread pooling in her stomach. “What is it?”

“That hole in the roof.” His voice went hard. “It didn't get there naturally. Someone took a pry bar and pulled the boards loose. It was done deliberately.”

T
he
sky was clear and cloudless. The only sign Gideon could spot of yesterday's rainstorm was the refreshed green of the pasture grass and the plants in Rachel's garden. The storm had been swept away, but the worry it left behind lingered like a stain on the crystal-clear sunshine of the day.

He studied the shed from his perch on the windmill. Seen from above, the shed roof was plainly visible. If he'd been up here when someone had taken a pry bar to the tar paper, he'd know who'd done it.

There was no doubt in his mind that the action had been deliberate. Someone, or more than one person, had set out to cause harm to Rachel's property.

Teenagers, intent on vandalism? That sort of thing was known to happen. English kids, even Amish ones sometimes, didn't always use common sense when they were out for mischief.

Still, he couldn't imagine any Amish teenager, knowing Rachel, who would pick a struggling widow to play a trick on. As for the Englischers—well, he didn't understand them well enough to say, maybe, but it seemed to him they'd do something more obvious than this. Splashing paint around, knocking over an outhouse—those were more the kinds of tricks you heard of from them.

One thing kept pushing its way back into his thoughts, as annoying as a protruding nail. That story Joseph had told him about the draft horse getting out of his stall one night—did that connect with the damage to the shed roof? Or was he imagining a pattern where none existed?

The screen door slammed, and Rachel came out of the house carrying a load of laundry she must intend to hang on the clothesline. She
reached the line, paused for a moment, and then seemed to make up her mind about something. She dropped the basket in the grass and started toward the windmill.

He came down from the tower nearly as fast as she crossed the yard, reaching the ground seconds behind her.

She hesitated again, looking at him, the breeze blowing strands of fine blond hair across her face. He could read the doubt in her eyes. Whatever brought her here, she hadn't made up her mind to it.

“I shouldn't have brought you down from your work.”

He shrugged, loosening the harness. “It makes no matter. I wanted to talk to you anyway. I see William got the shed roof finished, ain't so?”

“Ja. He worked on it this morning, soon as he finished with the herd. He made a gut job of it.”

She said that as if she were trying to convince herself.

“I'm sure he would.” He waited, knowing that something more had set that wrinkle between her eyebrows.

“I told William what you said.” Her hands gripped each other so tightly that the knuckles were white. “That you believe it was done deliberately.”

He wanted to hold those straining hands in his, but he couldn't. Instead he leaned against the windmill upright, taking the pressure off his leg.

“What did he have to say about that?”

“At first he said it must be just an accident. But finally he agreed that you were right. That someone had damaged the roof on purpose.”

“Anyone who saw it would say the same.”

Odd, that William would even try to deny it. Wouldn't he want Rachel to know the truth?

“He struggled with admitting it so much.” Her hands pulled against each other, as if she fought to say the words. “It made me think . . . made me wonder, anyway . . .” Her lips pressed together, trying to keep the words in. Then she shook her head. “Maybe William suspects Isaac of doing it.”

“Isaac.” He said the name slowly, turning the thought over in his mind.

“I shouldn't think that!” The words burst out of her. “It's wicked, even to think that about Ezra's brother.”

“Not wicked, no.” Finally Gideon couldn't resist the impulse to touch those anguished hands, stilling them as he'd gentle a frightened animal. “Of course you don't want to think that of Isaac. Or of anyone you know.”

“Am I imagining things?” She threw the words at him, demanding an answer.

He had to be honest with her. But . . .

“Tell me something first. Joseph told me about the night the draft horse got out. Did you ever figure out how that happened?”

Three vertical lines formed between her brows as she considered the meaning behind the question. “No. No, I didn't see how it could happen. Any more than I can see how the shed roof got damaged with the grain barrel left open right under it. You think the same person did both things?”

“I wouldn't go that far.” His native caution asserted itself. “But it's two odd things happening without any reason we can see. They didn't happen by themselves. Somebody had to do them.”

She nodded slowly. “Isaac—would he do something like that to show me that I can't manage the farm on my own? I don't want to believe that of him. I don't.”

“You asked what I think.” He gazed down at her hands, still held loosely in his. “I'd say that Isaac always wants things to go his way. If he sets his mind on something, he figures other people will fall in line.”

“Ja. That is Isaac.”

“It's hard to picture him doing something like this. But if he convinced himself it was for your own gut, he might be able to justify it in his mind.”

She let out a long breath. “That's what I fear, too. I don't want to, but I do.”

“There's someone else you haven't considered, though.” He hated to add to her worries, but it needed to be said. “What about Caleb?”

“Caleb.” She repeated the name, and he could almost hear her mind working. “I can't believe Caleb would want the farm badly enough to do something like that.”

He shrugged. “I'd say that about both of them. Still, neither incident was really costly or dangerous.”

“Not dangerous!” Sudden fury blazed in her eyes. “If someone let the horse out, they risked Joseph's life. How can you say that's not dangerous?”

He didn't want her anger turned on him. “Maybe whoever it was didn't think about Joseph being the one to open the door.”

“Maybe so, but it was. If something happened to one of the children—” Her voice choked.

His fingers tightened on hers, and the need to take care of her was so strong that it nearly overwhelmed him. “Rachel, I don't want you to have to carry this burden by yourself. I wish—”

Now he had to stop. What did he wish? Where exactly were these feelings leading him?

“I know.” Her chin firmed, as if she were determined not to show weakness. “You're a gut friend, Gideon.”

A gut friend. Ezra's friend. That was how she saw him. That was who he was.

“Ja. Well, if there is anything I can do—anything—you must ask me, all right?”

She nodded. Seeming to become aware that he still held her hands, she drew them free.

She would be embarrassed, would walk away from him. He cast around for anything to regain a safe footing between them. “I've been thinking about Becky. How is she doing after her mishap?”

“I wish I knew.” Rachel pressed her lips together, her worry seeming to deepen. “I'm afraid—” She pleated her apron between her fingers, then smoothed it down again. “Do you think she might have done that because she was trying to be like Ezra?”

The question hit him like a blow to the stomach, taking his breath away for an instant. “I . . . I don't know. She is like him in temperament, I'd say. Did you ask her?”

“No. But I wondered—William was talking to the children one day about how daring Ezra was as a boy. He didn't mean anything by it—just remembering. He always looked up to Ezra so much, you know.”

“Ja. And the children did, too. But would Becky go that far?”

Rachel chewed on her lower lip. “She won't talk about it. And she won't tell me why she came in the house almost crying after talking to you, either.”

That took him by surprise. After everything else that had happened yesterday he'd almost forgotten that troubling exchange with Rachel's daughter.

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize she was that upset.”

That wasn't true, and he knew it as soon as he said the words. He'd known that the child was close to tears over his words. He'd just hoped that what he'd said was sufficient to keep her from trying something so dangerous again.

Rachel was waiting, and he knew he had to tell her.

“Becky said you had told her she had to thank me for coming to her rescue. It was pretty clear that she didn't want to. She claimed she could have gotten down by herself.”

Rachel made a small sound of distress.

“I couldn't let it go at that.” He could only hope she'd understand. “I had to help her realize how dangerous it had been. So I asked her what her father would have thought if he'd been the one to climb up after her.”

Rachel sucked in a sharp breath. “You—that was hurtful. You shouldn't have taken it upon yourself.”

“Maybe not.” He had to be fair. “But she came to me, Rachel. I had to answer her, and I said the one thing I thought might keep her from doing something so dangerous again.”

Rachel's lips pressed firmly together, but tears sparkled on her lashes, as Becky's had. Then, like her daughter, she turned and hurried away.

•   •   •

Rachel
strode across the lawn, not sure where she was going, only that it had to be away from Gideon, at least for a while. How could he have said that to Becky? He didn't have the right. No wonder the poor child had been on the verge of tears.

Dolly bawled plaintively at the sight of her, so she changed course and walked toward the pen, glad of the distraction. Joseph had been as nervous as a first-time expectant father as the time neared for Dolly's twins to arrive, insisting that his mother had to check on the goat often while he was at school.

Rachel knelt in the grass beside the pen, reaching through the wire to scratch Dolly's muzzle. “Was ist letz? You just want some company, don't you?”

That reminded her of Leah, who no doubt wanted some company even more than the little goat did. It seemed Rachel was failing there, too.

“I wish I knew what to do,” she murmured as the goat nuzzled her hand.

She wanted to hang on to her anger against Gideon, but she couldn't, not after he'd risked his life to save Becky. And if what he'd said kept Becky off any more high beams, maybe it was worth it.

She leaned her forehead against the pen's upright. Daadi had used Becky's misdeed as an argument to again urge her to sell the farm and move home. It had been hard to maintain her position that she could handle the farm and the children by herself when Becky had just risked her life that way.

“You're lucky, Dolly.” She patted the little Nubian's side, feeling the life that moved within. “Your babies will be content with milk and loving. They won't worry you and make you doubt yourself.”

Dolly just gazed at her, seeming happy to hear her voice no matter what she said.

Once, her babies had been like that. No longer. Now every day they seemed to give her fresh reason to wonder if she knew what she was doing.

She stood slowly, her hand resting on the pen. She should get the clothes hung. She turned, but a sound from the barn brought her up short. A sound—like a footstep—in the barn she knew to be empty at this time of day.

She paused for a moment, staring at the barn door. She could go and call Gideon. She glanced his way. He was up on the windmill again, hard at work.

Calling him down was foolish. She was just scaring herself with this talk of someone causing accidents.

Besides, hadn't she been trying to reassure herself that she could manage things herself? Well, here was a chance to prove it.

The barn door stood slightly ajar. She went to it quickly, before she could change her mind, grasped the handle and shoved it open, letting sunlight pour inside. Not a creature moved. Dust motes swam in the shaft of light.

But she'd heard something. Or someone. She took a step forward. “Who's here?”

For a moment her voice echoed in the stillness. Then someone moved, coming from the shadows into the light. She blinked in surprise. Thomas Carver. The dairy owner. What was he doing here?

“Mr. Carver.” She found her voice. “I'm surprised to see you. Were you looking for me?”

“Yes, well, not exactly.” He gave an unconvincing smile. “Truth is, Mrs. Brand, I wanted to have a look around before I talked to you about my offer again. Sorry. I guess I should have asked permission before coming into your barn.”

There was nothing she could say to that but yes, and he knew it, so she said nothing.

He came toward her, still smiling. “Well, anyway, I hope you've had a chance to think about my offer. Seemed to me that maybe you'd have come up with some questions about it.”

If he'd come for that reason, he should have come to the house. “I really don't have any questions.”

“You sure? Anything at all, I'd be happy to explain it to you. That's only fair. You can ask anyone you like to go over the paperwork for the lease.”

“I'm not ready to go into it just now, Mr. Carver. I thank you for your interest, but I haven't decided yet what I'm going to do.”

“You shouldn't wait too long, you know.” He moved closer, almost uncomfortably so. “The offer won't stay on the table indefinitely. I'm ready to invest now, but if your place isn't available, there are some
others in the valley I could make an offer on. I just thought of you first, because I knew how hard it must be for you, trying to stay on here with your husband gone and all.”

She took a step back. “I will just have to risk your finding another property that suits you, I'm afraid.”

“Now, you ought to think this through.” Again he moved closer to her. “I know how you Amish like to deal with each other, but you won't get a better offer than mine.”