At Home in Pleasant Valley (43 page)

“Stop a second. Rest.” She tilted her head back. Was it her imagination, or had Gideon moved? “We're coming, Gideon. Hang on!”

“I'm ready, Mammi.” Joseph took his position, hands braced against the side of the ladder. “We'll get it this time.”

Please, God.

She grabbed, pulled, muscles crying. The ladder lifted, swung, and slammed into place against the tower.

“Gut.” She shook it, making sure it was stable, and started up.

“Let me come, Mammi,” Joseph cried.

“Stay where you are. You must be ready, in case I need you to run for anything.”

Knowing he would obey, she climbed, pressing down the queasiness that cramped her stomach. Gideon needed her.

A few more rungs brought her within arm's reach of him. “Gideon.” She reached out, grabbed his arm, and was relieved to feel it warm against her hand. “Answer me.”

Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head. “What . . .”

“Hush, now. You're going to be all right. Just stay still.”

He blinked, shaking his head and wincing with pain. A huge lump rose on his forehead, and he moved his hand, as if to touch it. His whole body swung at the movement, and awareness and alarm dawned in his eyes.

“Easy.” How long could the harness hold his weight?
Please, please, don't let it give way.
“The platform broke, but the harness is holding you.”

He moved, as if to assess the situation, and something above them creaked ominously. She didn't dare take her eyes off him long enough to see what it was.

“Can you grab hold of the frame with your right hand?”

He tried to move it and a spasm of pain went through him. “Don't think so.”

“It's all right.”

She drew him a little closer, so that his left hand could touch the ladder. He fumbled for a moment and then gripped it. She could reach him better now, and she anchored her arm around his waist.

He tried to pull free. “Don't want to take you with me.”

If he fell, he meant. But he wouldn't. He wouldn't.

“Be still.” She spoke as if he were one of the children. “Just be still. Everything will be all right.”

Let my words be true, Father. Protect us.

And even as she prayed, she recognized the truth. She didn't just care about Gideon. She loved him with all her heart.

“Mammi, they're coming!” Joseph's shout was triumphant. “They're almost here!”

•   •   •

If
everyone would stop poking and prodding him, he'd feel a lot better. Gideon tried to evade the light that the paramedic kept shining in his eyes, but the man held his face as if he were a child.

“I am fine.” His voice sounded husky and uncertain, even to himself. “Just bumps and bruises is all,” he added, putting more force to the words.

“Let the man examine you.”

Rachel stood next to the porch steps where he sat. A stranger might think her perfectly possessed, but her eyes bore lines of strain around them, and her hands were knotted under the protective cover of her apron.

“Ja, that's right.” Isaac, who'd come racing across the fields, his wagon hastily loaded with a ladder and extra timbers, planted his hand against the porch railing. “You didn't look but half-alive when we got you down.”

Fortunately the paramedic didn't understand Pennsylvania Dutch, so he didn't know Isaac's opinion of his condition.

“Did you lose consciousness at all?” The man tucked the penlight into the pocket of his jacket.

“I don't think—” he began.

“He was out for several minutes.” Rachel cut him off. “As long as it took Joseph and me to get the ladder up. He was starting to come round when I reached him.”

“How you and the boy managed to put that heavy ladder up, I'll never understand.”

Isaac actually sounded admiring. Apparently he'd forgotten his quarrel with Rachel in the excitement. Too bad he wouldn't stay that way—it would save Rachel some heartache.

“God gave us strength,” she murmured softly.

By the time the paramedic was finished, a sizable crowd had gathered around—Isaac, William, and Isaac's two oldest boys had been the first to rush to help, of course. Someone must have sent for Aaron, because he was even now checking out the wreckage of the platform. Lovina had come with him, and she'd gathered up the children and swept them into the house for cookies and milk.

Every other minute, it seemed someone else turned up, demonstrating the amazing power of the Amish grapevine. Much as Gideon appreciated the love they showed, he'd just as soon be left alone. But he didn't figure that would happen anytime soon.

“Bruises, you're going to have plenty of those.” The paramedic finished writing something on a clipboard. “Suppose you let us take you in to the hospital to have that head looked at. Just in case it's a concussion.”

He shook his head and instantly regretted it. “No need. I'm fine. Nothing is broken.” He flexed his right hand, wrapped in an elastic bandage. It was swollen already, and he wouldn't be doing any carpentry work for a while. “I'd rather go home.”

“If they think you should go . . .” Rachel's voice died away. She'd be thinking that she didn't have the right to insist.

“We'll keep a gut watch on him tonight.” Aaron joined the group. “If anything seems not right, we'll get someone to drive us in to the hospital.”

The man nodded and thrust the clipboard at him. “Sign here.”

Gideon scribbled his name, barely listening to the rest of the instructions. Instead he watched his brother's face, but Aaron wasn't giving anything away.

When the paramedics began gathering up their equipment, folks moved back to give them room. Aaron leaned in next to him.

“You know that platform . . .”

“I know.” He kept his voice low. “Knew the instant I put my weight on it, but don't say anything.”

“Don't say anything about what?” Rachel demanded.

“Ach, it's nothing.” Aaron tried to turn her concern away.

“It's the platform, isn't it?” she demanded, her voice ringing out above the sound of the departing van. “That's why you were up there looking at it for so long. Someone did this.”

Isaac put his hand on her arm. “Rachel, you're imagining things. No one would do a thing like that.”

She shook the hand away. “Wouldn't they? And I suppose no one would let the draft horse out at night, or damage the roof of the grain shed. No one would do any of those things.”

“Rachel, don't—” Gideon saw where she was headed and tried to stop her.

“Except someone who wanted to convince me to sell the farm.”

Isaac's mouth sagged. He took a step away from her. “You . . . think about what you're saying. I couldn't—”

“He didn't!” The voice was so shrill that for a moment he didn't recognize it. Then William pushed his way to the front of the group, his face white, his eyes tormented. “It was my f-f-fault. I did it, n-n-no one else.”

“William—” Rachel whirled toward the boy. “No! What are you saying?”

“I'm s-s-sorry, I'm so sorry.” Tears welled over in his eyes, so that he looked more Joseph's age than nearly a man grown.

Isaac caught him by the shoulder. “You don't know what you're saying. You couldn't do such a thing.”

“I did.” He scrubbed his face with his knuckles, as if trying to force back the tears.

“Why, William?” Rachel's lips trembled. “Why would you hurt me that way?”

“N-n-not—” He stopped, shook his head in frustration. “Not hurt you.” He seemed to force the words out. “I w-wanted you to n-n-need me. Depend on m-m-me. Not Gid.”

Shocked, grieved faces looked from William to Gideon. When one hurt, they all hurt.

“I d-d-didn't mean you to get hurt so bad. I'm s-s-sorry. I'll do anything t-to make amends.”

Gideon couldn't seem to speak. Rachel was the one who needed help and comforting right now. She was stiff, rigid, looking as if she'd shatter to pieces if anyone touched her.

Isaac reached toward her, but then drew his hand back. Maybe he saw in her what Gideon did. “I'm sorry, Rachel. I don't know what to say. I hope you and Gideon can forgive this.”

Bishop Mose cleared his throat. “This will have to go before the church, William. You understand that, don't you?”

William bobbed his head. He would kneel before the church, confess his fault, and bear the punishment they agreed upon. Then it would be over.

But not for Rachel. Gideon needed to do something—something that would help to heal this breach, something that would take away the pain Rachel felt at this betrayal by the boy she loved.

“William.” The boy swung toward him at the sound of his voice, but he kept his gaze on the ground. “You say you want to make amends, ain't so?”

He nodded, managing to lift his gaze to Gideon's feet, it seemed.

“Ser gut.” He gestured with his bandaged hand. “I'm going to need a right hand if Rachel's windmill is to be finished. What do you say?”

Now the boy looked at him, hope dawning in his face. “Y-y-you'll let me help?”

“Ja.” He deliberately stared at Isaac. Seemed as if Isaac, in his stubborn determination to get his own way, had contributed to all this mess. “If Isaac agrees.”

“I agree,” Isaac said. “That is only what's right.”

Murmurs of agreement came from the others. The frozen chill began to leave Rachel's face.

“Ser gut,” she murmured.

R
achel
patted Brownie as she slipped the harness into place on the mare. Brownie, with the ease of long practice, stepped back between the buggy shafts and waited patiently. If the mare had hands instead of hooves, she'd do it all herself, no doubt.

Rachel let her gaze slide cautiously to the windmill tower. In the days since Gideon's accident, she had struggled to accept the truth, and in some ways, it still felt impossible.

How could William, the little brother Ezra had loved and nurtured, the boy she'd treated as her brother, too, have done such a thing? Try as she might, she couldn't even picture him doing something to hurt her or the children.

I wanted you to need me,
he'd cried. Her cheeks burned at the implication. That foolish proposal, which she turned away so lightly—he'd actually meant it. The poor boy thought himself in love with her.

She hadn't seen him or spoken to him since then. But today he was working on the windmill, attempting to be Gideon's right hand. It would be easy, so easy, to climb into the buggy and drive off to Leah's with no more than a wave. Easy, but not right. She should speak to him. Somehow, she had to find a way to deal with him.

And with Gideon. Could she talk to him without letting the love she felt show in her face? Or did he already guess?

She patted Brownie again. Then she turned and walked toward the tower.

Both men stood at the base. Gideon seemed to be demonstrating something to William. She'd face both of them at once.

But as she approached, William turned and hurried off toward the
barn, ducking his head. Obviously she wasn't the only one dreading this meeting.

“I hoped to get things back to . . .” She let that die out. Gideon must know as well as she did that her relationship with William would change. “I wanted to express my forgiveness.”

“You'll have to give him time. He's too embarrassed to talk to you right now, I'd say.” Gideon put down the bolt and screw he was holding in his left hand. His right still wore the elastic bandage.

“Your hand—how is it?” She fought to keep too much emotion from coloring the words, but she couldn't look at him without seeing him dangling from the tower, dark and motionless against the sky.

“Better. I maybe could do this myself in another day, but it will do the boy gut to make amends.”

He was the kind of man who would think that, even of someone who'd done him harm. How had it taken her so long to see what a gut man Gideon was?

“Ja, I think it will.” Her voice had gone husky in spite of herself. “He seems able to face you, and it was you he harmed the most, not me.”

“William doesn't love me,” he said.

The words, gently spoken as they were, stabbed her to the heart.

“William has been hurting all this time. I talked to him every day, and yet I didn't understand that. How could I have been so blind? I should have seen, should have talked to him about it.”

“I doubt you could talk him out of loving you, Rachel.” Gideon paused, seeming to weigh something in his mind. “You should know something that William confessed to me.” He stared down at his bandaged hand. “William saw us, the night of the singing. He saw us kiss. That's why he damaged the windmill platform.”

She couldn't speak, but she could feel the tide of embarrassment sweep through her.

Maybe misinterpreting her silence, Gideon hurried into speech again. “Understand, Rachel, he's miserable about it. Seeing me get hurt was enough to bring him to his senses.”

She cleared her throat. “Gut.” It was all she could manage.

“It will be better once he confesses at the next worship. Better for him, better for all of us.”

The act of public confession was difficult, doubly so for William, with his stammer, to have to kneel and confess his fault before the church. If Bishop Mose thought the bann was justified for a time, all who were present would have to agree.

Ich bin einig,
I am agreed, each one would say, with varying degrees of pain and sympathy.

And then, when it was over, William's sin would be as if it had never been.

“I should confess, too.” The words burst out on a wave of pain. “I didn't see.”

“That is foolish, Rachel. Yours is not the sin. You couldn't have known.”

But she still felt it.

Gideon cleared his throat, maybe feeling that they'd waded into water that was too deep. “Are you better now? No one has seen you for the past few days, I hear.”

“Ja.” She forced a smile. “I must be all right. The advertisements are already in the paper about the nursery opening on Saturday, and there is much to do.”

He nodded toward the buggy. “You're going to pick something up for the opening, then?”

“Not now. I'm on my way to Leah's. The family is going to a farm sale over near Fostertown, and I told Daniel I'd stay with her. And I must be off, or she'll be wondering where I am.”

She turned away, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. His touch seemed to heat her skin right through the fabric of her sleeve. He snatched his hand away. Did he feel it, too?

“One thing—I'll be finished up here in another day's work, probably, depending on the weather.” He shot a glance at the clouds that were massing along the western horizon. “I start a new job next week, putting in windmills for Elias Bender.”

She turned her face away on the words, hoping he couldn't see her
expression. Well, what had she expected? He would finish the job for her and move on.

Her smile seemed to stretch her face. “We will not see so much of you then.”

“No.”

And that was it. They would be friends, and she must be content with that. Gideon didn't want anything more.

•   •   •

“Are
you sure another batch of pretzels is really necessary?” Rachel paused before adding the butter to the pan of scalded milk. “Haven't we already made enough?”

They had been baking all afternoon, it seemed, and still Leah wasn't satisfied.

“We may as well do another while we're making them.” Leah sprinkled coarse salt over a tray of pretzels and slid it into the oven, glancing at the clock to note the time. “I want to have a nice treat for Daniel and the children when they get home. And you must take some for your family, too.”

“We'll have enough for most of Pleasant Valley, it seems to me.” Rachel set the pan aside to cool a bit before adding the yeast. “Not that I don't enjoy making pretzels with you, but I think you're overdoing it already.”

Leah touched the batch of pretzels that was cooling on a rack. “I have to be doing something. I've been cooped up too long. Every time I move, someone tells me to rest. The children are as bad as Daniel is.”

“They love you,” Rachel reminded her. “That's not a bad thing, having people who want to take care of you.”

“I know.” Leah's mouth curved in the smile that Rachel had come to think of as her “mother” look. “I just feel so restless today.” She grabbed a cloth and began to wipe the table with quick, hard strokes.

“You know what I think, Leah Glick? I think this baby is going to arrive soon. I remember the day before Mary was born. Ezra found me in the cellar, rearranging all the canned food alphabetically.”

That brought on the laughter she'd hoped for. Leah sank into a kitchen
chair, chuckling. “Ach, I can just see you doing it. Well, if it is a sign, I'm glad of it. I'm ready to meet him or her.” She patted her belly.

“At the risk of getting hit with a pretzel, I'm going to suggest you sit awhile. Have something to drink. Eat a pretzel.”

“I am thirsty.”

“I'll get it—” she began, but Leah had already gotten up again.

She poured a glass of tea from the pitcher on the counter and added a sprig of mint from the bowl on the windowsill. Rachel watched her, torn between amusement and frustration.

“Now will you sit down?”

“I will.” Leah made her way back to the chair and took a sip. “I think we've talked about everything imaginable this afternoon except about the situation with William. Would you rather not?”

“It's all right.” Rachel dried her hands slowly, staring out the window absently. The rain that had begun shortly after she arrived continued without pause. Her plants could use it. “It's just all so sad. Poor William. I should have seen he was getting too attached to me.”

“I wondered how long it would take for you to start feeling that it was your fault,” Leah said. “You are not responsible for William's emotional needs.”

“I suppose not, but I wish I could help him. He's too embarrassed even to talk with me about it now.”

“Isaac is embarrassed, too, according to what Daniel has heard. Has he come to talk with you?”

“No. I wouldn't expect him to.”

“Maybe not.” Leah considered that, frowning a little. “Still, I hear he's dropped his complaint to the bishop.”

“He has? Are you sure? No one has said anything to me.”

“Maybe no one wanted to bring it up, but I'm sure as can be. Daniel heard it direct from Bishop Mose.”

“Well, that is a relief.” Rachel sank down in the chair opposite Leah. “I haven't slept easy since I heard about it.”

Leah patted her hand. “Now you can. Unless you've found something else to worry about.”

“William, of course.” She sighed. “I wish I could help him find a girl to love, but he wouldn't welcome my help.”

“Much as we all like to matchmake, some things are better left to the Lord. William is still smarting from his jealousy of Gideon.”

“Gideon is being so kind to him. I just wish he could be as forgiving to himself as he is to other people.”

She bit her lip. She shouldn't have said that. It was Gideon's private business.

“You love him, don't you?” Leah's voice was gentle, filled with the love she shared so freely.

There was no use trying to pretend. Leah knew her too well.

“Ja, I do. But it's no use.”

“Don't say that.” Leah gripped her fingers. “You don't know that. Maybe Gideon thinks it's too soon after Ezra to say anything to you.”

Rachel shook her head, her eyes filling with the tears she was determined not to shed. “It's not that. It's something deeper in himself that keeps him from loving again. All he wants from me is friendship. That's all he'll let himself want.”

“Rachel—”

“No, don't.” She managed a watery smile. “I know you want to encourage me, but this time it's no use. I know that now, and the best thing I can do is get over these feelings. So you see I really do know how William feels.”

“I'm sorry.” Only two words, but they bore a world of caring and sympathy.

“It will be all right.” She glanced at the clock. “I'd best check on those pretzels.”

“I'll do it,” Leah said, predictably.

“Sit. I have it.” Rachel pulled the tray out with a hot pad, glad of something to do that would change the subject. She set the tray on the waiting rack. “They're just perfect.”

“Gut.” Leah started to get up, one hand on the back of her chair. “I think—”

The chair rocked. Heartbeat rushing, Rachel reached toward her
friend, but she was too late. Her hand grasped empty air, and Leah fell heavily to the floor.

“Leah!” Rachel rushed to kneel beside her. “Are you all right? Does it hurt anywhere?”

Leah shook her head, grimacing a little. “Only my pride is hurt, that's all. You'd think I could at least get up from a chair. I told you I was going to need a crane pretty soon.”

“Take it easy.” Rachel got one arm around her. “Slowly. Don't rush. I'll help you.”

“I'm all—” Leah bit off the words with a gasp. She clutched her belly, eyes wide and frightened as she looked at Rachel. “The pain—Rachel—”

“It's going to be fine.” She could only hope her words sounded more confident than she felt. “Is it a labor pain?”

Instead of answering, Leah grabbed Rachel's hand and put it on her belly. She felt the contraction, hard against her palm.

She forced a smile. “I guess so. I told you this baby would be coming soon.”

“But—it shouldn't start this hard, should it?”

The contraction eased, and Rachel glanced automatically at the clock. Keep her calm, that's what she had to do. Time the pains, and hope that nothing bad had happened when she fell. And pray that Daniel would come home soon.

“Everyone's different.” She hoped she sounded reassuring. “Haven't you had any contractions at all today?”

“No.”

“Now, stop thinking about all those descriptions in your books of how childbirth is supposed to happen. Remember, the baby didn't read any of them.”

That brought a smile to Leah's face. “I guess not. Maybe I should try to get up, and we can start timing the contractions.”

“I already have.” Rachel slid her arm around Leah again. Hopefully she had enough time to get Leah comfortably situated before another contraction came. “Let's get you up and—”

She felt the contraction almost as soon as Leah did. Leah's face
contorted as she struggled to remember her breathing exercises. “It's too fast,” she gasped. “Rachel, why is it so fast?”

“You'll be fine,” she soothed, stroking Leah's cheek. “You'll be fine, don't worry.”

All very well to say don't worry, when her heart twisted with anxiety. Why was it this fast? In all the tales women told about their babies' births, she'd never heard of someone starting in labor with contractions so hard and so close together.

The contraction eased at last. Leah lay back, panting.

“Do you want to try to make it to a chair or the bed?”