Brush of Angel's Wings (10 page)

A few strands of Rachel's golden hair came out from under her bonnet, and the sunshine cast a perfect glow on her face, making her freckles look even more pronounced.

Naomi jabbed Rachel's side and nudged her forward.

Rachel cleared her throat. “
Daed
, there's a singing at Naomi's
haus
tonight. I would like to drive myself.”

Before Micah answered, the cast iron bell clanged to announce the meal was ready. Jordan blew out a breath as the group headed toward the house. If Jordan had any smarts, he would've kept walking. Instead, he looked from Rachel's down-turned head to Micah. A dullness had cast a shadow over his employer's eyes.

Micah made an apologetic sigh and admonished his daughter. “I don't want you driving the buggy after dark. Unless . . .” Micah turned to Jordan. “Are you going?”

“No! I mean . . . I didn't plan to attend.” It wouldn't be right. Those evenings were intended to provide the youth with time to socialize in hopes that they would find a suitable mate within the faith. He wouldn't be suitable for any Amish woman. Nor did he want to be.

Rachel looked straight at him with narrowed eyes while slowly shaking her head as though giving him some kind of message. Obviously she didn't want him to go. But there was something more. A veiled threat? The thought of aggravating her a little was tempting, especially after the haircut she'd given him. Jordan turned to her father. “I'll see that she gets home.”

He tugged his earlobe at Rachel when she trained her angry eyes on him.

Micah patted his back.
“Denki, sohn.”

Instantly Jordan changed from mischievous to serious. He swallowed an emotion he couldn't grasp.

“
Kumm
on
nav
,” Micah said, looking at the people standing at the tables. “I think they're waiting for us to say grace.”

Jordan walked behind them, his head bowed. He'd never been called son except by his mother. He'd quickly developed respect for Micah as he worked with him, but Micah referring to him as son left an unpleasant knot in Jordan's stomach.

Chapter Seven

A
fter Micah and Jordan had taken care of the evening chores, they were leaving the barn when Micah's forehead creased with concern. “She's
mei boppli
. I trust you'll bring her back early
, jah
?”

“And I'll keep her safe.”

“Gut.”
The tension lines on Micah's forehead relaxed. A wide smile crossed his face. He clapped Jordan on the back and began to take long strides toward his porch.

Jordan went the other way, to the small house, wondering what he had gotten himself into. He didn't want anyone getting the wrong impression about his taking Rachel to the singing. He had done well to avoid joining the youthful buddy group thus far. They ran in packs, dated in packs, and joined the church in packs.

His Sunday shirt and vest lay sprawled over the bed where he'd tossed them earlier. His pants hung draped over the back of a chair. It seemed pointless to spend so much time changing clothes. From barn clothes before church to his Sunday clothes, then back to barn clothes, and now, once again, he must change into the handed-down, too-small vest. For what? Couldn't he dutifully monitor Rachel without having to wear church clothes?

He heated water for washing up, missing the ability to just turn on the tap and have the hot water flow. He propped a small, chipped oval mirror against the shelf ledge. As he shaved the stubble off his face, he considered all he had left behind—friends, job, technology. Not that any of those were all that satisfying. He'd been ready to move on from the friends who were choosing lives he didn't care for. His job was one he'd considered quitting anyway. And the technology? Well, taking a small break wouldn't hurt, although he had to admit it was tough the first few weeks. He hadn't realized how much he'd come to rely on it.

Before leaving the cabin, he added a few more logs to the fireplace, hoping that would make for a nice bed of hot embers waiting when he returned.

He stepped outside, tugged the edges of his vest, and headed for the corral. Blaze trotted to the fence to greet him. “Hi, boy,” Jordan said as he gave the horse's forehead a little rub. He took the halter and slipped it easily over Blaze's nose and buckled it behind his ears. He talked to him under his breath as he harnessed him and tethered him to the hitching post. After another quick rub on Blaze's forehead, he walked the short distance to the Hartzlers' home and climbed the porch steps. After drawing a deep breath, he knocked.

Miriam opened the door. A warm smile filled her face. “You don't have to knock. You're part of the family
nau
.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hartzler. That's very kind.” He wished his heart felt what his words said. But he didn't, and he couldn't, create them out of nothing. He just didn't belong. Not here. Not anywhere. His feet dragged over the braided rug in the hall as he followed Miriam into the sitting room.

“Have a seat. I'll see if Rachel is ready.”

Jordan eased onto the wooden rocker. The Bible on the stand next to the chair had a tattered leather binding that clearly indicated someone's priority for reading it. His mother's dogeared Bible pages had frayed over the years as a result of her own extended time in the Scriptures. The Bible she'd given him remained stiff and unused.

He leaned back in the rocker and looked up at the ceiling. “What am I doing here?” he asked under his breath. “I'm not Amish.”

“Knock, child, and the door will be opened. Seek and you will find.” Nathaniel drew closer. He longed to administer compassion and dry Jordan's watery eyes, but some tears will cleanse the soul for those who recognize their spirit's cry. When Jordan closed his eyes, Nathaniel pumped his wings, creating a gentle wind that lifted the pages of the book lying next to him.

Tangus crept along the room's crown molding. A filmy brume dispersed from his mouth. “Nathaniel, you keep revealing your perceived truth to someone who refuses to heed your call.” Tangus edged closer and flitted above Jordan. “He listens to me. Don't you, Jordan?”

Jordan shot off the chair and twisted around, sure someone had spoken. No one was there, but the room didn't feel empty. The planked floor creaked as he walked over to the wooden-sash window. Sprigs of green buds on the maple tree filled the branches with life. A strange heaviness caused him to turn. Yet no one had entered the room. His gaze locked on the lamp's flickering orange flame and how its shadows licked the wall.

Jordan returned to the side table and picked up the Bible. Scanning the open page, his eyes caught on the verse,
“Cast all your cares . . .”
He stopped reading when he heard footsteps tapping down the wooden stairs. He had just set the Bible back on the table when Rachel appeared. His breath unexpectedly caught in his chest, causing him to cough. With her prayer
kapp
set back from her forehead, her wheat-colored hair looked vibrant against her plum-colored dress, and she looked even more beautiful. His hands moistened and he wiped them down his pants to dry them.

Rachel darted into the kitchen. A moment later she reappeared holding a covered dish, her mother at her side.

“Let me carry that for you,” he said and reached for the food container. Something inside the warm dish smelled good. He hoped it would be tasty too.

The door opened and Micah stepped inside and wiped his feet on the rug. “I asked Jordan to bring you home early.”

“Yes, sir.” Jordan reinforced his promise with a stiff nod.

“Gut
,” Rachel said sharply.

Miriam placed her arm around her daughter's slender waist. “Be gracious to your host.”

“
Jah
, I'll be sure to.” Rachel removed her cape from the wall peg and put on her bonnet, tying the strings in a bow under her chin.

Miriam escorted them out to the porch. “Enjoy the fellowship.”

“Yes,
Mamm
.” Rachel glanced at Jordan, her eyes mirroring his reservations.

He waited until Rachel climbed into the buggy, then handed her the dish. This night might prove more challenging than he expected.

If it wasn't the first time Naomi was hosting, Rachel would have continued her avoidance of all singings. But how could she disappoint her closest friend? So with a mixture of excitement for Naomi and dread for herself, she settled into Jordan's buggy.

Rachel touched her neck. She hoped her dry throat, partly from the dread, and somewhat raw from the cool breeze, wouldn't affect her singing. With Jordan attending, she didn't want to sound froggy.

Jordan climbed on the bench beside her and released the buggy brake. Once they were on the road, he tapped the container she held. “What's in the dish?”

“Babrag boi.”

His brows crinkled.

“Rhubarb crisp.”

“With sugar?”

She almost smiled but managed to hold it in check. “I didn't make it.
Mei mamm
did.”

“Then it's safe to eat, I suppose.” He looked at her, his eyes full of laughter.

For some reason this time she didn't mind his teasing. “I don't know. Maybe I've learned my cooking secrets from
Mamm
.”

Jordan burst out laughing. Rachel liked the sound of it. It made her insides swell with a different kind of joy than she was used to.

After that, they grew silent. Rachel had so many things to ask him, most of which would be prying. It was unlike her to be so curious about someone's life. Perhaps because he came from a world she hadn't much experience in.

Thankfully, Naomi's house was a short distance from hers and the rest of the awkward silence wasn't too insufferable.

Jordan pulled the buggy in front of the house to let her out before taking Blaze and the buggy by the others near the barn.

Instead of taking her hand to assist her, he offered to hold the dish as she stepped down. At the door, he handed it to an eager Naomi, then excused himself.

Naomi looped her arm around Rachel's and giggled. “How was the ride here with Jordan?”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “We both know it was arranged.”

Naomi had heard it as clearly as she when Jordan hesitated to agree.

“The others don't need to know that. Besides, maybe—”

“Don't say it. Jordan and I don't get along.” Rachel removed her cape and bonnet and hung them with the others on the hook.

“Have you prayed about it?”

If the truth were told, she hadn't prayed about much since her brother's death. She hadn't moved away from her faith, but she struggled to speak with a God who didn't always make sense.

“Not yet,” she said. “I don't know that I need to.”

“You need to pray about everything, Rachel Hartzler.”

Rachel pointed at her dish. “Where shall we put that?”

Naomi sighed. “You do that a lot. You change the subject.”

Rachel shrugged and followed Naomi into the kitchen.

Naomi's kitchen was small compared to the one in their farmhouse. The cookstove and firebox took up one portion of the room, while shelves of canned goods lined another wall. Since cabinets wrapped around the other walls, there wasn't much space around the long wooden table, which seated ten.

Rachel eased over to the window to see if she could find Jordan. He stood in the midst of the fellows but didn't appear engaged in their conversation. He seemed intent to remain an outsider. It made no sense to her. Even if he was leaving, why would he not at least enjoy the time he had? The Amish treasured their close friendships. They bonded their tight community and fostered their strong belief not to be of the world. She had to remind herself that he wasn't Amish.

It wasn't long before the men shuffled into the kitchen. They sat opposite the women at the table. All except Jordan, who stood near the entry, as though ready to make a quick escape. Rachel couldn't get the image of him out of her mind. There had to be more of a reason for his refusal to participate than just the fact that he didn't plan on staying in the community. He certainly wasn't shy. Yet, propped against the wall, he looked despondent.