River of Mercy (36 page)

David shook his head. “That's all I can say.” He paused, then added, “I should think you'd be relieved. I know you've regretted accepting Beiler's order for the sideboard all along.”

“I have, that's true. But since I did accept it, it seems that I ought to go through with it.”

“Well, now you don't have to.”

“And just what do I tell Beiler?”

David waved off the question. “Tell him you're too busy. You are busy, aren't you?”

“Too busy lately, but that's no excuse for canceling an order this far along. Rachel's birthday is less than three weeks away.”

David settled a meaningful look on his friend, trying to communicate what he mustn't allow himself to say. “I know when Rachel's birthday is,” he said evenly. “But in this case, let the fact that you have too much work serve as an excuse. For now, at least, until I'm free to tell you more.”

He hesitated and then added, “It's for Rachel's good, my friend. It truly is. If Beiler should attempt to give her that sideboard—or any other significant gift, for that matter—she'd refuse it. And rightly so. All your effort would be in vain. But it might stir up trouble Rachel doesn't need. And there's also the possibility that she might be royally upset with you for building the thing. You wouldn't want that.”

Gant locked gazes with him, obviously searching for what remained unsaid. Finally, he nodded. “All right,” he said. “I'm not comfortable with this, but I wasn't comfortable with any part of it. I expect it was sheer stubbornness, and no doubt a bit of spite, that made me agree to accept the order in the first place. It seemed to me at the time he was sure I wouldn't take him up on it, so I decided to call his bluff.” He paused. “Can I assume that you'll eventually fill me in on what's behind all this secrecy?”

“I hope so,” David said. “But even if I can't, just know you're doing the right thing.”

“Why do I find that to be small comfort at the moment?” Without giving David the opportunity to reply, Gant went on, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Now then, since I have no idea when I might be seeing Beiler, and because I'm so
terribly
busy, would you do me the favor of delivering a note to him?”

David considered it. “Yes, that's probably the best way to handle it.”

“You mean he's not as likely to trounce you as me?”

David let his gaze rake his big, powerfully setup Irish friend. “The Amish aren't inclined toward ‘trouncing,' but even if they were, I can't quite see Samuel Beiler getting the best of you.”

Gant uttered a low sound of disgust. “Let's go back to the shop then, and I'll write my note of excuse.”

David expelled a long breath, relieved that the exchange he'd been dreading was over.

34

He leadeth me, O blessed thought!
O words with heavenly comfort fraught!
Whate'er I do, where'er I be,
Still 'tis God's hand that leadeth me.

J
OSEPH
H. G
ILMORE

C
aptain Gant had already left the shop, leaving Gideon to lock up early, as he almost always did on Saturday afternoons.

Gideon was about to pull the shade on the door when he glanced across the street and saw the Beiler brothers coming out of the feed store. His curiosity piqued, Gideon opened the door and waited while they crossed the road.

It was unusual to see all three of Samuel Beiler's sons together at the same time. He hadn't seen Aaron, the oldest and the one closest to Gideon's age, for several weeks. Like himself, Aaron was in his
rumspringa.
Also like Gideon, he seemed to spend most of his time around the
Englisch,
although he still lived at his family farm.

Gideon lifted a hand as they approached. The two younger boys grinned and returned his greeting, but Aaron merely gave him a glum look and a short nod.

Only when they drew closer and stepped onto the boardwalk did Gideon notice the dark bruise just below Joe's eye and the vivid red scar that looked like a recent cut trailing down the opposite side of his face. The youngest of the three, Joe must be about ten or eleven years by now. It had long been assumed that the boy was a little slow in his head. For the Amish, this was no disgrace, but rather a trait that made him “special,” to be treated kindly and with gentle care. Indeed, all children were special to the People.

In that instant, the same memory that had crossed his mind a few nights ago, when he and his friends had been discussing Samuel Beiler, again edged its way into Gideon's thoughts. For some years now, the two oldest Beiler boys had been seen bearing signs of mistreatment, giving weight to the rumors that their
dat
beat them. Now Gideon couldn't help but wonder if Samuel Beiler had taken to roughing up his youngest son as well.

Anger collided with a wrench of sympathy as Gideon observed the boy's mottled face. Yet Joe's expression was cheerful. He actually appeared happy to see Gideon, in contrast to his older brother's sullen behavior.

At the moment, Aaron was glaring at him as if Gideon had stolen his horse out from under him. His expression was so filled with dislike it was almost like a physical blow.

And then as quickly as it came, it was gone, replaced by a bland, unreadable gaze.

Gideon almost felt that he'd imagined the loathing he'd seen in the other's eyes only a moment before. Confused, he had to make an effort not to trip over his words. “So where are you fellows off to? Big Saturday night in town?”

Both Joe and Noah cracked half hearted grins while their older brother gave a shake of his head. “Just finishing up some errands for
Dat,”
Aaron said. “We have to be on our way now. Still work to do. Church is at our house tomorrow.”

He stopped, settling a look on Gideon that would have appeared to be wholly innocent had it not been for the faint smirk that followed his next words. “You should come.”

Gideon replied with a steady gaze and a slight smile. “Not this time.”

Aaron's look of disdain remained fixed, but he merely gave a nod, saying, “Well, it was good to see you. We need to be going now.”

Gideon watched the three of them make their way down the road to where their buggy was parked in front of the harness shop. After another moment he turned and went back inside.

For more than one reason, the encounter had unsettled him. The marks on young Joe's face and the contempt he'd sensed in Aaron had left him troubled and uneasy. As best he knew, he'd done nothing to merit Aaron Beiler's resentment or dislike. They had never been best buddies, but they had spent time together with some of the other Amish young people.

He was convinced, though, that he hadn't misread the other's feelings.

His thoughts remained cluttered and uneasy as he finished locking up. Finally, he decided to spend what was left of the weekend out at the farm. He'd delayed long enough the talk he'd been wanting to have with Doc.

Besides, there was always a chance he'd catch a glimpse of Emma while he was out her way, maybe even have the opportunity to manage a few words with her.

Emma.
She was on his mind constantly these days. He missed her something fierce, but any contact with her was almost impossible.

That wouldn't be the case if he'd do as his mother was always asking him to do—go back to his life among the Amish, make his vows, and start over. But he couldn't return just because of Emma. Even Mamm wouldn't want him to do that. He could only go back and live Amish if he were convinced it was the right thing to do, the thing God meant for him to do with the rest of his life.

On the heels of that thought came the uneasy awareness that lately something seemed to be urging him in that direction, pressing him to return to his roots. At times, an inexplicable longing rose up in him, and he would unexpectedly find himself actually missing his old life. In spite of his desire to hold on to his job with Captain Gant, and despite the enjoyment he'd once found in the comforts and conveniences of life among the
Englisch,
there were times now when much of what he had once prized so highly—including his “freedom”—felt strangely empty and meaningless. During those times he almost felt as if he were treacherously close to shucking it all and heading back to the People.

What was happening to him anyway?

Halfway out to the farm, a memory struck him with such force he actually gave himself a shake, as if to throw it off. When he and Rachel were younger and had done something that wasn't quite right, something that left them feeling guilt-heavy and needing to confess—admittedly, those times were far fewer for Rachel than for him—they'd say Mamm must be praying for them.

They would try to laugh it off, but once, when they were grown, Rachel told him in all seriousness that she didn't take those words lightly. “Honestly, Gideon, I'm not so sure but what we weren't right. It wouldn't surprise me to find out that Mamm's prayers were behind our attacks of conscience.”

He smiled a little at the memory. Sometimes now he also wondered if the idea that Mamm could pray a “conscience attack” on him was all that unlikely. He had always believed that if anyone's prayers had that kind of influence with God, it would be the prayers of his mother.

After Gideon let it be known that he'd like to talk to Doc alone, his mother shooed them out of the kitchen with coffee and cookies while she enlisted Rachel and Fannie's help to clean up the dishes.

They'd had a nice time at supper, what with Rachel giving in to Mamm's coaxing to stay for the evening meal and Fannie's exuberance, no doubt due to having her entire family together at the table—these days a rare event. Rachel, too, had seemed more lively than usual, teasing and laughing with Gideon as they once had when they were both still at home.

Now, seated across from Doc in front of the fire, Gideon found himself feeling blessed—not for the first time—by the family he'd been born into. Even given the troubling conversation he was about to launch, he knew a warm sense of contentment as he studied the older man he'd always greatly admired and respected.

Strange how lives sometimes converged in the most unexpected ways. Who would have thought Doc Sebastian, trusted friend and family physician, would one day end up as his stepfather and an Amish man himself?