Snowfall (15 page)

“I'm back!” Meg said as she appeared at the door.

“And just in time, too. Off to bed you go.” After tucking Meg under the covers, Ruth handed her her worn stuffed rabbit. “Close your eyes now, child. It's time to rest.”

“Will you stay here with me?”

“I'm afraid I cannot. I need to check on your siblings.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure,” Ruth said, now getting used to Meg's need to verify everything. “They are itchy and uncomfortable, too. Plus, your father needs to check on his trees. But don't worry, I'll be nearby. And I'll return soon. I promise.”

Meg stared at her under the veil of half-closed lids. Then, finally, she nodded. “'Kay.”

“Okay, then.”

After closing Meg's door, Ruth went downstairs. After assuring Martin that she would be fine for a few hours, she sent him on his way. Then she poured a couple of glasses of Sprite from the six-pack she'd brought with her, knowing how it helped upset stomachs. She then went back upstairs, strode down the hall, and started visiting with the girls and Gregory.

Of course they needed their beds straightened, too. Ruth quietly remade beds, listened to a myriad of complaints, took temperatures, and passed out pain reliever and glasses of the cold soda.

As she'd suspected, the rare treat went a long way toward soothing their ills.

Two hours later, she was sitting on the big brown couch in the hearth room, sipping orange-spiced tea—she'd brought that, too—and was thinking that she'd never felt so tired in her life.

Though she'd lit a fire, the room was still chilly. She pulled an afghan over her legs and let herself relax. In no time at all, she had her eyes closed, too.

She'd just entered that hazy place between sleep and alertness when she heard the kitchen door open and shut and the unmistakable sound of Martin striding her way.

Abruptly, she straightened and attempted to put herself to rights.

She wasn't quick enough. Martin appeared at the door just as she was folding the coverlet.

“Ruth, is everything all right?”

“Couldn't be better. I was just, um, taking a little break here on the couch.”

His eyes skimmed over her as he approached, seeming to take in every wrinkle in her plum-colored dress and every strand of hair that was surely sticking out of her usually neat
kapp
. “You look tired.”

“Just being lazy.”

“Are you wanting to reconsider your decision to stay?”

She searched his face, half expecting to see a teasing glint in his eyes. But instead, he looked as serious as ever.

He was a man who was so weighed by burdens, it seemed as if he'd forgotten all about light conversation. That made her sad. Hoping to encourage a smile, she decided to tease him a bit. “Do you want me to answer you honestly?”

He blinked. But though he seemed confused by her question, he didn't look any lighter. “Of course.”

“I am not reconsidering anything.”

“I'm glad. I'm surprised, but I'm glad.”

“You shouldn't be so surprised. No Christian woman would leave at a time like this.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Something flickered in his eyes, and with that, Ruth immediately regretted saying what she just had. It wasn't that she didn't mean that a Christian wouldn't offer help, but it had come across as vaguely sanctimonious.

Hoping to restore some of the good feelings between them, she raised a palm in the air and waved it a bit. “Actually, taking care of your
kinner
makes me feel like I'm being of use. It feels good to put these hands to use.”

His brows rose. “You already were using them at Daybreak.”

“
Jah
, but that's not the same.”

“I think it—” He cut off his words as he abruptly reached out to her. Then, to her further surprise, he gently clasped one of her hands. “Ruth, you're bleeding.”

“What? Where?” Actually, at the moment, she didn't feel much except for his touch or see anything except how different his hand looked from her own.

But then her voice died as he turned her hand so her fingernails were facing up. “Oh, Ruth. Look at you,” he murmured.

With effort, she looked away from the way his fingers looked and directed her attention to her own.

And sure enough, the cold air, combined with all the hand-washing she'd been doing, had made some of the skin around her cuticles tear and bleed. Surely there couldn't be anything that looked less feminine. It also wasn't anything new. She had dry skin, and the harsh air of winter always made things worse.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'll get up right now. I don't want to accidentally get blood on your couch.”

“Don't be silly. You have to know that the couch is the least of my worries.”

At the moment, she didn't know what to think. Worse, she wasn't sure what to do. Did she extricate her hand or let herself enjoy the simple feeling of being coddled?

As she sat there, dumbly staring at her hand grasped in his, he turned her hand in his, winced, then pulled a tissue from the box on the coffee table.

And then, to her further shock, gently dabbed at her skin. “Such tender skin, Ruth,” he murmured.

She was embarrassed, and at the moment thanked the Lord that he wasn't looking at her face, because she feared it was probably ten shades of red. “My hands are rough,” she whispered. “Not so tender.”

“But underneath,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Underneath, they're as fragile as a newborn's.” Carefully, he folded her one hand in between both of his own. Immediately the warmth of his skin melted into hers, soothing the hurt. And for some reason, sending some of that warmth right through her body.

It had been a long time since she'd felt anyone's tender touch. So long that, she realized, she'd started to believe that her body was made only for work, never affection.

So long that she hardly even knew how to respond to such a caring gesture. “I'm surprised your hands aren't more rough,” she blurted before she could think the better of it.

His head popped up. For the first time, his gaze met hers. “What?”

“I mean, you, uh, work outside all day with the trees. I would have thought that would have made your skin less smooth.”

Now she was talking about the feel of his skin! Her embarrassment was almost complete.

But instead of dropping her hand like it was a hot potato, he simply looked bemused. “I wear leather gloves all day. It's necessary because of the bark and needles.” His eyes lit up as he moved his hand and pressed it against hers, palm to palm. “Therefore, I guess you could say that mine are almost as tender as yours,” he teased.

He was teasing her in a sweet way.

Right then and there, she became aware of two very important things:

One, her hands were, indeed, a symbol for the rest of her: Most people thought she was far tougher than she was, mainly because she took such pains to hide behind a tough exterior.

Second: She really, really liked having her hand encased in his. So much so that she hoped he didn't let her hand go anytime soon.

So much so that she hoped that when he did let go . . . he would find a reason to hold her hand again in the very near future.

It was a fairly tame wish, that was true.

But after a lifetime of being afraid to wish for anything, Ruth figured it was best, perhaps, to start small.

She was just staring at their hands, thinking about this new revelation when Thomas walked in, looked at them, and tilted his head to one side.

“Daed, why are you sitting on the couch holding Ruth's hand?”

Immediately, Ruth dropped her hands and jumped to her feet.

But Martin, on the other hand, merely leaned back against the cushions and looked coolly at his eldest boy. “Thomas, perhaps you could try speaking to me in a different tone of voice.”

“But—”

“And you also might uncover your manners enough to greet Ruth.”

Ruth blinked in surprise. Greet?

Thomas was obviously just as confused. “Greet Ruth? Why?”

Martin got to his feet and gazed down at Thomas. Right then and there, Martin seemed terribly tall and well-built. And Thomas seemed very, very small.

“Because she's been working herself half to death taking care of five cranky
kinner
,” he murmured quietly. “Because she was willing to give up her own apartment, her own life, in order to cook our meals and wash our clothes. Because her fingers are bleeding. And because I told you to.”

Thomas's eyes got big, he took a healthy step backward, and then he turned to Ruth. “Hello, Ruth.” After darting an awkward glance at his father, Thomas thought for a moment, then sputtered, “Um, how are you?”

“I am well.
Danke
. And speaking of supper, I'm going to finish preparing it so you all can eat sooner rather than later. I'm sure you, Martin, are hungry after working outside all day.”

She turned and darted into the kitchen, practically running to the sink. After running cool water over her hands, she washed them carefully, pulled out a few Band-Aids and patched up her fingers.

And then tried her very best to concentrate on making a salad and garlic bread to go with the lasagna she'd made an hour or so ago.

Anything would be better than to reflect on what had just happened in the hearth room.

Anything at all.

Snow might make everything better but ice cream helps, too.

Brigit, Age 5

After Ruth had moved in, Martin divided his time between the farm and tending to all the
kinner
.

Yesterday, Floyd had hired another part-time worker to help in Martin's absence. Martin hated to spend some of their profits on another worker, but he also knew that there was nothing he could do about it. Customers were coming to the farm, and if they were going to keep them, they needed to be treated well. That meant that they needed to do everything they could to provide them the customer service they were used to receiving. But it still pinched.

He'd tried to help on the other end by doing some of the accounting and finances late into the night at the dining room table.

That had turned out to be a mistake when Thomas had woken him up around midnight with the news that, he, too, had the chicken pox. His skin was flushed, he had a sizable blister on his side, and he was very concerned about correct protocol. Thomas, being Thomas, had stood in the hall for almost a half hour, debating whether to wake up Ruth—who was there to care for the sick children—or to wake up his father, because they were also supposed to treat Ruth like a guest, and one didn't wake up guests in the middle of the night when one had the chicken pox.

Thomas had relayed all of this until two that morning, crawling into bed with him, chattering, complaining, and basically demanding more attention than the other five children combined.

In light of this new circumstance—and the fact that Martin had slept through his alarm, which had gone off at four thirty that morning—Martin decided to stay home, hoping to keep his energy through sheer force of will.

That had been a mistake. It seemed that it was actually possible to drink three cups of coffee and still be dead on one's feet.

And as he had learned before Ruth had come to the rescue, being home was not easy.

It wasn't that he minded caring for six miserable, itchy, grumpy
kinner
. He didn't mind that—well not any more than the average person who was in such a situation, he assumed.

No, it was because he now was finding himself watching Ruth far too much.

He couldn't figure it out, but somehow everything she did interested him. He liked the tone of her voice, the melodic way it sounded when she read storybooks to the children. He liked her laugh. He liked how she never forgot to give particular attention to Frank, who was no doubt the hardest-working puppy in the county, being cradled, talked to, and fussed over by increasingly teary children.

And just when Martin was sure he'd convinced himself that there was nothing exceptionally special about Ruth, she did something that drew him to her like one of his children to the puppy.

Next thing he knew, he was chatting with her, helping her wash dishes, helping her carry laundry to the basement, delivering trays of soup and sandwiches as she made them.

To make matters worse, when he wasn't watching her and practically hanging on every smile or word she said, he was thinking about her.

Too much. He started thinking about her past. About why she didn't have any family. About what she usually did at Christmastime.

He found himself wondering if she'd been courted before. Every time he'd clumsily broached the subject she would change the topic.

Obviously, there was a story there. And though it was none of his business, he found himself wondering about what had happened.

And if, for some unknown reason, she hadn't been courted? Well, he wanted to know why she hadn't been. Had the men in her life been blind? Or had she held them off for a particular reason? He wished he knew.

He wished he knew everything about her. He was curious about her favorite books, flowers, pies, and season. It was all disconcerting, and all of it was none of his business, either.

But what was worse, he had a fairly good idea that she was starting to realize that he was becoming smitten.

Of course, she would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to notice his attention. Thomas had zeroed right in on Martin holding Ruth's hand, and Thomas was only eight.

By noon, Ruth was studying him, too.

Unfortunately, she wasn't gazing at him the way he was gazing at her. Instead, she kept darting curious glances at him, then would brush off a nonexistent crumb from her sleeve or shake her skirts, smoothing the fabric. That was when he realized that she didn't think he was staring at her because he couldn't seem to look away.