The Amish Bride of Ice Mountain (10 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Mary leaned over the now-pristine granite countertop and pored over her mother’s cookbook, which she had brought from the mountain. She and Jude had helped Betty, the cook, into the hastily phoned ambulance and Jude had gone along with her at Mary’s insistence.

She had cleaned the blood from the countertop, washed the offending knife, and run upstairs for the recipes she loved. She was glad for the moments of quiet in the vast kitchen—Jude’s mother was dressing and his grandfather was napping with a now-faithful Bear in attendance.

Mary ran her finger down the handwritten words on the browned page in the middle of her
mamm
’s book. She loved how her mother’s handwriting looped and blended and blurred with easy-to-follow ingredients and instructions. The simplicity was a comfort when she glanced behind her to consider the large cookstove.

“I’ll have to figure it out,” she mused aloud, then turned back to the age-old recipes. “All right, meat loaf, mashed potatoes, fresh corn, and pineapple upside-down cake—it’s going to have to do.”

“Oh, it sounds divine, darling.” Jude’s mother entered the kitchen in a flurry of yellow chiffon. “Anything you make is sure to be good. I mean, you and all of those lovely produce stands, right? Will you be a dear and zip me up? Thank heavens you cleaned up the blood. I simply could never have been a nurse. I hate hospitals. I’ve heard the Amish women have their babies at home. Will you and Jude use the hospital? I do hope so—they have a lovely florist. Do you like flowers? I do.”

Mrs. Lyons whirled around and Mary sought the zipper with unfamiliar fingers, her head ringing. Her own people held clothes together with clever pins and hooks and eyes, but she managed the yellow zipper with ease, unprepared for the quick hug and wash of perfumed scent as Jude’s mother expressed her gratitude. Then the older woman was gone from the kitchen as quickly as she’d come, and Mary shook her head.
I suppose it takes many kinds of different people to make a world . . . and I will not think about the idea of having Jude’s baby . . .

She grasped a large metal bowl with determination and began to poke into the cupboards and then inside the mammoth icebox,
nee
, refrigerator, looking for ingredients. At home, she would have used a mixture of ground beef and ground pork for the basis of the meat loaf, but she knew she had to settle for the white-wrapped package marked “Ground Round” in the refrigerator because she had no idea how to quickly thaw any of the meats in the deep freeze. Eggs were easy to find on a convenient shelf, but it made her homesick for a moment for the summer when she’d taught Jude how to hunt for stray nests.
But I’m here with him now . . . isn’t he my home ?
The question resonated too deeply for her to dwell on the issue as she began to assemble labeled spice jars with grateful hands.

She bit her lip when she realized she’d have to master the stove top in order to brown the bacon for the top of the meat loaf. But to her surprise, she followed the simple, circular drawings with a few quick turns of the black knobs and produced more constant heat than she could have found with her woodstove at any time.

She’d progressed to peeling the last of the potatoes when she was startled by the sound of the doorbell chiming an intricate ring. Soon the echoes of women’s laughter and chatter came closer and closer. Mary paused in mid-peel to look up as the kitchen door swung open and Mrs. Lyons entered, followed by five other women.

Mary felt enveloped by varying colors of dress and scents of perfume. It seemed there were more people like Jude’s mother in the world than she had realized.

“Ladies, meet my new daughter-in-law, Mary. Don’t ask about Carol—I love her, of course, but Jude . . . Don’t mind Mary’s dress—she’s Amish. You know Jude’s fascination with all things Amish. Her skin is positively flawless and the dear thing is making us meat loaf. Barbara, remember that meat loaf we had at the church dinner when Mitty died? I wish I had the recipe. I hope we’re not bothering you, dear, while you cook. I thought it would be fun for the ladies to meet you and see you work. Do you think you could make lasagna sometime? It’s the only thing I know how to bake.” Mrs. Lyons stared at her as Mary was surrounded by the interested guests.

“I . . .” Mary began.

Jude’s mother waved her hand in dismissal. “This is Barbara, and Eve, and Michelle, and Letty, and Jane. I’ll go check on the dining room seating.”

Mary nodded a cautious greeting as her mother-in-law fluttered out of the room, unsure whether to speak or to go on peeling.

“Is that your only dress?” Barbara asked, blinking heavily made-up green eyes.

“Did you make it yourself?” Michelle enquired, reaching to pick a slice of raw potato from the bowl on the counter.

“What did your family think about your marrying?” Eve questioned with a flick of her bejeweled wrist.

“Are there Amish in Georgia?” Letty murmured in a soft accent.

“And do tell us before Lydia gets back,” Jane, the youngest looking, demanded. “What’s it like to be with Jude? He’s simply gorgeous . . .”

All the ladies giggled as Mary tried to fathom the prying intimacy of the last question. She drew a deep breath. “I have more than one dress. I made them all myself. My father thinks Jude is
schmart
. . . smart, and he wanted the wedding. I don’t know about
Amisch
in Georgia; I’m from Pennsylvania. And . . . and what I do with my husband is always good.”
Though I bet it could get even better . . .
She rebuked herself silently for the naughty thought.

There was a distinct silence and Mary waited, wondering if she’d offended them somehow, but then they all broke into gales of laughter as Mrs. Lyons reentered the room.

“Having fun, darlings? Good. Let’s go have a drink, girls. I think Betty left a pitcher of something made up, and I can try my hand at serving you all. It’s almost like a slumber party, don’t you think? I used to have a pink sleepover bag with white elephants on it . . . so sweet.”

Mary spoke up with quick inspiration. “Mrs. Lyons?”

“Lydia, dear.”

“
Jah
, Lydia. I would be happy to serve you if you will all go and be seated.”

“That’s really nice,” Barbara said, reaching to pat Mary’s hand where she still held a potato.

“Wonderful!” Lydia cried. “Let’s go, darlings. I bought the most beautiful vase the other day at the antique store on Old Canton. I’ve got to show it to you all and . . .” Lydia moved on ahead as Jane leaned over to Mary.

“We’ll talk later,” the other younger woman whispered with a conspiratorial wink. “I want all the details.”

Jane left with the rest of the group and Mary half laughed aloud, breathing a sigh of relief as she went back to peeling with hurried hands.

Jude saw Betty safely tucked up in her bedroom on the third floor, gave her the pain medicine the ER had provided, then went in search of his wife. He heard the high-pitched laughter of his mother and her friends in the smaller dining room and was going to slip past when Mary exited the room carrying a large tray.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, surprised by the anger he felt in seeing her acting like a servant. He took the tray from her.

“Shh,” she warned and turned from him to head down one of the hallways toward the kitchen.

He stalked behind her trim form, his irritation growing. They entered the kitchen and he slid the tray onto a granite countertop while Mary began cutting slices of delicious-smelling pineapple upside-down cake.

“I know you can cook, but I did not expect my mother to make you serve,” he bit out.

She shook her head, not glancing up from the cake. “Jude, Betty was with you. Your mother had no one, and I don’t mind serving supper one bit. It’s kind of fun.”

“You’re my wife, not the cook or the maid.” If his voice held a ring of proprietorship, he didn’t want to think about it.

She did pause then in her deft cutting to blink wide hazel eyes at him. “I think you sound . . . what’s the word?
Ach
, snotty.
Jah
. We are commanded to serve one another.”

He wanted to grind his teeth at her accuracy but settled for snatching a red cherry from a circle of pineapple. She slapped his hand as if he were an errant child and he found his humor restored.

He sucked on the cherry, savoring its sweetness, then rounded the counter to gently remove the knife from her hand and lay it down. He put aside his resolutions of a few hours before and decided that a little light play might not hurt either of them.

“Jude, they’ll be wanting dessert soon.”

And so do I
. . . “I know.” He lowered his lashes. “But I think I need more sugar, maybe another cherry.” He sighed as if he were tired and had to suppress a feeling of chagrin at her sudden, intense concern.

“
Ach
, Jude, are you feeling faint? I’m sorry. Here.” She thrust her small hand into the glass jar of cherries sitting nearby and withdrew several, heedless of the sticky redness that ran in thin rivulets down her wrist.

He caught her hand and drew her wrist to his mouth, letting his teeth edge against the sweetness of her skin. She stood still, watching him, and he felt his cheeks heat with color but continued. He lapped at the juice and closed his eyes against the small sound of mingled shock and pleasure she made when his tongue crossed the pulse point in her wrist. Time had slowed to a lazy sprawl of moments as he worked his mouth to diligently remove every trace of sugary stickiness from her fingers and hand. Then he opened his eyes.

She was staring up at him, her fingers still clasping the three cherries she’d pulled from the jar. “Are you—feeling better?” Her voice was high and breathless, her breasts rising and falling.

“I need the cherries, I think,” he murmured with a trace of an apology. He twined the fingers of his right hand with hers, so that the sweet fruit was clasped between them. Then he bent his head. He felt the pulsing burn of his own skin as he licked across his fingers to get to hers and taste the first cherry.

 

 

She watched him in delicious fascination, her heart beating hard in her throat. She gripped the counter behind her with her free hand as his lips closed over the bright red fruit between her fingers.

“Mmm,” he murmured, his blue eyes narrowing. The sound reverberated down her backbone and forward to her belly, washing her in delicious sensation. Her lips parted and she longed to lean forward, to meet his mouth with her own, but she didn’t move.

She knew he angled his head to deepen the intensity of what he was so thoroughly doing with his clever mouth. He sucked hard at the juncture between her thumb and then licked his own skin again. “Oh, Mary,” he moaned. “We taste so good together. I—can’t . . .” Then he captured the second cherry with the tip of his tongue. He closed his damp mouth on the fresh redness and some instinct made her let go of the counter.

She trailed her fingers up to touch his lips, feeling the heat from his mouth. He half shook his head, in some distant protest, she knew, of her questing hand. But she also understood that he was too caught up in the moment with her to stop. Pleasure spiraled almost painfully through her as she nestled in to hear his ragged breathing and to see how dark his blue eyes had become. She stroked the remaining cherry caught between their fingers, and he made a tight, half-choked sound from the back of his throat.

“Well, well, son,” Ted Lyons barked out. “Dallying with the help? Unless, of course, this is your idea of research.”

Chapter Sixteen

Jude felt her jump at the mocking voice of his father, and the last cherry fell to the parquet floor like a drop of blood. Mary bent to pick it up but Jude caught her first, pulled her up straight beside him, and slid his arm around her shoulders in a comforting manner.

“Would—would you like some cake?” Mary asked his
daed
. The quaver in her voice brought anger surging through Jude’s already heated blood.

“He’s fine,” Jude snapped, then frowned as she looked at him askance.

His father laughed low. “Ah, Jude, I must congratulate you, a wife charming in both form and manner. What more could any man want?”

Jude loosed his arm from around Mary’s shoulders. “I’ll take the cake in to Mother, Mary. You’ve had a long day. Why not go up to bed?”

He saw her struggle with a protest, her feelings playing with rapidity over her expressive face. But her
Amisch
demeanor of wifely duty won out and she gave a quick bow of her head. “
Jah
, Jude
. Gut nacht . . .
Good night, Mr. Lyons.”

“Ted, honey. Call me, Ted.”

She nodded and slipped away from Jude, stepping with care over the cherry.

Jude turned to his father when she’d gone. “Go on, Dad. Say it.” He kept his voice quiet, not wanting to rouse his mother’s guests or his father’s further ire.

“What would you like me to say, Jude?”

Jude mentally tried to hang on to something, anything, that would give him a feeling of peace.
The other man at the Ice Mine . . . now, why would I think of that?
He drew a deep breath. “Say what you’ve said a hundred times over. That you want me to work at the company for you and give up Amish studies.”

His father snared a pineapple ring from the cake and swallowed it in one gulp. “Well, that might be a bit difficult now, son—since you saw fit to marry yourself to a pretty piece of it.”

“Leave her out of this,” Jude growled.

“Come on, son. I don’t blame you for it—I mean, look at her. But did you really think that I’d accept her—on any level? Ever? Because if you did, you’re a bigger fool than I’ve thought.” His father snatched a cherry up and tossed it in the air, but Jude caught it in an abrupt move before it could hit his dad’s mouth.

“Sorry, Dad. No bites this time. For you or your argument. I’ve got cake to serve.” He smashed the cherry on the counter and ignored his father’s sardonic grin. He caught up the cake and the knife and turned in one swift move.

“All right, Jude. Have your cake, but from what I’ve heard from the servants, you’re not getting to eat it too. Separate bedrooms, really? I thought your Amish were a bit more—earthy. You know, muck and mud and all that?”

Jude bit the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood.
I will not respond
. He hit the kitchen door with his hip, then turned to his father.

“Have a good night, Dad.”

He was pleased to see the brief shadow of confusion cross the older man’s face.

Jude left the kitchen, feeling his heart pound.
But for once, I held it together. Didn’t give up—didn’t give in.
His father’s words still burned in his mind, but something about remembering his fall at the Ice Mine made his heart slow to steadiness. And he went to serve the cake with a smile.

 

 

Mary broke off her listening at the kitchen door when she heard Jude’s father call his son a fool. She slipped with silent feet up the back stairs while her eyes welled with tears. The Amish took seriously the Bible’s command to “call no man a fool,” and to hear it hurled from a father to a son was almost more than she could bear. It didn’t matter what Mr. Lyons had said about accepting her; all she could think of was Jude growing up as a child under such meanness.

She gained her bedroom and paced, feeling restless and lonesome, her heart aching for Jude. She sat down at the delicate white desk and chair provided for her and drew out some paper and a pencil, deciding to write a letter home to her own family. Mr. Ellis, who’d housed Jude’s vehicle, got the mail for the mountaintop, and one of Ben Kauffman’s oldest
buwes
made a trip down to pick up and send every few days.

 

She licked the envelope, then looked up to see her door ease open and Bear’s gleaming eyes as Jude followed the dog into the room.

Mary swallowed hard as she put the letter down and buried her hands in Bear’s fur, wondering what in the world a wife might say to her husband at this kind of time to give him comfort. But then, like a fiery dart to her soul, she remembered that she was only a bride and found no true acceptance with the father Jude struggled against.

 

 

Jude watched her sitting at the desk, very upright, very Amish, and realized that he had no photograph of her to carry with him. He slid his cell phone from his pocket and approached her in the twilight of the fading day.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“Writing a letter back home.”

He frowned. “Are you homesick, Mary? I’ve never asked you yet.”

“
Ach, nee
. . . I . . . you’re here.”

He felt a surge of unexpected pleasure and something warm flooded his heart. “That’s right. I’m here. Here for you, sweetheart.”

She nodded, looking a bit confused, and he knelt down on the other side of Bear. “Mary, I want to ask you something that I know you won’t want to do.”

“Jah,”
she said slowly.

He held out his phone. “May I take a photograph of you? I know the rules, and the thing about graven images, but I want—I need . . .” He couldn’t seem to explain to himself why he needed her picture, and he stumbled over his words.

“Yes,” she said with determination. “Yes, you may.”

“What?” He blinked at her, at her unexpected agreeableness when he’d been forbidden to so much as take a picture of a squirrel all summer on the mountain.

“I said
jah
, Jude. Please.”

“Okaaay, that’s great. Thank you. But may I ask why you . . .”

“I want to give to you, to make up for your father calling you . . .”

Jude laughed at this unexpected admission. “Mary Lyons, were you eavesdropping?”

She flushed gracefully and he caught her hand in Bear’s fur.

“So your husband sends you to bed, but you do not obey as a good Amish woman should?”

She bit her lip and shook her head and he wanted to kiss her hard, right then. But he was also genuinely grateful that she wanted to be a balm to his spirits after his father’s mockery. And he didn’t want to lose the opportunity to have a photo of her.

She blinked after the brief flash of light and then Bear barked once, breaking the moment. Jude smiled and leaned forward to press a warm kiss on her forehead.

“Thank you, Mary. Have sweet dreams.”

He walked away, then gently closed the door between them, staring down at his phone.