The Amish Bride of Ice Mountain (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mary awoke to the distinct feeling of snow in the air and pushed back the quilt on her narrow bed to look out the frosted cabin window. Sure enough, the first snow of the season had come, and early too, as it was only the first week in October. She shivered as she dressed with quick fingers, unable to keep flashes of Jude out of her mind as she secured straight pins in her dress. But she was growing used to the pain of missing him and trying to pick up the threads of life here on the mountain. She refocused on the snow and hurried out to the kitchen to find the stove already going and Joseph making hot chocolate and coffee.

She gazed in appreciation at her tall older
bruder
. She and Joseph had become especially close since her return, and she accepted the mug of chocolate from him with shivering gratitude as she pulled a chair nearer to the stove.

“I think I’ll put baked beans in the oven for lunch and set the bread to rise and then go visit Rachel Miller. She said her stomach was upset at the quilting yesterday.”

Joseph sat down adjacent to her and stretched his long legs toward the stove. “You’re not happy, are you, Mary?”

“What?” she stuttered, burning her tongue on her drink.

“I know; I think I do anyway. Sometimes I get restless, feel like there’s got to be something more—maybe someone more,” he confided in a whisper.

“Joseph, is there someone, a girl here?”

“
Nee
. . . I seem to feel like I’ve known everyone and everything for too long at times. At least, well, at least you had the chance to see a difference, even though you cannot hide that it cost you.”

Mary reached out her hand to her
bruder
, who took it easily. “
Gott
has a plan,” she said.

He sighed. “I know. I guess you’re better waiting on it, though, than I am.”

She squeezed his hand in gratitude, then bustled about with the beans and brown sugar and bacon, intent on visiting with Rachel for a bit before the rest of the daily chores.

She pulled on her cloak and mittens, then set out, trudging through a good few inches of snow until she came to the path that led to Rachel’s house. She was surprised to see the snow marked by what seemed like dozens of cat paw prints, and she climbed the steps outside to be greeted by the frantic mewling of a variety of cats and kittens.

She scooped up two of the nearest felines, realizing they were hungry, and tapped on the door. No one answered. She tried the latch and it gave easily.

“Rachel?” she called as the cats streamed around her skirt.

A faint cough alerted her to Rachel’s presence and she made her way to the back bedroom. The cabin was freezing and the bedroom was even colder as she eased open the wooden door.

“Rachel!” she cried out when she realized that the window was wide open while the old woman lay in a voluminous nightdress beneath a light sheet on the bed.

“Rachel, what are you doing?” Mary grasped the other woman’s hand and Rachel opened her eyes to stare at Mary with fever-bright eyes.

“Early influenza, missy. Tryin’ to drive it off with the chill.” Rachel’s thick, wet cough alarmed Mary, who went to shut the window.

“I’ll go fetch
Grossmuder
May,” Mary announced as she piled spare quilts from a chest atop Rachel.

“Not yet,
sei se gut
, missy. I need—the chamber pot—bad.”

“Ach
, surely.” Mary hauled the covers back off and helped raise Rachel to a sitting position before bending to find the chamber pot beneath the end of the bed. She helped the woman with her needs, alarmed at the rabid heat of her body through her nightdress, then tucked her back up beneath the quilts.

Then she went to the small kitchen area and washed her hands and hurriedly set out what dry cat food she could find for the grateful cats. The sound of Rachel’s cough rang in Mary’s ears as she closed the door and noticed in a brief glance that one of the larger cats had killed a beaver and was sharing it with several of its mates. Then she took off running through the snow.

 

 

It had taken Jude a bit of time to roll things over in his mind, but the determination not to be like his father kept him moving. One day, he found himself actually at his parents’ home and decided that the afternoon was as good a time to enter as any, given that his father would probably be at work.

He got out of the Expedition in the warm sunshine of autumn, glad to see Bas when the older man greeted him at the door.

“Mr. Jude, sir.” The butler held out a hand and Jude brushed it away to hug him instead.

“Bas, is Mother in? How are Mrs. Bas and Betty?”

“Oh, all well, sir, thank you. But your mother’s gone to play Bunco and your . . . father . . . he’s at work.”

Jude clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s all right then. If you don’t mind, I’ll go and say hello to your wife and be on my way.”

“Certainly, sir. But—uh—Mr. Jude, there’s something I saved for you, if you’d like. I know it was presumptuous, but I thought . . .”

“What is it, Bas?”

“Your notes, sir. The research for your book on the Amish—you left so suddenly and I thought perhaps you forgot.”

Jude drew a deep breath. He wasn’t sure that he was ready to face the book or the lack of it, but then he remembered Mary’s note on the necessity of “embracing pain” and nodded to his old friend.

“All right, Bas. Let me have it. And—thanks.”

He left a half hour later with one of Mrs. Bas’s fruitcakes and an armful of yellow notebooks and single pages. He got into the Expedition and piled the lot on the passenger seat, glancing down once at the top sheet. “Mary as Research Project.”

“Well, Lyons,” he murmured aloud, throwing the vehicle into reverse. “That’s one project that didn’t turn out the way you’d hoped.” He met his own eyes in the rearview mirror and saw the raw emotion reflected there.
That’s one person who was never truly a project at all . . .

 

 

Word had a way of spreading throughout the Mountain
Amisch
community as if by invisible lips and sharp ears, but soon, everyone knew how very sick Rachel Miller was and who else in the community was ill.

Mary was surprised to learn that there were as many as ten other cases, all early influenza, or so
Grossmuder
May said as she was driven about in a sled from home to home. All had high fevers and all badly needed the chamber pot at regular intervals. This last bit seemed to puzzle the old healer, who spoke in an aside to Mary when she elected to stay and nurse Rachel for a time.

“I understand the fevers, headaches, and coughs, but the bowels . . . hmmm? I haven’t seen influenza quite this hard on the stomach region before.”

“But, Rachel—they’ll all be all right?” Mary felt anxious for some reason, especially when Rachel refused the fluids she needed so badly.

“As
Derr Herr
wills, child. But
jah
, they should recover in a few days.”

Mary saw the old healer to the door, then went back to Rachel’s bedside. She did some small chores for the woman and was adjusting the quilts when Rachel caught her hand.

“Where’s that man of yours, the professor? He would know what to do.”

Mary sighed. She knew Rachel had been told of Mary’s return along with the rest of the community, but her fever was making her talk out of her head.

“Jah
, he would know,” Mary agreed, alarmed at the faintness of the patient’s pulse as she checked it automatically. “Rachel, are you all right? Will you take a drink?”

Mary was panicked by the rattling sound that came from the old chest with abrupt suddenness.

Rachel smiled. “I’m swimmin’. In the crystal sea. It’s so . . .”

Mary felt for a pulse and couldn’t find it. “Rachel? Rachel!” she cried. Then she knew that she was in the Presence of something greater than her, beyond her, and she wanted to reach through the somethingness and nothingness and pull her old friend back to her. But her mind acknowledged what her heart would not; Rachel was dead. And Mary bent her head to pray ...

Chapter Twenty-Five

It was late October in Atlanta as Jude looked up from the small table in the restaurant where he was to meet Sam and Carol for lunch. He watched them enter together, laughing about something, and then they stood, openly giddy, at the table.

“Are you two going to sit? Or do I have to call the waitress to make you behave?”

Carol laughed out loud, careless of the looks she received. Jude wanted to groan at their infatuation.

“Jude, old man, I’ve—that is, we’ve got a favor to ask you.” Sam clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Okaaay.”

“We’re getting married!” Carol squealed. “Right now, during Sam’s lunch hour.”

“What?” Jude looked at them as if they’d lost their minds. “You’ve only been dating for what . . . Married? Sam?”

His friend had the grace to look sheepish but then turned an adoring glance back to Carol. “I want you to be my best man, Jude. Right now, will you? We’ve got a judge waiting and . . .”

Jude peered at them over his glasses, feeling old and stodgy. “Have you two thought about this? What about the wedding, the invitations, the reception?”

Carol waved a dismissive hand that sported a tiny diamond on a simple gold band. “Oh, Jude, I know things didn’t work out for you, but do we really need all those things when we have love?” She cuddled against Sam’s shoulder.

“I guess not,” Jude returned dryly. “All right.” He put down his napkin. “Who am I to judge? I’ll do it.”

Sam hugged him close. “Thanks, old man. And you can keep the studio while we go on our honeymoon. I’ve got a little nest egg saved and we’re jetting off across the pond.”

“To England.” Carol giggled.

“Uh-huh.”

“If we could hurry.” Sam laughed. “I’ve got to get back to teach a class, but we’re leaving right after. Carol’s going to find a receptionist at the courthouse to be her maid of honor or whatever.”

“Fine.” Jude couldn’t resist their beaming smiles. “It’s fine, really. Congratulations.” He hugged them both, then followed their hurried steps out of the restaurant.

Half an hour later, he waved them off—Mr. and Mrs. Riley—then stood undecided on the courthouse steps, alone and still hungry.

“Jude? Oh, Jude!”

He turned to see his mother rushing toward him and gave her a genuine smile.

“Mother, what are you doing here at the courthouse?”

She looked irritated for a moment. “A speeding ticket—I don’t want your father to know.”

Jude didn’t respond and she flushed. “I mean, well—never mind.”

He tucked her hand in his arm. “Let’s go get some lunch, shall we?”

“I’d love to, darling.”

He found an elegant bistro tucked away in one of the side streets and enjoyed some time with his parent, though she was careful not to mention his father again
. I suppose this is as good a time as any to talk about it . . .

His mother fished in her purse a moment, distracting him. “Oh, Jude. I almost forgot . . . a letter for you, dear. It’s—from Pennsylvania.”

“Thank you.” He took the envelope from her, noting the Coudersport postmark. It was dated six days earlier. He felt his heart begin to throb as he opened the letter and scanned the contents with growing franticness.

 

Jude reread the short missive once more.

“Jude, you’re pale, darling. Not bad news, I hope?”

“Mary’s sick.”
I fear for her, and this letter is six days old.

“Oh, dear, the poor child.”

Jude didn’t respond. He’d pulled out his cell phone and found, to his amazement, that he was praying inside. Over and over . . .
Dear God, dear Father in Heaven, let her be well, please let her be well . . .

“Sam?” he said into the phone quickly. “Yes, I know you’re leaving for your honeymoon. Look, do you still have that friend at the CDC in Atlanta? Mary’s very ill and I think there’s an epidemic in Pennsylvania on Ice Mountain . . .”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Mary was dreaming; she knew, on some level, that it was a fever dream, but she still felt entranced by its realness.

Jude was sitting in a desk chair, his shirt off, and his hair ruffled. He had on a pair of jeans and boots and was trying to coax her to come nearer.

But she was hot, clad only in her shift, and felt shy in front of him.

“Please,” he whispered, wanting something from her that caused confusion and delight to mingle together in the back of her mind.

She took a few steps closer to him, wondering what he’d do if she sat on his lap and caught her hands about his neck to stroke his throat.

Her fingertips tingled and she drew closer but then something blocked her feet. She gazed down to see a swirling mass of yellow note paper, churning and growing higher at the same time until it encircled her.

She was caught in a yellow cyclone of words and phrases and their movement seemed to steal her breath. She coughed, struggling, and cried out for Jude. But he was gone from the chair with only his words left behind to consume her.

 

 

Less than twenty-four hours after reading Joseph’s note, Jude led Dr. Julie Matthews and her intern, Kyle, both from the Centers for Disease Control, up Ice Mountain, with Bear barking joyously in the lead. Sam had friends in high places, apparently, as the disease specialist carried a bulk of supplies and medicines.

“I had a chance to skim some notes about the
Amisch
and polio vaccinations, Dr. Lyons,” Dr. Matthews said behind him, not winded by the climb.

“Call me Jude. Yes, but that wasn’t Mountain
Amisch
and I think, with people dying, we won’t have to go through a community approval to help. If the bishop agrees, then we’re good.”

“Excellent . . . Jude.”

There was enough lingering over his name for Jude to glance back at her once. She was pretty, in a professional sort of way, with dark hair and green eyes, but he did not need or want the attraction of his best potential help when Mary was sick.
I fear for her . . .
He increased the speed of his steps, ignoring the panting of Kyle, who lagged a few steps behind, carrying equipment.

They broke through the clearing at the top of the mountain and Jude let Bear off his lead. The dog took off in quivering, howling joy, and Jude followed with the team.

“We’ll stop at the bishop’s first
.” Because I have no idea how or if I’ll be received . . . Maybe they won’t even let me see her. Maybe it’s too late
. The thought made him sick, but he trudged on and they soon made the turn to Bishop Umble’s house.

Jude climbed the stairs and knocked on the wooden door, hope and fear mingling painfully in his chest.

 

 

“Her fever burns too high,” Joseph said wearily, lifting his hand from Mary’s head.

Mary heard the words from far away, heard her
fater
’s sobs . . .
Don’t cry,
Dat
. Don’t cry
. . . Snatches of a child’s rhyme she used to sing as a little girl ran through her mind like rivulets of heat and she thought she could see her
Mamm
. How strange, for she had no idea what her mother even looked like...

 

 

“And this woman doctor, she can help, do you think?” Bishop Umble stroked his long, gray beard and Jude nodded, concealing impatience. He wanted to see Mary.

But he knew he had to get past the bishop first, who strangely had mentioned nothing yet about the broken marriage but had urged Jude alone into the kitchen while his wife provided tea to the others.

“Yes, sir. Dr. Matthews studies different illnesses and helps decide what medicine might best treat them. I know Rachel Miller died . . . maybe that could have been prevented.”

“You would prevent
Gott
’s will?” the old man asked mildly.

Jude knew there was something going on here, something more than debate over medicine and doctors . . . He bent his head. “Perhaps it is God’s will that Rachel died, as my grandfather died recently. But please, sir . . .
sei se gut
. . . don’t let Mary die. Let me have a chance.”

The kind, wise old eyes studied him carefully. “Do you know why Mary said she left you?”

“I—uh . . .” Jude didn’t know what to say
. Because I’m an idiot. Because I expected too much.

“Because she was homesick.” Bishop Umble spoke with gentleness. “And you forgive her this?”

“Forgive—her?” Jude was confounded.
Was that what she told them?

“
Jah
, forgive her.”

Jude straightened his back. “Sir, there is nothing she’s done that requires my forgiveness. In fact, it is I who . . .”

The bishop held up a hand. “That’s fine then,
sohn.
I am sorry to hear of your grandfather’s passing. Both you and your help can move freely about the community with my blessing.”

“Yes, sir.
Danki
.” Jude shook the bishop’s hand with deep gratitude, then went to round up his team.

 

 

Jude once more knocked on the thick wooden door of Mary’s home with trepidation, but when Joseph opened it, he broke into a wan smile.

“
Ach
, Professor Lyons.
Kumme
in. I have prayed you might be here soon.”

Jude noted with alarm Joseph’s red-rimmed eyes and looked frantically toward Mary’s door. “Is she . . . how’s Mary?”

Joseph shook his head. “There’s nothing else to do, I think.”

“That’s where we come in,” Dr. Matthews asserted with quiet authority. “Show me where she is.”

Joseph looked at the woman and back to Jude, who gave a slight nod.

“This way.”

 

 

Jude was overwhelmed by the heavy smell of sickness as he entered Mary’s room. Abner King sat on her hope chest, blowing his nose, while Edward crouched in a corner, his head in his hands. Bear had secured a watchful spot at the base of the window.

Jude stepped to the bed and stared with horror at his wife’s shrunken features
. She’s so thin, and her eyes . . . Don’t die. Dear God, don’t let her die . . .

He felt for her hand beneath the pile of quilts.

“Jude? Jude?”

“Yes, Mary. I’m here,” he choked out.

Joseph spoke softly. “She doesn’t know. She’s called for you often, and said something else . . . over and over . . . that she’s a ‘research project,’ that she doesn’t want to be a research project. I expect it’s the fever talking.”

But Jude understood and his eyes filled with tears. He flashed back to the strewn yellow-paper notes that he’d walked on the night she’d left and then remembered the note on top of the pile from the Expedition.
She read my notes, my stupid meandering notes to myself. No wonder she left. Oh, Mar y . . .

“Professor Lyons? Jude? If you could move out of the way, we need to start an IV.”

There was faint impatience in Dr. Matthews’s tone and Jude stumbled back away from the bed.

“Kyle, load me up some antivirals, and then you and Jude go have a look round the first victim’s house, if you can. Find anything that looks like it matters. This is more than regular influenza; I can feel it.”

Jude didn’t want to leave the room, but he wanted to help. If it wasn’t simple influenza, then what else could it be?

Abner and the boys followed him into the kitchen like lost puppies. “You came.
Danki
for that.” Abner blew his nose and stared up at Jude.

“Of course I came, sir. Mary is—she’s . . .”

“Do you forgive her then,
sohn
? For deserting you? I would not want her to—to die—knowing she was unforgiven.”

Sohn . . . son.
Jude wanted to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness himself from his strange, short father-in-law. How could he explain what it felt like to be called
sohn
by this man, by Mary’s father?

“There is nothing to forgive,” he managed to say.

Abner patted his arm with a ham-like hand. “
Gut
, that’s
gut
.”

Jude put his hands on his father-in-law’s shoulders and shook him a bit. “And Mary is not dying . . . do you hear me? She’s not.”

Abner nodded. “All right . . . it’s only . . . her
mamm
. . . my wife . . .”

Jude shook harder. “She’s not!”
Not . . . not . . . not . . . Dear God . . .

 

 

Mary was consumed by light, embraced by it, as it shot from her fingers and toes. She knew great peace and sensed vibrant colors to rival those of the mountain in full autumn. She felt safe, calm, and peered ahead. But blocking her view was Jude, illuminated and standing hand in hand with himself, almost as if there were two of him . . .
A twin. His twin.

Mary smiled to herself; she didn’t want to leave the warmth, the cocooning feeling of endless hope, but two of Jude was reason enough to
kumme
back to her bed. Even if it was cold.