The Amish Bride of Ice Mountain (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

“Are you out of your mind? Is your fever back? That kid tried to rape you, do you remember?” Jude hissed the words, furious with her.

But she merely turned serene eyes on him and half smiled. “I’m choosing not to remember. You know, forgiveness?”

“That’s all well and good in theory, but you cannot trust him. You cannot be alone with him.”

“I didn’t say that I would be.
Herr
Mast will be here.”

“No, absolutely not, that guy is a loon.”

He watched her think for a moment. “Well, you could always help me.”

He was speechless for a moment, then took her arm and led her farther into the shadows of the barn, realizing they were attracting attention. “Mary, I don’t want to take care of that freak . . . the world would be well rid of him, in fact.”

“I’m not listening to this.” She turned to go and he realized how serious she was.

“All right.” His voice stopped her and she slowly turned back to face him. “All right, I’ll help you. But you are never to be alone with him, not even for a few seconds, out of his head with fever or not . . . agreed?”

“
Jah
, agreed.
Danki
, Jude.”

Jude closed his eyes for a second on the wash of anger that still surged through him.
And she’s just getting over being sick . . . It’s a good thing Julie Matthews left antibiotics . . .

He realized that Mary had gone on ahead and hurried to catch up with her. Henry Miller’s wife opened the door to the family’s home, then allowed Mahlon and the men now helping him to carry Isaac Mast into the main-floor master bedroom.

Jude saw that Mary’s
bruder
, Joseph, walked beside him. “Why is she doing this?” the younger man asked.

Jude shrugged. “Do you think I understand a woman’s mind?”

Joseph didn’t respond and Jude’s frown deepened as he saw Mary standing by the bed, bent over the unconscious Isaac Mast, with her hand on his brow.

 

 

Mary’s heart raced and she had to keep her hand from shaking as she touched the man who had meant to do her so much harm. She didn’t know what had compelled her to move from her place after service to go and offer help to Mahlon Mast. She only understood that somehow the bishop’s talk had touched her deep inside and she wanted to live out what she had been taught. And also, if she was honest with herself, there had been a small voice inside, prompting her, moving her, and she knew that she had to obey.

“How long has he been this way?” she asked.

“Found him this morning, out in the snow, outside the cabin. He hasn’t been back since yer man ran him off the mountain.”

“He needs the medicine the
Englisch
doctor brought . . . Did the rest of your family get a shot or medicine to take?” Mary asked, deciding to ignore the negative comment.

“We don’t need none of that. Ain’t nobody sick at our place.”

“Well, Isaac is and . . .”

“And you don’t need to be tendin’ him none. I told you once, you’re a hex.”

“Mr. Mast, if you’d be so kind as to not be rude to my wife, I’d deeply appreciate it. Because, you know, it’s a merciful thing that she’s willing to do.” Mary heard Jude’s low voice come level and clear as people left the bedroom.

Only the bishop and Henry and Esther Miller stood by. Mary looked at Jude with gratitude as he came to stand at the foot of the bed and stared down with a solemn expression at Isaac.

“Now, Joseph’s gone for my knapsack and we’ll try some medicine for your son, and with that, you’ll have to be content.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, you—
Englischer
,” Mahlon bit out.

“Enough.” The bishop spoke with calm authority. “Mary, do you feel well enough and called to give care to this young man?”

“Jah
, I do.”

“And I’ll help her,” Jude added.

“Fair enough, and I’m sure Henry and Esther will join you?”

The Millers nodded in accord.

“All right then, Mahlon, go on home to the rest of your family. We’ll send word when he’s better.” The bishop turned in dismissal and Mary watched Isaac’s
fater
stomp out of the room.

“Jude, I’ll expect you at my house tonight and, Mary, you’ll go home to your
dat
’s. I don’t want you tiring yourself.”

Mary nodded, though she bit her lip as she felt Isaac’s forehead once more.

“What is it?” Jude asked.

“He is so feverish . . . and lying in the snow . . . for who knows how long . . .
Ach
, Jude, I hope he lives. I pray that he lives.”

“That is beyond us and up to
Derr Herr
,” the bishop admonished gently. “It is enough that we will care for him our best and with well-intentioned hearts.”

Mary murmured in agreement but didn’t look at Jude, because she knew where his heart lay in regard to Isaac.

 

 

Jude couldn’t help thinking of the
Amisch
school shootings that had happened a few years earlier and the world’s amazement at the
Amisch
response to the family of the shooter. They had expressed kindness and forgiveness, mercy and grace. And their outpouring of love had been an example to live by for the entire world.
So why should I expect any less of Mary?

He glanced at the small wind-up clock by the bed as Mary held a damp cloth to Isaac Mast’s forehead. Two o’clock in the afternoon. He was glad the bishop had expressed his wishes for Mary to return home in the evening to get a good night’s rest . . .
Even if she’ll be sleeping alone for a month.
He shifted in his chair, then spoke without thinking in the quiet room.

“I love you.”

“What?” she asked, looking startled.

He leaned forward in his chair and locked eyes with her. “I said . . . I love you.”

“
Ach
, Jude . . . I love you too.”

She flushed prettily and he wanted to go and kiss her, but he leaned back instead, feeling his heart beat and knowing gratitude at simply being alive in her presence.

“Gut,”
he murmured. “That’s so good.”

He wanted to say more but Esther Miller entered with a clean basin of water. “How is he?” she asked.

Jude watched Mary refocus and was pleased at the slightly dazed look in her eyes.
I probably look the same.

“I think he grows no worse, but no better either. I suppose it will take time for the medicine to work,” Mary said finally.

“I will sit with him for a while and keep the door ajar. I’ve prepared a meal for you. Please, wash up and go and eat.” Esther straightened the covers and prepared to take up watch.

Jude thanked her and took Mary’s hand as they went to wash up at the kitchen sink pump.

Then he noticed the loaded table and his stomach rumbled. But Henry was not yet seated. Instead, he stood over a pile of men’s
Amisch
clothes on the couch in the living area.

“Used to be quite a bit thinner some years back,” the older man said, patting his stomach with a smile. “I’ve had these things in the back of the closet and thought you might like to have them, Jude, seeing how you’re becoming
Amisch
and all that.”

Jude walked over to shake the farmer’s work-worn hand. “Thank you, Henry. I’ll put something on right now before lunch.”

He selected some clothes from the ample pile and turned to smile at Mary. She dropped her gaze with a faint blush and fiddled with a napkin at the table while he strode to a smaller side room and got dressed.

There was no mirror, so he wasn’t completely sure how he looked. The clothes fit quite well, though, even if they did feel odd. He straightened his suspenders and opened the door.

 

 

Mary turned to see him walk with visible self-consciousness into the room. But he needn’t have worried.
My, but he looks wunderbaar!
She’d never seen any man appear so handsome in
Amisch
dress before, and even as she chastised herself for being so interested in outward appearances, she found that she couldn’t drag her eyes away from him. He’d chosen a forest green shirt, and the black pants and suspenders seemed to fit him more than well, emphasizing his lean waist and the broad expanse of his shoulders.

Henry Miller too seemed to have no concern for guarding against vanity, because he laughed outright in pleasure when Jude appeared. “Well, now, that’s fine. More than fine. You look like you were born
Amisch, buwe
!”

“Danki,”
Jude returned, then glanced at her. “Mary, what do you think?”

She looked into his blue eyes and smiled, strange feelings churning and tightening in her belly. “You look . . . great.”

Henry laughed again. “Now there’s an
Englisch
word for you—great!
Kumme
, let’s eat so that Esther may take a turn. I think the food will be—great.”

Mary had to smile at Henry’s humor and went to the table to eat, secretly eyeing her husband all the while.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The hours of the afternoon lingered on, and Isaac Mast grew no better. Jude sat beside the young man on the bed and didn’t like the increase in the patient’s pulse. He turned to look at Mary, who’d finally agreed to sit in the chair and rest for a few minutes.

“What is it?” she asked as Mast coughed laboriously.

“I’ve given him everything that Julie Matthews left and then some. I’m afraid the influenza may have settled deep in his chest. I don’t like the way he’s breathing or how his pulse is galloping.”

“What can we do? Perhaps
Grossmuder
May?”

“No,” Jude replied. “She’s still recovering herself, I heard. I suppose I could give him some syrup of ipecac and try to get him to throw up a little of the congestion in his chest, but then he also might aspirate . . . I don’t know whether to risk it. What he needs is a hospital, but I think the trip itself might kill him.”

“We have to do something,” Mary insisted.

Jude drew a deep breath and put his arm beneath Mast’s shoulders, raising him. He held the ipecac bottle poised at the bluish lips and wished he had thought first of an empty syringe, but suddenly Mast’s eyes opened and he stared up at Jude with a strange fervor.

Jude slowly eased him back against the pillows, arranging him so that he was semi-propped up. “Isaac? It’s Jude Lyons . . .”

The dilated pupils focused and Jude once more saw an odd distance that disturbed him.

“Ma—Mary,” Isaac gasped.

Jude had to suppress a rush of anger at the mention of his wife’s name, but he realized how sick Mast was and turned to Mary.

“He’s asking for you.”

Mary rose from the chair and Jude slid back out of the way so that she could sit near Mast, but Jude kept a firm hold on her shoulder, not willing to risk anything.

“Jah
, Isaac, it’s Mary.”

Mast began to move in an agitated manner and Jude almost drew her back, but she caught one of the patient’s flailing hands in her own and he seemed to settle a bit.

“Mary . . . I was wrong. Going to hell.”

“
Ach, nee
, Isaac.
Gott
forgives. I forgive you. That’s why I’m—we’re—working to help you get well.”

Jude saw a spasm of pain cross Mast’s face as he coughed again and shook his shaggy head. “No—getting well. Dying . . . I deserve . . .”

“We all deserve to die,” Jude said roughly. “You’ll pull through.”
Now, where did that come from?

Mary reached up to touch the hand he held on her shoulder and he grasped her fingers. “Jude,” she whispered. “Rachel was like this. Maybe Henry should go for Isaac’s family.”

“Nee
.” Mast coughed, this time so long and hard that blood and spittle appeared on the edge of his mouth. Then his strange eyes became fixed and his body heaved once and went limp.

Jude pulled Mary out of the way and bent his head to listen to Mast’s chest. Then he began to do chest compressions. “Come on! Come on, Mast! Breathe.” He continued for several moments until he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Jude looked over his shoulder to see Henry, standing tall and sober beside him.

“It’s
nee gut, sohn. Derr Herr
has taken him.”

Jude slackened his touch and bowed his head. For some strange reason, he felt like bawling.

 

 

Mary withdrew into a corner of the Millers’ couch as the bishop and Mahlon Mast arrived. Jude came and sat beside her.

“We did what we could,” he said, but his tone was dull and she looked hard at him in the fading afternoon light.

“We did, but Jude, are you all right? I mean, I know you told me about being with your grandfather when he died . . . and now Isaac.”

“It’s not that. I-I said things earlier today that I shouldn’t have—about Mast not being around. I was wrong, and even though I still didn’t trust him, I felt . . . pity or something for him.”

“Mercy?” she suggested, realizing she’d felt it too.

“Yeah . . . mercy.” He seemed to taste the word on his tongue, then leaned forward to put his head in his hands. “The whole time that kid was dying, I was thinking about my father on some level. I want—I want to let go of the anger I feel toward my father. But I don’t know how to do that.”

“Isn’t there an
Englisch
saying that, ‘People need mercy the most when they deserve it the least’? That’s true, I think.”

She watched him lean back and stretch out his long legs in their black
Amisch
pants. “It is true, I suppose, and I . . .”

“
Hex!
You’re a witch, I say, like your mother before you, and you killed my
sohn
!” Mahlon Mast stood less than three feet away from the couch and pointed down at Mary, his face red with rage.

Jude stood up and Mary resisted the urge to sink farther back into the couch.

“Look, Mast, I’m sorry about your son—I really am, but I will not let you call my wife a witch. Isaac apologized to Mary before he passed; he knew she was trying to help him,” Jude snapped.

“Liar!” Mast snarled.

Mary watched the bishop edge with slow dignity between the two men. “That’s enough. Mahlon, you will not do this; it is your pain and loss speaking. It should bring you comfort to know that Isaac asked for forgiveness for his actions before he died. Go home to your wife and other children and tell them the news. I will join you shortly.”

Mary saw the struggle in Mahlon’s face, but he finally nodded and jerked away, leaving with a loud slam of the front door.

“Is that guy a threat to my wife?” Jude asked. “Because he acts like an idiot.”

“If you’re going to be
Amisch
,” the bishop suggested mildly, “you might refrain from calling others idiots—you might think it, but cast out the thought. And
nee
, I don’t believe that Mahlon Mast is a threat to anyone but himself. He has always been . . . odd in nature.”

Mary spoke up with hesitancy. “Bishop Umble, he mentioned my
mamm
—like my mother before me—why is that?”

The bishop glanced at Henry Miller, then back to her. “Mahlon Mast once had a fancy for your mother when they were both young, but she chose your
fater
. I don’t think Mahlon’s ever forgotten.”

“Well, he’d better forget. I don’t want any trouble,” Jude said, reaching up as if to ease an ache in the back of his neck. Mary had the urge to massage the tension from him and folded her fingers at the sudden heat in her hands.

“There will be no trouble,” the bishop assured him. “Right now, I expect some of the women will have heard about Isaac and will be coming to help prepare the body for burial. Henry, would you mind taking Mary home on the sled? I’ll see to you,
sohn
.” He gestured to Jude, who blew out what sounded like a disgusted breath.

“You mean I can’t even see my wife to her door?”

“Nee.”
The bishop shook his head. “But you may go and visit, er, um, court with her tonight when all the others have gone to sleep in her house. But you’re not to be seen by anyone entering or leaving . . .”

Mary had to suppress a giggle at the look of pure joy that crossed Jude’s face. And despite the sad and exhausting afternoon, she decided that she liked the idea of courting with her husband.

 

 

“So, I’ve read about
Amisch
courtship, of course, but what really goes on when young couples meet and no one’s around?” Jude asked, eyeing the bishop over the rim of a mug and trying to gauge what his boundaries were in courting his wife.

“What do you mean, ‘What goes on’? What do you think goes on?” The old man gave him a placid look and Jude wanted to grind his teeth. He’d waited hours for the bishop to return home from visiting with the Mast family, and now it was dark and the moon was full. He knew Abner and Mary’s
bruders
would soon be asleep and he was anxious to be gone.

“Even when our young couples practiced bundling, there was nothing going on,” the bishop finally conceded.

“Bundling? You mean bed courtship, where nothing but a bundling board separated the engaged couple in a bed?”

The bishop sniffed. “Fully clothed, mind you. And sometimes the man was sewn into a snug sack—as a matter of fact, I was . . . up to my neck.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Jude muttered.

“The purpose of courtship is to meet, get to know one another, steal a kiss or two, and make plans for the wedding.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I seem to have gotten the last two down.” Jude drained his mug and went to the sink to wash it up. Then he returned to stand by the table while the bishop peered up at him.

“Well, Jude Lyons, let’s agree that you did things a bit out of order, so why not spend your courtship time getting to know Mary better?”

“I know her.”
Not in the biblical sense, but . . .

“What’s her favorite season?”

“I—uh . . .”

“Her deepest fear? Her best memory? What secret does she hold closest to her heart?” The bishop thumped the table with each question.

“Hey . . . what’s—what’s your wife’s favorite color?” Jude returned, feeling cornered.

“Blue,” the old man answered unequivocally. “And don’t bother telling me you know Mary’s. So, like I said, get to know her a little.”

Jude knew how to accept defeat gracefully. He smiled at his mentor and nodded. “All right. You win. I’ll try.”

“
Gut
man.”

But I’m not promising to refrain from kissing her sweet mouth . . .
And he knew an aching satisfaction at the thought.