The Amish Bride of Ice Mountain (25 page)

Chapter Forty-Seven

Mary woke before Jude the morning of the Christmas program. It was only first light outside, but she could see the heavy flakes of snow falling and filling the windowsills outside. She turned on her side to study Jude as he slept, hating to wake him.

Her eyes drank in his tousled hair, the heavy fall of his eyelashes against his cheeks, and the strength of his bare throat and chest. He was so generous when he loved her, she thought with a delighted shiver, remembering the previous night. And he made her want to give to him all the more—of her body, mind, and heart.

She bit her lip and eased carefully atop him, loving the moment when his blue eyes opened, still drugged with sleep. His mouth curved in a faint smile as she felt him lift his hands to her hips.

“Mmm,” he murmured. “This is a nice way to wake up.”

“Is it?” She shifted slightly against him and watched him arch his throat with a sharp, indrawn cry.

“Jah,”
he gasped.

She bent to kiss him deeply, savoring the taste and feel of him, and relishing the fact that she’d started his potentially difficult day with pleasure.

 

 

Jude was thankful that Ben Kauffman had instructed Daniel to shovel the steps and start the fire in the woodstove early at school. The boy had then returned home for breakfast, leaving Jude plenty of time to set out the folding wooden chairs he’d found in a side closet and to pray that all would go well that day.

For some reason, as he stood, taking in the cheerful decorations and the beautifully carved crèche, he thought of his book and all the ambitions he’d had a year ago. Yet here he was, in the middle of a schoolroom out of the nineteenth century, his feet planted firmly on the uneven hardwoods, feeling like he was as centered as he’d ever been in his life. It was a momentary flash, a granted personal insight, but it sustained him as the students began to arrive, followed by the adult members of the community.

 

 

Jude nodded encouragingly to the class of five first graders who were to sing the
Englisch
version of “Away in a Manger.”

He had to smile to himself as Mahlon Mast’s son puffed out his chest and belted the carol with operatic intent, despite all of their practice. His co-choir frowned and struggled along, but Samuel carried the tune and ended a good twenty seconds before the others.

As expected, there was no applause—only some laughter from the crowd. The
Amisch
liked to hold their clapping until the end of things and only showed approval if it was well deserved.

Daniel Kauffman and the other boys who’d carved the crèche got up to tell individual parts of the Christmas story, then surprised Jude by giving an impromptu lesson in woodworking when describing how they’d turned the cows’ legs on the lathe.

Tabitha held Lucy Lapp’s hand and joined some other girls in reciting bits of poetry they’d written about God’s creation of winter and what He must have been thinking.

And Rob rounded things off by singing a sweet medley of catchy
Englisch
carol refrains, while Jude held the waste can close by.

Then the whole class sang a verse of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and Jude rose to his feet.

He stepped in front of the lectern and his eyes swept the crowded schoolroom until he found Mary’s eager face and shining eyes. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat.

“I think there’s no reason to guard against vanity today, as the
kinner
here have done such a
wunderbaar
job.” He lifted his hands to clap and was pleased by the resounding echo that came from the community.

When the room quieted, he tried to marshal his thoughts and found he had no idea what to say.
Please
Gott
, help me out . . .
His eyes drifted to Mahlon Mast’s steady face, and something shifted in his heart. He grasped the lectern and began to speak.

“As you all know, Bishop Umble’s got a bad throat, but he let me know that he wanted me to speak, so here we go. I know it may seem strange to talk about something other than the Christmas story, but you each have given me part of Christmas every day here on Ice Mountain. You’ve all helped me to find true joy and true peace.

“But most importantly,” he continued, “you’ve taught me what it means to be a father, to have a father, and to understand
Gott
as my Father. In learning this, I—I’ve discovered that I am able to feel forgiveness for my earthly father and to accept that we may never have the relationship that I’ve wanted for nearly all my life.” He paused to open Mary’s Bible in front of him. “I won’t read it word for word, but in here, I’ve learned that it is my privilege, but also my right, to call God—Abba—which in Aramaic means Daddy—
Der Daadi
. I could never say this as a child to my own father—it never fit.”

Jude paused and swallowed when he saw Mahlon Mast take out a blue handkerchief and wipe at his eyes while his wife patted his arm.

“It never fit . . . and maybe it didn’t or doesn’t for some of you, but it always fits with God. And, I’ll close by saying that someone very wise and dear once told me that God puts us in families. I realize now that she was right, and if I hadn’t experienced the loss of having the father I wanted, I could never appreciate in truth the One I have today. Thank you all.”

He sat down at his desk in the still silence, wondering if he’d said too much or too little when the community burst into thunderous applause. Jude knew it was both acknowledgment of his words and, more importantly, praise for the Father above, and his heart was glad.

 

 

Mary caught him in her arms afterward, careless of who saw or watched.

“
Ach
, Jude, it was so
wunderbaar
, really.”

She felt him smile against her mouth as he swung her around once. Then he bent to whisper in her ear. “I’m so glad it’s over because I have plans for you, Mrs. Lyons, my dutiful student . . .”

She laughed out loud and met his gaze with a bold one of her own. “Always and willing, sir.”

He grinned and took her hand.
“Gut.”

Then she joined him in a round of Christmas cookies and hot apple cider as they bid farewell to the students and families for the upcoming holiday break.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Late that night, Jude shivered in pleasure and spread the fall of her hair across his chest. “You know, before my grandfather died, he told me not to believe you about something . . . what do you think he meant by that?”

She played with clever fingers at his waist and shrugged. “He must have known the truth somehow.”

“The . . . truth?” he managed to say.

“That from the beginning, I’ve wanted a marriage with you, not simply a wedding. I’ve wanted to be a wife, not—not merely a bride.”

“And you are my wife in truth.” He shifted his hips. “Not only the wife of my body, but of my heart and my mind, and my soul . . . the wife of all that I have to give and to learn and to be.”

“And that response deserves a gift,” she said.

“What is it?” he asked with a smile and genuine curiosity as she padded back to their bed with a small package.

“Henry Miller found it when he was going through Rachel’s things . . . I guess I must have mentioned it to him, but . . .”

She paused as he unrolled the brown paper and pulled out an exact replica of the Ice Mine snow globe that his grandfather had once had.

“Oh, Mary,” he whispered, shaking the dome so that the gentle snow fell inside the little world. “I never expected to find another of these, but maybe Henry would like to keep . . .”

“Henry gave it to me, and I am giving it to you—so that you’ll always remember Ice Mountain and the bride you found there.”

“So that I’ll always remember that true love makes all things new.” He put the globe down on the floor and pulled her close.

And she reveled in his fervent touch as he began the art of lovemaking once more . . .

Epilogue

On the first clear Sunday of spring, Jude lit the lamp in the Ice Mine and lifted it high to shine on the walls now forming their seasonal coating of ice. He kept a hand on Mary’s arm, holding her far back from the edge of the deep mine, and smiled down at her when she would have protested.

“No chances of any kind,” he said, his voice echoing softly in the cave.

“You know Dr. McCaully says that everything is going well, and the first trimester is up in a few weeks,” she reminded him.

He put his arm around her and pulled her close, letting his hand stay still against her fragile rib cage. “I won’t relax until the last day of this pregnancy is up.”

“You’d think you would be more excited about the bishop’s approval of your self-publishing your book.”

He bent and nuzzled her throat against the top of her cape. “No, sweetheart, there will never be anything more important to me than you, our baby, and the world here on Ice Mountain.”

He lifted his head as a shadow fell across the opening to the mine. Joseph appeared, looking both nervous and excited. “The driver’s here to take me and Edward. I guess we’d better say
macht-gut
.”

Jude helped Mary walk out into the damp sunlight, blinking at the baby green color that had started to infuse the mountains surrounding them. He watched his wife hug her
bruders
, and then he too embraced each one.

Edward walked to the car, visibly anxious to get going, but Joseph lingered for a moment.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said finally, then turned to get in the gas company car and waved as they drove off.

Jude looked down as Mary nestled close to him.

“Why does Joseph sound like he’s trying to convince himself?” she asked.

Jude smiled at her. “Because I think he is trying.” Then he pulled her nearer and laid his hand on her stomach. “But this place changes a man and I don’t think anyone can truly leave it, even if they’re a world away.”

She put her arms around his neck and he responded with a tender kiss on her mouth, tasting her warmth and the resonance of his words in her heart.

You can visit the
Amisch
of Ice Mountain again next May with

AN AMISH MAN OF ICE MOUNTAIN.

 

 

He worked from dark to dark; four weeks on, two weeks off. The work was exhausting—mentally, physically, and spiritually, but twenty-three-year-old
Amisch
Joseph King was used to hard living. More than anything though, he was driven by the need to keep his younger
bruder
, Edward, safe from the world’s influence, and if that meant being a roughneck on a gas rig in the middle of nowhere, then so be it.

“I don’t see that you clocked out yet, Aim-ish! You still belong to me for the next three minutes unless you’d like to go back to mucking manure!” The resonating scream of the shift’s “Push,” Edmunds, the man who was paid to keep the fellas moving, startled Joseph despite the man’s continual yelling. He tried to catch himself on the icy single support bar of the metal walkway in the unseasonable sleet. But he lost his footing and his big body went down hard, slamming his right cheekbone into the muddy slush at his superior’s booted feet.

Edmunds and the crew nearby roared with echoing laughter as Joseph got up.

“You can add another minute onto my time, Mr. Edmunds,” Joseph said evenly, wiping at his face with the long sleeve of his coveralls and pushing his dark hair back beneath his hard hat. He resisted the urge to glance in Edward’s direction. His
bruder
would probably be looking as shamed as Joseph should feel, but he’d learned, since coming to the rigs, to let a lot roll off his back.
This time it happens to be sleet . . .
He edged past Edmunds and the few other men gathered and made his way down the catwalk, looking at gauges, until he reached his younger
bruder
, who was leaning near a steam heater, with a dangerous look of apathy on his twenty-one-year-old face.

“What are you doing?” Joseph snapped. “Straighten up. You know how easy it is to get too comfortable around this equipment. Do you want to get burned?”

“At least I’m not falling on my face,” Edward drawled, half joking, the overhead lights playing on his blue eyes and fair hair.
They were complete opposites
, Joseph thought with sudden insight. Edward as fair as he was dark, and his brother’s disposition was carefree while he . . .

The shift whistle blew, and Joseph frowned, staring out into the dark fields beyond the artificially lit rig. His brother’s insolence didn’t hurt half as much as the discord and loneliness he felt whenever their two weeks off came up. It was too long a drive to go home to Ice Mountain—not that he would ever drive, of course. But he also knew that getting a ride would make it even more difficult to come back. It was enough, he supposed, that Bishop Umble hadn’t suggested they be shunned for doing such work—yet.

He sighed aloud and couldn’t wait for the luxury of a hot bath and dry clothes, which he knew he could get at the Bear Claw Inn, four miles from the site. Joseph much preferred the Inn for time off than the so-called “man camps” that were on the drilling site itself. Even though the man camps had catered food and the opportunity to have laundry done, there was too much alcohol about for Joseph and his
Amisch
upbringing, though it didn’t seem to bother Edward—which was exactly why it troubled Joseph. His younger
bruder
fell too easily into drinking and playing cards during off time.

Now, they climbed down from the rig and Joseph clambered wearily into the cab of the company truck, pushing aside beer cans and potato chip bags from beneath his feet to make room for Edward beside him. Big Moe, a Texan roughneck, was driving.

“Whoo-ee! You boys stink to high heaven—sweat and wet dog got nuthin’ on you two.”

“Thanks, Moe,” Joseph muttered dryly. He was trying to control the shivering that was part and parcel of twelve hours of standing in the sleet.

“So, y’all been here for two months thereabouts—you ready to go home yet?”

Edward grunted, “I don’t quit,” and Joseph elbowed him, knowing Big Moe was trying to make conversation.

“Ahh, I used to feel like that myself some ’til my girls came along.” Moe smiled. “Now I’d do anything to be home with my wife and daughters, but there don’t seem a better way to make money. Those young’uns go through clothes faster than a weevil through wheat and it’s my job to take care of them.”

“‘So
Gott
made a roughneck . . . ’” Joseph murmured.

“What’s that, Joe?” the Texan asked, pausing to let another company truck ease out in front of him.

“Ach
, nothing. Well, something I read actually—about how God made a roughneck.”

“You read too much,” Edward sighed.

“How’s it go?” Moe asked, interested.

“I can’t remember the whole thing, but it was something like . . . “God said, ‘I need somebody who understands the dignity of work—work that isn’t pleasant or easy, but is rewarding, who takes pride in what they do, for they know that the work they do will . . . help others’—so God made a roughneck.’”

The truck bumped along and Joseph listened to the sudden silence in the cab until Moe cleared his throat. “That’s right pretty like. Makes a man feel he can hang on awhile if he knows God’s behind him—thanks, Joe.”

Joseph nodded, glancing sideways at his
bruder
, who appeared to have fallen asleep.
Maybe I do read too much
. . . He sighed to himself and concentrated on the welcoming bright lights of the inn up ahead.

 

 

Mary “Mama” Malizza ran the Bear Claw Inn with a soft heart and an iron hand. She knew how to handle rough men and understood that most of the time, roughness was a necessary guard against homesickness, weariness, and loneliness.

But the beautiful red-haired slip of a girl who stood before her desk now proved as tenacious as the most moody of her male customers, and Mary was uncertain exactly how to proceed.

“You say you’re twenty-one?” Mary asked again, buying time.
The kid looks about seventeen . . . maybe I’m getting old.

“Yes.” The girl’s voice was melodic and soft, maybe too soft for her to be any kind of a waitress at the inn, but there was something about the girl’s blue eyes that made Mary think of a proud, starving cat. And besides, she liked gumption when she saw it.

“You got a man?”

There, that made Miss Red-Head flinch
. . . But Mary had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that she’d touched a painful nerve from the way the girl straightened her shoulders even more.

“No, no—man.”

There was something wry about the way the girl said it that made Mary decide to leave the subject alone.

“Well, I run a clean place, as far as can be, and I won’t harbor no runaways. I ran away when I was about your age and nearly killed my Ma, and I won’t . . .”

“My mother’s already dead.”

“Oh,” Mary said, deflated. “Well . . . we’ll give it a week’s trial and no hard feelings if it don’t work. You can start tonight because I’m short-handed. But those trays are heavy and the men are hungry, and some might be hungry for a pretty little thing like you. Most ain’t seen so much as a hair of a woman for a long month’s time.”

“I understand,” the girl said, visibly relieved now that the brief interview was over.

Mary thought of something as she looked down at the sketchily filled in application in front of her. “Hey, you don’t list an address. I don’t have any rooms open for board.”

The girl flushed a bit but lifted her chin. “I wasn’t certain of the last digit of the zip code. I have an apartment down the road but I moved only this week. I’ll get the information for you tomorrow. Do you mind if I run out to my car for a minute?”

“Sure, but I don’t hold with smoking—from the workers or the men on premises. I got asthma.”

The girl shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t smoke.”

Mary nodded, half satisfied, then peered again at the application. “I can’t make it out. How’d you spell your name? I need it for your waitress tag.”

“Oh, it’s Priscilla.” The girl gave the appropriate spelling, then slipped out of the office.

Mary shook her head.
The kid won’t last a week . . .