The Amish Christmas Sleigh (25 page)

P
ROLOGUE

 

H
e was fascinated by the work his
grossdaudi
did deep in the woods, all of the mixing and heat and bubbling. But when he reached to touch the copper tubing, his grandfather gave him a slap in the mouth that sent him reeling across the forest floor. He slowly got to his feet, looking up at his
grossdaudi
as he wiped the blood from his mouth. For a moment something wavered in the old man's eyes that he didn't understand, but then his grandfather bent over the spout and poured a portion of clear liquid into a mason jar and handed it to him.

“Drink it,” the old man commanded.

He drank. The stuff burned the back of his throat like fire and he choked and coughed. His
grossdaudi
laughed. “You'll soon get used to it
, buwe
.”

And he did. He found, at eight years of age, that the liquid calmed him after the burn, made him feel warm and tight in his belly, in the place in his heart where he missed his dead
mamm
the most. But it was his and
grossdaudi
's secret—that clear liquid fire . . . Not for any on Ice Mountain to know. And he drank . . .

C
HAPTER
1

 

T
he late-day summer storm came up fast and furious, splattering twenty-one-year-old
Amisch
Edward King with leaves and small branches as he dragged his tall frame from the damp pine-needle floor of the forest. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, gave up his hat for lost, and decided he'd better seek shelter as soon as possible.

Then he remembered . . . His
aulder bruder,
Joseph, had essentially kicked him out of the
haus
that afternoon for drinking and other things he'd prefer not to think on.

“
Gott,
” he muttered, pushing through the whipping trees in the general direction of the cabin of recently deceased
Grossmudder
May. The
auld
woman had been a healer to the
Amisch
community, and Edward had the idle thought that she'd be missed, but right now, all he wanted was the dryness of her temporarily empty cabin.

He staggered on, his white shirt and black pants clinging to him as he swiped the rain from his mouth and hitched up a suspender. It was rough going in the pelting rain, but he walked on, used to the feeling of getting through life half-blind. He sighed to himself as lightning formed an angry zigzag in the distance, casting an almost greenish glow over everything that cowered beneath the rain.

Finally he gained the cabin and clambered up the front porch steps to open the unlocked door and collapse in a heap on the hardwood kitchen floor.

“I'll find the bed later,” he muttered aloud to himself, then gave in to the blissful pull of drunken sleep.

 

Nineteen-year-old Sarah Mast, the new healer of Ice Mountain, pushed the bedstead back against the wall of
Grossmudder
May's cabin bedroom and heard a loud
thump
. She shivered a bit, still not used to the place after two days, and decided that a limb had probably struck the front of the cabin. She dusted her hands on her white apron, then walked into the kitchen, only to stop dead at the sight of the man lying in a growing puddle upon the floor.

He groaned and turned his face slightly, and she drew in a sharp breath. She recognized the dark blond hair, handsome face, and lithe body only too well.
Edward King . . . There was a time, not too long ago, when I would have done anything he asked of me, when I kissed his mouth, when I let him . . .
She drew her thoughts up sharply. Of course, she'd never let him trespass on her virtue . . .
But maybe I wanted him to.
She banished the thought—that was all before he'd left the mountain to work on the Marcellus Shale gas rigs
. He left to make money so we could wed sooner. Well, that's all turned out beautifully.
She smiled wryly, then sat down at the table to eat a makeshift supper of fresh bread and apple butter. She eyed Edward's inert figure impassively, then rose to wash her dishes, not bothering to be especially quiet in the process. She retook her seat at the table with a cup of licorice tea.

He stirred soon, as she'd expected he would, clutching his head and raising himself up on his elbows. “
Ach,
my head,” he moaned.

“Fresh gingerroot, lemon juice, honey, and a bit of potassium,” Sarah recited from memory.

“What?” He frowned.

“The cure for what ails you,” she said succinctly. “You look terrible.”

“
Danki,
Sarah . . . So, are you gonna get that stuff for me or what?”

“
Nee
.” She tapped a foot while she sipped a bit of tea. “I think the headache will do you
gut
.” She ignored the impulse of her fingers to bring him immediate relief and tried to remember how he'd been treating her lately.

He raised a soaked arm, and she had to look away from the play of well-defined muscles beneath his plastered white shirt. “Joseph threw me out.”

“As well he might.”

“Yeah, but this cabin was supposed to be deserted for a bit.” He dragged himself to a sitting position and looked up at her, owl-eyed. “Why are you here?”

“I'm the new healer, remember?”

He frowned. “How can I forget? I'm surprised your
fater
is actually going to let you live here alone.
Gott
knows he would have killed me had he figured out we were . . .”

She straightened her back.
We were . . . past tense. Well, he's finally
kumme
out and said it at least... even though I was the one who told him it was over. Has it only been a day since that conversation?

She'd stood, tense and trying to be resolute, in one of her
fater
's smaller barns while Edward had slipped inside their place of many meetings. She'd taken in his tall frame, lithe grace, and handsome half smile and told herself that she was being a fool. Still, she knew that his drinking was probably more than occasional and he'd been avoiding her like the plague lately, not even so much as helping her down from a high step at Ben Kauffman's store.
I deserve better,
she'd told herself as he sauntered close. But, unfortunately, there was none better than Edward King on the mountain and the man knew it. She'd pursed her lips.
Better to court some ugly man with a good heart than to be dragged about by my feelings . . .
But when Edward reached out a hand to lazily run his finger down the length of her arm, she knew she'd never be content with anyone but him. She'd steeled her senses and swallowed.

“I've been wanting to talk with you,” he'd whispered huskily.

“I find that hard to believe,” she'd snapped, ignoring the fact that he'd circled behind her to press close against her skirts, his hands now on her shoulders.

“What's wrong?” he'd asked, blowing softly at a loose tendril of her hair.

She'd shivered, knowing it would be so easy to melt back against him and let him touch and feel and . . .

“I want to break our courtship.”

She'd felt the sudden tension in his own body as his hands slipped from her and he came back around to look down at her.

“What did you say?”

She'd wet her lips. “You—you heard me.”

“Why?”

She'd wanted to curse; he actually sounded curious.

“Because you've wanted to break it, too, Edward King. You've barely looked at me since you got back from the rigs, and I know that you've been drinking and I—I want it over, that's all.”

He'd smiled, a wolfish look that made her shiver with suppressed excitement, and bent closer to her.

“I wrote a letter,” he'd murmured.

“What?” she'd asked in confusion, knowing she had seen no missive from him, nor was it his habit to write love letters; still, the idea intrigued her despite her assertion that she wanted to end their relationship. “What letter?”

“A letter to someone higher up who works at the Marcellus Shale. I've invited them to Ice Mountain.” He thumbed his way around her throat and she blinked, then parted her lips in anger.

“What are you talking about, Edward? Do you know what it would mean if geologists found gas here and then . . .”

“Sarah? Be you in there?” Her
fater
's voice had penetrated the peg and groove wood of the door, and she'd stared at Edward in rising panic.

But he'd merely shrugged and slipped behind a high pile of hay, leaving her to face her father's curiosity alone....

“I'm sorry,” he said roughly, and she jumped, coming back to the present. She couldn't control the physical response she had to the deep timbre of his voice. It was as though someone had run a warm finger down her spine, and she shifted a bit on the hard-back chair.

“What for?” she asked dryly. “Us? Or the fact that you invited Marcellus Shale to Ice Mountain?”

Edward's frown deepened. “I wasn't thinking when I wrote to the gas company.”

“
Nee,
and you were probably drinking,” she pointed out, ignoring the internal voice that told her she was being truthful yet cruel.

He sighed. “Well, you're probably right, at that. And I'd better get going.” He started to haul himself to his feet, then paused to cover his mouth as he sneezed.

She listened for a moment to the heavy rain on the cabin roof and drew a deep breath. “You'll catch pneumonia, Edward. Stay here and dry your shirt. You can go when the storm passes.”

He stood up and met her eyes with his piercing blue gaze. “You sure, Sarah?”

She nodded.
But I'm not sure at all,
she thought wildly when he eased his suspenders down and began to pull pins from his shirtfront with long fingers.

She got up and turned to the refuge of the huge cupboard
Grossmudder
May had left behind, willing to Sarah a wealth of cures and comforts. She tried to focus on some of the bottles of rarer herbs, but he sneezed again. She grabbed a gingerroot and was beginning to grate it when a loud knock sounded on the front door.

“Sarah!” a voice boomed, louder than the thunder, and she turned to look at the bare-chested Edward in slow-dawning horror. It was her
fater . . . .

Life and protocol for the Mountain
Amisch
was far behind modern times. There was a rigid code of honor that existed among Edward's people, and he knew that being in a state of undress with an unmarried girl was simply not acceptable. He shuddered, certain that Mahlon Mast was enough of a prig to force a marriage out of such circumstances, and he longed for the
auld
pegged wooden floor to open up and swallow him whole. But no such thing happened, and the front door opened to reveal not only Mahlon Mast but Bishop Umble, as well.

Edward muttered a curse under his breath as the two older men stared at him in mute fascination and dawning disapproval, while he stood, shivering, in the sudden influx of cool air from the rain outside.
Great . . . This looks great . . .

He glanced at Sarah, who appeared frozen with a gingerroot in her hand, her gray eyes wide and scared.
Damn her
fater
anyway. The girl is the healer—it should be perfectly fine if I have my shirt off. She shouldn't have to be frightened . . .

He straightened his bare shoulders and turned to face the other men.

“You!” Mahlon Mast sputtered, lifting a meaty hand to point a finger as thick as a sausage at him.

Bishop Umble frowned, obviously catching the drift of Sarah's
fater
's thoughts. “Now, Mahlon . . .”

“I got caught in the storm. Sarah was kind enough to offer me shelter and is preparing a warm drink for me while my shirt dries. That's all.” Edward kept his voice calm and level though the back of his head was starting to pound.

“
Nee,
” Mahlon growled. “I've seen you before, sneakin' about our
haus,
always makin' some excuse . . . You tell me, Edward King, that you've not been courtin' my
dochder
.”

Edward drew in a harsh breath and glanced again at Sarah.
What am I supposed to say when it's the absolute truth and Sarah's not about to lie?

“Well?” Mahlon demanded.

“Now, now,” Bishop Umble murmured. “You know, Mahlon, that all of our young folks' courting is done in secret at
nacht
. There's nothing wrong with that.”

“
Jah,
” Mahlon retorted. “But here he's a-standin' in broad daylight, half-naked, and I tell you that it's my girl and it's dishonor.”

“And is she going to marry every man she sees with his shirt off and still be the healer for Ice Mountain?” Edward snapped.

Mahlon looked as though his eyes were about to bug out of his head, and he took an aggressive step closer. “She ain't healin' you,
buwe
. You got nuthin' much wrong with you but your ways and your drinkin' and lyin' and—”

“And that makes me the perfect husband for someone like Sarah, right?”

Mahlon's thick finger traced an invisible scope up and down Edward's bare chest. “You'll do right by her and you'll learn to be the man she deserves, or else . . .”

“
Fater, sei se gut,
” Sarah began.

“Enough,” Mahlon gritted out. “I ought to beat him senseless for this presuming on your honor.”

“
Fater,
I don't want to marry him,” Sarah said calmly, but Edward heard the desperation in her voice and he couldn't deny that it hurt somewhere deep inside. She had told him that she never wanted to see him again only yesterday, and she'd probably kill him if she knew how much he drank and about the girl he'd met in a bar while he was away and about his anger and hopelessness and . . .

“I'm sorry, Sarah,” Bishop Umble said finally, stroking his long gray beard. “I believe your
fater
is right and Edward will become the man you deserve and you a fitting wife for him. We must not allow dalliances among our young people, especially with you in such a position of service to the community. I will marry you, and I believe that
Derr Herr
will make things right between you both.”

Then, as if from a long distance away, Edward heard the fall of the gingerroot as it hit the hardwood floor—a dull
thump,
like the one in his head, like a single beat of his terrified heart.