Where Grace Abides (18 page)

“The bishop had no right to break a confidence. And
you
have no right to accuse me of anything, Samuel! It wasn't
my
fault that you wouldn't accept ‘no' as my answer to your attempts to coax me into marrying you. I told you—I told you repeatedly—why I wouldn't. Long before Jeremiah Gant ever stepped foot in Riverhaven, I refused to become your wife, and I explained why—more than once. My feelings for you weren't what they should be for us to marry.”

“But your feelings for this man, this
Gant,
now that's a different thing entirely. Is that how it is, Rachel?”

“It doesn't matter what my feelings are now. And since you obviously know all about the situation, it seems I don't need to explain anything to you!”

Rachel stopped, her chest burning as she tried to swallow her anger. It was wrong, terribly wrong, to be so infuriated with Samuel—with
anyone.

As though he sensed that he'd gone too far, that he'd actually made things worse for himself, Samuel seemed to make a visible attempt to subdue his outburst.

“I'm sorry, Rachel. I forget myself sometimes. You mean so much to me—”

“Is this why you came here today? To
accuse
me?”

“No! I had no intention of upsetting you. Honestly I didn't, Rachel. I meant only to look in on you and see if you're all right.”

Watching him, Rachel could almost believe he was telling the truth about that much, at least. But his temper had flared at her rejection, again erecting a wall between them.

She had known that Samuel had a temper, had seen it on occasion, and had heard about it from Eli and a couple of Martha's friends. What she hadn't known was that he could flare so quickly and be so hurtful when he did. He had almost frightened her.

She felt suddenly weary. At the moment she wanted nothing more than for him to leave. And she told him so.

He looked anxious and even hurt at her dismissal, but he didn't argue. “
Ja,
I'll go, Rachel. But first I apologize for taking on so. I spoke truth, but I spoke it in anger, and that was wrong of me. For that I'm sorry. I hope…may I dare to hope…that you'll forgive me and not turn away from me? I
care
for you, Rachel. You must know that. I care too much to ever intentionally hurt you.”

She forced her voice past the knot in her throat. “Please, Samuel—it's best for now that you go. Please.”

He turned and left, walking with the familiar straight-backed precision and deliberate purpose that made him identifiable even from a distance.

For a long time after he had gone, Rachel struggled with the anger and indignation he had provoked in her. The fact that the bishop had broken Jeremiah's confidence, coupled with Samuel's insinuation that she had somehow indulged in a questionable relationship, churned inside her with a force that ground into her flesh and bone.

She tried to sort her thoughts out in an effort to get to the bottom of the anger that had left her reeling, but the gathering dismay and uneasiness crowded out any sense of clarity. She knew only that a man of God like Bishop Graber had no right to breach the Amish tenet of privacy and spill secrets to which he had been made privy, whether the individual involved was one of the People or an outsider. And Samuel—whom she'd known for years and would have
thought knew her better and respected her more than to believe his own accusations—that he would say the things he had. Why, she could scarcely comprehend what she had heard this day!

Her distress over the awful things Samuel had said burned like a vicious fire deep within her—especially because she was forced to admit that she wasn't entirely innocent of the accusations Samuel had hurled at her.

Truth was her feelings for Jeremiah
had
gone beyond the bounds of what was pure and acceptable for an unmarried Amish woman. Not only that, but she'd made assumptions. In her all too human arrogance, she had assumed that the Lord God would grant their desire to be together, that Jeremiah's conversion would be approved, that they would be married, that their love would be recognized and legalized in the eyes of the People and the church.

Even so, the bishop was wrong too. Oh, she felt like confronting him, throwing back his judgment of Jeremiah with an accusation of his own guilt. But of course she couldn't. There was no accusing a bishop. There was no telling
anyone
what he had done.

How, then, was she to calm the turbulence of her emotions and put to rest the wrong feelings sweeping through her?

She couldn't. But there was One who could—the One who could tame the storms at sea and still the wind could surely put to rest the turmoil in her spirit.

Rachel knew that at this moment she was in desperate need to commune with that One. Without hesitating, she dropped to her knees in the middle of her kitchen and sought His forgiveness and His peace.

 
23
 
S
PECIAL
R
EQUESTS

A good man grants favor to his enemies
As well as his friends.

A
NONYMOUS

G
ant had given Terry Sawyer the morning off because his wife wasn't doing so well, so he was alone in the shop when Samuel Beiler walked in.

He'd been caning a chair for Lucas Reilly. Caning wasn't a process he particularly enjoyed. He wouldn't do it for just anyone, but Lucas had become a friend and had also sent a number of customers to the shop, so it seemed a small enough favor.

It was the middle of the morning, and he had a dull headache from lack of sleep. In truth he hadn't slept well since Phoebe Esch's death. Not only had her loss touched him deeply, but he couldn't help but wonder what might come next. No more would he drift off into a restless sleep than he'd wake up and lie sleepless the rest of the night, thinking about Rachel and worrying about her being alone out there on the farm in the middle of nowhere.

Last night had been no different, so he was not in an especially good mood. Beiler's entrance caught him completely unaware. In the narrow gap between surprise and confusion, however, he somehow groped and found enough composure to be civil.

“Mr. Beiler,” he said straightening, “what can I do for you?”

The Amish deacon wore the typical work clothes of the Plain People, but he looked pretty starchy for a man who worked hard for a living. He doffed his black, broad-brimmed felt hat as he entered. A good indication that summer was over, the Amish straw hats were being put away now until warm weather returned.

His features were set in the solemn, fixed stare with which Gant was familiar. There was no mistaking the glacial edge of contempt in his eyes or the hard set of his mouth.

He stopped a few feet away.

“I am told you make good furniture,
ja
?”

Gant gave a guarded nod, wondering what this was about.

“I have a piece I wish you to make for me. It is to be a special gift to someone.” As Beiler said the words, his eyes took on a curious glint.

His curiosity aroused and his instincts on the alert, Gant studied him. Why in the world would Beiler consider placing an order with a man he obviously didn't like?

“You want me to build a piece of furniture for you?”

Beiler's chin went up a little. “
Ja,
that's right.”

“And what would that be?”

“A nice sideboard, about so big—like this.” Beiler used his hands to demonstrate the size he wanted. “Something very fine.” He paused. “It must be special. Can you do that?”

Gant felt the muscle beside his eye twitch. “I expect I can. But you said this was to be a gift. Does that mean you need it fairly soon? The reason I ask, I'm kind of backed up with orders right now.”

Beiler seemed to consider Gant's question. “Not too soon,
nee.
Rachel's birthday does not come until the end of January.”

The dull ache at the back of Gant's skull escalated to a hammering. Why was Beiler doing this? Clearly the man was trying to make a point of some kind, but what? And why?

Even as he struggled to control his anger, his mind raced. Then it struck him. Beiler was marking his territory. He was striking a claim, warning Gant off—trying to wall Rachel in and Gant out
by making him believe that there was more to his and Rachel's relationship than just an alliance of friends.

If that was the case, it meant that somehow Beiler knew Gant was in love with her and, possibly, Rachel with him, or at least that she
had
been at one time. But if the man knew
that
much, did he also know that the bishop had closed the door on any possibility of a future for them? Or was he simply trying to make certain the door
stayed
closed? Was the sideboard nothing more than a ruse, an excuse to come here today to confront Gant?

Or had Rachel given him reason to do this? He didn't think an Amish man would give a special gift to a woman unless they were married or betrothed or at least had made a commitment to each other. Had Rachel finally given in and agreed to marry Beiler?

He felt sick with shock and disappointment. And yet he couldn't believe Rachel had changed that much. He'd seen the way she looked at Beiler at times—almost as if she didn't even
like
the man, much less would consider marrying him. He also had a sense that Beiler wasn't actually expecting him to accept an order from him, that in fact he'd assumed Gant would refuse out of hand to make the sideboard.

Well, guess again, deacon. Guess again. Because if you're prepared to spend the kind of money I'm going to charge you for this, I'm prepared to do the job. If for no other reason than because you thought I wouldn't.

In the meantime he refused to believe—not unless he heard it from Rachel herself—that she had changed her mind about marrying Beiler.

“That'll be a nice surprise for Rachel,” he said, biting down on his pride and the bitter swell of anger lodged in his throat. “But it won't come cheap. I'm sure you don't want anything but the best, though, and by ordering this far ahead, I'll be able to take my time and give you a fine piece of furniture.”

Clearly he'd caught Beiler off guard with his quick acceptance. The Amish man's eyes widened, and he turned a bit red in the face
But after a few seconds, he nodded agreement. “Price is not a problem,” he said stiffly, “so long as it is reasonable.”

“I have to say, I'm a little surprised that you'd have an outsider undertake such an important project,” Gant remarked. “It's been my observation that a number of you Amish fellows are handy with carpentry yourselves. Are you sure you want me to do this?”

Obviously flustered, Beiler seemed to collect himself quickly. “I've no time to waste on carving wood. My business is farming.”

“I see. Well then, let me just get some information from you about your choice of wood and design. I'll fetch some drawings I have on file and be right with you.”

Without so much as a glance in the other's direction, Gant headed for the back room, where he stood gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. Finally when the wave of anger stopped slamming against his chest and he could once more get his breath, he gathered up some design illustrations, broke a grim smile, and returned to write up Beiler's order.

He was just finishing his lunch in the back room when Terry Sawyer charged in. The younger man was clearly upset and out of breath, his hair falling in his eyes, his face flaming. He looked as if he'd run all the way from the boarding house.

“Captain Gant!”

“What's wrong, Sawyer?”

“It's my wife! The baby's coming! That Dr. Sebastian who looked in on Ellie before—do you think we can get him to come again and right quick?”

Gant pushed away from the table, his chair scraping the planked floor as he got to his feet. “I don't know how quick we can get him here, but I'll send someone to find him.”

Upon a closer look at Sawyer's face, he added, “You go on back and stay with your wife, now. We'll find the doctor.”

Sawyer turned and hurried out, calling his thanks over one shoulder.

Gant grabbed his cane and went in search of Harley Ware, a black youth who helped his family with the money he made doing odd jobs and running errands for the townspeople. After asking around, he found the boy at Loyal Frissom's mercantile, digging out the decaying wood around a window that was to be replaced.

Frissom agreed to let the boy delay the work on the window to go fetch Doc Sebastian, and Harley wasted no time. After wiping his hands on a paint rag, he brought the delivery wagon that Frissom offered around to the front of the store.

“Bring him back as fast as you can,” Gant told him, recalling the look of panic frozen on Terry Sawyer's face.

Of course, most new fathers probably wore that same look when the birthing time came. All the same, he liked the young couple and wanted things to go well for them.

It would be nice if
something
went well around here for a change.