Where Grace Abides (8 page)

 
9
 
A
MONG
F
RIENDS

This is the charge I keep as mine,
The goal of every hope and plan—
To cancel the dividing line
Between me and my fellow man.
And so for me all fear shall end
Save this—That I may fail to see
My neighbor as a needed friend
Or sense my neighbor's need of me.

L
ESLIE
P
INCKNEY
H
ILL

I
t never ceased to intrigue Gant how quickly and efficiently the Amish community gathered round one of their own in times of crisis or need.

Not that his people, the Irish, didn't typically rally about each other when possible, but by the time he left Ireland to come to the States, the island was so impoverished, its people so weak and ill from starvation, it was all they could do to put one foot in front of the other. Charity and kindness could be offered only by the few who had not been struck down and were still strong enough to provide help to others.

That left few in a position to offer benevolence.

By the time the men arrived at the Kanagy farm, neighbors and friends were milling about the yard and on the porch. As he and
Gideon made their way among them, Gant was pleased and somewhat relieved to be greeted by many with respect, even, in some cases, with overt friendliness.

With time the People seemed to have come to trust him. According to Doc Sebastian, this was no small accomplishment, so he was grateful for the acceptance they offered him. The thing was, he genuinely
liked
the Riverhaven Amish.

Even though he hadn't been able to convince the bishop when Gant first talked with him, he was coming to realize that he'd spoken the truth when he insisted that his desire to marry Rachel wasn't the only reason he sought permission to convert. And as the weeks wore on, the bishop's refusal to allow his conversion seemed to cut even more deeply. Only after the enormity of what he had been refused finally began to sink in, did he recognize that he had been wounded almost as much by the reality that he would forever remain an “outsider” to the People as the grim awareness that he and Rachel would never be allowed to marry.

He saw her then, as she moved among some of the latecomers in the yard, explaining to those who hadn't heard what had happened this night. She was fully dressed, her glossy hair neatly parted and covered with the little cap she always wore, its strings dangling and stirring slightly in the night wind.

Her eyes met Gant's as he began to make his way toward her. She looked away once but only for a moment. When she turned back to him, he saw the weariness that lined her face, the pale tautness of her features, and knew that for whatever reason, tonight wasn't the only night she hadn't slept well.

It shouldn't have pleased her so much, his coming all the way from town in the dark hours of morning. She shouldn't feel this rush of pleasure at the sight of him after all this time—his gaze, as
warm as a caress, his tentative smile, his curly dark hair falling over one eye, the strength of him. But, oh, it was good to see him!

He was coming directly toward her, his eyes on her face as if he saw no one else except her. And in that instant, despite her apprehension and distress about everything that had happened in the hours before, Rachel knew nothing, saw no one but him.

Jeremiah. The man she was forbidden to love yet loved all the same.

“Rachel,” he said in that quiet way he had of making her name the most important sound she had ever heard. “I'm sorry for your trouble.”

She managed to nod and tried to unlock her gaze from his but couldn't.

“Where's your mother?”

“She's—” Finally she was able to look away from him. She glanced around, saw her mother talking with Gideon and Doc Sebastian. “There,” she said pointing. “On the porch.” She paused, then added, “She'll be pleased that you've come.”

“And you?” he said watching her closely.

She caught a breath. “What? I—yes, of course,” she said, trying to keep her tone light.

“What can I do to help?” His expression changed now, becoming less intimate and more practical.

“Oh…I don't suppose there's anything. Not really. Some of the men are forming groups to go search for the horses, in case they're still close by somewhere.”

“What time did this happen? Or do you know?”

Rachel tried to think. “Mamma said she heard noises about one thirty or thereabouts. That's what woke her.”

“I don't suppose you have any idea who might be responsible.”

“There's no telling. Maybe some fellows just wanting to play tricks on us. If so, we'll find the horses unharmed. If not—”

“Captain Gant!”

Fannie came running up and caught hold of Jeremiah's coat sleeve. “I'm mighty glad you're here! Why have you stayed away so long? Did you come to help find our animals?”

Rachel didn't miss the genuine affection in her little sister's face as she beamed up at Jeremiah—nor the warmth in his expression as he smiled down at Fannie.

“Ah, my favorite little miss,” he said, running a hand lightly over the top of Fannie's
kapp.
“'Tis happy I am to see you too.”

Fannie giggled. “You sound funny when you talk Irish.”

“Fannie—”

But when Rachel would have reproached her sister, Jeremiah merely laughed.

“Well now, Miss Fannie, I'll do my best to not let my Irish get in the way of your Amish. How will that be?” he teased.

Again Fannie gave another delighted giggle, though after a moment her sunny expression faded. “My barn kitties are gone too.”

“Gideon told me,” said Jeremiah, his tone gentle. “We'll do our best to find them for you, lass. For now though, Mac's over by the wagon, if you'd like to say hello. I'm sure he'd like to see
you.
”

For a few seconds more, Fannie continued to stare up at him with her young girl's heart shining in her eyes. Then she turned and ran off to find Gant's dog.

As Rachel watched her, she could only hope that her own heart wasn't nearly so obvious.

Later Gant stood talking with Doc on the porch, though his gaze continued to follow Rachel's every move.

“Do you think this might be the work of the same bunch who accosted Fannie last year?” he said.

Doc shrugged. “Hard to say. There's no lack of troublemakers who fancy making sport of the Amish.”

“Why is that, do you think?”

Again Doc gave a shrug, his expression cynical. “I don't have to tell
you
there will always be some who can't tolerate the differences in others. The Irish could write a book of their own on persecution.”

“True. To some we're mostly a gaggle of dirty and ignorant Papists. A bunch of sub-humans, as it were. But what accounts for the bullying of the Amish? They're honest, hard-working, family folks who mind their own business and just want to be left alone in turn to live their faith as best as they can.”

Doc's steady scrutiny was a bit discomfiting. “You're not that naive, Gant. I know you better.”

“What?”

“It's the
differences,
man, don't you see? The Amish don't fit in any more than the Irish do. They may be good, honest people and work hard and live a quiet life, but they're
different.
Not to mention the fact that they won't fight back when they're wronged, they won't go to war, and they won't compromise their faith. Not for anything. And to a certain kind of person, that makes them suspect and open targets for harassment and even violence. There are far too many people in this world who have no tolerance whatsoever for those who aren't like themselves.”

Gant knew he was right, knew also that there were other reasons for the intolerance toward the Amish that Doc hadn't mentioned. He'd long observed that there was something in a certain kind of man that couldn't bear any sort of disagreement with what he valued. If he needed a thing or valued it, then surely others should need it and value it also. If they didn't—well then, for some might that be cause for resentment and even vengeance.

To one who prized the things of the world, the Amish avoidance of those things, indeed the very simplicity of the way they chose to live, just might engender hostility and, ultimately, aggression. From what Doc had told him and the little he'd already known about the Plain People, it seemed that everywhere they settled, they
eventually encountered antagonism that all too often took the form of mistreatment or worse.

His gaze traveled back to Rachel, now standing with her arm around her mother's shoulders. The thought of anyone daring to hurt either of them made the blood roar in his veins.

So perhaps the bishop had been right in telling him he was not yet “ready” to live the Amish way, perhaps never would be. For one thing was certain: He found it difficult, if not impossible, to imagine standing by and not retaliating in the case of violence or harm wreaked upon someone he loved—or for that matter, on any one of these good people he had come to care about.

As he stood watching, Samuel Beiler walked up to Rachel and her mother and began talking with them. Gant's insides clenched. He did his best to conceal the jealousy that squeezed his chest like a vise.

Not only did he dislike the deacon for the proprietary way he routinely treated Rachel, but he resented the fact that Beiler had the right to spend time with her if she chose to allow it. This, while his own attentions, other than as a strictly platonic friend, were forbidden. The people might treat him with kindness and even respect, but just let him go against the bishop's admonition to avoid any hint of a romantic relationship with Rachel, and he would no longer be welcome among them.

He couldn't help but watch her reaction to the man and was relieved to see that same careful, somewhat distant response in her that he'd observed other times. So the deacon hadn't won her over in Gant's absence.

At least not yet.

“Giving Sam Beiler the evil eye is a wasted effort, I should think.”