He gave her a guarded, not-too-eager half smile. “I’d like that very much.”
She nodded, took a box of tinfoil out of the drawer, and tore a piece off the roll.
Bitsy emerged from the back room just as Rose wrapped Josiah’s loaf of bread in the tinfoil. She squinted in Josiah’s direction. “What are you doing, baby sister?”
Rose drew her brows together. “I’m sorry, Aunt Bitsy, but I’m sending some bread home with Josiah.”
Bitsy gave Josiah the stink eye—for what, he didn’t know, but he’d kind of been expecting it all morning. “Absolutely not.”
“But, Aunt Bitsy, we have an extra loaf.”
Bitsy looked as if she were ready to pounce on him. “Josiah should know the rules.”
“What rules?” Josiah said.
Bitsy held up one finger. “Number one. No kissing on the porch.”
Rose turned bright red. “Aunt Bitsy!”
Bitsy put her arm around Rose. “That’s just for Lily and Poppy, baby sister.” She glared at Josiah. “Right?”
Josiah’s throat constricted. The thought of kissing on the porch probably gave Rose nightmares. How could Bitsy be so cruel as to plant that thought in her niece’s head and scare her off ever wanting to talk to him again? No matter that Josiah was hoping to kiss Rose on somebody’s porch, it was Rose’s feelings that mattered right now. “No kissing on the porch,” he finally said.
Bitsy eyed him as if she didn’t believe a word he said and held up a second finger. “Number two. Paul Glick is not allowed in the house.” Paul Glick was Lily’s exboyfriend, and he had a mean streak a mile long.
Josiah couldn’t much blame Bitsy for that rule. Lily’s fiancé, Dan Kanagy, was Josiah’s best friend, and Paul Glick had made Dan’s life wonderful miserable.
“Number three. Don’t feed the boys. They are like stray cats. If you feed them once, they will keep coming back. I don’t need another stray cat.”
Josiah took a deep breath to try to clear off the wagon that seemed to have parked on his chest. “I’m sorry. I don’t want any bad feelings. I won’t take not even one slice.”
Rose wrapped her arms around her aendi’s neck and leaned her head so they were touching foreheads. “Aunt Bitsy, Josiah lives all alone without a soul to cook for him.”
She was defending him? He felt like singing. “It’s okay. I completely respect your aendi’s rules. Nobody asked me to barge into your house.”
Bitsy was firm as a mountain. “His sister feeds him sometimes, and he’s twenty-one years old.”
“Twenty-two,” Josiah said. “I’ll be twenty-three next week.”
Bitsy nodded. “Plenty old to take care of himself.”
“I’ve taken care of myself for four years.”
“He won’t starve,” Bitsy insisted.
Josiah met Bitsy’s eye with a steady and earnest gaze. “And I wouldn’t see Rose upset for the whole world.”
She narrowed her eyes into slits. “Neither would I.”
Rose was on the verge of tears. “But, Aunt Bitsy, he’s an orphan. Like me.”
Bitsy scrunched her lips together as a sigh rumbled deep in her throat. The sigh turned into a grunt, which came out of her mouth as a growl. She lifted her gaze to the ceiling. “You know I have a soft spot for orphans. Why does he have to be an orphan?”
Was she talking to Gotte? Probably, unless someone Josiah didn’t know about lived upstairs.
She threw up her hands in surrender. “Fine. Give the orphan a loaf of bread if it makes you happy.”
Josiah pinned Rose with a serious gaze “But only if it makes you happy.”
Rose curled her lips slightly. “It does.”
“It’s just a loaf of bread, Josiah,” Bitsy said. “You’ve got to promise not to take it the wrong way.”
“I promise,” he said, with no idea what the “wrong way” was. Anything to make Bitsy happy. And Rose.
Rose handed the loaf to Josiah.
“You made this?” he said.
“Jah. It’s honey wheat.”
He smiled. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“Just so long as you do your dying somewhere besides my yard,” Bitsy said. “Bees are funny about things like death.”
Josiah opened the door, rested his hand on the knob, and looked at Rose. “If you ever need anything—jars to be opened or basil or fennel or new shoelaces—please let me know. I’ll do whatever you need. Okay?”
“Okay,” Rose said, seeming all the more embarrassed. He should probably quit talking.
He stared at the loaf of bread in his hand. Rose had freely offered it, even when her aunt had resisted. She had smiled at him in an unguarded moment. Maybe she wasn’t terrified of him. Maybe she liked him okay. Maybe there was hope he could soften her up.
“You’re looking at that bread as if you’re contemplating scripture,” Bitsy said. “Don’t you have crops to get to? You shouldn’t let all those muscles go to waste.”
He tucked the loaf under one arm. “Sorry. I just want you to know that I’m very grateful for the bread. Not everyone gets something from Rose Christner’s kitchen.”
“Oh sis yuscht,” Bitsy said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “You’re taking it the wrong way. Against my better judgment, I let Rose give it to you, and now you’re taking it the wrong way.” She looked up to the ceiling. “Heaven help us.”
Chapter Three
“Leonard Nimoy,” Rose said. “Leave Farrah Fawcett in peace. She’s trying to take a nap.”
The faint smell of leftover smoke stung Rose’s nose as she sat in the honey house and tried to concentrate on her drawing. She’d opened both windows for ventilation, but the honey house was still warm and uncomfortable. She hadn’t expected anything different in August.
Farrah Fawcett lounged on a little pillow in the corner while Leonard Nimoy tried to coax Farrah Fawcett to play with her. The kitten pawed at Farrah Fawcett’s tail, nudged her with her nose, and finally hopped on top of the indignant cat in an attempt to get her moving.
The cats were here for company and, if Rose was honest with herself, protection. Of course, a small orange kitten and a spoiled white house cat wouldn’t be much protection when it came right down to it, but having the cats around gave Rose a small measure of comfort.
This time of year, Rose usually sat outside under a tree to paint honey supers—the white boxes that made up a beehive when they were stacked on top of each other—but with all the mischief that had been happening on their farm, she didn’t dare linger outdoors by herself, and she was too embarrassed to ask one of her sisters to sit with her, even if they would have gladly done it.
Nae, better to sit in the stifling honey house than to risk an accidental and terrifying meeting with a stranger who wanted to do her harm.
The trouble had started over two months ago when someone had tipped over one of their beehives in the middle of the night. Since then, whoever was bent on making mischief had ripped their laundry off the line, chopped up their chicken coop, and even taken a wheel off their buggy. Last week, they had set fire to the honey house, and it would have burned to the ground if it hadn’t been for Luke and Dan and Aunt Bitsy’s two industrial-sized fire extinguishers.
One corner on the outside of the honey house had been scorched and the inside smelled faintly of smoke, but at least the building was still standing. A few days ago, Luke and Poppy had brought new wood, fixed the damage to the outside, and given it a new coat of white paint.
Good as new.
If only her nerves could be fixed the same way.
Whoever was trying to scare them had scattered the chickens, worried the bees, cut off Queenie’s tail, and terrified Rose out of her mind. Who could be so mean? Since the first time the troublemaker had tipped over the beehive, Rose had been able to think of almost nothing else. She’d bitten her fingernails down to nubs, and she laid awake at night long after her sisters had gone to sleep, listening for faint sounds of troub
le outside her window as her heart pounded in her ears.
Even though it wasn’t the Amish way, Aunt Bitsy had notified the police, but they didn’t have many clues, and they couldn’t do much unless they caught the vandal or vandals in the act.
Would the troublemakers try to burn down the barn next? Or hurt one of her sisters? Rose flinched as her pencil lead snapped. She’d been pressing too hard.
She wasn’t much of an artist when she was nervous.
Rose sharpened her pencil and drew the outline of a tree on the honey super. She had painted all the hives on the Honeybee Farm with flowers and vines and butterflies, but this time she wanted to try something new: a farm scene, complete with a barn and a horse. Aunt Bitsy had bought the new hive as a wedding present for Lily, and Rose had volunteered to paint it. She thought Lily might like a farm scene to remind her of the Honeybee Farm when she didn’t live here anymore.
Rose tried to ignore the twinge of loneliness that always accompanied thoughts of her sisters and their weddings. It wasn’t that Rose didn’t want her sisters to marry—how could she not want them to be happy?—but she and Aunt Bitsy would be left alone to care for the farm and the hives. Who would go to gatherings with her or help her make Bienenstich cake or quilt with her in the evenings? Who would protect her from overeager boys or overbearing grandparents?
Rose outlined a few individual leaves poking out from the tree. Painting was one of the only times Rose felt truly at peace, even with the cats fussing at her feet. When she painted, she could forget about smoke and fire and laundry sitting in the mud. She could forget about her sins and her sorrows and not have to put on a brave face for her sisters or her aunt or the rest of the world. She liked not having to be anyone but herself, not having to meet anyone’s expectations, not having to pretend to be brave.
The kitten gave up trying to coax Farrah Fawcett and sat right on her head. “Leonard Nimoy,” Rose scolded. “Farrah Fawcett won’t want to be your friend if you sit on her.” She didn’t want to dash Leonard Nimoy’s hopes by telling her that Farrah Fawcett wouldn’t want to be her friend no matter what. Rose got up from her stool, lifted Leonard Nimoy from Farrah Fawcett’s head, and took her to the scratching post. Luke Bontrager had made the scratching post because he felt guilty for foisting Leonard Nimoy on them in the first place. Aunt Bitsy had adamantly resisted another cat.
“Play over here, Leonard Nimoy.” Maybe if she scratched the post, Leonard Nimoy wouldn’t scratch poor young men who came to the house—young men like Josiah Yoder who didn’t deserve to be scratched, no matter how much of a worry he was.
And Josiah Yoder was definitely a worry.
He wanted something from her. She could sense it in the way he looked at her, as if she were the only girl in the world—as if something he needed very badly were hidden upstairs under her bed. She hated feeling like she owed him something or that she was somehow responsible for his happiness. She would only disappoint him in the end, like she always did.
Rose couldn’t be confident like Poppy. Poppy wasn’t scared of anything, and Rose was scared of everything. Boys tended to grow impatient with how mousy she was. Lily was clever and fun, a girl everyone wanted to be around, someone who wasn’t afraid to go to gatherings and talk to boys. She was never a disappointment to her sisters.
Rose was a disappointment to everyone, even herself. She hated how frightened and weak she was, how she couldn’t push past her nightmares to find peace.
Josiah either wanted something from her, or he wanted to do something for her—make poor, orphaned Rose Christner his project. She knew she had a reputation for being weak and timid. People in the community tried to prove what gute Christians they were by feeling sorry for Rose and doing acts of Christian charity for her.
Rose didn’t want anyone to feel sorry or make any sort of sacrifice for her. People tended to get hurt when they tried to please Rose. She didn’t want to be a burden, she didn’t want to be a project, and she certainly didn’t want to feel obligated to anyone.
Jah. Josiah Yoder was a worry.
She sketched an outline of a horse running past the tree. She’d paint it chestnut brown, like their horse, Queenie, and she would paint the barn red and might even paint the barn door pink.
Rose’s heart skipped a beat as she heard the gravel crunch outside the open window. It skipped another beat as she saw someone pass by the window. She only caught a glimpse, but whoever it was wore a blue baseball cap and a white T-shirt, and he passed within a few feet of the honey house.
Rose’s pencil slipped from her fingers as she jumped to her feet and scooped Leonard Nimoy and then Farrah Fawcett into her arms. She pressed her back against the wall and listened. What would she do if the stranger came into the honey house? Would he attack her? Would he try to burn the honey house down around her?
Panic wrapped an icy hand around her throat as she squeezed the two cats as if they were life preservers. Farrah Fawcett meowed and stuck her nose in the air as if she were quite put out that Rose had interrupted her nap. Leonard Nimoy’s wide, trusting eyes seemed to be asking what all the fuss was about.
Her head throbbed with the force of her pulse.
Dear Heavenly Father, please don’t let him hurt me or Farrah Fawcett or Leonard Nimoy. Make him go away. Please make him go away.
She jumped clear to the ceiling and left her skin behind when someone knocked softly on the honey house door. Was she going to die? If she screamed loud enough, would Aunt Bitsy hear her in the house?
Another knock. “Rose? Bitsy told me you were out here. Can I come in?”
“Josiah?” she called, too breathless to make much of a sound at all.
He opened the door, took a step inside, and caught sight of Rose plastered against the far wall. In an instant, his expression went from untroubled calm to cold tension. “Rose, are you all right?”
She felt so shaky, she thought she might faint. “I . . . I don’t know.”
Before she could draw breath, he was at her side, wrapping his hands around her arms. His touch felt warm and comfortable, like a weather-worn pair of canvas gloves. His voice was like a caress against her cheek. “What happened? Can I help?”
She felt a tear trickle down her face. “I saw someone outside. I think he was the one who set fire to the honey house.”
Josiah glanced out the window to his left. “Just now?”
She nodded.
“Which way did he go?”
“Out behind, I think.”
He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. Leonard Nimoy climbed up his arm and tried to hitch a ride on his shoulder. He gently pried Leonard Nimoy off and handed the kitten back to Rose. “Should I have a look around, or do you want me to stay here?”
She almost begged him to stay, but if the stranger was going to burn down the honey house, it would be better if at least one of them got out. “I . . . you can go. But you’ve got to be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
His shocking blue eyes pierced through her skull. “It’s okay, Rose. I won’t let anyone harm you.” He kept his gaze on her as he backed away. “Lock the door behind me, okay?”
She nodded.
Farrah Fawcett wriggled out of Rose’s arms and jumped to the floor. Rose kept a tight hold of Leonard Nimoy as she tiptoed to the door and turned the lock on the doorknob.
Not daring to move, she rubbed Leonard Nimoy’s soft head while she listened for any sound outside. She thought about throwing the door open and making a run for the house, but she was too frightened to go out by herself with just two cats for protection. Farrah Fawcett had wasted no time in curling up on her pillow and closing her eyes.
One cat. She only had one cat for protection, and Leonard Nimoy was just a kitten. Of course, her little kitten had given Josiah a big scratch only yesterday. Rose wasn’t completely defenseless. Her heart seemed to tumble over itself. She was worse than defenseless. She’d never risk Leonard Nimoy to save herself.
She stood in
silence, hardly daring to breathe in case someone heard her. Tears trickled down her cheeks as the anxiety grew more and more unbearable with every passing second. She should never have let Josiah risk danger for her. How could she have been so selfish? Guilt pressed on her as if she were buried under a pile of rocks. Hadn’t she learned her lesson with her parents?
Every muscle in her body pulled taut as she heard the sound of low voices coming her way. Trying to keep herself from collapsing into a heap, she grasped the knob with her free hand, closed her eyes, and rested her forehead against the door.
Please, Heavenly Father, let it be Josiah. Let him be okay.
The knock on the door startled her even though it was as soft as a whisper. “Rose, it’s Josiah. Will you let me in?”
She unlocked the door and opened it. Josiah stood there with a soft smile on his face, his eyes alight with something deep and gentle. Next to him stood a boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, five or six inches shorter than Josiah, wearing a blue baseball cap and a white T-shirt.
Josiah reached out and took her hand as if to keep her from falling. Instead of resisting, she held on tight, just in case her knees gave out. “Rose,” he said. “This is Jack Willis. He was cutting through your farm on his way home.”
Jack Willis’ sticky-outy ears seemed to be holding up his baseball cap, and his shaggy black hair stuck out in all directions from beneath it. “I’m really sorry. We moved here three months ago, and I figured out it was faster to catch the bus by shortcutting through your property. I should have asked first, but I didn’t know if you Amish were allowed to talk to people.” He jabbed his thumb in Josiah’s direction. “Joe says you’re allowed.”
Rose’s heart was still going a mile a minute. “Oh,” she said, patting the moisture from her face with the edge of her apron. She didn’t know why she bothered. Jack and Josiah had already seen the tears. “You . . . you startled me. That’s all.”
Like a Bee to Honey Page 3
