Brush of Angel's Wings

by Ruth Reid

  “Here, let me help,” he said, taking a pot holder from the counter. He lifted the pot and placed it on a wire cooling rack, then stirred the chili as it finished sputtering.

  Rachel pulled a clean spoon from the drawer. “Want a taste?” She dipped it into the chili, held her other hand under the spoon to catch the drippings, and offered it to him.

  Sampling the spoonful, his eyes watered. He fanned his mouth.

  “Spicy?”

  He shook his head while grabbing a cup from the cupboard. Turning on the tap, he filled the cup with water, then gulped it. His throat cooled.

  “It’s still too hot to eat. Let’s give it a minute or two,” he said hoarsely.

  Rachel picked up the pot holder. “I warmed the cornbread too.” She opened the oven and pulled out the loaf pan. Her anticipatory smile turned to disappointment.

  Jordan craned to see the contents. “It looks good.”

  “It burned.”

  “That part can be cut off.” He turned to the counter. Salt. Pepper. “Where’s your sugar?”

  Rachel opened the pantry door. With her brows slightly askew, she handed him the container.

  “Do you mind?” He held it over the chili. “Sugar will offset the acidic tomatoes.”

  “I don’t think you can hurt it.”

  He added the sugar, studied the pot, then sprinkled another layer of sugar. As he stirred the mixture, Rachel came up beside him with a spoon.

  She dipped out a sample and took a bite. “Not bad.”

  The tip of her tongue darted out from her mouth to clean the residue off her lips.

  Without thinking, he placed his hand on her cheek and slowly traced the crease of her mouth with his thumb. “You missed . . .” Suddenly aware of their closeness, Jordan blinked, forcing himself to pull away.

  “I like it.” Her great big eyes looked up at him. “The sugar was a gut addition.”

  He spun to face the stove. “What do you think? Has it cooled enough? I think so. Let’s eat. Do you have bowls?” Of course she had bowls. His heart clamored inside his chest.

  “I’ll get them,” she said.

  She bumped into him and he nearly tripped trying to get out of her way. “I’ll just—” Jordan pulled out a chair at the table and sat.

  Rachel set the dishes and silverware on the table. After placing the pot of chili on a pot holder and a few slices of white bread on a plate, she sat with him.

  He lowered his head.

  “Jordan.” Her voice soft.

  He glanced up. “Yes?”

  “Will you say a prayer for mei daed too?”

  “Of course.” The depth of her blue eyes bored into his soul and he couldn’t turn away. Nor did she. And then he realized what she was asking. “Oh. Do you want us to pray together?”

  She nodded and bowed her head.

  He cleared his throat. “God, we give you thanks for the food, and we ask that you be with Micah in the hospital. Amen.”

  Nathaniel extended his wings, lifting the sweet aroma of Jordan’s prayer. “Your supplication has gone before the Master’s throne.”

  Tangus recoiled as Nathaniel’s manifested glory intensified. Tangus hated retreating almost as much as he hated when people prayed together. A force not easily broken. He would wait. Other opportunities would arise—they almost always did.

  Rachel smiled. “Denki.”

  “You’re welcome.” He picked up his spoon, thinking that he hadn’t prayed aloud for a meal since long before his mother passed away.

  He took a bite and smiled. “It’s good. I’ve never had chili with potatoes in it.”

  “They were getting ready to go bad.”

  “Once a week, my mom would clean out the refrigerator and make a meal using all the leftovers.” He stopped, surprised. He’d never shared stories about his mother before, yet with Rachel it came so easy.

  “I’m sure she created some interesting meals that way.” She blew over her chili.

  “Interesting, yes. But not always good.” Snapshots of unusual meal concoctions flipped through his memory. In a strange way, they were good memories.

  “Ach, I’m sure she was a good cook.”

  “Aren’t all Amish women?”

  Rachel’s smile dropped.

  He hadn’t meant his statement to be insulting. He scrambled to find something to fill the uncomfortable silence he’d created. “Have you ever tried the combination of vegetable soup and tuna casserole?”

  “Together? Nay.” Her nose scrunched.

  “See! Your cooking isn’t bad.” He waved his loaded spoon as he spoke.

  She retrieved the cornbread still on the counter. “How large of a slice do you want?”

  “Large.” He winked.

  “You’re . . . befuddled.”

  “And that means . . .”

  “It’s how we say you’re mixed up.” She twirled her finger in circles. “In the head.”

  “I suppose when I added tuna to soup, I was for sure.”

  “Ach, so that concoction was your creation?”

  Jordan scraped the bowl, getting the last spoonful. “My cooking improved.”

  “Anything would be an improvement over tuna soup—even my chili.” She stood and reached for his empty bowl. “Do you want more?”

  “No, thank you. I’m full.”

  Rachel gathered the dirty dishes from the counter and placed them in the sink.

  Jordan brought the other dishes over to her. “What should I do? Wash or dry?”

  “Neither.” She took the ever-present kettle from the stove and poured warm water from it into the sink. “I’ll redd-up.”

  “Then what will I do while you work?” He slipped his arm around her and skimmed some suds from the water’s surface.

  When she turned to look at him in surprise, he dabbed her nose with the bubbles.

  With a whoop that could only mean she declared war, she scooped a handful and reached for him. He was too quick, stepping aside as she attempted to slather him with the frothy soapsuds.

  “You missed.” He laughed and darted out of her reach again. “Nice try, but you—” A sound in the hallway distracted him for the split second it took for her to take advantage of the moment and lather his face.

  Timothy and Sadie appeared in the kitchen entry. Timothy looked from one to the other, amusement in his eyes. “I see Rachel convinced you to kumm back.”

  “Jah,” Jordan said, surprising himself that he’d used the Amish term instead of Englisch. The word had popped out so easily, as though it had always been part of his vocabulary. He snagged a towel and wiped his face. His eyes burned and he needed to spit out the soap she’d gotten in his mouth.

  Sadie put a hand underneath her swelling belly as though to give it support. “We wanted to check on you and see if you needed anything.”

  “We have all we need.” Rachel plunged her hands into the soapy water and began to wash the dishes.

  Timothy put his arm around Sadie’s shoulders. “We can visit another time.”

  Sadie hesitated but allowed Timothy to guide her to the door. “Talk with you later,” Sadie called out just before the door closed behind them.

  Jordan leaned against a cabinet, closed his eyes, and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb.

  Rachel blew out a breath. “Ach, doplich, ain’t so?”

  Doplich? Jordan cocked his head.

  “Awkward.”

  “I bet that’s what they’re saying too.” Jordan stepped up to the sink. “You need help?”

  She paused a moment, then dunked the soapy bowl into the rinse water. “Okay.”

  Between the two of them, it didn’t take long to finish. Jordan didn’t know what kind of conversation to have with this beauty so close to him, so he said nothing and just drank in the fresh scent of her as they moved in a sort of dance—scrape, wash, rinse, dry.

  “I’m done,” Rachel said as she pulled the plug, then folded the washrag and set it nex
t to the faucet.

  Jordan gave the last dish a polishing swipe and dropped the towel onto the counter. “Me too.”

  “Would you like to sit on the porch?” She ran her hand over her dress, pretending to straighten it. “You don’t have to. I just thought—”

  “Okay.” Jordan grasped the lantern by its handle from the counter and gestured toward the door. Rachel preceded him and stepped outside. She smoothed her dress beneath her and sat on the top step. She tilted her head back. “There aren’t any stars tonight.”

  “They’re there, just hidden by the clouds.” Jordan sat on the step below hers and leaned against the opposite rail. “It might rain.”

  “It would be nice if it held off until after the fields were planted.”

  “It would.”

  Several minutes of silence passed between them. Jordan had so much to say, yet so much he shouldn’t say. He wanted to just reach over and touch her slender fingers that were splayed on the step.

  Rachel continued to look skyward, as though searching for more than just stars. “Do you ever wonder . . .” Her voice trailed off, sounding sad and in need of something he didn’t know if he could give.

  “Wonder what?” he said as softly as he could, hoping that would encourage her to continue.

  She left her star search and searched his face instead. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you still have Kayla’s phone?”

  That was by far the last question he expected. Rachel fussed with her dress folds as though the answer wouldn’t matter.

  “No. I only used it to look up information about truck-driving school. Why?”

  “I thought if you still had it you could call the hospital and check on mei daed.”

  Even with the limited light of the lantern, he could see her eyes glazed with tears. “I know you’re worried about him.” His mind fumbled quickly for some sort of comfort. “You prayed for him, right?”

  “Jah,” she whispered.

  “Then of course he’s going to be all right.” Jordan stood to go. He didn’t want her to see his doubt. After all, prayers hadn’t helped his mother.

  Chapter Fifteen

  After Jordan took care of the animals, the morning downpour kept him from working in the field. He’d hoped the weather would clear by noon, but still the rain came. He trotted across the yard to the house, holding a slicker over his head to keep some of the rain off.

  As he stepped inside the kitchen, he craned his neck toward the stove but couldn’t see what was inside the pot. “Something smells good. Do you want help?”

  Rachel smiled. “You can pour some milk.”

  He opened the cabinet and removed two glasses.

  Rachel took the silverware from the drawer and placed it on the table next to the plates. “Did you check on Wendy?”

  Jordan stopped pouring the milk. Since when did cows need a midwife? “She’s still pregnant.” At least he hadn’t seen a calf in the pen.

  He set the drinks on the table, then pulled out a chair and sat. He couldn’t tear himself away from staring at the strands of straw-colored hair that peeked out from under her kapp. He needed to focus on something other than her. “Did your daed make this table?”

  “Mei bruder, James, did.” She placed the covered dish in the center of the table and lifted the lid. Her lips twisted into a contorted expression.

  Jordan moved to see what was in the dish. Steaming, milky, chunks-of-something filled the bowl. He relaxed back into his chair.

  “It looks interesting.”

  That wasn’t a lie. Trying to guess what floated on the creamy surface and whether it was edible held his interest. A little.

  Rachel sat in the chair opposite him and bowed her head.

  After spending a moment silently watching her, he bowed his head and said his quiet grace. Once he opened his eyes, she handed him the serving utensil.

  “Your brother was a fine craftsman.” He dipped the scooper into the dish and unloaded the ladle onto his plate. Although he shoveled himself another portion, her eyes still looked sad.

  “What do you call this?”

  “You haven’t eaten hinkel dumplings before?” She took the ladle from him and filled her plate.

  “None that looked like this,” he mumbled. Jordan reached for the fork, then thought better of it and chose a spoon instead.

  He sampled the floating chunks. The tightly packed ball of flour lodged in his throat. His eyes watered and he forced a hard cough and pounded on his chest to get his breath back.

  He chugged half the glass of milk. “Is this the first time you’ve made it?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He twirled another gummy flour ball with his spoon in the cream base.

  “Jah.”

  “Thought so.”

  The rich blue of her eyes and her hopeful look amused him.

  “You probably shouldn’t bring this to a get-together. Not if you want to find . . .” The words caught in the back of his throat.

  “Finish your sentence.” She pinned her eyes on his.

  “Don’t you want to find a husband?” He looked down at what she called dumplings. “An Amish man wants a good cook and someone to sew his clothes.” He held his tongue before adding what Timothy had told him about her competitiveness. He’d already said too much.

  “You forgot to add, have his children.”

  He shoveled the food into his mouth so fast he thought he might choke.

  She blew out a breath. “You should concentrate on learning how to farm.”

  “I don’t want to be a farmer.” He stood and picked up his empty dish. “And I’m not Amish,” he said under his breath as he walked to the sink. He pointed to the dishes. “Do you want help?”

  Her daggered eyes glared. “Nau you think I can’t clean up? Amish women can wash dishes—before they become a fraa.”

  He hadn’t meant to stir her up to that extent. But he couldn’t resist one last poke. “I forgot. You can add watching the cream separate to the fraa’s list of duties. Can you do that?”

  “Ach!”

  “I was teasing you.”

  She lifted her head and ignored him.

  He headed outside. Spending too much time inside with her was dangerous. He shouldn’t have mentioned what Amish men wanted in a wife. The moment he did, the idea of Rachel married bothered him. He’d already spent a great deal of time thinking about her, despite promising himself not to get involved. He wasn’t ready to join the church, and certainly not for the wrong reason, like falling in love.

  Something was missing in the Amish way of life. Their unmovable faith seemed anything but simple. He appreciated his onkel taking him into his home after his mother died. He obeyed the house rules, attended church meetings, and respected his onkel’s request not to bring discord into the community. Yet he had no desire to speak with the bishop about becoming Amish.

  Jordan’s gut twisted from the expanding clumps, which had gummed up in his stomach like a heavy wad and felt like he had eaten horseshoes. He would need a long walk just to keep the mass of flour from cementing.

  Rachel scrubbed the caked flour off the bottom of the dumpling pan. Jordan’s comment kept replaying in her mind. She’d accepted not being a good cook and never had much of a reason to learn to sew, but when Jordan pointed out those facts, it hurt. She hadn’t realized how much she wanted to please him when she prepared the hinkle dumplings.

  She rinsed the pan and set it aside. “Lord, I stopped praying about finding a husband when it became clear no one would ask to court me. I thought I accepted your will. I don’t want to have feelings for Jordan.” Jordan’s wide grin flashed in her mind. She squeezed her eyes tighter. “Have mercy on me. I can’t keep him out of my thoughts.”

  “Rachel?” Jordan stuck his head inside the kitchen door.

  She winced. Had he heard her prayer?

  “Why don’t I drive you to town so you can visit your father? The ground is too wet to work in the fiel
d. Come on. I have the buggy ready.”

  “Denki. That would be very kind.” She looked at her clothes, then touched her prayer kapp and pushed the stray strands of hair back in place.

  “You look nice,” he said. “I’ll wait for you in the buggy.”

  She wasn’t sure what to make of his gesture of kindness. And it didn’t make sense that he would point out her lack of skills to be a gut fraa and then tell her she looked nice. Rachel extinguished the oil lamp. Ach, it shouldn’t matter what he thought. She was grateful for the ride to town. She snatched her shawl from her bedroom and wrapped it around her shoulders as she stepped outside.

  He stood next to the buggy until she stepped inside and sat on the bench. He had put out a hand to help, but she had not accepted it. She could get into a buggy by herself.

  Jordan seated himself inside the buggy without a word. He gathered the reins, then snapped them, the horse instantly obeying the command.

  Rachel gave her attention to the wild bull thistle growing along the roadside. The purple thistle contrasted nicely against the green weeds in the ditch. She liked the colors of spring but actually enjoyed the different shades of green the leaves turned even more.

  Jordan cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier.”

  “About what?” She assumed he meant the comment he made about her dumplings, but watching him squirm gave her a little satisfaction.

  “I didn’t mean for it to sound like you aren’t marriage worthy. You are . . . I’m sure you’ll make a good wife . . . for an Amish man.”

  Why she wasn’t married wasn’t a topic she wished to discuss with him. “You said you were looking into truck-driving school. Is that what you want to do, drive a truck?”

  “As a truck driver you get paid to travel.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Everywhere. It’s hard to imagine the vastness of the ocean, the mountains, or the Grand Canyon. I want to see it all. Deserts and plains. Even the massive cities. From what I’ve read, and the pictures I’ve seen, I’d really like to experience San Francisco, Seattle, Boston—”