Bitsy seemed so calm, so cheerfully grumpy, but she didn’t fool him. Something was horribly wrong. Their gazes met, and her eyes flashed with something intense and deep that Yost hadn’t seen before. Her expression held a mixture of determination, courage, and exquisite pain. The raw emotion took his breath away.
He set his coat and hat on the table and strode to the sofa, being careful not to step on any cats. Sitting down next to her, he took her hand tenderly in his. “Bitsy, what is wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Marie Antionette is a gute name for that cat.”
He placed his hand on the side of her face, leaned in, and kissed her tenderly. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t exactly warm up to him either. “Bitsy, I love you with all my heart. Tell me why you are hurting.”
She squared her shoulders and folded her arms. “Do you love me? Even with four tattoos?”
Four? Yost had only seen three. He didn’t dare guess where number four was. “I do. But I thought we agreed that you would stop all that.”
Bitsy snorted. “You got me to go along with you, and I almost fell for it. I’ll admit I have no one to blame but myself. I should be able to see manipulation from a mile away. But I love you, and it clouded my judgment.”
If he hadn’t been so confused, Yost would have shouted for joy. “You love me?”
She nodded. “Much as I’m opposed to it. But I won’t let you make me over into your image of a perfect Amish fraa. Either you take me as I am, or walk out that door and leave me be.”
Yost didn’t feel like floating anymore. “But, Bitsy, you’d be so much happier living a plain and simple life. Aren’t you tired of people avoiding you because of your hair and earrings, afraid you’ll be a bad influence on their children?”
“Like you were afraid with Levi?”
“Vell, jah, I suppose.”
Bitsy lifted her chin. “The whole gmayna loves to make themselves miserable worrying about my sins. I will not let them make me miserable too. They have no right to tell me how I can behave.”
“This isn’t who you really are, Bitsy. You were born to be a godly, faithful Amish woman.”
“I was born to be Bitsy Kiem, even though I wish my parents had named me Hyacinth. Gotte doesn’t love me any less because I color my hair.”
Yost stood up and paced back and forth in front of the sofa, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. “But what about your eternal reward? Will you go to hell over earrings and a tattoo?”
“You think I’m going to hell?”
Yost wanted to shake some sense into her, but he needed to start talking sense first. “Of course not. I just think . . . I know you’d be happier living the Plain life. The true way to Gotte.”
Bitsy frowned and seemed to fold into herself. “The worst time of my life was when I was forced to live the Plain life.”
Yost stopped short and studied Bitsy’s face. It was a mask of pain and anger. “Everything you do is to spite your fater, isn’t it?”
She curled one side of her mouth and played with a lock of bright red hair at the nape of her neck. “Making my fater uncomfortable is as good a reason as any to color my hair.”
“That’s childish.”
Her eyes flashed like lightning. “Childish? You heard him gloat yesterday about how pleased he is with my improvements—or I should say, your improvements. He would shave his beard before he gave me credit for anything gute. If being who I am makes him unhappy, then for sure and certain that is his problem and not mine. My dat was too rigid, too stingy to love me. I don’t feel obligated to do anything or be anyone for him.”
Yost’s sigh came from deep within his throat. Bitsy’s wounds went clear to the center of her heart. He joined her on the sofa and wrapped both arms tenderly around her shoulders. “Sol was a harsh fater, and it hurts my heart to think of what your life must have been like. You are his daughter, and he treated you like an enemy.”
“Nae. Jesus says to love your enemies. Dat treated me worse.”
“But Bitsy, you can’t hold on to this forever. It’s time to forgive your fater.”
Bitsy erupted from the sofa, marched to the door, and grabbed her shotgun, holding it vertical, her fingers white around the barrel. “I won’t be preached to, Yost Weaver. You left me alone on that road thirty-five years ago.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“And I forgive you, but your choice forced me to make some choices of my own. It shaped how I felt about the world and the Amish. I had to get strong, mighty quick. Anger at you and my dat is what gave me the strength to turn my back on all of you. Only love for my sister and nieces could have compelled me to return to the community. I’m not childish. I’m angry, and that’s what’s kept me going all these years.” She pointed at the door with the butt of her shotgun. “I’m sure you’d rather not be seen at Bitsy Kiem’s house. It’s best to leave now before anyone catches you here.” Did her voice tremble slightly?
“But I love you,” he blurted out. “The bishop thinks it’s a wonderful gute idea. I’ve even talked it over with your dat, and he approves too.”
It was the wrong thing to say, and he knew it the minute it tumbled from his lips. “My dat approves?” She laughed so hard she snorted, but there was no happiness in it. “How nice for you.”
“I’ll gladly marry you if you mend your ways.”
“You’re so kind to do the jobs no one else will do.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said.
“My ways aren’t broken so I’m not inclined to mend them. I wouldn’t marry you if you were Tom Cruise with five more inches of height. Besides, we can’t get married. I haven’t been baptized and if living a life of austerity and misery with you is the reward for joining the church, I think I’ll pass.”
Yost’s mouth fell open. “Wha . . . what do you mean? Of course you’ve been baptized.”
She seemed to enjoy his utter confusion. “Nae, I haven’t. Surely you’ve heard the rumors from Paul Glick.”
He couldn’t catch his breath. “I . . . I have, but I thought he was making it up to tear down your family.”
“I’m surprised the bishop didn’t warn you.”
Yost furrowed his brow and gaped at Bitsy. “He probably thought I knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought we could cross that bridge when we came to it.” She lowered her eyes as she lowered the gun. The stock made a dull thud against the wood floor. “I considered getting baptized for you.” That thought hung heavy in the silence between them. Yost’s heart swelled even as it was breaking. “Love can make you do irrational things,” she said. “I’m glad I got some sanity before it was too late. If you want to join me in the Englisch world, I’ll consider a proposal, but until then, you need to go home.”
Yost could think of nothing to say. She had all but lied to him. She refused to compromise on anything. He should have followed his first instinct. It was better if Bitsy Kiem was out of his life. He stomped across the room, picked up his coat and hat, and stormed out the door without putting them on. The wind met him at the threshold and chilled him to the bone, but he refused to pause long enough to do anything about it.
Bitsy was nothing to him now. As far as he was concerned, she didn’t even exist. And the big hole in his heart was proof.
Chapter 7
Yost smiled widely and clapped and clapped at the end of the school Christmas program, but if someone had asked him what his favorite part was, he wouldn’t have had anything to say. He had barely noticed when the children stood up to say their lines. He didn’t remember what songs were sung or scriptures recited. He didn’t know if Levi had gotten his part right, even though he and Bitsy had practiced it with him a dozen times.
All he did the whole program was try not to think about Bitsy Kiem sitting three rows in front of him, looking as fierce and beautiful as an avenging angel. At first, he’d been mad that she’d had the nerve to show up to the school Christmas program with that slightly less brigh
t red hair. But then he couldn’t help but be grateful that she had come for Levi’s sake. Levi had invited her, and she had told him that wild horses couldn’t have kept her away.
After the applause died down, parents, siblings, and grandparents congregated at the eats table. Bitsy’s yellow stars were there, but Yost refused to eat them on principle. Why had he ever wanted to marry Bitsy? She was pretty and feisty and more breathtaking than a roller coaster, but she was also stubborn and rebellious, and she could hold a grudge as if it was attached to her body. How could he love someone who couldn’t forgive and refused to improve herself?
He snatched a snickerdoodle from the plate closest to him and took a hearty bite. It was as dry as cardboard and just as flavorful. He chewed slowly while trying not to gaze longingly at Bitsy’s cookies. They were disappearing faster than snow on a warm spring day. Maybe he should try at least one before they were all gone.
Too late. Benny Yutzy scooped up the last three in his chubby little hands and ran into the coat closet to eat them. Yost almost chased him but thought better of it. What would his neighbors think if he seized cookies from one of the scholars?
Yost positioned himself in the corner as his gaze involuntarily followed Bitsy everywhere. She squatted down to talk to Ada Beiler, John Beiler’s daughter, who was confined to a wheelchair and whose mental disabilities kept her out of school. Bitsy oohed and aahed over Suvie Nelson’s baby and helped little Dean Zook reach a cookie from the platter, snatching an extra one for him when his mamm wasn’t looking.
Bitsy’s presence filled the entire schoolhouse. She was everywhere, silently calling to him. She ignored him completely, but he couldn’t look away.
Abraham Yutzy, Benny’s dawdi, ambled over to Yost’s corner. “Wonderful gute program,” he said.
Yost was sure it had been wonderful gute, even if he hadn’t been paying attention. “Wonderful gute.”
“Your grandson Levi has a nice, firm voice. He’ll be a minister someday with that strong delivery.” Abraham took a bite of his cookie. “I hear you and Bitsy Kiem are dating.”
Yost’s gut twisted around itself. They weren’t dating anymore, and he never, ever, ever wanted to date her again. It felt gute to be rid of her. “Nae. We’re not.”
Abraham formed his lips into an O and nodded. “Ach, Yost, I am relieved to hear it. Edna told me she saw your buggy at Bitsy’s farm, but I couldn’t believe there was anything between you. I told her a godly man like you would never get mixed up with Bitsy Kiem. She’d drag you down to hell as sure as you’re born.”
Yost couldn’t do anything but nod for the lump stuck in his throat. For sure and certain he was grateful he hadn’t let Bitsy trick him into marrying her. Life with her would have been nothing but Bee Sting Cake, blue hair, and laughter all the time. Who needed that? Who needed broken stoves and duct tape, absurd cat names and scripture debates? Who needed money stuck in Bibles and green fuzzy slippers and shotguns and praying aloud?
The weight on his chest was so heavy he couldn’t breathe. He knew the answer to that question.
Abraham moved away to be with his grandchildren, and Levi ran up and gave Yost a hug.
“You remembered your part and didn’t falter once. You looked so confident,” Yost said. That had probably happened.
Levi nodded. “Bitsy told me to imagine people in their underwear, and I wasn’t even nervous.”
Yost tried to be sufficiently indignant that Bitsy had said the word “underwear” to his grandson, but he couldn’t stifle a smile. Bitsy Kiem would say anything to help a nervous little boy perform well in his Christmas program.
Levi beamed like a string of Englisch Christmas lights. “Did you see, Dawdi? Bitsy came. I asked her to come, and she came. She asked if I would be embarrassed if she had red hair and tattoos, and I told her it would be okay with me. Dat said we should stand up for our friends and not be ashamed of them.”
The lump in Yost’s throat grew bigger, either because of the dry cookie or the lesson his twelve-year-old grandson had just taught him. “That is gute advice.”
Levi reached up and placed his hand on Yost’s shoulder as if he was an adult and Yost was a child. “You like her, don’t you, Dawdi?”
He wanted to scream out a denial, but he wouldn’t ever lie to his grandson. “Jah, I like her.”
Levi bloomed into a grin. “I knew you did. You stare at her all the time without hardly even blinking.”
Yost sighed and ruffled Levi’s hair. “Bitsy and I don’t suit well, no matter how much I like her.”
Levi scrunched his lips together and made a face. “It doesn’t matter what someone looks like or if they wear funny shoes or weird beanies. It matters what’s in our heart, Dawdi. Bitsy’s heart is full of big plans. And probably thousands of recipes. But do you know what’s mostly in Bitsy’s heart, Dawdi?”
“What?”
“Love. She’s got so much love, and everyone can see it because it spills out all the time. Go talk to her. Maybe you’ll find out you suit better than you think.” Levi drained his cup of punch. “I need another drink.”
Yost barely noticed Levi walk away. His attention was focused on the other side of the room where the woman with thousands of recipes and lots of love in her heart stood talking to Susie Borntreger, no doubt about one of Susie’s physical ailments. She had a lot of them and loved to give people frequent updates.
He couldn’t pretend that his life would be fine without Bitsy. He couldn’t even pretend his life would be bearable. He was so mad at her he could have spit, but he was also so in love with her that he couldn’t see straight.
He wanted Bitsy to be his wife, no matter the sacrifice.
His chest tightened. He knew what he had to do, but didn’t know if he had the courage to do it.
He would find the courage.
He loved her. He had no choice.
Chapter 8
Bitsy pulled the stollen out of the oven, and then started wondering why she’d made it. Nobody liked stollen except the few stalwart Germans who swore Christmas wasn’t Christmas without the dense bread filled with dried fruit and raisins. Bitsy had made stollen every year since she and her nieces moved to Bienenstock, and everybody ate a piece to honor the tradition even though Poppy held her nose while she ate it. Christmas was a time of new beginnings. Maybe Bitsy would start a new tradition next year, like chicken enchiladas or sushi.
She stirred her small helping of chili bubbling in the pot. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and the nieces and their families would come for a big party. The Amish didn’t really celebrate Christmas Eve, but Bitsy had always celebrated it as an Englischer and didn’t see any sin in having another get-together with the family.
Of course, there were some people in the community who were eager to see sin everywhere, and those people would probably be offended by a Christmas Eve party. But Bitsy couldn’t spare an extra minute to think about them or be sad that they were never going to come to her house again. If they thought she was that sinful, she was happy they stayed away. She didn’t need the judgment or the heartache.
Didn’t need the heartache one little bit.
Gute thing she was too busy to brood about it.
Her beeswax candle had burned down to nothing but a puddle of wax on her counter. She’d scrape it off tomorrow, but for tonight, she liked looking at the puddle and remembering how beautiful the candle had been when it was burning. It had wasted to nothing doing just what it had been created for. She rejoiced in the memory of the light. Never again would she let a candle go unburned.
Someone knocked on the door, three times in perfect rhythm. She rolled her eyes. She still needed to roll out the cookie dough and bake the cookies tonight so they’d be ready to frost for the party. She had no time for interruptions. With an oven mitt on each hand, she pushed aside the curtains to see who was at her door. It was full dark outside, and all she could make out was a strange Englisch man with short-cropped hair, blue jeans, and bright white athletic
shoes. He was probably a hoodlum looking to rob the poor unsuspecting Amish lady. Still in her oven mitts, she picked up her shotgun, pointed it at about the height his head would be, and opened the door.
“Oh, sis yuscht,” the hoodlum muttered, slowly raising both hands over his head. “I know you’re mad, but could you please put down the gun?”
Bitsy gasped. She’d heard that voice before. It belonged to . . . “Yost Weaver?”
The Englischer, who was not an Englischer at all, took a step into the light.
It was Yost, but she kept her gun at the ready. In the two days since she had seen him, he’d obviously gone crazy. His brown hair was short and wavy, and a thick strand fell across his forehead as if it wasn’t quite sure what it was doing on his head. His horseshoe beard was gone, revealing a small scar on his chin and two red spots where he’d obviously nicked himself. He still wore his Amish coat, but the T-shirt underneath had a picture of a skull with a lightning bolt through it. “Grateful Dead” was written across the top in block letters. His jeans were too tight—poor thing, he looked quite uncomfortable—and those white shoes had to be brand new and had to have cost him at least fifty dollars.
But the most shocking thing about Yost Weaver was that he was wearing Bitsy’s dangly earring in one ear. Well, he wasn’t exactly wearing it. It hung from his earlobe attached by a piece of duct tape.
Jah. He’d gone stark, raving mad.
Crazy or not, he was still the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on. If her heart hadn’t already been broken, it would be in pieces on the ground by now.
“Yost,” she said, keeping her voice pleasant and low. She didn’t want to scare him—even though he had a gun pointed at his head. “Do you need help finding your way home?”
He looked absolutely miserable standing out there and not just because his jeans were too tight. “Can I come in? It’s freezing out here.”
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