Fire ran through his veins. A year ago Rose had agreed to carve out time to spend one day a week at the kennel, but she hardly ever managed to get away for more than a couple of hours once a month.
One thing he could control was that stupid rooster. He spotted it returning to his barn, and he strode in that direction. Hank screeched and flapped his wings, but Joel cornered him and jerked the bird up by his legs. He squawked, beat his wings, and clawed at him. Joel considered killing Hank then and there. That would solve the problem. But Rose liked the rooster’s owners, elderly Englisch neighbors that she bought eggs from. So he walked to the road and went toward the Wagners’ place. The rooster flapped and pecked and spurred his hands until they were bloody, but Joel ignored it as best he could. He looked at his dusty work boots and focused on putting one foot in front of the other on the gravel road.
What was happening between Rose and him? They’d come so far, only to have lost their ability to communicate. She stiffened at his presence, refused to hold his hand during the family mealtime prayer, and had stopped meeting him in the living room after the children went to sleep. That’s when they used to talk or read or stare at the fire.
Why had things changed?
He wondered if she’d finally realized what she’d given up to marry a man she didn’t love. Did she blame him for trapping her in a lifelong relationship? Maybe she was weary of the work load. Whatever it was, he missed her, and while he wanted to be straightforward with her about his feelings, he never was certain how she would react to such boldness.
Before grabbing the rooster and walking off, he should’ve smiled at Rose and assured her that he wasn’t angry or disappointed about the shirts, supper, or anything else. The only thing he’d been upset about was Hank’s intrusion and how it had stolen time from Rose’s day while adding to her tasks. If that wasn’t enough, the rooster had also frightened the children.
The bird kept thrashing and digging its spurs into Joel’s hand. He should’ve grabbed a pair of gloves before capturing Hank, but he’d been too frustrated to think about it at the time.
Joel looked up. George and Shirley Wagner’s old faded-gray house with peeling paint and a tin roof stared back at him. They were good people, but they were forgetful, maybe because of their age. The porch was a catawampus, splintered wreck of half-rotten lumber. He and Rose had offered to fix it, but George wasn’t interested.
When Joel put his weight on the first step, it groaned under the pressure. By the time he reached the porch, George was at the front door. Between Hank’s complaining and the boards shrieking, Joel didn’t need to knock to get the old man’s attention. George had on a thick flannel shirt and loose-fitting jeans that were hiked up to his waist by a pair of suspenders.
He looked at the rooster in Joel’s hand. “My goodness. You’re bleeding.”
Joel ignored the remark. “Do you want to keep this bird?”
“Drop Hank and come inside, Joel.” George looked over his shoulder. “Shirley! Get a first-aid kit.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need first aid.” Joel tried to keep his voice even, but with each word his pulse quickened. “You aren’t listening to me, George.”
The old man’s thick gray brows furrowed. “About?”
“This.” He held up the rooster and wasn’t letting go until Hank was inside a fence. “Rose had to usher the children into the loft to keep them safe. You’ve been good neighbors for a lot of years, but this rooster has gotten mean in his old age. The next time he steps on my property, I’m going to have to kill him.”
George stepped back from the door, reached for something, and returned with a pair of work gloves. He slipped them on and took Hank from Joel. “It’s a rooster, Joel, not a rabid dog.”
“Nonetheless, I’ve spoken my piece about him. Keep him inside the chicken-wire fence, or be ready to part with him.” He hated this conversation. Rose and Shirley Wagner went berry picking together from time to time, and once a year they made jams. But this rooster thing had gone on for far too long.
George nodded. “If the bird enters your property again, I’ll kill it myself.” The old man attempted a smile.
Shirley came out of the house. “Joel!” She had a tin first-aid kit in her hand. “What happened?”
“Hank got out,” George said.
Shirley grimaced, looking appalled and apologetic. “I told you that bird was trouble,” she mumbled while opening the kit. “Honest, Joel, we’ve had our share of roosters over the years, but I’ve never seen one this mean.”
Her reaction diffused Joel’s anger. His unchecked words had gotten the better of him again. “It’s all right, really.”
Shirley retrieved Band-Aids from the first-aid kit.
Joel moved toward the steps. “No, I’m fine, Shirley, really.”
He needed to get home. With Christmas approaching and many events this week, Rose could use help getting her day back on track. Stupid washer. It had to break today of all days. He should’ve replaced it years ago, and now it could take three or four weeks to get one shipped here. They didn’t stock wringer washers in the nearest Lowe’s.
He was halfway down the porch stairs when Shirley called to him. “Joel, please, it’ll only take a second.”
“I appreciate it, Shirley, I do. But it looks worse than it is.” He was far more concerned with Rose’s injuries. She wasn’t a complainer, and if anger hadn’t gotten the best of him, he would’ve thought to look after her before jerking up the rooster and walking off.
He continued walking away. Shirley’s voice faded, and again he focused on the gravel road. The wind stung his face, and darkness pressed in.
The clomping of hoofs behind him echoed, and carriage wheels crunched against the gravel. The rig slowed and came up beside Joel.
“You need a ride,” Erma said over the scraping of hoofs against the road.
His former mother-in-law was the last person Joel wanted to deal with right now. But it was a good sign that she was out and about. Her rheumatoid arthritis often kept her inside, sometimes in bed, for most of the winter. “Denki, Erma, but I’m fine walking.” If she gave him a lift home, she would likely decide to go inside to visit, and it wasn’t the night for that.
“Oh, don’t be silly.” She stopped the rig. “Get in.”
Joel slowly released a sigh, trying to hide his displeasure as he got into her rig. “You look healthy.”
“I’ve been worse.” Erma tapped the reins against the horse’s back. “What about you? You’re bleeding.”
“Ya, just a little.”
He really didn’t want to explain to anyone and especially not to Erma. If anything went wrong—one of the children had a cold or a scraped knee or seemed overly hungry during the after-service mealtime—Erma complained to or about Rose. It wasn’t as if he could tell her to leave his wife alone. Even if his words were gentle, they would only stir up more strife, not put it to rest. Thankfully, Rose usually let Erma’s increasingly bitter words roll off, even when she nitpicked at church gatherings in front of others. He ran interference as best he could, and he’d spoken to Erma about her harsh ways, but controlling her was like trying to control Hank.
If Erma’s words stung Rose deeply or angered her, she became very quiet and withdrew inside herself. She was skilled at shaking off negative feelings, but when Joel realized what was happening, he would do a little something special for her—make her breakfast or a cup of tea or put up an extra shelf in her closet. His ounce of kindness would pull her out of the hurt or anger, and she would be back to herself in no time. She was a resilient, even-keeled person by nature. But like Hank, Erma could dash out of hiding and stir up trouble while drawing blood.
Joel shifted in his seat. “So what are you doing up this way?”
Erma shrugged. “Took a pie to the Yoders. It’s Mary’s birthday.”
Was that alcohol on her breath? Again? For years she’d said a few sips of rum did wonders for her arthritic pain. She even had a medical r
eport of some kind that supported her claim, so the church leaders had given their permission. But whether the rum was medicinal or not, she shouldn’t be on the road if she was under the influence.
He held out his hands for the reins. “You shouldn’t be driving.”
She glanced his way. “It’s a buggy, not a tractor. The horse can do its job with no guidance from me.”
So she was drunk and she knew it.
“What clawed you?” Erma asked.
“The Wagners’ rooster.”
“Those people. Rose should be more faithful to the Amish than to any Englisch neighbors. If she was, she’d buy her eggs from our community.”
“We know how you feel, Erma. It’s Rose’s decision.” Joel knew she was alluding to Gertie, the Amish widow who was trying to establish an egg business to support her family.
Erma clicked her tongue in protest. “When we get to your place, I want to go in and see the children for a bit.”
“This isn’t a good time for a visit.”
If she would visit with the children without criticizing Rose, he would welcome her. But it never worked that way.
“It’ll be fine,” Erma said. “I can hardly get around most days, and you’d keep me from visiting my grandbabies on the rare day I can?”
Joel nodded. “Okay, but not for too long. It’s been a rough day.”
Erma scoffed. “My Florence would count it a privilege to have a cold day of sunshine while she looked after her three beautiful children.” Her face hardened, revealing the depth of her pain. “A hard day is lying dead in the ground and leaving three motherless children.”
“Your heartache is justified, and I don’t mean to sound as if it’s not, but you can’t blame Rose for Florence’s death.”
Erma slapped the reins against the horse’s back. “Oh, but how perfectly Rose took advantage of the situation. She waltzed into my daughter’s life and simply took over. Florence lived in that drafty rental with you for two years. When you finally got the money to build a house, she worked by your side, clearing the land while tending to a baby and being pregnant with your second child. Once you moved into that house, she worked hard with you to help build the shop and manage the staff and business details as your company grew. Every free moment she had was spent working her fingers to the bone, and then she died giving you what you wanted—children to fill your home.”
Her condemnation pressed in on him. Florence didn’t have to help clear the land. She wanted to, just as she wanted to be a part of his company. What should he have done—refused to let her be part of things she found fulfilling? Wouldn’t that make him an overbearing man, one who tried to control his wife rather than support her? Florence was bubbly and outgoing. She looked forward to interacting with their employees and bringing the children into town to see the work there.
“Look, Florence and I were a team. Despite not having the money to do better, we chose to marry, and we knew we’d live in that drafty rental. You and the community knew it too, and no one minded at the time. We did what young married people do—started out simple, worked hard, and saved. She didn’t do anything dangerous during our marriage. The doctor assured me that nothing we did caused her hemorrhaging after Grace was born and that we couldn’t have prevented it. I’ve told you this for four years.”
The only thing that could’ve made a difference was where they were when the hemorrhaging began. In that, he had fault. Florence wanted to have her babies at home just as her foremothers had, and he agreed with her that it was safe. She’d given birth twice at home, and everything went well. But if she had been in a hospital when Grace was born, he had no doubts she would be alive right now. Joel used to carry unbearably harsh regrets, but with Rose’s help he had accepted that no one was at fault and had forgiven himself and moved forward. It’d been a slow process, but he knew that unforgiveness, whether toward others or himself, was like an infection. Left unchecked, it would destroy part of his heart, and he wanted to be as whole as possible for his children.
It was sad that no one had been able to help Erma forgive others and herself. Joel knew that her husband, Leo, tried to find ways to dig her out of her grief, but her bitterness had deep roots.
She turned on the blinker and slowed the rig as she pulled onto his driveway. “For four years I’ve watched you fall all over yourself being grateful to Rose. Exactly what are you grateful for? An opportunist who wasted no time in being the first single woman to your door? Unlike my Florence, Rose didn’t have to earn the right to be with you. She didn’t spend years trying to get you to stop working long enough to realize she existed, but my Florence did. You married Rose without question, and if there is some way to make her life easier, you’ll stand against the whole community to do it.”
Joel had no defense to offer. Her bitterness had twisted all her perceptions, both past and present. As the rig passed the new addition to the house, Joel shoved his disappointment down deep. He’d started the addition when he thought that Rose and he were on a path to sharing the same bedroom. It was to be a gift—a new room for their new life. A room he had never shared with another woman. He knew that would be important to Rose.
“In her four years of being here, Rose has never helped with your business.”
Rose was a giver, but her way of contributing avoided the kind of people interaction required by some aspects of his work. If someone needed food or money, she would till an extra plot of ground and tend the crop. Then Joel would deliver the produce to those in need or find a way to sell it and give them the money. If families in crisis needed childcare, Rose would have a brood underfoot and do a great job, even if it went around the clock for a week. But she wanted no part of the adult socialization.
Erma sighed, looking with great interest at the spot where the washtub sat, and parked the rig next to it. Joel hopped out and went to her side of the rig to help her down.
Erma got her footing by holding on tightly to Joel’s hand. Then she released it and walked to the tub. She lifted the two muddy white shirts and looked at Joel.
He arched his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said, it’s been a rough day.”
“Bad day? Rose is an inept wife and mother. Open your eyes, Joel. God Himself has judged Rose as unfit.”
Unfit? What was Erma suggesting now?
She dropped the shirts back into the tub and headed for the house.
He’d never seen the woman this vindictive toward Rose, and he fell into step beside her. “I’ve asked you to keep the visit pleasant. If you can’t manage that, I need you to leave.”
Erma stopped short and leaned toward him like a threatening dog. “You will not keep me from my grandchildren.”
“I’d prefer not to.” That was putting it lightly. A small community divided by strife became a magnet for contention and resentment. Joel knew that God’s preference was a peaceful solution. Was that possible with Erma? “But I can and I will put my foot down if necessary.”
She stared at him, clearly trying to size up the situation. “We wouldn’t be at odds if you had waited a respectable amount of time to remarry after my daughter died. Then Gertie would have been here, and she would be a much better wife for you.”
Gertie, the widow who arrived mere weeks ago—that’s what had Erma riled? She was overwrought because he hadn’t waited four years to marry someone else? He knew the wisest course was to walk away from this crazy conversation, but the questions came out in a flood. “Why do you still feel this way toward Rose? Can you explain it? You do understand that she nurtured Grace—soothed her and fed her—when no one else could do either, right?”
Erma pointed at the house. “Within hours of arriving in Forest Hill, Rose stood inside my daughter’s home and took Grace out of my hands!”
Joel had no recollection of that. Is that why Erma left his house and took to her bed—embarrassment and anger? Had her resentment been building since the night Rose arrived? “It wasn’t personal, Erma. Even if Rose had bee
n an angel sent straight from heaven, the loss of Florence would have made seeing Rose as a blessing impossible. Rose couldn’t prevent anything that happened concerning our need for her. By the mercy of God, Rose and Grace formed a special bond from the start.”
“You mean Rose and you formed a special bond from the start. You betrayed my Florence before she was cold in the grave.”
“It wasn’t about me! I don’t understand why you can’t get that. Rose has nursed those children through dozens of childhood illnesses. Do you know how well she’s kept your grandchildren fed, clothed, and prayed for? The fact that you can’t find it within yourself to be thankful, if not to her, then to God, should be a clear indication to you that you are the problem, not me or Rose.”
“You have more gall than anyone I know. It’s no wonder God closed Rose’s womb. God knows what you’re unwilling to admit—that Rose is unfit as a wife and mother.”
Joel’s blood ran hot, and he could only see red. “To conceive, to my understanding, requires sharing a bed. I doubt God has any correction for someone as self-sacrificing as Rose.”
Erma stood there, studying him. “You’ve never consummated your wedding vows?”
The intimate truth of his marriage was no one’s business, and regret instantly began to bubble inside him. But maybe it would help if she understood the true nature of their arrangement. “No.”
It wouldn’t benefit anyone for him to tell Erma that he had slowly but surely fallen in love with Rose. How could he not? She loved to love and to give her all. Over the years she had come to know him in ways no one else had. She’d seen him at his weakest and still found good in him.
He understood that love and romance were two very different things. Romance wasn’t part of the agreement they’d made, and unless Rose indicated that she wanted to alter what they’d set in place four years ago, he would quietly long for her but would honor the original arrangement.
Rose woke to a quiet, dark home. Snuggled under the quilt, she didn’t want to move, knowing the slightest shift would be another reminder of how cold the sheets were around her. Another winter would come and go, and she would wake each morning in a dark, icy room. Spring and summer and fall were easier, the sun arriving earlier and stretching later into the day. Winter nights in Forest Hill—with her husband asleep on a couch in a room down the hall—seemed to go on forever.
The Angel of Forest Hill Page 5
