Thursday's Bride

by Patricia Johns

  Except now, she was living in the same house. She was sleeping in the bedroom across the hall, and he could hear her soft footfalls, her voice filtering through the walls as she talked to her daughters. Now, seeing her alone was far too easy, and the new challenge was to keep his attraction in check.

  Which he hadn’t done last night.

  The wind picked up, and he walked a little faster, heading toward the chicken house. The door tended to stick and took a solid shoulder to bang open in wet weather. He might as well fix it today while he had his tools out with him.

  The first drops of rain pattered down in icy spit, and he hunched his shoulders against the cold. The chicken house door was ajar, which meant his mamm was probably collecting the eggs. He paused, looking inside, but instead of his mother, he spotted Rosmanda with a white plastic bucket, reaching under the fluffy body of an annoyed hen to retrieve an egg. Her shawl hung off of one shoulder. He could see the line of her collarbone through her pale skin, and her wrists looked more fragile than they should. He froze, watching her. She didn’t hear him at the door, and she stood on her tiptoes and reached up onto a beam, pulling an egg down from there. There was a sneaky hen, apparently.

  He watched her for a moment. He should leave—the door could be fixed later. He’d already proven to himself exactly how much self-control he had around this woman . . . And he was about to back away when Rosmanda turned toward the door and startled when she saw him. Pink suffused her cheeks.

  “I didn’t hear you,” she said, and she tugged her shawl up over her shoulder again.

  “I came to fix the door,” he said.

  “Yah, it sticks.” She licked her lips, and he found himself looking at those pink lips a little longer than necessary. He cleared his throat.

  “Is Ketura still here?” he asked after a beat of silence.

  “She left a few minutes ago,” Rosmanda replied.

  Right. He’d meant to tell his aunt that he’d mentioned Aaron to his father, but he wasn’t even sure what he’d tell her. His father seemed to like the idea even less than he did. It was probably best to put it off a little, anyway.

  “She has some ideas on how to sell my quilt,” Rosmanda added. “It’s the one I started sewing when Wayne died, and . . . apparently, it’s good.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he replied. “You sure you’re willing to sell it?”

  “I don’t have much choice.”

  “You always have a choice,” he retorted. “I don’t know what you think, but I’ll never push you out of this home—”

  “I need to make something new. It’s time.”

  Was she talking about quilting, or her life as a whole? He wasn’t sure why that felt ominous to him. Whatever they had here between them was uncomfortable at best, but he didn’t want to sweep it away, either. Sometimes the painful familiar was easier to bear than the unknown.

  He stepped inside and dropped his tools to the floor with a thunk. The chickens fluttered a little, then resettled again. He might as well fix the door now. There wasn’t going to be a graceful escape. Rosmanda stood with one hand holding her shawl together, and his gaze was drawn to that slim wrist. Before he could think better of it, he reached out and ran the back of his finger over her soft, warm skin.

  “You need to eat more, Rosie . . .” he murmured.

  She smiled faintly. “I try. I have babies to chase.”

  “Yah, well . . . try harder,” he said with a small smile of his own. “Eat cinnamon rolls at night. It’s bound to plump you up a bit.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m fine.”

  But she wasn’t fine. Ketura had told him that much, and looking at her now, how much weight she’d lost even after giving birth . . . He wasn’t okay, either. They were both grieving. They’d both lost Wayne.

  “I dreamed about my brother last night,” Levi said quietly. “It was like he was there—”

  Levi shouldn’t be saying so much, and he clamped his mouth shut. Hadn’t they agreed not to talk about this stuff?

  “I’ll just work on the door,” he said. “I don’t need to get into it.”

  He needed to focus on the stuff he could actually fix, right? And he could pretend he hadn’t said anything.

  “It wasn’t your fault . . .”

  Her words were so soft that he almost didn’t hear them over the creak of the hinges, and he stopped. He slowly raised his gaze. She wasn’t looking at him, her gaze trained on a hen that was ruffling herself back up on a nest. Rosmanda’s lips were pressed together, and she clutched the bucket in a white-knuckled grip.

  “What?” he said feebly.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Levi.” Tears welled in her eyes and she swallowed hard. “He used to visit you—without telling me. That is rather telling, I think. I’ve been blaming you for months, but if Wayne was going to see you, keeping me away . . . You two needed each other, and I was the one standing between you. If I had reassured him more, maybe he wouldn’t have been so intimidated by what we had. Maybe he’d have had you come home, and you wouldn’t have felt so . . . so . . .” She shrugged weakly.

  “Abandoned,” he said hollowly.

  “I’m sorry,” she breathed.

  “It wasn’t your fault, either,” he said quietly. “I made some bad choices, and those are on me. Not Wayne. Not you.”

  “I still wonder if I could have made things easier on both of you.”

  “It was between us men,” Levi said. “You wouldn’t understand that. He crossed a line when he courted you. It wasn’t that you married him, it was how he went about it. And he knew that. He hadn’t apologized for it, and I hadn’t forgiven him. It wasn’t your fault, either, Rosmanda.”

  “Then who do we blame?” she whispered. “Who do we hate?”

  Levi shook his head. “No one, Rosie.”

  “Because Christians don’t hate—” Her words caught in her throat.

  “Because humans don’t hold the key between life and death,” he said.

  He didn’t even have control over his own heart, it seemed. Because looking at her with that bucket of eggs clutched in one hand, her round dark eyes fixed on him pleadingly, he could feel his options slipping away.

  Levi stepped closer, taking the bucket from her grip and setting it aside. He caught her freed hand in his and lifted it, his gaze moving over those slim fingers, the narrow wrist . . . He pressed his lips to her fingertips. A tear escaped her lids and trickled down her cheek, and before he could stop himself, he pulled her closer and dipped his head down, caught those pink lips with his.

  She hesitated for a moment, and then when he was about to pull back—uncertain if he’d gone too far—she sank against him, her frail frame resting against his chest in a way that sped his heart up to a gallop. He wrapped his arms around her, tugging her closer still, and as his lips moved over hers, he felt a wave of relief crash over him.

  It was a kiss that had been waiting for five years—a kiss that had been lingering in his dreams and in his grief. Her mouth tasted sweet, and as he splayed his fingers over the small of her back, the blood rushed to his head like an explosion. She moved against him, pushing against his chest so that he could feel her heartbeat pattering next to his. Her hands pressed against his muscled torso—a movement both innocent and subtly suggestive. He wanted this kiss, and more.

  She pulled back and he loosened his hold on her, letting out a wavering breath.

  Neither of them said anything, but when he opened his eyes, he found her looking at him with mild panic in her pale face. Her hands were still hot against his body, but now she pushed him away and he dropped his arms. What had he just done?

  “I’m sorry . . .” he whispered hoarsely. Suddenly, he wasn’t feeling the relief of holding her again; he was remembering all the reasons she was wrong for him. Rosmanda had always been the innocent one, and he’d been more experienced than she’d been—physically, at least. Falling in love with her had been completely unfamiliar territory, and he wasn’t willing
to fall in love with her again. But she was the more experienced of them now, he realized in a rush. She was no longer the innocent girl to be taught. She’d been married, after all—she was a woman in every way—and he was the unmarried “boy.”

  “We can’t do that . . .” she breathed.

  “I know.” He picked up the bucket of eggs and handed it to her once more. She took it from his grasp, her soft fingers brushing against his.

  Every logical reason pointed to keeping himself away from her, but after feeling her fingers brush against his, it took every ounce of self-restraint to keep himself from pulling her back into his arms all over again. Instead he clenched his teeth together and nodded toward the door.

  “I’ll finish up in here,” he said gruffly.

  Rosmanda brushed past him, and he turned to watch her go. His hands felt empty and awkward at his sides. She looked back as she reached the door, her lips parted. Whatever had sparked between them five years ago, this was something entirely different. She was no longer the innocent girl looking back at him. She was the woman who knew what she needed.

  Not him. He read it in her face. Whatever he seemed to awaken inside of her wasn’t the kind of thing that could last. He needed a fresh start as much as she did, and neither of them would find that in each other’s arms.

  Chapter Eight

  Levi stood in the barn doorway next to his daet, looking at the massive stallion standing in the rain. He didn’t seem to mind the weather. If he did, he could come under the shelter with the other horses, but the big brute stood at the far side of the corral, muscles trembling from time to time when the rain gusted sideways. Resolute.

  Levi had been forging a bond with that beast, albeit a slow one. He’d taken to calling him Donkey, which had started out as a joke because of his stubbornness, but it seemed to suit him, and he’d look over now when Levi called him by his new name. But it wasn’t just an acknowledgment of a name. Donkey had started to perk up when Levi came in with oats for him, and Levi could now pet him while he ate.

  “Donkey!” he called. “Oats!”

  He shook the bucket, but Donkey looked away. The other horses immediately perked up and ambled in his direction hopefully.

  “Come on, Donkey.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a carrot. “How about this, boy?”

  Donkey looked with some new interest at the carrot, but still didn’t make a move in their direction. Another horse stretched forward with reaching lips, and Levi fed the carrot to that horse instead. The rain continued to fall, puddles forming by the fence posts.

  “Maybe it’s because I’m here,” Stephen said.

  “Yah. But not necessarily,” Levi said, wiping off his hand. “I’m still working on him.”

  Proving Wayne wrong seemed less important somehow. He’d wanted to prove himself just as able as his brother, but that kiss had changed things a bit. It left him guilty. Wayne had betrayed him, but kissing Rosmanda now felt . . . like Levi was crossing lines, too. Maybe it was time to call it even and end this competition with a ghost and let his ravaged conscience rest. Whatever their competition in life, it was over now, and Levi didn’t seem to be a whole lot better than his brother had been when it came to Rosmanda.

  “Come on, Donkey,” he called.

  The stallion looked back at him, but still didn’t move.

  “He knows his name, it seems,” Stephen said.

  “Yah, he does. He’s coming along—he’s gentler now.”

  Stephen nodded slowly. “Well, let’s get inside and warm up before supper. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

  Right—Levi sighed. He was getting hungry, too, but the thought of facing Rosmanda curbed his appetite somewhat. He couldn’t sit across from her at the table and pretend he hadn’t pulled her into his arms mere hours ago. Was it a mistake? Oh, absolutely. But he’d meant it. And kissing her had been more of a relief than he’d even imagined, because that kiss hadn’t been some one-sided fumble. She’d kissed him back.

  And he had no idea what that meant. To her. To him . . .

  “I figured I’d go into town,” Levi said, stepping back away from the door. “I can order the fencing while I’m there, and get something to eat at the diner.”

  “It’s a waste of money when dinner is ready in the house,” Stephen said, squinting at Levi. “And it’s raining. Not great driving weather on those roads.”

  “We need to order the fencing anyway,” Levi replied. “And I’ve got some money to buy myself some dinner.”

  Levi’s father shrugged. “It’s up to you. I still think it’s a waste when you have a perfectly good dinner here at home. Your mamm is making a pork roast.”

  It would be a good meal—one of his favorites—and he was still enjoying being back with his mamm’s meals, but this wasn’t about how good the cooking would be.

  “I’ll be back in time for chores after dinner,” Levi said.

  His father shrugged in reply. “Drive carefully. You know how the Englishers are in this weather.”

  Levi met his father’s eye, then nodded. They’d already experienced the worst in that, and he knew his daet was thinking about Wayne.

  “Yah,” Levi said. “I’ll take care.”

  “Pick up some rat poison while you’re at it,” his father added. “And some new ear tags. We’re getting low.”

  “Sure. I’ll do that.”

  “Tell Hans I’ll pay up next week.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Stephen headed back to the house, and Levi hitched up two draft horses to his buggy. It was better this way. He’d been so determined to take care of Rosmanda and do right by her in her time of need, and he wasn’t doing that right now. He was crossing lines, doing things he knew he shouldn’t. Whatever he felt for her wasn’t her problem, and giving her a break from him was the best gift he could give her right now.

  Levi set out for town. The rain let up a little as the horses plodded along. It felt better to be putting some space between himself and Rosmanda, and he breathed a little easier. He’d known that coming home would have its challenges, but he hadn’t expected this one. There’d been some safety in her resentment of him. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried so hard to dispel it.

  Lord, take away whatever it is I’m feeling for her, he prayed silently. I’m the problem—not her. That was on me.

  Levi felt somewhat scuffed and tarnished next to her. He was the messed up one—the recovering alcoholic with the secret meetings in town, the one who struggled with his faith, the one who crossed lines that shouldn’t be crossed. While he might feel things for her he had no right to, he was very aware that she was a step above the likes of him.

  And he’d seen that again in the way she’d looked at him after she’d given in to her baser self and kissed him back just as passionately—that mild panic. He was dangerous, rebellious, a proven risk. And she was so achingly, sweetly good that he felt like an even bigger problem in contrast to her. And maybe that was what made her feel so irresistible all these years—how proper she was, how unsullied. If he cared for her at all, he’d leave her alone.

  When Levi got into town, he parked his buggy in an Amish-friendly parking lot downtown. Everything was walkable from that parking lot, and he left his horses hitched up, but underneath a tarp covering erected to protect the animals from the weather. He put a feedbag onto the muzzles of both horses, and headed across the street to Groutman’s, the Englisher farm and ranch supply store.

  A few Amish men loitered by the door, having stepped inside to avoid the rain, and Levi nodded to them as he came inside. Some Englishers were talking over the benefits of a new porch swing rather loudly from across the store, and the owner, Hans Groutman, was at the front window, taping a sign up advertising for an upcoming sale on gopher traps. In a rural community, the farm and ranch supply shop was the hub.

  “Oh, speaking of Levi Lapp, here he is,” Mark Graber said, raising his voice and waving Levi back toward the door.

  Le
vi looked over at the men who were chatting—he knew them all, but one. A young man about his own age with a sparse but married beard. He was tall, lanky, and had a friendly look about him.

  “Yah?” Levi asked, coming over.

  “This young fellow here—” Mark said. “His name is Jonathan Yoder. He’s come from Indiana.”

  “Morinville,” Jonathan added.

  “Yah?” Levi hesitated. That was Rosmanda’s hometown where her mamm and daet lived. Her brothers and sister were out there, too. She had a whole heap of family. But he’d never heard of this fellow before.

  “I’m looking for a family friend,” Jonathan said. “Her name is Rosmanda Lapp.”

  “She’s my sister-in-law,” Levi replied.

  “God must be looking down on me,” Jonathan said with a relieved grin. “I came out on a bus, and I’ve been asking around, but this is downright providential.”

  “And you are . . .” Levi prompted.

  “Jonathan Yoder,” he repeated. “Family friend, like I said. I heard about her husband’s passing—your brother?”

  “Yah.”

  “My condolences.”

  “Thank you.” Levi nodded.

  “Anyways, I heard about your brother’s passing, and we like to take care of our own in Morinville. I came out to see her—make sure she’s okay.”

  “And your wife?” Levi asked, glancing around. How many of them had come out?

  “At home with the kinner.” Jonathan smiled meekly. “It’s just me. But she sends her best, especially at this difficult time.”

  So Rosmanda’s people were reaching out—albeit a little late. It wasn’t surprising—it was a relief, actually. She’d come out here and never looked back—something that suited the Lapp family just fine since there weren’t any complications for Wayne. It was nice to know that there were people who worried, though, who wanted to help her. She deserved that.