The Patch of Heaven Collection

by Kelly Long

  “I thought the Amish were against violence,” he replied in an injured tone, and she ignored the pulling in her heart at his cajoling.

  “I’m going home, Doctor. Good afternoon.”

  “There’s only one girl I want to take for a ride in my car, Sarah King, and in your heart, you know that.” His voice stopped her. It was true. She knew it. He cared about her. She had the power to make him care more, without regard to the future. She turned, trembling, to face him.

  “I do know it,” she whispered, her anger fast melting into unwanted tears. “I don’t want to know. I cannot. It’s not done.”

  “What’s not done?”

  “Now you know what I mean.” She swallowed hard. “An Amish and an Englischer . . . as more than friends. It’s not done.”

  The smile left his eyes and he stared at her. “How could it be done, then?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Sarah . . . Sarah King? Have you chosen? I’ve don’t have all day.”

  The impatient voice of Mrs. Stolis echoed through the crowded dry goods store as Sarah stared at the bolts of fabric for the twelfth time. She could not forget her conversation yesterday with the doctor in the woods. She hadn’t answered him; she couldn’t. Somehow she had led herself into an intimate talk with an Englisch man she barely knew, and she knew that she had to stop it. The Bible said to “flee from temptation.” And so she had fled, losing him through the tree- and shrub-lined paths until she was back at the farm and hidden in prayer by her own bed.

  She’d pled to Mamm that her stomach was upset when she’d been called to come and help with dinner. Mamm had allowed that she was ill, and Sarah did not feel that she’d harbored a lie since her stomach was truly knotted in anxiety. She’d fallen into a restless sleep, dreaming that she was running through the woods being chased by herself.

  And today she’d woken and dressed, forgetting that it was the day of her birth until she’d come downstairs, intent upon slipping into the garden for her dawn rendezvous, when she saw Mamm in the kitchen beating a bowl of frothy whiteness with a wooden spoon.

  Guder mariye, Sarah. May the Lord bless you on your birthday. Wie geht’s?”“

  “I’m much better, Mamm, danki. I—I had forgotten that it was my birthday.”

  Mamm laughed. “I did not. It’s been twenty-one years since I carried you, and I still remember your coming . . . in the garden, of course, right in the middle of picking berries for jam. The midwife said We’d found you under the blackberry leaves instead of the cabbage . . . your head was stained purple for two weeks where I touched you.”

  “I love that story.”

  “Jah, and you will also love your gift from Luke today. He’s going to watch the stand so that you and I may have a free afternoon to ourselves.”

  “Ach, Mamm, really?”

  “Jah, your father agrees.”

  Sarah had smiled her gratitude and smelled the batter for her cake. Then she’d slipped away to the garden to pray but had not found peace. Her thoughts were too jumbled to center properly on Der Herr. And now she stood before the bolts of fabric thinking how well the aqua blue would make up a shirt for the doctor.

  “Sarah! If you’re not going to choose, then let me go ahead,” Deborah Loder snapped, shifting her wicker basket. “I want to buy that sky blue for a new blouse.”

  “Which would look lovely with your hair,” Sarah remarked glumly.

  Deborah looked at a loss for a moment, then went on in a kinder tone. “Danki, Sarah. May I go ahead?”

  “Jah, please do.”

  Sarah sighed and drifted back to where Mamm was examining some small teaberry candies for cookie toppings. It had been Mamm’s idea to come to the Stolises’ dry goods store as a celebration of Sarah’s birthday. Sarah still had all of the money she’d earned from the stand, and Mamm had thought it a nice idea if Sarah might buy herself some fabric for a new blouse. Her wine-colored one was getting worn, but the colors of the materials had swum in bland unison unless she was matching them against a pair of blue-gold eyes.

  “I need nonpareils and dried teaberries for those sugar cookies the boys like. Should I get both today? And, Sarah, where is your fabric?”

  “I could not choose.”

  Mamm shot her a sharp glance. “Are you still ill, child?”

  “Nee, Mamm.”

  “Yet you are not yourself. I think that . . .”

  She was interrupted by the bang of the screen door and the appearance of Mr. Loder, who looked sheepishly around at the cluster of women. He nodded to his daughter and cleared his throat.

  “Word is that they’ve sent for the midwife over at John Kemp’s farm.”

  Sarah clutched her mother’s arm in excitement; Chelsea’s baby must be coming! Mr. Loder left in the same abrupt manner, his duty done, and the women began to buzz about Mamm and Sarah as they were hustled to the front of the store to complete their purchases.

  “Are we going to Chelsea’s, Mamm?” Sarah asked in a low tone as they finished paying.

  “Jah, we will geh . . .”

  Sarah had to grab her mother’s basket, which she left on the counter, and then scurried to loosen Shadow’s tether as Mamm appeared ready to take flight, post and all.

  Sarah held on as they navigated around the other buggies at the store, then set out at a good trot.

  “If Mr. Loder knows, then Father and the boys will know too.” Sarah’s heart pumped with excitement. “Jah, they will know by now.”

  Sarah realized the truth of this as word spread fast through the fields where the telephone houses were permitted to be used for good reason, and childbirth was considered reason enough as the community rejoiced in each new life.

  It was warm, and the confines of the closed buggy seemed hotter than usual as they took to the high road. After a moment of studying Mamm’s tense profile, Sarah laid her hands over her mother’s on the reins.

  “Please, Mamm . . . let me drive. You’re worried.”

  Mamm gave the reins over with a sigh and leaned back in the buggy.

  “Danki, Sarah. You are a good girl. I know that all will be well, and that Der Herr is in charge, but it seems . . . I can remember Chelsea being as tall as a footstool and today she’s giving birth . . .” Mamm wiped at her face with a clean handkerchief. Sarah clicked to Shadow who, she knew, was already doing his very best. The most a horse and buggy could travel was eight miles an hour, and the Kemp farm was some ten miles west of the Stolises’ store.

  Sarah was concentrating on the road and the passing Englisch vehicles when she heard an automobile coming up fast from behind. The red sports car sped past and pulled onto the dirt off-road about an eighth of a mile ahead. Mamm made a surprising sound of relief in her throat, as Sarah’s heart began to pound even more furiously.

  She had no idea what to say to the doctor and could not delay the moment as Shadow’s fine feet took the distance in no time. Sarah turned the buggy off the road where the doctor and her brother, James, stood waiting outside the car.

  James caught Shadow’s bridle and scratched the horse’s nose while the doctor hurried to help Mamm down from the buggy.

  “I heard the news of your daughter, Mrs. King. I thought maybe I could help with a ride. Your husband agreed and sent James to take Shadow and the buggy back.”

  Ach . . . this is good. Thank you, Dr. Williams.” Mamm smiled “warmly at him for the first time, Sarah noted with satisfaction.

  The doctor offered a hand to Sarah, and she touched him lightly as she jumped down but did not meet his gaze. Mamm had approached the automobile and stood waiting by the passenger door. The doctor hurried to open it for her and held her arm as she slung herself into the low seat.

  James laughed aloud. “Ach, Mamm . . . if only you could see yourself. I wish Father were here. You look right at home!”

  Mamm shot him a dark look. “Stop your foolishness, James King. Ich kam sell neh geh—I cannot tolerate that!”

  “Indeed,” the doctor rejoined.
“Your mother is very brave to ride in a sports car . . . and your sister, of course.”

  He’d gone around to the driver’s side and levered back his seat to reveal the miniscule back interior and swept his hand before him with a gallant air.

  “Please, Miss King, if you will.”

  Sarah hurried to move, but her skirts got caught on the door and he bent to loosen them while she pulled at the fabric in embarrassment. He leaned close enough for only her to hear. “Miss King—in my car. Why does this subject seem familiar?” He straightened and Sarah met his eyes for the first time, finding them dancing in amusement. She let out a sigh of exasperation and jumped into the back, uncaring of the ball she’d made of her skirts. The doctor began to whistle and put his seat back, folding his long body to fit behind the wheel.

  Sarah felt as trapped as a mouse and tried to shift her weight.

  “Seat belts, ladies. If you don’t mind.” He helped Mamm fasten the belt and cast a look in the back. Sarah was ready for him and had the belt snapped despite the fact that it tightened in the jumble of her clothing. He met her gaze in the rearview mirror and she knew he was smiling, so she turned her head to study James as he gave them a happy wave.

  Sarah watched Mamm’s aged hands tighten on the low dashboard as the doctor pulled out.

  They made it onto the high road, and Sarah began to enjoy the quick, fluid movement of the vehicle and the almost purr-like sound of the engine as the miles to the Kemp farm flashed by in a whirl of colored trees, harvesting neighbors, and the backdrop of the rolling mountains. Sarah had to suppress a giggle as Mr. Zook gave the car a second glance from his perch on the corn harvester, surprise etched on his face to see Mamm in the passenger seat. Mamm took it in stride and raised a passing hand in salute while Sarah looked around to see the man’s expression of disbelief.

  The Kemp farm came into sight, and Sarah thought how pretty it was with its rows of maple trees lining the dirt drive and the farmhouse’s white gables and light green shutters. She’d only visited the farm once before, shortly after Chelsea’s wedding. The young couple had moved into the main house and John Kemp’s mother had moved into the small doddy or grandparent house as was the custom when there was an only son who married.

  The doctor pulled up before the steps and then hurried around the car front to help Mamm out. Sarah tried to fool with the seat lever but could not make it move, so she waited and watched Mamm take to the steps. Dr. Williams came back to Sarah’s side and moved the seat lever to release her. She clambered from the back, ignoring his outstretched hand.

  “Miss King,” he chided. “Is this my thanks for the ride?”

  Sarah craned her neck to look up at him and her kapp, which had lost a few pins in her exiting the car, blew off in a gust of wind. She gasped and reached to cover her head while he stretched long fingers to catch the delicate thing by its strings.

  “Please,” Sarah gasped, her slender fingers unable to contain the massed bun of blonde hair and its stubborn strands. She felt him put the kapp back on her head, and she grasped it with relief, pulling tightly on the strings. She saw him bend down to the ground, gathering stray pins, and she waited, feeling miserable.

  “Here you go.” He handed her the pins and she took them, haphazardly stabbing them into her hair.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, starting to move to the steps.

  He caught her arm. “Wait . . . why are you sorry?”

  She stopped, still holding her hands to her hair. “Because it’s sinful to let any man see my hair unbound, except my husband.”

  “Your hair is beautiful.”

  She shook her head and pulled away, running up the steps and inside the screen door, letting it slam with finality.

  Grant sighed and turned back to the car, intent on leaving. He felt sadly out of step with the slip of a girl who’d changed his world over the last months, and he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He heard the squeak of the screen door, and he looked up hopefully.

  A young Amish man with coal black hair and a neat, curling beard stepped outside. He was visibly distraught but came down the steps with a hand outstretched.

  “Are you Mr. Kemp?”

  “John . . . please. And you’re Dr. Williams?”

  “Yes. How is your wife doing?”

  The young man shook his head and swallowed hard. “It’s our first, you know. Frau Knepp has been with her for hours . . . I don’t know.”

  Frau Knepp is the midwife?” “

  Jah . . .” “

  “Well,” Grant tried to encourage him. “First labors always take awhile. It’s normal.”

  “Jah. Please . . . will you come inside?”

  Grant considered; Sarah would probably have a fit. “I’d better not,” he said with regret. “I’ve got some calls.”

  “Just for a bit . . . I could do with some menfolk’s company.”

  “All right . . . for a few minutes.”

  John sighed in gratitude, and Grant followed him to the dark screen door.

  When they entered the home, they stepped directly into the large kitchen, which was in a state of utter chaos. Sarah stood at a counter, scraping up sugar trailing from a large bag. Fresh apples, in all stages of dissection, were mounded in bowls and kettles while the stove boiled madly. Canning jars stood at the ready but had not been touched while the heavy smell of burnt brown sugar and spices hung thick in the air.

  John turned to smile at him. “My wife and my mamm—they were making some apple butter when the labor began.”

  “Ah.”

  “Danki, Sarah,” John went on. “I know it’s a mess in here.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Sarah smiled back, though she would not meet Grant’s eyes.

  Everyone jumped, including Grant himself, when a strangled moan echoed from behind a nearby closed door.

  Ach . . .,” John said, moving automatically to the door, where “he then stopped and looked back in desperation.

  “Go in there,” Grant said before he realized the words were out of his mouth.

  John Kemp’s face took on a whole new light, as if he’d just been waiting for someone to tell him to go to his wife, and he nodded his head with a broad smile. “Jah . . . I will go.” He hitched up his suspenders like he was girding for battle then straightened his shoulders and opened the door. There was a flurry of female voices, but as the minute lengthened they subsided, and John did not reemerge.

  “Why did you say that?” Sarah asked, as she emptied more sugar back into the bag.

  “Because that’s where he belongs; he’ll probably help her make it go faster.”

  “Birthing is the work of the midwife; it’s the work of the husband to wait.”

  “Why? I bet your brother-in-law has delivered hundreds of animals on the farm.”

  She looked shocked and he went on. “I’m not comparing animal birth to that of humans, just making a point that it’s a natural process. John was there in the beginning; he should be there in the end.” He helped himself to a Granny Smith apple and watched her, waiting for her response.

  She gave him a searing glance. “You are too worldly.”

  “No, I’m matter-of-fact. I’m a doctor, remember? It’s not worldly, Sarah, to say the truth.”

  “Some truths don’t need to be said aloud.”

  “Really? Which ones? Like the one I asked about yesterday?”

  “Yes,” she snapped, then bit her lip.

  He moved to stand beside her. “I see you’ve repaired your hair covering.”

  She looked back down at the sugar. “Jah, of course.”

  He let his gaze sweep around at the mess, then stepped back, giving her some room. “All right . . . for your sister’s sake, let’s make the apple butter and declare a truce.”

  She smiled then, revealing a dimple, and he felt his heart jump in response.

  “Do you know how to make apple butter, Doctor?”

  He straightened his long back and grabbed a browning, peeled appl
e. “How hard can it be?”

  She rolled her eyes and took the apple from his hand. “First, we must stop the browning. We need to mix vinegar and salt with water.” She glanced about and he read her thoughts.

  “Do you need a clean kettle? I’ll wash one.” He rolled up his sleeves as he spoke, peering into various pots to find the least full. He chose one from the stove that was encrusted with dark brown sugar and wondered if they had a green-textured scrubber like he’d seen Mrs. Bustle use.

  Sarah handed him a piece of steel wool and he took it wordlessly and began to scrub.

  “I’m making a mess,” he confessed after a minute, and she laughed.

  “Turn the pot over another that’s boiling . . . here.” She stretched to help him. “The steam will loosen the burnt sugar.” Her blue sleeve brushed his bare arm and he forced himself to step away, concentrating on the overturned kettle instead.

  “What’s next?”

  “We sterilize the canning jars. I’m not sure if Chelsea had finished all of them.”

  “Another clean pot?”

  Jah . . . please.” “

  They worked together for a few minutes, and Grant breathed in the companionable peace. He admired her deft movements about the kitchen, bending here and there to clean and straighten or easily peeling more apples to go into the anti-browning mixture for a dip.

  “This is fun,” he remarked and felt her glance of surprise. “What?”

  She shook her head. “You seem to enjoy whatever you do.”

  He lowered his voice. “When I’m with you, yes.”

  She snapped a dish towel in the air between them. “Truce, Doctor . . . remember?”

  “You have a feisty side.”

  “Feisty?”

  “Yep.” He smiled smugly, transferring jars from the stove to the counter with long tongs.

  “What do you mean . . . feisty?”

  “Oh, you’d call it sassy, I suppose.”

  She stood stock-still. “I am not sassy. That’s behaving without respect.”

  He leaned close to her. “Maybe to your mamm; but to me, it’s fun.”