Chiseled - A Standalone Romance (A Super Sexy Western Romance)

by Naomi Niles

  Katie tried to sit up, unaccustomed to lying idly while another woman worked in her kitchen. The ankle had swollen, however, and a moan escaped her as she tried to put weight on it. This brought Frau Miller from the kitchen with a highly disapproving look and a wag of her finger. She ordered me in an authoritative voice to keep Katie still. I nodded and Katie lay back down against the crisp, white pillows, feeling awkward all the same. We would need to find some other way to do our part.

  Mark came into the house then, removing his hat and knocking gently on the doorway where Katie lay. “How are you?” he asked, although it was obvious from the fact that she was still lying down and Frau Miller had not ordered her to the hospital with the others to have any fracture set.

  “I will be fine tomorrow,” Katie answered with a small smile. “Thank you for helping us,” she said.

  “I think I have something that will help,” Mark commented, turning to leave. He came back moments later bearing a pair of hand-carved, pine crutches he must have brought with him. “Here, these are for you to use. Sarah Yoder used them last and she is about your height, so they should work well. For now, you stay in the bed as Mama ordered. You know it does no good to argue with her,” he completed his observation, to which Katie smiled and looked down, apparently embarrassed to be seen lying in the bed.

  Mark nodded and assured us that all was well. “When Jacob is ready, we will bring him home to you for the viewing. The men will come tomorrow and build the table for him; Mama has said that Anna will stay here with you to help,” he announced, and thus it seemed it would be, whether Katie thought it necessary or not. I started to object and say that I would help, but realized I knew nothing about this lifestyle and was therefore useless to them. “You sleep now,” he ordered Katie and she nodded and closed her eyelids to the scent of brewing coffee and the sound of the big knife cutting on the wooden cutting board. I closed my eyes and in exhaustion, drifted to sleep right there in my chair.

  The sun had already begun its ascent when Katie awakened and started at the unexpected surrounding. I had already awakened minutes before and was watching her. She seemed unused to being in Daddy’s room, as well as still being in bed in the daylight. Her awareness returned and I saw the pain cross her features. We heard someone stirring in the kitchen and the smell of frying bacon filled our senses. “Anna?” Katie called out. I touched her arm to remind her I was in the room.

  “Jah,” Anna said, peeking around the doorway. “Mama said it was good that you should sleep in this morning. You will need your strength,” she added.

  Katie lay there for a bit, and I noted that someone had set a porcelain pot for our use. She sat up, apparently to take advantage of it. She reached for the crutches and tried a bit of weight on the ankle. It looked like it hurt terribly, still swollen, so I grabbed the pot and managed to hold it and help her use it off the edge of the bed.

  Anna brought us each a plate of bacon with a fried egg and a thick slice of white, homemade bread spread with freshly churned butter. Katie mentioned that she was glad she had just baked and provisioned the kitchen the morning of the storm; all as God had planned, undoubtedly.

  Anna handed us mugs of steaming coffee and held one herself, chatting softly in the dim light that was filling the room. This was the quiet part of the day that I would later learn I liked best: just after the roosters had crowed and someone would come from the barn, having milked the cows.

  “The cows!” Katie said suddenly, sitting up straight.

  “Now, now, Katie. You leave the animals to the men for now. They will decide what is to be done. It is your job to stay off that ankle and sing your prayers that you are alive and your house still stands,” Anna pointed out and Katie nodded. “The others were not so lucky,” Anna added.

  “Oh?” Katie’s voice held concern.

  “No, no one else went to God, but the Yoders lost their barn and part of their roof. They had taken cover in the root cellar, so were not hurt,” she added. “But, Katie…” Anna’s voice hesitated. “…the school is gone. Flat. Nothing more than a pile of wood now.”

  This was such a different world. The city seldom saw a tornado, and I’d always reasoned that it was due to the tall buildings. We were not strangers to disaster, 9/11 being the primary one, but for these people, one storm could disrupt their entire lives. I felt for Katie and Anna both, but there was nothing I could say.

  “The children,” were Katie’s first words of regret.

  “No, it is meant to be,” Anna pronounced, sounding very much like her mother at that moment. “The men are discussing to have the school rebuilt and we will be patient. The harvest, or what is left of it, is upon us and the children are needed at home. Plenty of time to learn once the snow flies,” she added, patting the covers smooth around Katie’s legs. In this world, everything must have order and I suspected this was especially true in Frau Miller’s house.

  A man whistling could then be heard from outside and the door opened with a knock as Mark appeared. “Anna? Katie? Gwyne?” he called. Someone must have told him my name.

  Anna rose to greet him, handing him a cup of coffee as he removed his hat. “How is our little one, today?” he asked cheerily from the bedroom doorway.

  “I am much better,” Katie burst out, suddenly aware of the porcelain pot next to the bed. Mark’s eyes followed hers and he laughed outright.

  “Anna, our little one needs your help,” he said in a conspiratorial tone and left to give us privacy. I waved Anna away and said I would see to it. I’d spied an outhouse in the back and needed to use it myself. It seemed as if the nausea came more often now. I was lucky to make it that far before I lost the contents of my stomach.

  Shortly after my return, Katie and I could hear the sound of lumber being carried into the main room where it was assembled into a coffin table in the corner of the room. We heard Anna ask a couple of quiet questions and he responded in his normal, booming voice to say that Daddy would be brought home later this afternoon and the viewing would begin that night. “There is much to be done,” Mark said in a matter-of-fact tone. “We must be practical,” he added and Anna’s lack of response indicated she agreed. Mark asked a question in a low voice and soon Anna entered the bedroom where Katie lay and went through Jacob’s things long enough to find his Sunday suit, tie, and shoes, taking them out with her.

  We could hear people outside, chattering amongst themselves, and knew they were clearing the yard and tending to the livestock. “I am never truly alone,” Katie told me.

  Mark appeared in the doorway again. “So, now I am gone,” he announced. “You are to do as you are told, my stubborn little one,” he said with a gentle smile. “Your work will begin soon enough,” he added and tipped her a tiny salute as he put on his hat and then was gone. He had paid very little attention to me as I was an English.

  Chapter 32

  Jacob Troyer received the respect paid by his community while lying in the living area of the house he had built. His granddaughter, Katie, stood nearby and quietly acknowledged the passing by of each member of her community with eyes downturned. We felt their respect and it strengthened my sense of belonging.

  Mark Miller stood behind Katie. In the event that standing became too much, he would be there to help her. She did not seem displeased with the attention he was showing her, but with Daddy’s passing, the proprieties were even more important than ever before.

  Later, there emerged from the house, the simple, pine casket borne upon the shoulders of six men to an open wagon. The community formed a long procession of black wagons and he was taken to a small cemetery buried deeply within cornfields, the only remarkable feature being a grove of oak trees that shaded the disintegrating, wooden headstones. From the earth…back to the earth.

  At the conclusion, everyone went back to the church and the tables were laden with food. People chatted and, as was their way, it obviously was also a time of socializing. I realized that death, here, was essentially a part of life.
It was a view shared by many people who live in farming communities and experience life and death as an ongoing cycle. I was fascinated by this acceptance of life and was learning strong values that I would call upon myself in later years.

  There was some singing and Katie, while in her grieving black, looked thin and quite alone,. She was, nonetheless, the center of much attention as it was being discussed how the community would handle her situation. It was known that Jacob had left the farm to her and while it was in some disarray after the storm, there was still livestock to be seen to and fields to harvest. She could not do this. As a woman, her skills lay in the house and kitchen garden, as well as in the classroom.

  When the time came to leave, Mark nodded at us to come to his buggy and he lifted her inside, as he did Anna and I. He drove us back to the farm and saw us inside.

  “We will talk in a few days when you have settled into your new life, Katie,” he said. “The community is behind you; you are not alone,” he said in what he must have considered the most comforting voice he could summon. He was not a soft man, but he seemed fair and good-natured. He was the sort of man who could stand up after a disaster such as this and take charge. Katie told me she knew he would one day be a respected elder and this made her blush all the more.

  Anna, Katie, and I watched as Mark’s buggy disappeared down the road. Katie began to clear dishes in the kitchen but Anna urged her to sit down and rest. “Read to me while I tidy the kitchen,” she urged. Katie complied and pulled a copy of one of Laura Ingalls’ books from the shelf. I also listened as she read aloud, lighting the lantern as the darkness crept in through the eastern windows. Katie said it felt good to have someone her own age to talk to and was glad Anna and I were there. She would be too lonely otherwise.

  Over the next two days, we scrubbed every inch of the house and took down all the curtains, washing the windows and hanging the starched curtains back to cover them. It was a rite of spring housecleaning. Once Katie was better able to walk without the crutches, we set about tidying up the yard. The kitchen garden held herbs and blossoming tomatoes, carrots, and squash. Katie explained there was much work to be done as these needed to be later canned and set into the root cellar for winter’s storage.

  Each morning and night, one or more of the men showed up to take care of the cows, horses, pigs, and chickens. We would offer a plate of dinner in thanks, but the volunteers would simply shake their heads and be on their way. Until such time as Katie’s future was decided, it was not proper that the we not be chaperoned and in the company of unmarried men. It was without question that Katie would soon be married to someone in the community and despite her impressive dowry of farm and livestock, her reputation must be unmarked by even a whisper of scandal.

  At night, we sat by the lamplight and worked on a small lap quilt that would be given to one of the older women in the community. Their stitches were perfectly straight and uniform in length. Mine were pitiable and the girls often quietly pulled them out when I wasn’t looking. They both took great pride in their handiwork. Sometimes Katie would read while Anna stitched and the girls laughed at the humorous adventures portrayed in the book. I was totally bored, but charmed.

  “Do you ever wish to have a job?” Katie asked Anna. “Gwyne is a writer, you know.”

  “It is a job to raise a family,” Anna answered sensibly, sounding very much like her mother’s daughter.

  “Oh, yes, but sometimes I am very glad I am a teacher,” mused Katie. “It allows me to step out of my own life and see how it was in other times, with other people,” she explained.

  “Why would I want to be in another life?” asked the easily pleased Anna. “I have God, my family, the community, the land, and the wind. What more could there be that I need to be happy?”

  Katie was quick to clarify. “Oh, I am happy, too, and would not want to live as the English. But I must admit that sometimes I wonder what it would be like. Perhaps we can learn much of that experience from Gwyne?” she looked toward me.

  “Why did you not go on Rumspringa?” Anna asked with curiosity.

  I knew from my reading that Rumspringa was the once in a lifetime opportunity for an Amish who had reached the age of maturity to venture into the outside world to determine whether they wished to remain in the community.

  Katie stopped her stitching and appeared to think about this. “Daddy needed me here,” she said, “and there seemed little point because I truly am happy,” she added. “Perhaps just a little curious.”

  “I am not curious,” commented Anna, reaching up to lower the flame in the lamp. “Mama sees to that,” she smiled. “Come, let us go to bed now and tomorrow there will be people coming. Tomorrow, sweet Katie, your life is to be decided.”

  Katie’s eyebrows rose. She stood gingerly, free of her crutches but her ankle still tender. Anna was staying in Katie’s room upstairs and Katie and I had taken over the downstairs bedroom. We had packed Jacob’s things and they were stored in the barn, to be given over to the elders.

  Anna paused at the bottom of the stairs and turned around. “Do not worry, Katie,” she said. “Mark will see to it that you are well treated.”

  Katie nodded and when Anna turned to go upstairs, she smiled and blushed. She hoped very much that Anna was right.

  Chapter 33

  I spent the spring and summer with Katie, Anna, and as it was later to be determined, Katie’s new husband, Mark. He was stern but welcoming to me. I appreciated their tolerance of a stranger in their home, but knew it was the safest place I could be.

  It had not been long after my arrival when Katie brought up the baby I was carrying.

  “You knew?”

  “Yes, I knew when I first met you. There is a glow in a woman’s face and you were sick in the mornings. We Amish know when God has bestowed new life upon a woman,” she told me gently. She did not ask about the father and I did not offer. She didn’t understand the ways of the English, but seemed, instead, to accept me as a fellow female in a world of sowing and reaping. “Frau Miller will deliver the babe when it is time. She is the woman who does this for our community,” she explained in a matter-of-fact voice.

  I nodded and said my own prayer that the baby would be healthy and not need hospitalization. I mentioned this at one point and Katie reminded me that there was a hospital nearby in Bremen if it was needed.

  If I thought summers were hot in the city, I had no idea what was in store in the Indiana fields. While the men plowed and cared for the hundreds of acres with plows and teams of horses hitched to wagons, we women tended to the kitchen gardens that would maintain the families through the winter months. It was back-breaking work, most of it done while bent forward. With my growing child, I was little help and instead opted to sit on my fanny between the rows and pick beans and berries into woven baskets.

  I learned to can and to cut up sections of hogs and cows. I tasted the sweet innocence of freshly-churned butter for the first time in my life and vowed never to return to margarine again. I gathered eggs from the hens in the morning and baked them into cakes through the afternoons.

  One afternoon as I sat beneath a tree in the shade writing letters to Dad and Sean, Mark came up to me and asked to talk.

  “I know your ways are not ours. You and the babe are welcomed to remain until harvest, but then you must return to your world,” he said gravely. “We wish to have a babe of our own,” he admitted.

  I nodded and said I didn’t mean to be a burden.

  “That’s not it, Gwyne,” he said. “You have more than earned your keep helping with the house and yard chores. No, this is about us, the Amish. Many of the women have heard your stories and it makes them dissatisfied with their lives as they are. We are a simple people with deeply rooted beliefs in God’s way. It is time that Katie accepts who she is and is content with that. I cannot provide her with more and it’s not fair to her to feel as though she is missing out on something that’s not available to her.”

  “I understa
nd, Mark. The same idea had occurred to me. Please know that I am here because your ways have value in the English world. There are many who would like to live your life. You are to be envied.”

  “I think we understand one another,” he said, tipping his hat and walking away. There was a brief flash of anger as he dismissed me so condescendingly, but then I realized that the men must be so in order for the women to feel safe and protected. My outlook on life had changed dramatically during the time I’d been there. Values were so different here. A hefty paycheck and a shopping trip to Macy’s in the city was comparable to a larder filled with food for the winter here. Not so many miles, but worlds apart.

  * * *

  My pains began in mid-September, in the midst of harvest for the local families. Katie broke off from her canning to take me to the bedroom downstairs and rang the yard bell until Mark responded from the fields and was sent for Frau Miller. She came an hour later and Mark had already returned to the fields. Babies were the business of women.

  I was not prepared for the pain. What began as an ache in my lower back systematically increased, later reaching around to the front of me. Frau Miller examined me with spread legs and nodded. Apparently that meant I was progressing normally. Katie kept the cloth on my forehead cool and damp and the women took turns holding my hand as I tried not to die with each new contraction. There was no spinal block, no television playing in the corner to divert my attention, and certainly no husband to hold my hand. This was just raw, authentic, primal pain.

  I remember screaming and pleading for the women to make it stop. “Just kill me!” I screamed. I could see their faces as they shook their heads, muttering that I was an English. I guessed that these women bore their pain silently and with stoicism. Not me; I wanted drugs, and lots of them.