Jeb's Wife

by Patricia Johns

  “Excuse me!” the man of the group—the daet?—called out.

  Jeb ignored him and went to take the feed bag off his horse’s head. He patted the horse, then headed around to put the feed bag away. He glanced toward the family. The kinner were staring at him, and the two adults who appeared to be the parents were talking together, glancing in his direction. He looked studiously away.

  “Let’s get going,” Jeb said, and Simon hoisted himself up into the buggy.

  “Excuse me!” the Englisher called again.

  Jeb muttered an oath, then looked over at the man who was coming in his direction. He wore a baseball cap and had a big camera around his neck.

  “We’re from out of town,” the Englisher called as he approached. “And—” He stopped when Jeb turned toward him. “My God. What happened?” The man touched his own face. “A fire?”

  Jeb didn’t answer, and the man visibly rallied himself and pushed on. “Like I said, we’re from out of town, and we just think your way of life is something great. The kids here would love to see how you hitch a wagon. Would you let them take a closer look? Maybe I could take a few pictures?”

  “I’d rather not,” Jeb said, trying to soften his tone. For all the irritation they caused him, the Englisher tourists fueled this town, and a lot of Amish wouldn’t make a dime without the tourists.

  The man balked in surprise, but the smile came back. “Without the pictures, then. They’ve been just dying to get an up-close look at one of your buggies. We figured we’d ask. It would mean the world to the kids.”

  “I said no.” Jeb let the last of the politeness slide from his tone. He was tired, stressed. He didn’t have the strength for this.

  “They’re kids, man. This is their vacation—”

  “And this is my life,” Jeb said, shooting the man a look of annoyance. “Keep your kinner back. Buggies are no place to play.”

  “Kinner. Is that what you call kids out here? Is that German?”

  Jeb shut his eyes for a moment, summoning up his self-control. “Keep your children away from my horses,” he said in perfect English. “There will be no photo opportunities here.”

  The man blinked, then nodded. He headed back to the woman and the kinner who waited a few yards off. They all stared at him, wide-eyed, and he saw the woman cover her mouth.

  “No,” Jeb could hear him say. “Not this one.”

  “What happened to that man?” a small voice carried across the parking lot. “What happened to his face, Dad?”

  Jeb clenched his teeth. Yah, he was used to that—the curiosity of everyone who saw him. What happened? They wanted a story, an explanation. All he had was a pile of heartbreak and scars that went deeper than they imagined.

  “I think you scared them,” Simon said as Jeb settled himself in the driver’s seat and picked up the reins.

  Jeb looked over his shoulder and saw the entire family staring at him. But it wasn’t fear in the man’s eyes—it was anger. He hadn’t expected to be rebuffed, and as Jeb flicked the reins and the buggy started forward, the man’s disgusted gaze met Jeb’s.

  “He’ll live,” Jeb muttered, and he turned his attention to the road.

  Jeb had gotten used to people’s stares—and not just the Englishers’ either. The Amish treated Jeb with caution, too, so his hide was thick enough to take the sidelong looks of the English and the Amish alike. The Englishers would be satisfied with a story of a fire in a barn—the barn being the quaint part of the tale they’d cherish. The Amish, on the other hand, asked deeper questions.

  * * *

  The envelope weighed on him as they drove back, and when they finally unhitched the buggy and Jeb sent Simon off to clean the chicken coop, he pulled it out of his pocket.

  Was I wrong, Lord? he prayed. Am I about to get reprimanded from beyond the grave because I wanted this land?

  He did carry a small, nagging piece of guilt over his move to get the farm, and if it weren’t for Simon’s rescue at the same time, he might not have gone through with it. One man’s victory wasn’t enough. Even as one who preferred to keep to himself, he recognized the moral failure of prioritizing his own success over everyone else.

  But he couldn’t explain himself to Peter now, could he? This was no longer about him alone—it was about Leah, who deserved a home, and her brother, who, while perhaps less deserving, was still in desperate need of help.

  He tore off the end of the envelope and squeezed it open. There was a piece of paper inside, and he shook it out into his work-roughened palm, recognizing his uncle’s bold handwriting.

  Jeb,

  If you’re reading this, you’re married.

  Congratulations. I’m happy at the thought of you with a wife. A good woman is a blessing from God, and I know you’ll have chosen carefully.

  I couldn’t let you go on alone, especially if I’m gone. You’re too much of a hermit. It’s not good for a man to be alone. You need someone to care for you.

  I’m glad you managed a wedding, because you deserved this farm, and it makes me happy to think of you running it. But you deserve a chance at a family, too. You’re a better man than you think.

  Menno will be angry. I know that, and I know he won’t make this easy on you. But you’ve never much cared about Menno’s opinions, and I hope that carries on. Menno is provided for already, and he has a wife and kinner of his own. My daughters married well, and their husbands all have land already. You’re the one I worry about.

  My last piece of advice to you is this: The past is the past, Jeb. Leave it there. And have lots of bobbilies.

  Peter

  Jeb looked down at the page, his heart filling with fresh grief. He could hear his uncle’s gruff voice in those words, his plain way of speaking. It seemed almost ridiculous that his uncle should have made such a dramatic demand in his will for a reason as simple as this one. Peter had never been the meddling sort, but apparently, he’d decided to change his lifelong habit in death.

  The bobbilies, or babies, weren’t going to be an option for him and Leah. She couldn’t have children, so he could let go of those hopes. If he’d stayed single, he wouldn’t have kinner either. But he’d secured himself a wife, and that fulfilled his uncle’s demands. Peter had been trying to help him move forward, and for better or for worse, Jeb had certainly taken a step. He looked toward the house. Yah, he’d most certainly taken a step....

  The rest of the day was spent in farmwork—watering cattle, mucking stalls, brushing down horses and checking on Simon, who wasn’t quite the hard worker he claimed to be. Jeb had to send him back twice to finish cleaning out the chicken coop. He was already half-resenting his offer of employment, but if it wasn’t Simon, he’d have to find someone else, and the loafer he knew was better than the curious son of some other family in this community.

  He passed within sight of the house a few times during the day, and every time he did, his gaze would linger on that familiar structure. Was Leah in there yet?

  He could have gone to check, but he didn’t want to bother her, and he also knew it would be difficult to see her rummaging around in his space. The last time he looked toward the house, he saw the side door open and she came outside with a rug, and flipped it over the railing, then went back inside.

  She’d come.

  When the day’s work was complete Jeb’s stomach rumbled. He’d let Simon go an hour earlier, just for the solitude, so he walked alone toward the house, his leg aching but feeling good about the day all the same.

  Jeb could smell the food already as he approached the house, and he kicked off his boots on the outside step, then carried them in.

  “Hello,” Leah said, poking her head around the mudroom door. She looked fresh, her cheeks pink from the warmth inside, but her clothes still looked as neat as they had that morning.

  “I’m back,” he said, and he gave her a hesitant smile.

  “Dinner’s ready.” She held a dish towel in her hands and she fiddled with it, then turned and w
ent back into the kitchen.

  Jeb followed her, and he’d known it would look different in here, but he hadn’t anticipated this much change. The kitchen table was clear, as was one counter. The other counter was still cluttered. The floor was swept and mopped—he could smell the vinegar she’d used—and food waited on the table, covered with plates. The curtains had been removed from the kitchen windows, so everything looked brighter in here, exposing the wood that looked dusty and dry. He’d never bothered oiling it. That was on him.

  “Where are the curtains?” he asked.

  “Oh, I was going to wash them,” she said. “The cooking oils get into the fabric, and it—”

  She stopped. She was going to say that it smelled, wasn’t she? Had he been living like a slob? Peter hadn’t thought of these things either, if that counted in his favor.

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, I guess that’s good, then.”

  “I made a beef roast,” she said. “We’ll have some for sandwiches tomorrow, then, for your lunch.”

  “Yah. Thanks.”

  Jeb slid into the chair at the head of the table. He didn’t normally sit here, actually, but being the man of the house, he should probably claim it. She sat down in the chair next to his and pulled the plates off the bowls. Steam escaped, along with tantalizing aromas. There were potatoes, vegetables, some fresh rolls, and the meat. She had a separate dish of gravy to the side, and he eyed it hungrily.

  Leah looked at him silently, expectantly.

  Right.

  “Uh.” He bowed his head. “Lord, thank you for this food. And bless this home.”

  The last words caught in his throat, and instead of trying to say more, he raised his head. This home. Their home. He wasn’t quite brave enough to call it “our home” yet. Leah reached for the spoon in the mashed potatoes and began to dish up his meal.

  “This looks good,” he said.

  “I did try.” She smiled, then added food to her own plate. He waited until she’d finished serving herself, as well, before he took his first bite. The food tasted as good as it had smelled, and he ate ravenously for a couple of minutes before he came up for air.

  “I tried to clean up in here for you,” he said. “I guess it wasn’t enough, but—”

  “It’s fine, Jeb,” she said, tearing a bite off her roll. “Leave the women’s work to me.”

  Except all this had been his domain up until now, and it felt strange to just hand it over, even though it was right and proper that he do so. He felt like he should have at least handed it over in better shape.

  “I didn’t know about washing curtains,” he said. “And I don’t think Peter did either. With the two of us in here, we thought we did pretty well.”

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  Jeb fell into silence, unsure whether he should plead his case further or simply let it go. Having anyone come inside and see how he lived was never easy for him. The only one who visited was his sister, Lynita, and she showed up when she pleased. He’d long since stopped worrying what she thought. But he kept other people out. Like when an elder came by to check up on him, he’d step outside and they’d talk on the step. He didn’t bring people in to judge him.

  “How was work today?” Leah asked after a moment of silence.

  “Good,” he said past a bite of food. “Your brother is a help. We delivered the marriage license to the lawyer, so that’s started.”

  “Simon came by and told me about that. He said it will take a week?” she asked.

  So, Simon had already informed his sister. That annoyed him slightly, because it was yet another break the younger man had taken when he should have been working.

  “About a week, the lawyer figures.” Jeb swallowed and reached for a glass of water that sat in front of his plate and took a sip. “I’m giving Simon work with me. That way he won’t be alone. I might be scarred, but I’m big. I can defend him, if need be.”

  Leah looked nervous sitting there. She hadn’t eaten much, and he watched her for a moment while he sopped up some gravy from his plate with one of the rolls.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yah.”

  “The food is good,” he said again, hoping it might make her relax a little more to know he was appreciating the meal. She pushed back her chair.

  “I forgot the butter for the rolls—”

  “Leah, sit.” It came out more gruffly than he’d intended, and she froze. “Please.” He softened his tone. “I just mean, I don’t need butter. This is delicious. And you don’t seem to be eating. You deserve a good meal as much as I do.”

  Leah sank back into her seat, and she picked up her fork again. “If those Englishers find my brother—”

  “I wasn’t joking. They’d have to get through me. I will protect your brother, Leah.”

  Leah’s gaze moved over him, her brown gaze slipping over his shoulders and chest and then down to his hands resting on the table. Her shoulders relaxed then, and some of the color came back into her face. Did that mean she felt safer with him standing between her brother and danger? He liked the thought of making her feel safe. He was a big man, but his injuries had never healed as well as they could have, though he was still strong. Here was hoping he would be enough to scare off some Englisher twits.

  Leah took another bite, and for the first time she smiled more naturally.

  “You’re right,” she said. “The cottage is probably safer anyway. It’s farther from the road.”

  Looking at her sitting at his table, chewing a bite of food and cutting another piece of roast beef with her knife, she was oddly endearing. But she looked vulnerable, too. He was struck by just how petite she was next to him. If the Englishers scared her, it was for good reason.

  “You’re safe here, too,” he added, his voice low.

  She stopped chewing and looked up at him, her dark gaze locked on his face.

  “Okay?” he said. “I might not be what you wanted. I might not be good-looking or good with words, or whatever. But I’m big, I’m tough, and I won’t let anyone hurt you. Ever.”

  She stared at him, and he wasn’t sure if she was going to answer him.

  “So . . . you have that,” he added.

  Leah swallowed, and some color rose in her cheeks. “Okay.”

  And Jeb felt better. His own obstinate presence standing between her and danger was one thing he could offer. He’d been through a lot, and he didn’t scare easily either. If he couldn’t be an ideal husband, at least he’d be a useful one.

  Chapter Seven

  When dinner was done and Jeb had settled at the table with a pair of shoes and a tin of polish, Leah let the water out of the sink and wrung out the cloth. The clean dishes were stacked on the dish rack, and she eyed the cupboards. She’d already discovered that the dishes were arranged in the cupboards in a mishmash sort of way, the logic of it lost on her. As far as she could tell, Jeb’s favorite dishes were all put into one cupboard where he could get at them easily, and everything else got stuck wherever there was space.

  “I’m going to be rearranging the kitchen cupboards tomorrow,” Leah said.

  “Why?”

  She looked over at Jeb to see if he was joking, but he looked up from the shoe, his expression bland.

  “Uh—” She hesitated. “I’ll be doing the cooking. I just have my ways I want it to be.”

  Jeb didn’t answer, and he looked down again.

  “Jeb, this is our home, right?” she said.

  “Yah.”

  “And I’m the woman in this home, so the kitchen is . . . mine.” Was she overstepping?

  Jeb didn’t move for a moment, then he nodded. “Yah, that’s true.”

  “You aren’t used to having a woman here, but you’ll see. I’ll make this place into a home.”

  Jeb put down the shoe and stood up. “It was a home already.”

  She’d overstepped. She could feel it. But she couldn’t spend her time here on eggshells either. This was her home
, too, now, and if she didn’t clean this place up, not only would she go crazy in this dusty chaos, but people would talk.

  “I don’t mean to offend you,” she said, softening her voice. “A woman’s touch is . . . a woman’s touch! Just trust me. I’ll clean, I’ll organize, I’ll get a laundry schedule going, and you’ll see how much more pleasant I’ll make it for you. A well-run home is a woman’s job, and you’ll feel the difference. I promise.”

  “Have you been upstairs yet?” Jeb asked.

  “No,” she said. It had felt wrong somehow. Private, maybe. This house seemed steeped in testosterone—Jeb’s presence in the very cracks. Her suitcase sat beside the stairs still. For all her eagerness to put her mark on this place, she hadn’t been brave enough to climb the stairs.

  “I might not have done much with the kitchen,” Jeb said, “but I did put together a decent bedroom for you.”

  Leah looked over at him in surprise. “You did?”

  “I wanted it to be . . . nice.” He headed for the stairs and picked up her suitcase. “You can let me know if it’s okay.”

  Jeb started up the stairs and Leah followed. The upstairs hallway was bare, slightly dusty, but there was no clutter. An open door revealed the tiles of a bathroom.

  Jeb opened the next door and pushed it all the way open, allowing her to enter the room first. The room was east-facing, so she’d get the first morning light. There was a bed in the center of the room draped with a white coverlet. A small chest of drawers was next to the bed, serving as a bedside table, too, and a mirror stood next to the window. And on the other side there was a rocking chair with three folded towels piled on the seat. The thing that drew her eye, though, was a small vase of wildflowers sitting on the windowsill.

  “You brought flowers,” she said, and when she looked over at him, she was reminded that he’d been married before. He knew what women liked.

  “I thought you might like them,” he said, and he glanced away, embarrassed.

  “I do like them.”