The Amish Wonders Collection

by Ruth Reid

  “Of course you didn’t, silly.” Grace looked at her husband. “We enjoyed having them over, didn’t we?”

  “Absolutely. This little man is going to be mei fishing buddy—when he’s feeling better.”

  Mattie reached for Amanda, who had spread out her arms to be taken. Ben climbed out of the buggy on the other side, holding Nathan. “Is something wrong?”

  “I tried to let you sleep as long as possible,” Grace said, a hint of concern in her tone.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t think they’re feeling well. Amanda has been cranky, and Nathan started to feel warm about an hour ago. I think he might have a fever.”

  Ben touched his palm against Nathan’s forehead. “He has more heat radiating off him than pavement in full sun. Feel his head, Grace.”

  Grace rested her hand on Nathan’s forehead. “He’s boiling.”

  Mattie clutched Amanda tighter in her arms. “Bring him inside, would you, please?”

  Grace hurried ahead of them and held the door open.

  Mattie ran her hand over Amanda’s forehead. Cool to the touch and dry. She handed Amanda back to Grace once Ben laid Nathan on his bed. Red-faced and roasting, her son barely opened his eyes to look at her. “When did you say it started?”

  “No more than an hour ago.”

  Nathan rolled to his side, coughed hard, and vomited.

  “Oh dear.” Mattie helped him sit up. He vomited again. This time down the front of his shirt and onto the bedding. “Did he eat something red?” This can’t be blood. Lord, please.

  “I don’t remember.” Grace handed Amanda to Ben. “I’ll get a wet rag and some water.” She dashed out of the room.

  “Bruder kronk.” Amanda’s lip puckered.

  “How about we let Nathan rest.” Ben left the room with Amanda, bribing her with a cookie if she didn’t cry.

  Nathan’s face was washed out. His eyes drooped, and the corners of his mouth had blotches of red stomach contents. He heaved another time before Grace returned, this time dry. He held his stomach and cried out, heaving once more.

  Grace handed Mattie the glass of water.

  “Nathan, honey, can you drink some water?”

  He shook his head.

  “Try to take a sip. It’ll help your throat.” She held the glass up to his mouth.

  “Beets. He ate some pickled beets at lunch,” Grace said.

  Danki, Lord. Mattie urged him to drink. He did, but after one sip, he grasped his throat with one hand and used his other one to push the glass away.

  “He needs to see the doktah,” Grace said.

  Mattie set the glass on the bedside table. “It’s probably the antibiotic. The instructions said it might cause an upset stomach—even vomiting and diarrhea, and—”

  “Nett a fever, though. He needs to go to the hospital.”

  Mattie bit her bottom lip to stop it from trembling. Lord, why is this happening all over again? He’d been fever-free since leaving the hospital. She eased the soiled quilt off Nathan. He could use the blanket from the sofa to sleep tonight.

  “Ben and I will go with you. Get your cloak.”

  Mattie’s eyes burned. If she returned to the hospital, she might be accused of being a bad mother. The authorities would come knocking on her door again.

  “Mattie?”

  “I’ll give him some feverfew.” Mattie rose from the bed. “I’ll be back in a minute, Nathan.” His face pinched without opening his eyes. She hurried to the kitchen and opened the cabinet where she stored the herbal blends. A warm broth would help. It had to.

  Grace came up behind her. “Mattie, what if this is something serious?”

  “It’s nett serious.” Her harsh rebuke not only cut Grace’s words off, it caused her friend to take a step backward. Mattie glanced at Amanda sitting on Ben’s lap at the table eating a cookie. Calm yourself. Take a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. Once she released some of the pent-up tension, she turned to Grace. “All children have coughs and colds.”

  Grace’s face puckered with concern. “And you believe that’s all this is?” Grace spoke slowly, as though deliberately choosing her words. Her friend must think she was a fragile egg about to crack.

  “You know why I can’t take him back to that doktah,” Mattie said. She leaned closer and whispered, “That man was here last Friday to”—her voice wobbled—“to take Nathan away from me.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Nay, but you’ve heard the stories. The government authorities treated some of the other districts harshly. For nay reason.”

  “Mattie, we haven’t had that problem.”

  “Yet.” Mattie hardened her expression. “I won’t let them take mei children.”

  “They can’t take them unless they can prove you’re unfit.”

  “The government can do anything they want.”

  Grace frowned.

  “You don’t understand. The questions the government man asked about our lifestyle, the way we live . . . he was judgmental.”

  Grace sighed. “None of this has to do with Nathan’s fever. You said it yourself. Children get sick. It doesn’t make you a bad mamm.”

  Mattie slumped into the nearest chair and buried her face in her hands. “Then why do I feel like I am? Nathan’s been sickly since birth. Nothing I do helps him.” Nothing she’d done for her husband helped either. He still died.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bo pulled up to the curb in front of the pool hall located on the corner of First Street and Madison Avenue. The last time Josh fled his foster home, Bo found him here at midnight, hustling a game of pool for a pack of smokes.

  Bo sat with his car idling and scanned the area. Even in daylight, this section of town showed its seedy part. The windows on the liquor store across the street were barred, and gang graffiti adorned the old brick building. This side of the tracks was no place for a kid.

  Bo climbed out of the car and clicked the remote door lock. Near the Stop sign, a group of teenagers shot him an over-the-shoulder glance before resuming their conversation. Bo studied them a moment, but didn’t see anyone who resembled Josh. Proceeding toward the dilapidated pool hall, he spotted a gray-bearded man slumped against the clapboard siding, drinking from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. Although it wasn’t uncommon for the homeless to loiter in an alley, Bo continued into the building with caution.

  A set of large speakers hung on the wall, vibrating to the beat of a bass guitar. No one seemed to care that the high volume of the music distorted the song lyrics. The thick haze of smoke irritated his eyes. Bo walked past a group of men, ignoring their snide comments about his suit. He headed toward the row of pool tables.

  “Cop,” someone called out.

  Voices murmured as people shifted and faded into the background. Several youths pushed past him and bolted out the back door.

  Bo spotted Josh at the far table, crouched low, a cigarette dangling from his mouth as he eyed his next pool shot. Didn’t take you long to fit back in with the crowd. Bo strode up to the table and stopped in front of the side pocket where Josh was aiming his cue stick.

  Josh pocketed the cue ball. “Thanks for getting in my shot, Bo.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He cornered the table, but as he neared Josh, two men dressed in jeans, leather vests, and sleeveless T-shirts planted themselves in his path, arms crossed. Bo had learned years ago to avoid eye contact with people bold enough to block his path. Usually they were eager to stamp out their territory, and Bo wasn’t one who believed fighting solved anything. Apparently these men were not of the same belief. One jerked a cue stick from another pool player’s hand. He thrust it horizontally at Bo, catching his chest and pushing him toward the wall.

  “We don’t like visitors in suits,” the man growled.

  The other man roughly searched Bo’s backside with his hand until he located and lifted his wallet from his back pocket. He should have thought to lock his wallet in the car. Not that his car
was any safer in this neighborhood.

  “Stop,” Josh shouted. “He’s not a cop.”

  “How do you know?” The man pressed the cue stick harder against Bo’s chest.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Bo reached for the stick. He pushed back, reducing some of the crushing pressure on his upper body.

  “He’s my friend.” Josh raised his stick handle. “Let him go.”

  “The kid’s right,” the darker-haired man said as he inspected one of Bo’s business cards from his wallet. “He’s not a cop. Investigator for Child Services.”

  The man holding the cue stick gave one more thrust, then twisted the stick away. Bo could breathe.

  Josh tossed his pool stick on the table. “Come on, Bo. Let’s go.” He stormed toward the door.

  Bo started to follow, then turned back to the man who still held his wallet. But the burly man tapping the fat part of the pool stick against his free hand stared with what appeared to be an eager grin to use it, so Bo pivoted around. His license and credit cards would be a hassle to replace, but even that wasn’t worth being pulverized.

  Footsteps followed Bo and Josh across the room.

  Bo fisted his hands. Keep walking. Don’t look back. He repeated the mantra in his mind.

  Fresh air rushed into Bo’s lungs as they stepped outside. He stole a glance over his shoulder. From inside the building, the man stood at the window, peering at them. Bo aimed the remote keypad at his Impala, clicked the lock release, and opened the passenger door. “Lose the cigarette and get in.”

  Josh hesitated.

  Bo’s jaw twitched. “You just called me your friend,” he said, his words soaked with sarcasm.

  “Duh, someone had to save your sorry—”

  “Don’t say it.” A few hours on the street and the kid was a smart-mouthed punk again. He motioned with a head nod at the open car door. “This isn’t how I want to spend my afternoon. Now, lose the cigarette and get in before I lose my patience.”

  Josh took a long drag off his cigarette before tossing the butt on the sidewalk. He snubbed it out with the toe of his sneaker while exhaling a cloud of gray smoke.

  The kid wasn’t so bad—misdirected, but nothing like the thugs with whom Josh was playing pool. At least Josh had a chance of making his life better—that is, if he stopped running away from every foster home.

  Bo fastened his seat belt, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb.

  “I’m starved,” Josh said.

  “Mrs. Walker probably saved you a plate from supper.”

  “Great,” Josh sneered. “Have you eaten her meat loaf?”

  “I can’t say that I have.” Bo chuckled, remembering when he had made a follow-up visit to Mrs. Walker’s home to check up on the last two children he’d placed in her care. The woman was in the process of making supper, and none of the older children seemed enthused with her pot roast. Bo couldn’t blame them. He’d never seen pot roast with white gravy before. When she had extended a dinner invitation to him, Bo respectfully declined, opting instead to eat a hamburger at the little diner down the road.

  “Second thought, I’m not hungry. Seriously, I’ve eaten Spam straight from the can that tasted better.”

  The mere mention of food made Bo’s stomach growl. He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast either. He could stop at a diner. No, that wasn’t an option. His wallet was stolen, most likely his identity too. He would notify the credit card company ASAP.

  He turned right onto Pine View road, which led to his mother’s house. If she smelled cigarette smoke on Josh’s breath, she would declare him a “juvenile delinquent” and be upset with Bo for bringing him into her home. But the kid had to eat. Besides, Josh wasn’t a delinquent. He was Bo’s Little Brother. Not that Josh participated much in the Big Brother program. Every time Bo had brought up them hanging out together and shooting basketballs, Josh declined.

  A short time later, he turned onto the cobblestone driveway.

  Josh sat forward in his seat. “Whoa, dude.” He craned his neck. “Who lives here?”

  “This is my mother’s place. I know you’re hungry. We can get something to eat while I make a few phone calls.” Bo pulled up beside the detached four-car garage and cut the engine.

  “Are you calling Mrs. Walker?”

  “I need to tell her you’re safe. She does worry about you.”

  Josh rolled his eyes. “I find that hard to believe. I’m one of eight. She probably didn’t figure out I was missing until suppertime.”

  An image of hungry children clamoring for their place at the table replayed in Bo’s mind. So did the familiar sounds of his own youth come to life with chairs scraping the hardwood floor and dishes clattering. “Wash your hands, Thomas. You weren’t born in the barn. Malinda, place the potatoes next to your father’s plate. Verna, check the rolls . . .” His mother’s voice echoed.

  “Bo?”

  “I’m sorry.” Bo shook his head. He didn’t need any of those issues clouding his mind. “Did you say something?”

  “I asked how many people live here.”

  “Two. My mother and me. Well, three. She has a live-in housekeeper.” He opened the car door, then glanced sideways at Josh who hadn’t even unfastened his seatbelt. “You coming in?”

  Josh scrambled to release his buckle and climb out of the car. He walked beside Bo, his gaze climbing up the side of the house like a rose trellis. “I’ve never been in a house this big.”

  Bo smiled, recalling his first impression of the estate’s enormity. The lake house was a cramped two-bedroom vacation cottage until his mother deemed it wasn’t large enough to make it their permanent residence. The size of the house didn’t matter to Bo; he spent the majority of his free time down by the lake.

  They entered the house through the back door, wiped their feet on the rug in the utility room, then headed to the kitchen. The housekeeper, Mrs. Botello, had the day off, so the room was dark and void of activity. Bo opened the refrigerator and peered inside. He picked up one storage container and popped the lid off, but couldn’t decipher what the leftover was and slipped it back on the shelf. “I hope you like ham and cheese.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Mustard or mayo?”

  “Mayo.”

  He set the items on the spotless granite counter top, then removed a loaf of pumpernickel bread from the bread box and two plates from the cabinet.

  “Bo, I thought I heard—” Mother halted at the sight of Josh. Her posture stiffened.

  “This is Josh Messer. Josh, this is my mother.”

  She made a slight nod in the visitor’s direction. “How do you do?”

  “Good.” Josh sported a wide smile. “How ’bout yourself?”

  “Very well, thank you.” Her brow quirked, then relaxed.

  Bo motioned to the food on the counter. “I’m making sandwiches. Have you eaten?”

  “Yes,” his mother said. “I couldn’t very well cancel our lunch date with Senator Delanie and the others on such short notice.” She crossed the room and entered the butler’s pantry.

  Josh leaned closer to Bo. “She really knows a senator?”

  “Yes. And the governor too.” Bo slathered the dark slices of bread with mayo.

  His mother returned with a bag of chips and a box of store-bought gingersnap cookies. “I offered Erica a rain check on your behalf.”

  Bo looked up from assembling the sandwiches and forced a smile. “Did you choose a day and time too?”

  “A few dates, in fact. This Friday is the annual Hope House Charity Golf Classic. Senator Delanie and the mayor are two of the participants. I think it would be beneficial for you to be present. I can’t stress enough their influential value. Next month is the gala. Great Northern Expeditions has generously offered to sponsor the event.”

  “It sounds like I’m being groomed for politics.”

  Ignoring his comment, she turned toward Josh. “What would you like to drink? We have milk, soda, juice, or iced t
ea.”

  “What kind of soda?”

  As his mother listed the variety of brands, Bo cut the sandwiches and placed them on the plates. The golf classic on Friday wasn’t much time to come up with a valid reason not to attend. Perhaps he could trade his on-call time. He’d worry about the gala later.

  “Bo, what would you like to drink?”

  “Milk, please. But I can get it.” His cell phone rang. Bo reached into his pocket, glanced at the caller ID, Out of Area, then pressed the Accept button. “Hello?”

  “May I speak with Bo Lambright, please?”

  The woman’s voice was barely audible. He covered his open ear to block the clunking sounds of ice cubes being dropped into Josh’s glass. “This is he.”

  Silence.

  “Hello?” He made his way into the dining room where it was quieter. “Are you still there?”

  “Jah, I’m sorry. This is . . . this is Mattie Diener.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A sob caught in the back of Mattie’s throat, and she clasped her hand over the phone in the hospital waiting room to muffle her cry. She closed her eyes and let a few seconds pass. Calling Bo Lambright was a knee-jerk decision after Grace and Ben took Amanda down to the cafeteria. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “You’re not a bother. Tell me what’s wrong.” His soft tone was calming, tranquil.

  Dare she trust him—an Englischer who, only yesterday, threatened to take her sohn? Contacting him had been a mistake.

  “Mrs. Diener?”

  But just this afternoon he’d told her the case was closed—unofficially, but closed nonetheless. She followed the medication instructions. Did everything he had told her to do. “I gave him that medicine. Just as you said.” Her voice broke into hiccupping gasps. Her lungs tightened. Breathe.

  God, where are You?

  She wiped her hand over her tear-streaked face. Calm down. Breathe. She sounded unbalanced even to her own ears.

  “Mrs. Diener, I know something has upset you. Is your son okay?”

  “They—they won’t tell me anything. They won’t let me be with him. What did you say in your report?”

  “Who won’t let you be with him?”