Mountains of Grace

by Kelly Irvin

  People didn’t want to hear that.

  “It’s okay. My father says it’s Gott’s plan.”

  Another way of putting it. Her halfhearted answer said she wanted to believe but couldn’t quite wrap her head around a God who chose this plan. That he could understand.

  “More like nature’s way of cleaning up her front yard and sending a message.”

  Her pretty forehead wrinkled, she glanced up at him. “What message?”

  “Back off. You’re getting too close.”

  “We live in harmony with nature.” She edged behind two women chatting over matching strollers. “We don’t even have electricity. We don’t even litter.”

  Chuckling, he shook his head. “I’m not talking about you specifically. But you are living on the edge of a national forest.”

  She began to move toward the door. “I never thought of that as a bad thing.”

  “It’s not bad. You just have to recognize and accept the forces of nature at work here.”

  He leaned into the crutches and matched her stride as she dodged men talking, hands on their hips or rubbing their beards, and then women chattering like a bunch of happy hens in the hallway that led to the double doors and into the parking lot. Outside, the noise died a quick death, replaced by car engines rumbling and cicadas singing. The evening air held a hint of autumn.

  All the while, she seemed to be working over his words, digesting them, giving them more thought than anyone ever did. Finally, she raised her hand to her forehead and shielded her eyes from the setting sun. “You sound like a philosopher. Are you a teacher?”

  “Nope. A smoke jumper.”

  Her eyebrows rose and her eyes widened. “Is that how you hurt yourself?” Her fingers fluttered near the metal stents on his fingers, but she didn’t touch them.

  “Yep. I had a midair collision with a ponderosa pine.”

  “Ouch.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  “How come your smoke jumper team didn’t put the fire out?”

  “You don’t put forest fires out. You contain them so they burn out on their own.”

  “I don’t understand what that means.”

  “We remove fire fuel from the fire’s path. We dig down until we hit minerals and create a barrier so the fire doesn’t have anything to eat.”

  “It doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” He craned his head from side to side. Her grief was fresh and new. She still labored under the shock of it. He rarely dealt directly with the people affected by the fires he fought. Her horror and righteous anger were good reminders of why he and his buddies put themselves in harm’s way. So people like Mercy didn’t have to feel like this. “I promise you every hotshot crew, all the volunteer firefighters, every line crew, all the smoke jumpers working this fire are doing everything they can to make it stop. Because that’s what we get paid to do, but also because we care.”

  Her troubled gaze penetrated to the bone. After a few long seconds she nodded. “Thank you.”

  Mercy moved toward a long string of buggies and wagons near the perimeter of the parking lot. He kept pace. She glanced his way. “You look like you’re in pain. You don’t have to walk with me.”

  “Am I bothering you?” He stopped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

  Her expression unfathomable, she halted. “I’m not used to talking to Englisch men . . . alone.” She studied the asphalt for a second. “But I want to understand about the fire and what you do. If I could go out there and fight it myself, I would. I would put it out. I wouldn’t wait.”

  “I understand the desire.” Her urgency touched him. Smoke jumpers picked up and moved on to the next fire. People like Mercy lived with the results of their efforts. He selected his words with care. “If you were a firefighter and you were out there on the line, you’d see what I see. Fires are like living, breathing creatures. They seem to ponder how to stay two or three or four steps ahead of you. They zig and zag. They die down and then—boom—they’re back.”

  She resumed her steady pace toward the buggies where her brothers stood and leaned. The one squatting stood as they approached. All three stared.

  “These are my brothers.” She introduced them. They nodded but didn’t speak. “Spencer is a smoke jumper.”

  With regular folks, this always jump-started the conversation. With these three, more nodding. “He was going to work the Caribou Fire when he got hurt.”

  “Doesn’t seem to have mattered.” Abraham, who appeared to be the oldest, finally spoke. “It’s still going.”

  “This fire is a beast.” Being defensive didn’t help. Spencer paused and slowed his words. “I was just telling Mercy it’s a point of honor with every firefighter to do everything possible to contain a fire. They won’t stop until they do.”

  “Good to know.” Abraham cocked his head toward the buggy hooked to a strawberry roan. “We’ll get you home, Mercy. You probably have school stuff to do. Mudder and Daed will bring the wagon.”

  What Spencer knew about the Amish would fit on a stick-um. “I thought you quit school after eighth grade.”

  Mercy climbed into the buggy with the grace of someone who grew up doing it. She swiveled. “I teach.”

  “At a school in Eureka?”

  “We’re holding our Kootenai school here in Grandma Knowles’s garage.”

  Grunting, Abraham hoisted himself into the driver’s side of the buggy. “Nice to meet you. We have to go.”

  The other boys hopped into the back with oblique nods. They were nothing if not protective of their sister.

  Spencer stood and watched them drive away. Come on, come on.

  They reached the end of the parking lot and halted at a stop sign before they turned onto the street. Mercy leaned out and waved.

  He returned the favor. Thank you.

  Grandma Knowles’s garage. Everyone knew where the senior Knowleses had lived for fifty or sixty years.

  It was a start.

  Of what? A conversation? An interesting friendship? A question to be pondered.

  * * *

  Twice in three days. Caleb rubbed his throbbing forehead and inhaled the smoky air only slightly better than the refrigerated air in the auditorium. He leaned against the building’s blond brick and stared at the man waving good-bye to the Yoder boys. And Mercy. Why did this guy named Spencer McDonald seem so taken with Mercy? He’d stared at her in the church fellowship hall and now he sought her out at a community meeting. He didn’t just seek her out; he walked her to her buggy and spoke to her and her brothers.

  He’s simply being neighborly. The voice in his ear chided Caleb for being so suspicious.

  People around here were like that. Friendly. And they didn’t make a spectacle of their Amish neighbors. They went about their business.

  Which was what he should do.

  He weighed the letter in his hand. At loose ends with no work to do, he’d driven over to the Rexford post office to pick up his mail on Friday. Now he wished he hadn’t.

  A letter from his mother, which he had now procrastinated more than a day in opening.

  “Are you holding up the wall or is it holding you up?”

  Caleb glanced up to see Juliette traipsing his direction. He let his gaze drop to her sandaled feet. “I reckon it’s holding me up at this point.”

  “I’m sorry about your cabin.”

  “Thank you. Same with your house.”

  “We’ll all be tired of saying that after a while.” She leaned against the wall next to him and stuck her sandal against the brick exterior. She smelled like suntan lotion. Thinking about how a woman smelled seemed wrong, but a nose did what a nose did. Juliette fanned her face with her fingers. “We should just have a signal or a sign we can whip out. So Sorry. And move on.”

  “That would be okay with me.” Except people needed to say something. It made them feel better. And the recipient somehow felt better, too, that someone care
d. “Did you learn anything in the meeting?”

  “It’s what I’m learning out here that interests me.” She gave him a sly sideways glance. “Was that Mercy I saw walking with Spencer McDonald to her buggy?”

  “I don’t know what you saw. Only what I saw.”

  He’d seen the girl who had his heart in her hands walking across the parking lot in broad daylight with an English man. It wasn’t like they were holding hands, but something about the way this Spencer McDonald bent down to hear her words seemed like he knew her better than Caleb did. Like he was hanging on to her words. They walked closer together than casual acquaintances should. In Caleb’s opinion, not that anyone had asked him for it.

  “I saw an Englischer putting out feelers to see if Mercy is interested in courting him.” Juliette pushed off from the wall. She turned to face him. For the first time since he’d met her, the woman’s face was serious. “If that doesn’t give you a kick in the behind, I don’t know what will. Nothing, I guess.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That Juliette employed the Amish vernacular didn’t surprise Caleb. She’d grown up playing with Mercy, Nora, Christine, and the other girls in the tiny community where they were all born. No one thought much about it. They were all just kids, regardless of church affiliation. As a newcomer he didn’t have that advantage. Even after two years he was still trying to figure out the nuances of the relationships in this tight-knit Gmay. Plain folks didn’t talk much about that sort of thing. “Amish women don’t court Englischers.”

  “Maybe Spence doesn’t know that. Or maybe he doesn’t care.”

  “It’s not your business. Or mine.”

  “It’s my business because Mercy is my friend and I know what a player Spence is. It’s your business because you are in love with Mercy. You took no for an answer instead of fighting for her. Wake up and smell the coffee, buddy.”

  “Courting is private.”

  “You have to actually court before it can be private. Food for thought, my friend.” She waved her red-tipped fingers, whirled, and sashayed toward the white Ford Ranger parked next to her parents’ Suburban. “Toodles.”

  “Wait.”

  She turned. The sly smile was back. “Your wish is my command.”

  “What does it mean to say Spencer is a player?”

  Juliette traipsed closer. Closer than she should. Caleb straightened and edged away.

  “It’s been a lot of years, I’ll give you that, but a tiger doesn’t change its stripes, does it? I was a freshman when he was a senior. He played sports, but he wasn’t one of those clean-cut athlete types. He had girls hanging all over him—all the football players did—but he did the whole brooding, bad-boy thing. He ignored them and went for the bad girls. They hung around under the bleachers after practice smoking and making out—”

  “I get the picture.” Caleb rushed to stop her. Drawing a picture was unnecessary. Gossip was wrong under all circumstances. “I’m sorry I asked. Like you said, that was a long time ago.”

  “I’m just saying Mercy may be my age, but she’s led a sheltered life. She won’t know what hit her.”

  “You should talk to her.”

  “I know, but she’s been so sad since you broke up with her.”

  “She turned me down. She broke up with me.” There he went again. “Never mind.”

  “Mercy said she wasn’t ready to get married. She said she didn’t want to give up teaching.” Juliette went on as if Caleb hadn’t spoken. “You didn’t bother to dig deeper. You didn’t bother to find out what was really freaking her out.”

  “Freaking her out?” They’d been courting for eight months. Surely Mercy had given some thought to the possibility of marriage. He’d been so careful to be respectful and get to know her. To listen to her. To truly know her. He hadn’t allowed himself to be carried away by feelings the way he had with Leyla. “Every Amish woman wants to marry. Why would a proposal ‘freak’ her out?”

  His feelings for Mercy were deeper and stronger because they were based on really knowing her, but she obviously didn’t feel the same way.

  “My question exactly.” Juliette stood on her tiptoes and patted his cheek. “It may not be what you did but what you didn’t do. I get the impression she was totally surprised that you were moving right to marriage. Did you forget something in the middle? I mean, seriously, did you even kiss her?”

  Caleb touched his cheek. The man who fell for Juliette would have to be more than a little bit crazy. The woman had no boundaries. “That is not your business.”

  “I can tell by the expression on your face you didn’t.”

  Kissing might scare her off. Kissing might muddle her feelings. Trying this hard was exhausting. His head hurt. His fingers tightened around his mother’s letter until the envelope folded in his hands.

  “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  “That letter you keep fondling.”

  “It’s from my mother.”

  “What does it say?”

  Yet another piece of information that wasn’t Juliette’s business. “I haven’t opened it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know what it says.”

  Juliette snatched the letter from his hand and held it to her forehead. Eyes closed, she hummed for a few seconds. “My dear son, your dad and I miss you terribly. Even the dog misses you. Take the next train to Georgia. Hey, I’m writing a country music song. Am I right?”

  “Close.” Except his father passed away years earlier, his mother and siblings lived with his aunt Teresa, and the dog had gone blind. “I thought maybe my family might want to come out for a visit. I invited them.”

  They might like it here. They might even settle here. It was a stupid idea, but a man needed family around.

  “You who have no house.” Juliette returned the letter. “I’m sorry.”

  “We’re not saying that anymore, remember?”

  “I’m sorry I’m obnoxious. It’s a habit my boy—my friend—says I need to break.”

  “Tim’s right.”

  “What makes you think it’s Tim?”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “You got that right.” Her smile gone, she backed away. “You should swing by Mercy’s tonight. Take her for a ride. I’ll be rooting for you. Team Caleb. You’re like Team Edward. Spence is Team Jacob, all dark and broody. You know what I mean?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He who snoozes, loses. Don’t make me say I told you so.”

  “I won’t.” She didn’t need to say anything. Ever. “Good-bye.”

  She strolled to her car.

  He studied the letter. Might as well open it. Tear the bandage from the wound.

  Dear Caleb,

  We hope you are well. We read about the fires. We are praying for your safety and the safety of the other families in West Kootenai and Libby. I also pray that you aren’t taken in by the exhortations of the Libby community. But I leave the future to God who is faithful.

  I read your letter inviting us to visit and imagine the mountains and the lakes and the wildlife. But Montana is a long way from Indiana. Your brother’s wife is in a family way. The baby will come this spring. I’ll have a garden to plant. And canning to do. I can’t imagine us making such a long trip. Maybe you can come home in the spring instead.

  Take care of yourself. God’s blessing on you.

  Mudder

  Caleb folded the letter and stuck it back in the envelope.

  Some things never changed. His mother was one of them.

  He came to Montana for a fresh start. He came in search of affection he missed at home. He would never go home and his family would never come here.

  He would build a new house here and fill it with the love and affection a child needed to grow up happy and healthy.

  To do that, he needed to take Juliette’s advice. Starting now.

  19

  Libby, Montana


  People were idiots. Not a very Christian thought. But true. Making a circling motion with one hand, Tim slapped the side of the fire engine–red Ford F-350 with its oversized tires and diesel fumes with his other hand. No entry meant no entry. What part of the sawhorses and orange cones across Piper Road didn’t the guy understand? Closing the road to prevent residents from returning home to this area only seven miles north of Libby because of the West Fork Fire was for their own safety. As difficult and as scary as that was. A guy also had to do his job, whether people liked it or not.

  “Hey, man, we just want to pick up a couple of things.” The guy in a Dodgers ball cap stuck his head through the open window on the passenger side. “No need to be such a jerk about it.”

  “Everyone thinks they should be the exception,” Tim yelled back. “The evac is for your own good.”

  The man said a few things he ought not to spout about law enforcement, but Emmett wouldn’t approve of Tim slapping cuffs on a guy for utilizing his First Amendment rights.

  What would his hero Dr. King say about it? So much for his “beloved community.” The truck rumbled away, leaving Tim and his county pickup in billowing dust. Coughing, he hid his face in the crook of his elbow and waited for it to subside.

  “Who peed in your Cheerios?” Kimberly wiped her face with a red bandana soaked with melted ice from the small cooler Tim kept in the truck. “I’ve never seen you act like this. You’re never cranky. That’s Sal’s schtick.”

  “I’m not cranky. Just dirty and tired.” Tired from working a full week and now manning a barricade on his Saturday morning instead of sleeping in.

  “And cranky.”

  “Okay, a little cranky.” No way Tim would talk to the first-year deputy about his woman problems. They weren’t even problems anymore. It was over between Juliette and him. Kaput. No excuses. Time to get over it. He glanced at his watch. “I need to head over to the community meeting in Libby. You got this?”