Katie's Choice

by Amy Lillard

  “How’s your natchess?”

  Zane’s gaze jerked to Katie Rose. She smiled, and he realized her eyes were a lighter green than her mother’s. And sweetly smiling instead of tired, as she waited for him to answer.

  He realized he wasn’t eating. Old habits and all. He’d never been a big eater. He was usually much more interested in what was around him than in food. But he had the next three months to absorb all he could of the Amish way of life. No sense in starving himself this early in the game.

  “Oh, fine, fine,” he answered, taking a bite to add credit to his words. “Very good, in fact. My compliments to the chef.”

  A few seats down, Annie blushed.

  The meal was tasty. Some of the best food he had ever eaten. Maybe because it wasn’t full of preservatives or lean on fat and calories. He could feel it clogging his arteries that very second, but he wasn’t sure he cared. It was that delicious. “What do you call this?”

  “Chicken pot pie,” Annie answered.

  “It’s Annie’s specialty,” Mary Elizabeth said with a smile.

  “And onkel’s favorite,” Matthew was quick to add.

  Everyone laughed.

  Another inside joke?

  “There was fine weather today,” Abram said from his place at the head of the table. “Tomorrow we’ll start plowin’.”

  “Plowing?” Granted he’d been a city boy for the last twenty years, but he’d spent quite a few formative years in a commune. And he’d learned a thing or two about farming. One thing he knew was that it was October. Not time to plant anything.

  “Jah,” Abram said with a short nod. “Plowin’.”

  “You made out easy,” John Paul added with a nudge to his side. “Last week we laid the manure.”

  “Seems like I came just in time,” he said with a laugh. For the first time since he agreed to this crazy plan of Jo’s, he realized the extent of what he’d gotten himself in to. Farming. And backward farming, at that. He rubbed at the dull pain in his shoulder. He supposed it was better than heading into a war zone. Safer, and not as stressful. A little cleaner and a lot cushier. But how was he supposed to live his life to the fullest on an Amish farm in the backwoods of backward Oklahoma? Three months, he told himself. Three months, and he was out of here.

  Abram Fisher had made a mistake. He was a godly man. He had learned humility. And he could admit when he’d done wrong. And this time he hadn’t done right by his family.

  He looked down the table to the stranger he had invited into his home—their home. He’d done it all for Ruthie. He was a selfish man, he knew. Every night he prayed to God to forgive him and his selfish ways and thoughts, but heaven help him, he wasn’t ready to let her go.

  But this Englischer with his hard eyes and unsmiling mouth was not a man he should have asked to come into his house. Not like this. But the deed was done. Zane Carson was staying, living among them, writing about what it felt like to be Amish.

  Abram couldn’t understand the draw of the outside world to their little community, but the Englischers seemed to be fascinated by the ways of the Plain folk. It beat him as to why. They all acted like Plain folk did something special. More special than just follow God’s plan. Everything was right there in the Bible for everyone to see, to use. T’weren’t any more special than that.

  But with Ruthie’s cancer treatments draining the funds from the district, Abram had to do something to put it back. The only thing he could do was take the fancy, fast-talking editor lady up on her plan. Invite a reporter to come into their midst, live with them, work beside them, and then write a bunch of stories about the experience. She assured Abram that the articles would bring tourists from all over to sample the wares, tastes, and simple life that was offered in Clover Ridge. More visitors meant more money for the town, and more money for the town meant more funds in the emergency coffers. More money for cancer treatments.

  So he had done it for Ruthie. Everything for Ruthie.

  2

  Shortly after dinner, the women served pie, and Zane had to admit that the food was sure better here than it was in the Middle East. Annie’s chicken pot pie beat out military MREs any day.

  After everyone had eaten their fill of dessert, the whole clan had gathered around and listened as Abram opened a well-worn Bible. His reading was stilted and slow, much slower than when he spoke, and Zane realized: he was translating the words to English so that he, too, would be able to understand. Zane felt like the belly of a snake, trying to devise ways out of sitting through a Bible reading. Nothing about the idea appealed to him.

  He supposed that was a natural side effect of being raised by agnostic parents. It wasn’t that the Bible didn’t have interesting stories and a strong moral code to live by. It was the whole heaven-hell thing that bothered him. A higher power who got to determine where you spent an eternity depending on a mood? That didn’t seem quite fair. And Zane wanted no part of it.

  But he acted the polite guest and sat patiently while Abram read, and everyone else sat in rapt attention. With their minds focused on the reading, Zane used that opportunity to study this family who had taken him in.

  Ruth Fisher looked gaunt in her clothes. Tired and sad, but with her back ramrod straight as if to show the cancer she couldn’t be beat. Next to her sat Annie, with her dark, dark hair. It was pulled back like the other women’s, but Zane could tell that hers wasn’t nearly as long as the Fisher girls’. He remembered John Paul telling him that Annie was an Englisher who’d only recently come to live among the Amish. Maybe that was the reason she seemed so familiar to him. Whatever it was, one thing was apparent—Gideon’s Annie was a kind soul. She clasped Ruth’s hand in between her own, offering comfort and support by her mere presence.

  Gabriel’s boys sat lined up in a row from tallest to smallest, with the exception of the youngest, Samuel. The redhead was perched on Katie Rose’s lap, a thumb in his mouth and his other hand playing with the untied strings of her little white cap.

  John Paul and Mary Elizabeth sat side by side, each seemingly captivated, both pretending to want to be there when in fact they’d rather be any place else. Zane had been young once, and he could see the signs. He had to admire how respectful the teenagers were to their elders.

  Gideon sat across from them. The next to the oldest, Zane remembered. He continually looked from his father to his intended to his mother and back. His green eyes flicked over each one in turn, lingering slightly longer on Annie’s pixie face before looking away again.

  And Noni. The old woman had spunk. She hadn’t said two words since John Paul had led her into the room, but Zane could tell. She had that feisty look that made him imagine she would clonk Abram on the head with her cane if he messed up the reading. They had only introduced her as Noni. He had no idea if she was Ruth’s mother or Abram’s, and the fact that he couldn’t tell by the family’s treatment of her was proof positive that the Amish had communal living down better than the hippies.

  Zane smiled and made another mental note to find out whose mother Noni really was. Just so he’d know. Staying with the Amish in Oklahoma might not be as exciting as the war-torn Middle East, but he couldn’t say it was going to be boring. Not in the least.

  Thankfully Abram didn’t read too many verses, and soon he was closing the book on a chorus of “aemens.” Though early, the Fishers who didn’t live in the house packed up and left, while the ones who were staying tidied up and prepared to go to bed.

  Zane said good night to everyone, and he and John Paul climbed the stairs.

  “Bathroom’s down that way. Best brush your teeth and ready for bed. Sunrise comes mighty early.”

  “Sunrise?”

  John Paul smiled at him.

  Zane laughed. He was joking of course. Who got up at sunrise? At least one of the Fishers had a sense of humor.

 
Zane grabbed his toothbrush and a pair of pajama pants and headed down the hall where John Paul had directed.

  To call it a bathroom was beyond generous. The room was barely big enough for a person to stand, much less bathe. It had a tiny sink, mirror, and tub. But there was hot and cold running water, so he shouldn’t complain.

  “Three months, Carson,” he muttered under his breath. Three more months, and he would be back in Chicago, then out into the field—on the border where he wouldn’t know where he would spend the night, much less have water that came out of pipes. And he would have Monica to come home to. He could manage three months of Amish living. No sweat.

  He slipped on the drawstring pants, grabbed up his T-shirt and jeans, and headed out the door, whistling under his breath as he made his way down the hall.

  John Paul grabbed his arm and dragged him into the room, quickly closing the door behind them.

  “Uh . . .” He nodded toward Zane’s bare chest, his gaze lingering on the jagged scar on Zane’s shoulder. It wouldn’t be long before the questions came. “It’s probably not a good idea to go around like, uh . . . that.”

  Zane glanced down and back up. “Sorry. I’m not used to . . .”

  John Paul nodded, letting him off the hook of finishing that statement. There was a lot he wasn’t used to. Being in an Amish farmhouse topped the list quite nicely. He also wasn’t used to conservative ways, people offended by the sight of a man’s naked chest, and a host of other things he was certain to encounter over the next three months.

  He was chagrined at his lack of research. He wouldn’t have dared enter a third world country without detailed knowledge of the culture. A man could get killed or worse for nothing more than shaking hands with the wrong person. He should have asked for a couple of more days to research his target, but he’d been too caught up in the excitement of going back to work to care one way or the other.

  And if he decided to be honest with himself, he hadn’t taken the job all that seriously. It was only the Amish. Yet the people were becoming real to him now, caring souls who had taken him in and who wanted to teach him about their culture. He had shown them nothing but disrespect by not caring to learn any of their culture before arriving. Something he needed to correct ASAP.

  Zane pulled on the black T-shirt he’d worn during the trip and booted up his computer. Good thing he had charged it before he left Chicago. Now all he had to do was get as many notes down as possible before his battery died.

  “Tell me about Noni.”

  John Paul shrugged. “What do you want to know?” There was a slight edge to his voice.

  He decided a general question was in order. “Is it normal for grandparents to live in houses built on to the back?”

  John Paul nodded. “Of course.”

  “And Katie Rose is your sister, but she lives with your brother.”

  John Paul nodded. “When Gabe’s wife died, he needed some help. Katie Rose moved in to cook and clean and help with the boys. ’Course Mary Elizabeth was just barely ten at the time. So Gabe needed every hand he could get, what with the baby and all.”

  “Baby?”

  “Jah.” John Paul nodded. “That’s how Rebecca died, havin’ Samuel. With no mudder to look after him, someone had to take care of him.”

  And with him having Down syndrome . . . “But now Mary Elizabeth is older. The boys are older. And she still stays there?”

  “I don’t suppose it would be easy for her to leave, not with Samuel still needin’ her.”

  He didn’t suppose it would. The boy had stuck to her like bubble gum on a hot summer day. It also seemed like just the way the Amish lived their lives. Katie Rose helping out Gabriel. Annie living with the Fishers until she could join the church and marry Gideon. And Noni living in the same house instead of being shipped off to a nursing home at the first opportunity.

  “What happens if Katie Rose decides to marry?”

  “I don’t suppose that’ll happen.”

  “Why not? I mean . . .” He was about to say that she was incredibly beautiful and worthy of any man’s attention, especially an Amish man who appreciated the simplicity of her manner, the openness of her smile. But if John Paul thought Zane’s bare chest might be offensive, he was sure not to like comments about his sister’s attractiveness.

  Zane was still a little stunned at his reaction to her. Even without a speck of makeup, and her hair pulled back into a tight bun, she was breathtaking. Not that he preferred his women painted up and fake, but he did appreciate a woman who took care of herself and wasn’t afraid to let the world know how hard she worked to look good. A woman like Monica. Still, Katie Rose had done none of that, and he had noticed her.

  Her lingering memory—it had been an hour since he’d last seen her—was proof that he’d been cooped up too long. For all practical purposes, he was an engaged man. But evidently he needed a break and should have taken one before accepting this assignment. A night out on the town was just what he needed, but between the days in the hospital, the weeks in rehab, and the countless hours in waiting rooms, there just didn’t seem to be the time. Now he was paying for it, lusting after a sweet Amish woman who gave everything she had to her family and after he had proposed to another. He was slime.

  “She seems like a nice girl,” he managed to choke out around the lump in his throat.

  An Englisher guy would have shrugged off the compliment and went about his night, but John Paul stopped. “The best.” His green eyes, only shades darker than his sister’s, studied Zane.

  “Yeah,” was all he could manage. He dropped his gaze to his keyboard, even though he had nothing to type. Maybe he should send an e-mail to Monica. “What about—”

  “That’s enough for tonight. See ya.”

  Zane looked up. “You’re leaving?”

  “I told you, I’m in rumspringa.”

  “And that means you can go out at this time of night?” For all intents and purposes it was early. In Chicago, things didn’t get started until nine o’clock. But this wasn’t Chicago.

  “Yeah, city boy, I can.” With a jaunty wave, John Paul closed the door behind him.

  Zane stared at the door and pondered the riddle that was the Amish culture. They dressed alike—well, mostly—they kept to themselves, and seemed almost cultish in their support of each other and their community. Yet they let their children run wild for years, then expected them to come back and rejoin the fold. He shook his head at it all and made a mental note to find out how many of the Amish teenagers found their way back to their church and how many of them headed for something more.

  His computer chimed, bringing him out of his thoughts. He had a message from Monica. She was online now, and he could easily engage her in a chat. Instead he opened his e-mail and read the words of encouragement and well wishes she’d sent. “Hope you got there safe . . . let me know how things are going . . . don’t forget me . . . miss you already . . . love you, Monica.”

  No mention of the ring. Or accepting his proposal. But it was only a matter of time.

  He hit Reply and started composing his e-mail. “Got here safe. Sorry I didn’t call. Busy night trying to settle in. This is going to be quite an adventure.”

  As he typed the words, the angelic face of Katie Rose Fisher floated into view.

  Ruth washed her face in the bathroom sink, then padded her way to the bedroom she shared with Abram. How many years had it been? Thirty-six if she counted the first year they were married. They had adopted the traditional way and spent the first year of their marriage traveling from one family member’s house to another until they moved back in with her elders.

  Thirty-six years together and never had she felt this self-conscious around her husband. It was wrong, she knew, and everyday she asked God for guidance and deliverance from her prideful thoughts. She had suffered
through the surgery, accepted that her body was forever altered. She had accepted it as much as a person possibly could. But each day she was more and more aware that her bones practically showed through her skin, skin that was pale and waxy, as her hair fell out in huge clumps.

  “Time for bed,” Abram said, standing on the opposite side from the door.

  “Jah,” she said, touching her bonnet only briefly. Not too long ago this was the time of night when she would brush her hair, running her fingers through it to keep it healthy and whole. But after this last treatment, she barely had any hair to speak of.

  Lord, I did as You commanded. I’m fightin’ this cancer, but I’m not able to fight these unholy thoughts. Help me, Dear Lord, to change these thoughts and accept this change without grief. Aemen.

  She didn’t want to feel this way, to be vain and proud, but how could she not lament her hair? The Bible said a woman’s hair was her crowning glory. All the glory was to go to God, but she had no glory left.

  She extinguished the lamp and pulled back the covers on her side of the bed. She slipped between the sheets and turned away.

  “Ruth?”

  She didn’t answer, hoping he would just go to sleep. The medications had left her moody and tired, and she wanted nothing more than to be left in peace. Just what did the Lord want from her to fight this awful disease? Why didn’t He just allow her to die with dignity?

  Shame washed over her at the thought.

  Abram touched her shoulder, his hand calloused and warm. “Ruthie?”

  She choked back a sigh at the comfort his touch brought. She was weak and unworthy. Not quite whole and not quite healed. Undeserving.

  “I’m tired, Abram.” She pulled the covers upward, until he relented, retreating back to his side of the bed they shared. Then she silently cried herself to sleep.