“Of course,” she said, trying to smile, though she knew she radiated a false brightness. “Of course you meant well.”
He picked up the sack and gave her a solemn look. “Do not fear, Betsy. They will not go unpunished for their atrocities. The devils will get their due.” He held the Bible against his chest. “Soon, all Indians will be subdued and contained.”
She felt her stomach clench. What did he mean by that? “Surely not all. Some are guilty, but not all. Many Indians were very kind to me.”
He shook his head forcefully. “None can be trusted. They are pagans, like the Canaanites who had to be removed from the Promised Land. God commanded Moses to rid the land of all heathen inhabitants. All of them.”
Betsy felt a shiver down her spine as if he had put a handful of snow down her back. “That was long ago, Hans. Those words from God were for a different time, meant for a different world.”
“The world has not changed. Evil is still among us.” Then the fierce expression on Hans’s face shifted to one that was immeasurably sad. He touched his finger to the scar on her cheek, as if he wished he could rub it away. “My beautiful, beautiful Betsy.” Sweetness and compassion permeated his voice. “It’s no wonder you are overwrought. We will talk about this another time.”
As she gently closed the door behind him, she realized why she felt such caution to discuss her captivity with him. He did not want the truth.
Tessa waited inside the warm barn until she saw Hans leave the house. She couldn’t tolerate being in the same room as he and Betsy, not the way he gazed so tenderly at her, oblivious to Tessa’s aching heart. She watched him mount his horse and ride off in the opposite direction of Not Faxon’s Farm. The opposite of Lancaster Town. Where could he be going in this snowstorm?
Why did it matter? Obviously, Hans cared not a whit for her. He only cared for Betsy. She knew that, and she also knew, deep down, it wasn’t Betsy’s fault that Hans loved her so. Betsy was a lovable person—kind and gentle and annoyingly beautiful. So why couldn’t Tessa be more charitable toward Betsy Zook? Why couldn’t she muster up some kind of empathy for her? As she slid shut the barn door, she said aloud, “I must be the worst person in the world.”
“Surely not the worst.”
She spun around to face Martin Gingerich—of all people—looking as if he’d been tossed about in the air and dropped down into the yard of Beacon Hollow like a rag doll, his hair disheveled and his cheeks wind-stung red. And where was his hat? Why could this man-child never, ever remember a hat?
She scowled at him. “What are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?”
“I did nothing of the sort,” he said with his customary cheer, oblivious to the dusting of snowflakes on his head and shoulders. “I stopped by to see if you might like to go sledding down Dead Man’s Hill.”
Sledding? With him? Where others might see them together? “Martin, you can’t be . . . surely you don’t think I could ever . . . take you seriously. I mean, you’re a Mennonite. I’m Amish. And that’s only part of the problem.”
“So you’re blinkered. Most are. Not me, of course. I’m quite open-minded.”
Blinkered? Me? Hardly! Ridiculous.
Not to be fobbed off so easily, he asked, “So what’s the other part?”
Fine. He asked. “You told everybody that giants ran in our family.”
“Oh Tessa. That was years ago! Back when you were a foot taller than me. Than most every fellow. I was embarrassed to be so short next to such a fine-looking woman.”
Fine-looking? Woman? Did he just call her a fine-looking woman? She felt herself soften just a wee bit.
“Don’t tell me you hold grudges over such a small thing.”
Yes. She was a dedicated grudge holder.
“So what’s left?”
It pained her to say it, but he left her no choice. “You’re . . . you.”
Any other young man would be mortified by what she had just said. To be truthful, she was mortified at her own candor, but she had spoken the truth. That was how she felt about rumpled Martin. He was him.
And would you believe that rumpled Martin seemed almost pleased, as if she had just paid him the biggest compliment of his life? “That’s exactly right, Tessa. I’m me. Irresistible. Incomparable.”
“Conceited.”
He lifted a finger in the air. “That, too.”
She was tempted to keep flinging out insulting adjectives, but that would not be merciful. “Martin, why me?” she said with a thump at her chest. “Why are you so persistent about me? Of all the girls in Lancaster County, why me? Why not a Mennonite girl? There’s plenty of them! Your church is always stealing from other churches.”
“The girls in my church act shy and withdrawn. In all my years, I’ve never had a girl look me directly in the eye. Not even my own mother. They’re all afraid of men.”
“That’s only because all the men in your church are like Faxon the Saxon.”
Martin’s eyes went wide and she gasped and covered her mouth. She couldn’t believe she had called his father that name, right to his face. She winced, squeezing her eyes shut.
A laugh burst out of Martin, then another, and soon he was doubled over, guffawing. The kind of belly laugh when your eyes tear up and you can’t catch your breath. Tessa watched him, perplexed. It took him a full minute to pull himself together.
“Oh Tessa, you are a pearl of great price.” He wiped his eyes with his fists, still chuckling. “See what I mean? You’re different from most girls. You say what you think and what you feel. You speak your mind.”
She was vexed to feel herself blushing. Those were the very complaints most everyone, particularly Maria Müller, leveled at her.
“So, will you come with me to Dead Man’s Hill?”
She sighed. Rumpled Martin might be the most persistent person she’d ever met. But sledding with Martin was better than being stuck inside the house with Betsy. “Can Willie come too?”
He flashed a relieved smile, hooked one thumb in his waistband, and backed off boyishly. “Of course. Anything you want.”
Discovering that Martin had been more nervous than he let on made Tessa’s chilly feelings toward him warm another degree or two. Ever so slightly. But it would never do to let Martin know. She lifted one shoulder in a reluctant shrug. “I’ll go get Willie.”
His face broke into a dazzled, jubilant hosanna of a smile. “I’ll wait outside for you.” As she passed by him, he softly added, “Sweetheart.”
She whirled around and jabbed a finger at his chest. “I am not your sweetheart.” Her face felt beet red.
Martin’s eyes took on a glow. “Maybe not yet. But one day.”
Fat chance of that. She sailed toward the house, muttering to herself. Who did he think he was?! She didn’t want him visiting her, she wasn’t at all nice to him, and besides, he was a Mennonite. A Mennonite.
Not Faxon’s Farm
November 21, 1763
One of Felix’s favorite horses, a chestnut mare, lay on the ground, quiet except for her contracting belly. As Felix knelt in the straw beside her, the mare looked over at him with such serene eyes, despite the hard shudders that emanated like waves through her middle.
“Is something wrong?”
He looked up to see Catrina peering over the ledge. Was school already over with? It must be later in the day than he thought. Much, much later, for he just now realized how dark the barn had grown. “Her water broke a long time ago. She’s having some trouble.” He got up to light the lanterns. Earlier, anticipating the mare’s condition, he had hung a few lanterns on nails he’d hammered around the stall. He went around to light them now, yellow light spilling over the mare.
“The boys told me you were in the barn with a suffering horse. Anna brought over a potpie, so I fed it to the boys and Dorothea.”
“Oh. Well, thanks.” He hadn’t given any thought to dinner.
“Can I help?”
“Actually, yes,” Felix sai
d, rolling up his sleeves. “Over on that trunk, I prepared a few supplies. Fetch me that bucket of water and a piece of baling twine.” As she disappeared, he called out, “And lye soap. It’s near the bucket.”
When she returned with the bucket and twine, he assumed she would set them down and promptly leave. The day was drawing to an end and soon it would be dark. But she surprised him by squatting down alongside him. “It’s uncommon to have a foal at this time of year, isn’t it?”
“It sure is. Usually nature makes sure babies arrive before winter comes.” He plunged his arms into the cold water, scrubbing hard with the lye soap. “But this girl, she’s a maiden mare.”
“A maiden mare?”
“An amateur. Everything’s a little off-kilter.”
A sound burst out of Catrina, and Felix looked up in alarm to find her giggling, covering her mouth with girlish shyness. He hadn’t thought her to have a sense of humor.
A hard contraction rolled over the mare. Her neck stretched, her whole body strained, her eyes bulged, her upper lip peeled back. As they waited, kneeling side by side, watching the horse labor, Felix felt very aware of Catrina. Of the way her hand rubbed and massaged the belly of the mare, the calm and soothing way she spoke to her. “With life comes suffering, sweet girl,” she whispered to the horse.
Such small, white hands Catrina had. Small hands with tapered fingers. Hands that moved tenderly, almost lovingly over the mare’s neck. And then he shook that thought right out of his head and busied himself with unraveling the twine. What was the matter with him, anyway? This was hardly the time to notice a woman’s hands.
“Isn’t there something you can do to help her?”
He stole a glance at her. From the troubled look in her eyes, she appeared to be suffering right alongside the mare. “There is something I’m planning to do, but you might not want to stick around for it. It’ll shock you.”
“I don’t shock easy.”
He glanced at her. “Suit yourself.” He washed his hands thoroughly with the lye soap, rinsed them in the bucket, then pushed a hand inside the horse’s womb. The foal was positioned backward, with one hind leg aiming to get out and the other hind leg bent forward. The horse stretched her neck forward and rolled her head as a fierce contraction shook her body. The squeezing muscles bore down hard, crushing Felix’s hand between the foal’s leg and the horse’s pelvic bone. The crushing pain was so intense that he nearly howled.
When the contraction finally ended, Felix slid his hand out, slimy with birth mucus. “The foal’s legs are twisted around all funny, and my hand’s too big. I can’t get it up there far enough.”
“Let me try.”
“No. Absolutely not. When a contraction hits . . . it’s powerful. It’s hurts like . . . the dickens.” Slowly, he stretched out his aching fingers.
“At least let me try.”
He held his hand against his chest, wondering if it was broken, and barely glanced at her. “No.”
She straightened her shoulders. “It’s not the first time I’ve helped with a foaling. I have small hands, Felix Bauer, and a sturdy countenance. I can do it. At least let me have a go at it.”
He dropped his hand and looked straight at her. She was determined, that’s for sure. “It will hurt, even if your hand is dainty.” Dainty. Did he really use that word?
“I know.”
He cleared his throat. “The trick is going to be to get your fingers around two hind hooves—knowing which leg belongs up front or in the back—and ease them until they’re pointed right. You can’t let go, even when it hurts.”
“All right, then.” Catrina’s breath eased out in a sigh. She rolled up her dress sleeves and scrubbed her hands with the astringent lye soap.
She had to crouch down on the straw bed, practically flat on her belly, to push her hand inside the mare. With every one of the mare’s contractions, tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks, but she never cried out and she never gave up. She found the two hind hooves and held on to them; each time the mare labored, the legs eased down the birth canal an inch or two. Then, finally, the mare gave one last shuddering strain and the foal slid out, bloody and glistening and gleaming, onto the yellow straw.
Felix tore the membrane that enveloped the foal, peeling it away from the tiny dark face, and rubbed its nose. “Breathe, baby. Breathe, breathe!” The foal let out a gasp and lifted its head, peering around the stall with an amazed look. Its long ears dropped and its spindly legs sprawled out. It kept shaking its head, stunned, as if to clear its head.
Catrina sat on her knees, staring at the foal, wearing a wide-eyed look of pure wonderment. When the foal sneezed once, then twice, she laughed.
He picked up a burlap sack and handed it to Catrina. “Hold on. Our work isn’t done yet. Here, rub it down.” In a sudden graceful movement, the mare had risen to her feet, membrane still hanging from her. Deftly, he knotted the membrane so that she wouldn’t step on it before her body released it with a few more shudders.
The mare touched noses with her baby, a tender way to say hello, then nudged it to get it up on its four wobbly legs. Felix and Catrina sat with their backs against the stall wall, watching mother and foal. After many starts and stops, the foal managed to rise up and then balance on all four legs. The mare leaned close so its baby could start to nurse.
“There. That’s a sight that never fails to pull at my heart,” he whispered, more to himself than to Catrina.
Now, the work was done. All was well. His chest ached with the joy that always came with a birth.
He was so caught up in watching the foal that it took him a moment to realize that Catrina was staring at him. He turned away when he found her eyes on him.
“You’re good at this.”
Felix sighed and stretched, feeling loose-jointed with weariness. “I’ve been doing it a while.”
“I have a confession to make. I’ve never helped with foaling.”
What? Catrina had told a fib? He didn’t think it was possible. But then he realized that she had wanted to be here with him, had wanted to help him. His heart did a stutter step, and suddenly he felt boyish, a little awkward, a little uncertain. He liked the feeling. He scooted closer to her. “Since you’re finally realizing what a wonderful man I truly am, why not reconsider letting me court you.”
She looked down at her apron and twirled the edges. “Felix, I’ve loved two men and I’ve buried both of them. The thought of loving again . . . it’s too hard. I can’t go through another loss.”
The funny thing was that he understood. After Rachel’s death, there were many mornings when he didn’t have the gumption to face the day. But he had two little yowling infants who wouldn’t let him off the hook. They needed him, and it turned out that he needed them. If he hadn’t had those baby boys, he wasn’t sure what grief would have been like for him. Catrina didn’t have anyone nipping at her heels to get back in the game of life. Other than her mother, Maria, who nipped at everybody’s heels.
He leaned against her, shoulder to shoulder. “Do you know what’s even harder?”
She glanced at him out of the corners of her eyes.
“Not loving again. That’s far worse than losing someone.” For a moment neither of them moved. They sat rooted by surprise, as if seeing each other in an entirely new light. He nudged her gently, and slowly, the corners of her lips tugged into a smile. He smiled in return, and they sat there like two foolish adolescents, gazing and grinning at each other, until a creaky sliding door noise broke their reverie. Felix rose, stretching his back, to see who had come into the barn. Through the cracks in the barn, the night was beginning to soften into dawn. Had they really been in this stall all night long? Hours had flown like minutes.
Hans emerged from the shadows, leading his horse into its stall.
“Hans! Where’ve you been?”
Hans stopped abruptly. “What are you doing up?”
Felix pointed his chin toward the mare’s stall. “Foalin
g. Where have you been?”
Hans continued down the barn aisle. “Mind your own concerns, Felix.”
“You were in Paxton, weren’t you?”
Hans didn’t bother to look at him.
“Hear me, brother. If you were in Paxton meeting with John Elder, that is my business. Bairn’s, too.”
Hans closed the stall door behind the horse. “You are not my brother. Neither is Bairn.” And he strode down the hall and out of the barn.
Felix stayed in the aisle, hands on his hips, perplexed by Hans’s hostility. What was driving such anger? He had felt sympathy for him prior to Betsy’s restoration, but no longer. If anything, Hans seemed even more belligerent now.
Catrina came up behind him. “Like father, like son.”
“What’s that?”
“Hans’s birth father was Peter Mast, was he not?”
“Yes,” Felix said. “He left our church years ago. Almost the day after his father Isaac was buried.”
“I remember. And I remember my mother saying that Peter Mast was always shaking his fists at God.”
As she tied her cloak, Felix thought she had just summed up Hans’s hostility. He was shaking his fists at God. A dangerous thing to do.
17
Beacon Hollow
December 9, 1763
As the weeks passed, Anna was pleased to see that Betsy grew stronger. She seemed less bewildered by her circumstances and more at home among them. Though she rarely spoke of her time with the Indians, it was obvious that she’d been strongly affected by her time among them. She’d even adopted some mannerisms that reminded Anna of the Conestogas. Hans had noticed, too, and was not shy to voice his disapproval.
For one thing, Betsy had acquired a habit of peeping under her eyebrows with her chin tucked low. She moved through a room silently, so quietly that Anna didn’t even realize she was nearby. She preferred to be outside, even if the weather was poor. More than a few times, Anna found Betsy studying the sky, eyes fixed on birds as they flew over the farm, as if she were part of their migration. The other day she had used the term moon to signify a month’s time and Hans snapped at her. “You are not with the savages any longer,” he said in a cold voice.
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