by B. J. Hoff
Nor could he recall sitting at the kitchen table without an audience of little Schrocks. Today was no different. Two-year-old Anna of the dimpled cheeks and turned-up nose stood right beside him, watching his every move. The shy, quiet four-year-old Leah stood at his other side, but not quite so close. At the end of the table Moses, a very wise and wiry seven-year-old, stood studying David as if he’d never seen him before.
Rebecca tried to shoo them out of the room, but David just laughed. “Let them be. I enjoy their company.”
“I’ll send them home with you for a day, and we’ll see how well their company wears. You should have a house full of your own kinner, Doctor, a good man like yourself.”
“I do have a son, you know.”
Rebecca did know, but she would still make her point. “Ja, but he’s all grown up now and you hardly ever see him. You’re still a young man. We need to find you a good wife so you can have another family.”
For as long as he could remember, one Amish wife or the other had been trying to marry David off. The Riverhaven folks were so oriented to big families and ever expanding households that they were convinced it was the only way to live.
David wasn’t so sure but that they were right.
On the other hand, if he were to openly agree with them, they’d never let up. As Rachel Brenneman sometimes teased, they’d do their best to “Amishize” him.
What he never admitted to his Amish friends—or to anyone else, for that matter—was how much he would like to have a “second family,” even if that family included only a wife. But not just any wife. Only one….
He’d planned to drop by and check on Gant yet today, so with some reluctance, he left the congenial Schrock fireside and started off for another good-natured confrontation with the Irishman. In truth their meetings these days were good-natured. Ironic as it was—and almost in spite of themselves—he and Gant seemed to be on their way to becoming friends. They’d gone long past the national disdain typically reserved by an Englishman for an Irishman and conversely. They actually got along quite well.
And wasn’t that something?
These days Gant found himself looking forward to the doctor’s visits. He enjoyed the physician’s dry sense of humor and flair for irony. Plus the man’s intelligence seemed to favor curiosity as much as book learning. Lately they’d had some good talks, not to mention a few rousing, though not rancorous, arguments about politics and world events. In truth Dr. Sebastian wasn’t a bad sort at all.
For a Brit.
The thought flared in his mind like a wayward spark blown away from the fire before it could be put out. Yet the reality was that he had grown weary of the old Irish-British enmity. Seen from the perspective of distance—he’d been away from the chokehold of Ireland’s poverty and the all-encompassing atmosphere of hatred for several years now—the hostility of the one nation toward the other seemed a deadlock from which neither country would ever be extricated.
As his Uncle Bran had put it, “England writes the music for Ireland’s misery, while the Irish are only too glad to furnish the lyrics. Trouble is, neither one of them knows how to sing.”
Of course Gant had never been sure what exactly his somewhat unhinged uncle had been talking about most of the time, but he did have a way with words.
Not that hatred for the Irish was limited to the British. His years in New York had taught him that. Americans aplenty made no secret of the fact that they’d like to round up all the Irish immigrants and send them packing back where they came from.
That is, until they came up against a job with which they disdained to dirty their hands. Then let’s hear it for the Irish.
David found his patient impatient.
A good sign. Clearly Gant was frustrated with his inactivity and bored with being housebound. He was eager to be fully recovered and back to doing whatever it was he did when he wasn’t on the river. Apparently that included breaking the law to help runaway slaves.
In any case the Irishman’s desire to return to a normal life should help to fuel his strength and hasten his recuperation.
“I also need a place to stay,” Gant was saying. “Rachel hasn’t said as much, but I’ve no doubt her church folks are giving her a hard time. And now that I’m up and about and no longer as helpless as a sick cat, things are sure to get worse for her the longer I’m about.”
“There’s no argument to be had there,” said David. “I’m surprised Samuel Beiler hasn’t given you a shove out the door himself.” He stopped. “Though of course he wouldn’t resort to such, being Amish.”
Gant scowled and nodded. “The deacon who’s sweet on Rachel.”
“You’ve noticed.”
“Well, from what she says, it’s also a part of his and the bishop’s responsibility to protect her,” Gant said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
David leveled a look on him. “And that’s the way it should be. Rachel is young and on her own. No father, no husband, no children.”
“What happened to her husband?”
Gant’s tone was blunt. David was on the verge of telling him that what happened to Eli Brenneman was none of his business, but he saw something in the other’s eyes that made him soften his reply. If he wasn’t badly mistaken, he’d worn that same look himself more than once.
“It’s really not for me to say. That needs to come from Rachel.”
” His reply seemed to exasperate the other.
“Is it true, then, what I’ve heard—the Amish don’t believe in any sort of violence, even when it comes to self-defense?”
“That’s right. Their way is to turn the other cheek.”
Gant scowled again. “Then if the good deacon Beiler and the rest of them feel so duty-bound to protect Rachel, just how would they go about it?”
Gant wasn’t the first person to raise this particular question, and David didn’t have a particularly good answer. “I suppose what they do is try to keep themselves and others out of harm’s way.”
Gant grunted his disapproval.
“There are other ways to protect oneself and loved ones besides violence,” David added, cringing inwardly at the sanctimonious tone of his words.
But Gant seemed not to notice. He was ready with another question. “You’ve heard about the fire, I expect?” Gant said.
Surprised by this abrupt change of subject, David nodded.
“I understand there were fires before. A few years ago.”
Again David gave a nod. “Several. We can only hope this isn’t the beginning of another wave of harassment.”
“That’s what it was, then? Harassment?”
“It was that…and more.”
Gant was clearly waiting for an explanation, but David was loath to bring up that awful year. It still brought a sick feeling every time he thought of it. Moreover, he almost felt as though it might be a kind of betrayal of trust to the Amish community to discuss what had happened with an “outsider.”
And yet he sensed that the man wasn’t simply curious or intent on prying. One didn’t have to look too closely to see that Gant had a genuine interest in Rachel and that it was that interest—and concern—prompting his questions.
Even so, he didn’t feel it was his place to go into detail. “It was the sort of thing that’s happened in other Amish communities. There’s no explaining, is there, why some take a dislike to a particular group? Sometimes it’s due to race. Other times it focuses on differences in religion or a way of life. It was a bad time for the Riverhaven Amish—a very bad time.”
“Is that when Rachel’s husband died? During that time?”
David hesitated and glanced away. “Well…yes. A little before then, actually.” He turned and pointed to the footstool. “Let’s have a look at your leg.”
Gant stayed in the chair, hoisted his leg up, and watched as David examined the wound.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “it looks very good. Very good. It’s as I told you the other day, you’re doing quite w
ell.” He straightened. “So—you mentioned wanting a place to stay. It shouldn’t be all that long, you know, before you can travel again. But it’s still too soon to tell.”
“Well, in the meantime I need to find a place around here—somewhere nearby—to stay until Asa gets back, and I have no way of knowing how long that might be. As I told you, I don’t want to make any more problems for Rachel.”
“You must have some idea of how long you’ll be needing a place. Where did he go?”
The shutters closed on Gant’s expression. “He’s doing some business for me.”
David twisted his mouth. “No doubt.”
He waved off Gant’s attempt to interrupt. “Never mind. I don’t need to know. Let me think for a moment.”
He knew a place all right, but that wasn’t what he needed to think about. What he questioned was just how much he trusted this man. He had blown in from out of nowhere, gunshot and half-dead, offering next to no information about himself and where he’d come from. The little information David knew had been gleaned from what the man Asa—a former slave—had revealed to Rachel and Susan.
Gant was Irish. Not that that mattered to him—he’d seen enough in his lifetime to hold no man’s race or nationality above another’s. But he was clearly a loner, a solitary sort, and apparently without roots. A loner and a wounded stranger who stepped out of the night and into a community that wanted nothing to do with him. Jeremiah Gant was about as welcome among the Riverhaven Amish as a wounded wolf.
Maybe even less so.
Yet some instinct about the riverboat captain had told David for some time now that he could trust the man.
There was also the fact that his idea might help to put his own mind a little more at ease about Rachel. And Susan. He’d simply feel better if there were a man besides Gideon—who was gone more than he was at home—in reasonable proximity to both women.
Especially in light of last night’s fire. Just in case the old trouble was starting up again.
He didn’t want to think that way, mustn’t think that way, at least not unless something else happened. But there was no putting out of his memory what had happened before.
At the time he’d been convinced that Rachel and her family had been targets of the harassment. Harassment? No, it was as he’d told Gant—it had been more than harassment. Much more. And even though other families besides Rachel’s had been victims of what some had called the persecution, he’d believed then and believed now that the other incidents had been random, perhaps designed to distract the authorities from the real intent.
Moreover, he still wasn’t convinced it had been a religious persecution rather than something more personal.
In any event a man like Gant on the premises—or at least nearby— injured though he was, well, it couldn’t hurt.
He sat down at the foot of the bed and studied Gant, seated only a few feet away from him in the rocking chair. At first glance the man had the look of a rogue. Somewhat rough in appearance with a hard edge about him, his bearing hinted at what might have been a dark past. Certainly there was no real “refinement” to him. Yet his intelligence, his self-deprecating sense of humor, and the way he had of meeting another man’s gaze straight on served to reassure David that there was nothing furtive about him.
“You really have no idea how long you’ll be needing a place?” he asked him.
“I don’t, no. But I’m hoping that by the time Asa gets back, I’ll be well enough to leave.”
Was there a hint of reluctance in his tone? Somehow David got the sense that Gant might not be quite so eager to get away as he would have been if he’d not had these past few weeks with Rachel.
David’s mind made a few more turns before he finally reached a decision. “I own a small house just down the road, close to Riverhaven. It’s outside the Amish settlement but nearby. I use it sometimes in winter if I have a bad patient or a mother about to deliver—I have several patients in Riverhaven as well as here among the Amish. Especially in bad weather, I don’t always want to go all the way back to the farm. It’s furnished, though it’s nothing fancy. If you think you’re ready to be on your own, you can use it for the time being.”
Gant’s eyes brightened. “That would be grand. That way I can stay close enough to—to know when Asa gets back.”
Almost had a slip of the tongue, there, didn’t you, man?
David was almost tempted to warn him not to set his feelings on Rachel Brenneman. He knew all too well, from his own experience, how utterly futile—and painful—it could be to lose one’s heart to an Amish woman. But that would be poor form entirely. Gant’s heart was none of his business, other than his professional duty to keep it beating.
He’d done that and wasn’t responsible for anything more.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel a measure of empathy for the man, enough that he hoped Gant didn’t let his emotions go wandering down the same dead-end road as his own.
19
SAMUEL PLEADS HIS CASE
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.
LORD BYRON
A week later Rachel was still trying to get used to being alone again.
After Gant moved into Dr. Sebastian’s house at the crossroads, Fannie had returned home, Gideon no longer dropped by except for a hurried cup of coffee, and of course the doctor wasn’t stopping in on a regular basis to check on Gant. So other than an occasional visit from Mamma, she had her house to herself again.
She had thought she would welcome the peace and quiet after all the distractions of the past few weeks. Instead, she found herself at loose ends. No matter how busy she kept, she missed the more harried pace, the lack of a predictable routine, the flurry of folks coming in and out.
She missed Gant.
The realization shook her so badly she almost dropped the basket of eggs she’d just collected. She half expected to see him perched on a chair at the kitchen table, looking up at her with that crooked smile as he helped Fannie with some aspect of her schoolwork.
But of course the kitchen was empty. No Gant. No Fannie.
No laughter or noise. No sound at all.
She set the egg basket on the counter by the sink and then went to look out the window. From here she could see down the road quite a ways, but the small white frame house, where he was staying, was still out of view.
What did he do with his days now? How did a man with an injured leg, alone in a house with no real work to do, spend his time?
He had stopped by only once. He’d come by the day after he moved out to pick up the clothes she’d laundered for him. At the same time, he’d tried again to pay “for his keep.” Rachel hadn’t taken his money the first time he’d offered, and she refused the second time as well.
She tried to explain that the Amish didn’t do for others with any expectation of payment. They helped because it was what the Lord God would want them to do, what He would expect them to do.
Gant had seemed frustrated with her refusal. She sensed that he was a man who was used to paying his way for everything and didn’t quite know how to respond when he couldn’t.
His confusion had almost been amusing.
She hadn’t seen him since. Nor should she want to see him. Her life was considerably easier with him out from under her roof. She had less work to do, fewer worried looks from her mother, and surely by now tongues had stopped wagging among the People about the outsider she’d taken in during the middle of the night.
She was still standing at the window when she saw Samuel Beiler coming up the road. As he drew closer, pulled up to the house, and stepped out of the buggy, she saw that he wasn’t wearing his work clothes but was instead dressed more formally in his best clothes and hat. Church-going clothes.
She gripped the edge of the counter.
Now what?
“Guder mariye,” Samuel sai
d when Rachel opened the door.
“Samuel. Good morning to you also.”
He entered without being invited, as he once had before the tension over Gant had developed between them. Rachel hoped this was an indication that his visit was a casual one, but given the way he was dressed, she wondered.
Once inside he did wait until she’d invited him to sit down before hanging up his coat and hat. He sat at the kitchen table, watching her while she fixed him a cup of tea. Rachel smiled as she sat down at the table across from him. She needed this to be a friendly visit, not a rancorous one. She had little energy these days for confrontation.
Besides, with Gant now out of the house, Samuel shouldn’t have any reason to be making a visit in his capacity as a deacon of the church. At least none that she could think of.
“You make the best tea of anyone I know, Rachel,” he said, speaking in the Deitsch.
“I think you’re not so particular about your tea, Samuel.”
“But I am. And yours is the best.”
She had set a tin of molasses cookies she’d baked yesterday on the table with his tea, and he helped himself to one now.
“I have a terrible sweet tooth, as you know,” he said.
Samuel almost always took his time easing into a conversation, but Rachel had little use for small talk and deliberately tried to keep him focused. “So, Samuel, what brings you out for a visit so early?”
He finished his cookie and took another sip of tea before replying. “Truth is, Rachel, I’ve been wanting to talk with you about this for some time now, but you’ve been…busy, so I decided to wait.”
His mood seemed to have turned so solemn that Rachel felt a clench of apprehension in her chest. Even his tone of voice deepened.
Samuel clasped his hands on top of the table, looking directly at her. “Rachel, it’s surely no secret that I’m very fond of you and have been for a long time.”
Rachel froze. This wasn’t the first time Samuel had spoken of his feelings. She thought she had put this to rest once before. That had been over a year ago. Apparently he meant to try again. And this time he seemed prepared to be more direct.
