by Kelly Long
“Sometimes, the second sight is not always a gift.”
“You have it, too, don’t you?”
May shrugged. “I suppose so. It helps in being a healer.”
Martha nodded. “I would think so.”
“We each have our gifts from Gott, Martha, and your gifts captured Joel’s heart.”
More like my body captured him, Martha thought, then berated herself silently for such negative thinking.
“Has Joel—well, ever said he doesn’t like kinner?” Martha asked with a frown between her brows.
“Joel? I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”
Martha was saved from a reply by Joel’s arrival from the sheep barn. He smiled at May, then bent to kiss Martha. She loved the manly smell of him— both sweat and sunshine, all mixed together in a way that made her feel positively addled.
“I’m going to get some spring water from Bury Hollow—your grossmuder was thirsting for some last nacht.”
“Ach, danki, Joel.”
May got to her feet and made for the screen door of the house. “You two geh on and have a nice walk. I’ll stay here for a while.”
Martha decided to take her new friend up on her offer and hurried to smooth the sleeves of her light blue dress while Joel fetched two glass jugs to put the water in.
They set out at a brisk pace, and Martha wondered if he was even paying attention to how much ground he was covering while she had to practically run to keep up. Men, she thought ruefully, then smiled that he was hers.
* * *
“I’m sorry, Martha, for hurrying so. I guess I was thinking too much.”
“I’m fine,” she said airily, then nearly stumbled, so that he slung a warm arm around her waist while Sophy jumped and frisked around them.
They got to the aptly named Bury Hollow and sought out the spring. The hollow was cool even on the hottest days, and shadows played with mountain rosebushes, turning their leaves and thorns dark. But the spring water was some of the most refreshing to be found on the mountain, and Joel offered Martha the tin dipper that hung on a branch near the spring.
He watched her as she drank—the pouty fullness of her lips and then the play of water down her throat as she worked to drink deep. She turned to hand him the dipper, and he shook his head. “Fill up your hands, sweet wife. I’d rather drink from your fingers.”
He watched her color delightfully, then lean forward to let the water cascade over her cupped hands. She hurried to raise it to his lips, and he accepted the brief sips she could hold. She did it again, and this time he slid a finger between her apron and her dress, toying with the fabric.
“You look pretty in green.”
“Danki,” she said primly, stretching to hang the dipper back on the branch. He caught her close on her descent, turning her so that her back was against his chest. He ran questing hands down her supple figure, taking in her clean scent and enticing warmth.
“Mmmm,” he murmured in appreciation. “But far too many layers, I’m afraid.”
She giggled and turned to face him, stretching to kiss his mouth and then tease his lips with her tongue. But he gave as good as she until there was no help for it but to either seek the damp earth or go home to find pleasure in their own bed.
“Kumme, love, let’s find out if we can sneak in an afternoon—nap—without being noticed.”
“You know that it will be noticed.”
“Maybe everyone will be too busy drinking spring water to give it a second thought,” he teased, flicking at her kapp string, then catching her close for one more heated kiss . . .
Chapter Thirty
The morning of the paint frolic was upon her before she noticed, and Martha found herself flustered and only half-ready when it was time to geh.
“Don’t worry,” Joel said softly to her as she threw plain simplicity out the window and coiled her hair for the third time.
“It’s easy for you to say not to worry—all you have to do is drink . . . Maybe I should geh with you,” she said, giggling.
“And all you have to do is paint, eat, and kumme home.”
“You’ve forgotten the gossip, Joel . . . what about that? Didn’t I hear from your mamm that Ruby Raber was sweet on you before we married? Suppose she wants to discuss old times?”
“Ignore her and have fun with May. All right, I’ll see you this afternoon.” He bent and kissed her briefly and she hurried to finish dressing. She left an unhappy Sophy behind, but Sarah and Milly promised to keep an eye on the little dog, and on everyone else too.
She arrived at the Rabers’ and heard a cheerful crowd already gathered inside—which did nothing to help her nervousness. But when she knocked, Frau Raber opened the door and swept her inside. Martha saw May painting some white trim by the stair steps and hurried to join her.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Martha confided, grabbing a small paintbrush and concentrating diligently on one small space, hoping she could make it last for an hour.
* * *
Joel entered the back of Sol Kauffman’s store through the side door he saw other fellas going through. He was prepared for the usual scent of moonshine but hadn’t expected it so early in the morning.
“Ach, Joel Umble. Kumme in. I just got some fresh oranges sent up from down Coudersport way. You kumme on and have some moonshine and orange juice—it’ll do ya gut!”
The recipe didn’t sound entirely unappealing, so he had a glass, then ate some biscuits and honey. By the time he’d had his fourth glass, he couldn’t quite see straight and he had an aching desire to spend a few private hours with his wife.
He decided to stop by the paint frolic on his way home and had to endure a lot of groaning on the part of his friends when he slurred that he was newly married and that he missed Martha.
But he couldn’t seem to remember the direction to the Raber haus and decided that home sounded better anyway. When he got there, he sat on the front steps trying to cool the bad headache he felt coming on and was grateful for Sebastian’s strong arm and lack of comment as he saw him off to bed. He drifted close to sleep but not before he remembered Martha and wished she was having as good a time as he certainly had not . . .
* * *
Martha took a bite of the chilled pea salad and decided it needed salt—not that she’d ever had chilled pea salad, but she thought it would benefit from some pepper as well. She stayed mostly quiet while the other women talked and gossiped, glad to sit in May’s shadow.
She balanced her plate on her knees and looked around at the newly painted light blue room. It did look well, and Martha felt a sense of satisfaction that she could help her neighbors.
May had gone to get some punch, and Martha was unprepared for Ruby Raber to take the vacant seat. Martha smiled and nodded, hoping the other girl wouldn’t mention Joel.
“I suppose it’s only going to be a matter of time until you’re fat with child.”
Martha arched an eyebrow and tried to push aside the fact that the room had grown quieter, and her heart hurt a bit from the cruel remark and Joel’s seeming desire to not have her fat with child.
Still, Ruby Raber opened her mouth to fire off another insult, and Martha shook her head as if addressing an errant child. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what, Martha Married for Money Umble?”
Martha sighed and rose to her feet. She calmly dumped the unsalted pea salad onto Ruby Raber’s head, ignoring the other girl’s shrieks of rage.
Martha thanked her bemused hostess, waved to May, and quickly walked home. If they hadn’t thought her a hex before, she now had removed all doubt.
* * *
Joel came awake in slow degrees. He was aware that Martha was moving quietly about the room, and he tried to sit up, but found that the room spun and his head throbbed.
“Sebastian said you’d had too much orange juice. Are you feeling lousy?” Martha’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the sound hurt just the same.
“What time is it?�
��
“Two in the afternoon.”
“What? Wait—why are you home so early?”
“Bad pea salad.”
He nodded without understanding and reached up a hand for her to hold. “I missed you,” he whispered.
She sat down carefully on the bed beside him. “Ach, Joel, and I missed you. I think I’m someone who likes to be at home—providing that you’re here, of course.”
Her innocent admission touched his heart, and he pulled her down to rest her head on his chest.
Chapter Thirty-One
The next morning, Martha was hanging out sheets on the clothesline. She loved to feel them billow, damp and sweet-smelling, against her, and she loved even more when the mountain breezes puffed them up like substantial pregnant bellies. She shook her head and muttered to herself, “I’ve got bopplis on the brain.”
Joel and Sebastian were weeding the garden, and she had just taken off her shoes to geh and help them when she noticed Sol Kauffman break the tree line to hurry over to Joel. The older man was gone even before she could hear what was said, but she raised a questioning and interested brow at Joel.
“Deacon Troyer passed away last nacht in his sleep.”
“Ach, his poor wife,” Martha murmured, already thumbing through the kitchen’s recipe books mentally to think what she might take the grieving widow.
“The man slept so much, I’m not sure how long it’s been since he actually performed the duties of deacon,” Joel commented.
“I can’t even remember having another deacon. He was deacon so long, I guess I’m not sure what he was supposed to be doing,” Martha said aloud.
Sebastian heard her and paused in his hoeing. “A deacon is to be the servant of the poor—that is, in Amish culture.”
Joel nodded. “Jah, either the literally poor or those who are struggling and poor in spirit.”
“Then it’s a serious job,” Martha said. “And there is no pay and it’s to last a lifetime, right?” she asked.
Joel nodded. “Yes, for a lifetime, unless the deacon were to become bishop, which almost never happens.”
“Why not?”
“Because most deacons are too young, don’t have the right experience and so on.”
“Ach, well,” Martha murmured, picking up a hoe, “Gott will decide, I suppose.”
Martha was surprised when Sebastian smiled at her with warmth and nodded. “Indeed He will!”
* * *
Joel was unprepared for the rush of fervor that took over the community after Deacon Troyer was buried. There was constant speculation as to who should be chosen by lot to serve as the new deacon.
“I feel sorry for whoever it is,” Joel confided one nacht to Martha in bed. “That man is going to have to deal with Loftus for a long time.”
“Let’s talk of something else,” Martha suggested, leaning over to run her fingers through the light mat of hair on his chest. Joel was only too willing to oblige.
* * *
The next day was the spring communion church service—the only time a new deacon might be chosen. Martha sat with the other married women until it was time to whisper through a crack in a closet door and tell the bishop whom she thought should be nominated for deacon. Bishop Loftus would then make tallies and see which men were to draw lots to become the servant of the poor.
It was a lengthy process, but in the end, Martha waited anxiously to see what names would be called.
“Solomon Kauffman,” the bishop intoned. “Abner Mast.” And here the bishop gave an audible sigh. “Joel Umble.”
Martha wanted to clap, although she knew that others around her were actually mourning. To be chosen as deacon was a solemn affair, and it meant that the man would have twice the usual amount of work for the rest of his life.
Martha watched as the three men filed forward. Then they sat down on the front row of the benches. Bishop Loftus brought forth three hymnals—one for each man to choose. In one of the hymnals was a slip of paper with a Bible verse written on it. The man who chose that hymnal would be ordained as deacon.
Martha waited as each of the three chose a hymnal from the bishop’s hands, and she prayed that Joel would choose the one that best pleased Derr Herr.
* * *
Joel sat holding the hymnal, wondering who in the world would have nominated him. I’m young, half-crazed with longing at times for my wife, I keep secrets from Martha, and I—
“Joel Umble,” the bishop snapped. “Will you open your hymnal?”
Joel looked up into the man’s eyes. Yep, definitely shark eyes . . .
Joel flipped open the hymnal, and the slip of paper fluttered out. He caught it before it reached the floor. He felt Sol Kauffman relax next to him at not having been chosen.
“Joel Umble,” the bishop said. “You will read the verse on the slip of paper aloud to the community to begin your ordination.”
Joel wanted to sigh, but he got to his feet and opened the paper, staring down at it in disbelief. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live . . .”
Suddenly rage and clarity flooded his mind at the same time. He lifted his chin and straightened his spine. “The verse reads . . . ‘God is love.’” He turned and sat down, knowing he had no further part to play in the service but having no doubt he’d have to deal with Loftus later. It was not an encouraging thought . . .
Chapter Thirty-Two
Spring wound around to the time for the community mud sales. These were the Ice Mountain equivalent of a suburban town’s yard sales, and Martha was excited. She remembered long ago going with her daed to a mud sale where she’d found a small stuffed dog for a nickel. Her father had bought it for her, and she had treasured it. That little stuffed animal had been her companion for many a long nacht when the day had seemed too hard. But today, she needed to ask Sarah if there was anything she might like to sell.
“Geh up to the attic and take what you want, Martha—except my kneading bowls and archery equipment, ach, and the bowling pins—not the birdcage, either, though I do hate to see a bird caged . . . Jah, that’s it.”
Martha nodded, her mind whirling. She made her way up to the dusty attic and gazed around with interest and pleasure at the many old-fashioned trunks that dotted the floor space. She bypassed the bow and arrows and went to kneel beside an auld walnut chest. When she lifted the lid, the odor of cedar came to her, and she breathed in appreciatively. Then she removed a layer of tissue paper and opened her mouth in a soft “O” of pleasure. Tiny boys’ baby clothes filled the trunk with even more incredibly small black shoes with solid, rounded soles.
She brought a blanket to her cheek and knew that she wanted a hausful of kinner to love and cherish with Joel.
“What do you have there?” Joel asked, raising a lantern and coming over to her. He sat down on the floor next to her and looped one long finger in the laces of a shoe. “My boppli stuff, I think. I didn’t know that Mamm had kept it all.”
“It’s lovely,” she whispered, longing to talk to him about the way she felt.
“It’s a good cedar-lined trunk—it keeps the mice away.”
Martha nodded, then took a deep breath. “Joel, I know it’s only been a short while since we married, but I wondered if you’d had any time to maybe change your mind about a boppli? I mean—I’ll wait, but . . .”
He dropped the shoe and pressed his hand over hers. “Martha, sweet Martha, it’s not that easy. I want it to be, though—I want to hold you and make love to you and not have to always stop . . . But . . .” She watched him lower his head.
“What is it, Joel?”
She saw his throat work, and then he looked at her, his eyes near navy blue and his pupils dilated. “Martha, I had a vision at the Ice Mine—I saw—I saw you laboring to bring forth a babe, and you were screaming . . .”
She felt his hand tighten on hers. “Martha, the baby died. There were seven tombstones in the vision—one for each of our children. Martha, they all died. I decided then and there that I
will not put you through that.”
She bowed her head for a moment, then looked back into his eyes with a steady surety. “Joel—your vision—it could be wrong or it could change. We don’t know what Gott has willed or planned for us, but I do know that I love you and love can bear all things.”
“Martha, I love you too. And—I guess I forgot for a while that I’m not in charge of our future. Having you, having us strong together . . . Ach, Martha . . . you’re right. We can bear all things together in Gott’s grace.”
She smiled at him through happy tears and asked one more question. “Was there an eighth stone?”
He stared at her blankly. “An eighth stone? What?”
She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his. “Joel, I’d carry your children seven times, even if meant that we only got to love them here for a little while—they’d be part of you, of us. And . . . well, I expect I would scream in childbirth—women do, you know. But Joel, dear sweet wonderful Joel—there was no eighth stone. It’s something to rejoice in!”
She watched him shake his head, and then he pulled her close and put his mouth against her throat, trying to get closer. “Martha Umble, you are the bravest person I’ve ever met, and I am honored to be by your side in this life.”
She squeezed him back and felt happy tears fill her eyes. “I love you, Joel Umble, and always will.” She looked at him from beneath damp lashes, and a smile played about her full lips.
“What is it?” he asked.
“We could start making babies right now . . . right here.”
He smiled slowly, a flash of white teeth in the half darkness. And then he swept her to the floor beside him. “Making babies, hmm? I promise to give it my—utmost attention.”
“And how will you do that?” Martha asked coyly.
“Ach, with peach nacht shifts and delicious blue garters—I want you to wear those for me tonight.”
She laughed in delight at the command. “I will gladly do as you ask—but only if you wear what I ask . . .”
