by Kelly Long
“Hello,” he said, when she seemed about to walk right past him.
She startled, then looked up at him. “Uh—hello. Thank you again for tonight and what you did.”
Stephen thought she sounded bleak, almost as though she didn’t really think he’d done her any favors by getting her out of the fire.
He put a gentle hand on her thin left arm. “Hey—is your husband all right?”
Now he’d really gotten her attention, and her brown eyes widened. “Husband? I’ve never been married. Please excuse me.”
He processed three things at once: that she was pregnant, not married, and obviously wanted to get away from him. “Sure—uh—Ella, but if you ever need anything, just stop by the fire station and ask for me—it’s Stephen, okay?”
She nodded and he knew he’d already been dismissed from her mind.
* * *
Ella crept from the shelter of warmth and safety the hospital provided and went back out into the night. She heard the church bells ring and realized that it was four in the morning. Not too long . . .
. . . until daylight . . . She was suddenly catapulted back in time to one of her earliest memories—her father playing his violin, “playing to welcome the dawn,” as he called it. Ella remembered standing in her warm white nightgown and watching his capable fingers move over the finely stretched strings. It seemed as though her father’s music did indeed usher in the dawn as the notes swelled and pinkness spread across the seascape sky. He played until the sun rose, and then he stopped to hug her close. It had felt as though nothing could ever come between them. But just seven years later death had stolen him from her. As a minor, she had been left in the care of an uncle and step-aunt she barely knew. One of the first things they’d done was to sell her father’s beloved violin to “pay for her keep” in the grand house where she’d grown up.
Ella shook away the memories and concentrated instead on the sidewalk and the pattern of her steps. She knew where she had to go now and she wondered if she could stop what was to come—for the baby’s sake. For the baby’s sake . . . The words chased each other like synchronized swimmers around in her head until she felt a familiar rush of nausea. She stopped for a moment, found a wrinkled handkerchief in the pocket of her dress, and pressed it to her lips until the momentary queasiness passed.
She lifted her head and walked on, past the rows of nice homes and then the shops, and then over the railroad tracks, where she could still sense the acrid smell of smoke in the air. Her eyes traced the gaping spot in the landscape, like a gum with a lost tooth, and she sighed. Her room had been paid up at the boardinghouse for the following week—paid with the last of the money she’d managed to save—so now she had no choice . . .
Briefly, the firefighter’s words drifted through her mind . . . If you need anything . . . His blue-green eyes had been earnest, but she knew she was being ridiculous to recall his words. Strangers, especially men, no matter how perfect they might seem, usually only wanted one thing from a girl. She rubbed absently at her belly, then pushed the thought aside. What Stephen the Firefighter did or did not want was of no concern to her . . .
* * *
Stephen sought his bed at the fire station but couldn’t fall asleep. He was always keyed up after a fire, but tonight, he was positively restless, and he couldn’t drag his thoughts from Ella. He turned her name over on his tongue, liking its simple syllables . . . She’s pregnant . . . Who’d leave a girl as brave as that red-haired scrapper to be pregnant and on her own? . . . But perhaps she chose it; wanted a baby to be part of her world so she wouldn’t feel alone . . . He jerked his thoughts up sharply, telling himself that he was a fool for trying to imagine what in the world went through a woman’s mind, especially a pregnant woman who’d only jumped into his arms to escape certain death from the fire and chaos. He finally fell into a fitful sleep, somewhere on the edge of consciousness, and he was happy when he started to dream . . .
She was in his arms again, and her red hair hung loose, tendrils trailing over his shoulders and chest. He could feel the heat, both inside and out, and his mouth burned for want of tasting her lips. She leaned forward and he arched his back, trying to reach her—but she dissolved into a gray cloud of smoke, and he thought he heard a baby cry . . .
“You awake, Steve?”
It was Mike, the chief, and Stephen eased up on one elbow, glad to be free from the tantalizing dream. “Sure, what’s going on?”
“Looks like that fire at the boardinghouse was no accident. Joey found two kerosene cans at the back of what was left of the place; they were empty and there was a fuse line.”
“Who’d want to burn down a place where there were women . . . and babies?”
Stephen heard Mike sigh. “People can be sick in the soul, I guess . . . But, hey, I wanted to tell you something . . . I’m getting married.”
“What?” Stephen scrambled to try to catch up with the conversation.
“Yeah—I know. Me.”
“Is she—was she here last night?”
“Oh, you mean the girls from Millie’s place—no, that was just a little last-minute fun.”
Stephen thought he wasn’t a prude, but even his sensibilities were shaken by the casual admission.
“Anyway, Steve—I want you to be a groomsman.”
“A what?”
“You know, wear a suit, be part of the wedding party . . . Don’t Amish have stuff like that?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Attendants and such.”
“So, will you do it?”
Stephen nodded in the dimly lit room. “Sure. I’d be honored.”
“Great. The wedding’s two weeks away, so you can help plan the bachelor party. I was hoping we’d go to Millie’s—just to look. No touching for me.”
Stephen blinked. Millie’s was a well-known house of ill repute that the men in town genially turned a blind eye to while the uptown ladies fumed. It was a well-run establishment by all accounts, though Stephen had done nothing more than look at the turret rooms from the outside of the place. He’d told himself he was interested in the architecture and subdued paint scheme, but to have a Mike kind of party on the inside? It was enough to make an honest man nervous . . .
Once Mike left, Stephen felt less like sleeping than ever. Finally he gave up and headed out to the kitchen to have some coffee before the sun came up.
* * *
Ella stood on the steps of Millie’s Social Club and stared long and hard at the dark paint on the ornate front door. Millie had told her she’d come crawling back, and here she was—fulfilling that sneering prediction. But, she knew it was warm and relatively safe inside, and despite Millie’s snide comments, Ella knew that the older woman could have a soft heart now and then.
Ella drew a deep breath and held it before she knocked on the door . . . I’ll be a good mother . . . I will . . . I have to . . .
Chapter Three
Mitch Wagner took a long pull on his cigarette and rubbed at the ache in the back of his neck. The hotel where he’d found a room was cheap and didn’t provide much in the way of comfort, but it suited him fine, given the scant amount of money in his wallet. He’d nearly run through what Douglas Nichols had given him to do the job. He wasn’t used to having much money in his possession, and the temptation to spoil himself a little had run far and fast.
He sighed, feeling lonely somehow. It was the town, he supposed—made him think of his boyhood and the pleasantness of his grandmother’s house—it had always been an escape from his father’s violence. He pushed such thoughts away and got resolutely to his feet. He crushed out the cigarette and went to the sink in the small bathroom. He splashed some water on his face and took a look in the mirror. Dark eyes peered back at him, sunken and cold, but he didn’t waste too much time in reflection and instead went to get dressed to find out what he could about his elusive quarry.
* * *
“Danki, Abe.” Stephen reached up and handed the envelope to the young Amish buwe sitting in the driver’s
seat of the old wagon. Stephen had made it a practice since he’d joined the fire company to send back part of his pay to Ice Mountain, to help support his mamm and aenti. Stephen knew that his mother would far prefer that he bring the money himself, but he had no desire to go back often to the small Amish community where he was raised—where he had once been called a murderer by even his own family . . .
He sighed to himself as he watched Abe drive away. Nee, going back to Ice Mountain will probably never appeal to me . . .
“Hey there, watch it!” The brusque voice of a passerby reminded him that he was standing in the middle of the brick sidewalk. He moved to one side, then started his errands for the morning.
He was on at the firehouse five days, then off for two, and though he might have stayed at the station even then, he liked living the odd day with Nick . . . Especially when he can help the people I rescue . . . He pushed the thought away, only to realize that he was discreetly eyeing the passersby, looking for a bright red head of hair. Ella . . .
“Whoa there, young Stephen. Where is your mind this fine morning?”
Stephen looked down into the watery blue eyes of the auld man who regularly inhabited a chair outside the general store. Lester Pike was blind, but he seemed to have a sight beyond the vision of most people and had no trouble identifying various folks in town or winning at board games.
“I guess my mind is wandering,” Stephen admitted with a smile.
“You know, I have the cure for that,” Lester said jovially.
“Checkers?”
“Checkers! Have a seat and tell me about the fire last night.”
Stephen dropped into the chair opposite his friend and shrugged his shoulders. “Not much to tell, really.”
“Heard you rescued a girl.”
“Nee, she—I didn’t—”
“Come on, boy. Heard she’s a pretty redhead who works down at Millie’s.”
Stephen dropped a checker. “What? She—where?”
“King me. Sure, you know I’ve been friends with Millie longer than that dear woman would care to admit—”
“Lester. Wait. Are you sure about El—I mean, the girl from the fire?”
“Hmm? Oh my, yes. Of course, you being Amish, ya probably wouldn’t pay much mind to a place like Millie’s, but—”
Stephen got to his feet. “Lester, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go and check on something. I’ll stop back later and finish our game.”
“You were losing anyway.”
“Tell me about it,” Stephen muttered, then hurried off down the street.
* * *
Mitch squinted in the bright morning light and headed for the diner. The babble of the townspeople was irritating, and he felt even more frustrated when someone reached out and touched his hand. He paused, then drew away sharply when he looked down into a blind man’s eyes.
“Here, pop—here’s a dollar. I don’t have time to hear your sob story.” Mitch threw a dollar from his wallet onto the checkerboard, and the blind man laughed out loud.
“Son, I thank you, but I’m not begging; I’m playing checkers.”
“Yeah, well, whatever.” Mitch had started to move again when the blind man called to him.
“You’re new in town, aren’t you?”
Mitch turned on his heel and went back to the checkerboard. “How do you know?” he asked suspiciously.
“I just know . . . My name’s Lester Pike, and I know everything there is to know about everybody hereabouts.”
Mitch considered. Maybe the old dog can give me some leads on my target . . .
“Hey there, pop, I’ll tell you what—how ’bout we use that dollar and I’ll buy you a late breakfast?”
The blind man smiled and held out his hand. “I’d be glad to, Mitch.”
Mitch had a sudden uneasy feeling, as if someone had shined a light on his insides for a moment. “Hey, how’d you know my name? I never told you.”
“Oh, just a right guess, then. Let’s go to the diner and I’ll tell you all the local news.”
Lester Pike got to his feet and laid a hand once more on Mitch’s arm.
Mitch realized that he had never felt the gentle touch of an older man—his father had been—
“Let’s get a move on, son, before Betty turns the menu over to lunch at the diner.”
“R—right.” Mitch fumbled in his mind, somehow wondering if spending time with the blind man had actually been his idea after all.
He walked through the passersby with Lester Pike’s hand still on his arm, and he felt himself shiver as they entered the bustling café.
A smiling waitress with a white cap and a blue dress indicated an open booth. “Have a seat, fellas. Lester, who’s your friend?”
“Oh, forgive me, Betty—this is Mitch. He’s new in town.”
Mitch gave the woman an abrupt nod and slid into the booth opposite the blind man.
“Coffee for both of you?”
Mitch nodded while Lester gave a genial reply.
Betty turned to go to the counter and Mitch drummed his thin fingers against the tabletop nervously.
“Take it easy, son. You sure must be hungry, and in more ways than one.”
Mitch stared into the other man’s seemingly sightless eyes. “Whadda ya mean, pop? More ways than one? Why ya gotta say things like that?”
“I suppose it’s an old way of speaking—I just thought maybe your heart and mind might be hungry too.”
Mitch suddenly wanted to flee the booth, but the smiling Betty was back with the coffee. “Now, what’ll you boys have?” she asked pleasantly.
Mitch swallowed. “Bacon and eggs—scrambled.”
“And the usual, Lester?”
“Yep—by the way, how’s your mother feeling after her fall?”
Betty lit up like a Christmas bulb as she bubbled a response, much to Mitch’s discomfiture. The blind guy sure had a way with people—and maybe he knew Ella Nichols just as well. The thought kept Mitch in his seat.
“Did you finish high school, Mitch?” Lester asked as he sipped at his hot coffee.
“What?”
“High school? Did you make it all the way through?”
Mitch thought back to his senior year and all the days and nights he’d spent nursing the drunk of a father who’d abused him. He never could understand why he did it . . . why he cared for the bastard . . . but it had cost him graduating and sent him adrift into the world.
Mitch drew a deep breath and refocused, remembering he was sitting in a diner and his breakfast had been set before him. He picked up a fork with a hand that shook slightly.
“Why don’t I ask some questions, pop?” he drawled, trying to find his footing in the casualness of his tone.
“Of course. What do you want to know?”
“Well . . . see, like ya said, I’m new in town. Anybody else new? Maybe a woman, like . . . It would be nice to meet a girl, ya know?”
Lester smiled. “You know, Mitch, I truly believe that you mean that . . . It would be nice for you to have a loving wife.”
“Whoa!” Mitch pointed with his fork. “I ain’t sayin’ wife.”
“Aren’t you? I must have misunderstood.”
But Mitch doubted there was any misunderstanding. He himself was beginning to understand that the blind man knew exactly what was true, and the realization shook Mitch through to a place deep beneath his cold heart . . .
* * *
Ella balanced the silver tray in two hands and tried not to look down at the coddled eggs that wiggled on the plate. Miss Millie ate well, Ella considered. But not anything that I would enjoy having . . . Which, of course, reminded her of her empty stomach. She had to swallow hard before stretching to knock on the heavy oaken door.
“Come in!” Millie called.
Ella wet her lips, steeling herself against the coming questions, then opened the door. She clung to the ornate knob for a moment, letting the circular pattern in the metal soothe her as she met Millie’s g
aze. She’d saved all her money for weeks, hoping to find a way to leave Millie’s behind her. She’d finally managed to move to the boardinghouse, a step up from living in a house of ill repute. But now here she was again, back where she’d started.
“Where’s Sasha?” The question was brusque. But at least she’s not tossing me out . . . yet . . .
“I told her to go back to sleep . . . she woke to let me in this morning.”
“You told her? And exactly who are you, miss, to give orders in my house?”
Here we go . . . Please, if you hear me, God, let her be merciful . . . Ella advanced toward the high four-poster walnut bed and stared into the green eyes and the aged, though still pretty, face of the woman who was the soul of the house.
“I’m no one to give orders, Miss Millie—I just thought that—”
“Bring the tray here and stop thinking—it’s what softens a woman—and you are going to have to be harder than nails when that babe arrives. This town might look pretty on the outside, but the wind blows cold enough once judgment gets hold of some folks hereabouts.”
Ella nodded and settled the tray on the ample lap of the older woman. She stepped back and waited, still trying to ignore the eggs.
Millie flung her hennaed hair over her shoulder and lifted a fork. She arched a penciled brow as she tasted her eggs and eyed Ella with seeming dispassion. “There’s soot on your dress.”
“I was in the fire last night—at the boardinghouse.”
“So I heard. Quite a show, that fire. And yet, you survived.”
Ella felt herself flush a bit at the sudden remembrance of the fireman’s arms around her. “Yes . . . the fire crew was very helpful.”
“I can imagine,” Millie returned drily. “But no matter. Though I might tell you that there was talk here last night. Some of the girls heard that fire might have been more than it seemed to be.”
A sudden dread filled Ella’s chest. “Wh—what do you mean?”
Millie applied herself to her toast with hearty bites. “Arson. And you know—they say that arson is mixed up with violence and sex in the twisted mind.”
“I—I didn’t know—I . . .” Ella stammered, her thoughts racing.
