by Kelly Long
“Well, knowing what I do about your background”—Millie pointed at her with the edge of a buttered crust—“I have a hunch that somebody wants you dead, little girl. Now, what do you think of that?”
Ella’s reply was to promptly throw up on the Aubusson carpet, much to Millie’s displeasure.
* * *
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Stephen followed Nick down the hall of the hospital, trying to keep his voice down.
“You think I make it a habit to visit Millie’s beyond seeing to the medical care of the girls?”
“You see to their medical care?” Stephen felt surprise at the admission. “You mean, you’ve had to perform an—”
“Perform an abortion? No, my friend I haven’t, and I wouldn’t unless the mother’s life was in grave peril. But besides that, women have other medical needs. You do know that, right?”
Stephen frowned at his friend; then another thought struck him. “Have you—taken care of Ella?”
“Beyond last night, I’ve never seen her before. Look, I’ve got rounds. If you are so struck by her, why not go down to Millie’s and ask for her?”
Stephen’s mind boggled at the suggestion, and Nick must have seen the look on his face. “Ask to talk to her, all right? You straitlaced Amish man.”
* * *
Ella was more than relieved to slip between crisp linen sheets and lay her head on the goose down pillow, glad of a few minutes’ rest. She’d managed to secure her old position at Millie’s establishment and was grateful, even though it would mean a lot of hard work and would become increasingly difficult with her advancing pregnancy. She rolled from her side to her back and stared up at the overhead crystal chandelier—almost, she could look at the elaborate light fixture and imagine herself home by the sea. But that made her think of Jeremy, and thinking of Jeremy made her cry.
She blew out a breath of frustration and swiped at her eyes. I was so foolish—I should have known that someone like Jeremy was too good to be true. His looks, temperament, and seemingly earnest expressions of love had all been a façade to lure her in, and she had taken the bait like a starving trout. She’d given herself to him body and soul, on one single occasion. When she’d discovered she was pregnant, she’d expected he might be surprised, but had never imagined his brutal dismissal of her. He’d been furious, and she had known fear when he grabbed her, shaking her so hard that her teeth rattled.
She could still hear his voice, savage and ruthless. “Get rid of it! Do you understand, you stupid fool? Get rid of it any way you can.”
Instead, she had fled the small seaside town, leaving behind all she knew. But misfortune seemed to have followed her, like the fire in the boardinghouse, and she sometimes had the strange feeling that she was being watched. She wondered if someone from her old life could truly want her dead . . . Once she’d fled Jeremy, she’d ridden the railroad deep into Pennsylvania and had finally ended up in Coudersport—weak and broken—both in pocket and in spirit. She’d gone to Millie’s unwittingly, not knowing what sort of house it was, but there she had finally found work that would allow her to live. Now that the money she’d saved was gone, she would have to remain here until after her baby was born. She couldn’t risk another move at this late date.
She turned once more in the bed, trying to get comfortable, then heard the large clock downstairs toll ten a.m. She sat up and decided she’d better start her day . . .
Chapter Four
Stephen paced the back streets of town, having absolutely no idea what he’d say to Ella even if he did get a chance to talk with her. But he rationalized that he had to make arrangements for Mike’s party, so it wouldn’t hurt to go to Millie’s. With this in mind, he finally turned in the direction of the big haus. He got there, then blew out a harsh breath before he mounted the steps and pushed the ornate bell. He heard the echo of the sound from somewhere deep within; then the heavy wooden door was eased open wide.
“We ain’t open for business yet,” the petite, dark-haired girl said. “But,” she added, a smile warming her eyes, “we might always make an exception for someone who looks like you.”
Stephen shook his head with a smile, trying to ignore her revealing gown. “I’m looking for a pregnant girl.”
She frowned, then flounced backward. An older female voice called from within. “Let the gentleman enter, Sasha.”
The girl allowed him to pass with a petulant look. He felt his boots slip into thick burgundy carpeting, and a brief glance around told him that only the finest of woods decorated the interior of the room.
He felt vaguely like he was entering the domain of a queen as he approached the older woman who sat poised and confident on a velvet settee on the far side of the room.
“Miss Millie?”
“Yes, honey . . . It’s your first time here, right?” she asked smoothly.
He nodded briefly, then repeated himself. “Look, I—does a pregnant girl work here?”
The older woman’s painted eyebrows inched up a fraction. “We don’t do none of that strange stuff here, honey. You’ll have to settle for the regular menu . . .” She pointed to a carefully lettered sign that hung on the wall in an ornate frame.
Stephen lifted his gaze and blinked. He felt his face grow red at the blatant descriptions and prices listed.
“Nee—no, I mean, I just wanted to talk—”
He broke off when a broom clattered noisily down the curved staircase that took up much of the hall to his left. Hurried footsteps followed the bristles, and Stephen felt his heartbeat begin to pick up. He thought he was seeing things for a moment, but then he half shook his head and realized that there was no mistaking the long red hair. It was Ella, the girl he’d saved from the flames and who’d visited his dream the night before.
She stared at him, her red lips forming an “O” of surprise, and then she scurried away up the stairs. He wanted to throw down the money in his wallet and geh after her. He wanted to beg to let her be with him in a room for an hour—just to talk. Yeah, right, his mind mocked. You’ve been wanting to kiss her since the fire . . .
He ruthlessly tamped down his desire and had turned to speak to Miss Millie when another girl entered the room and glided across the carpet to him. He felt the press of the petite female body against his front and looked down into sparkling blue eyes and pink, smiling lips. The girl reached up and gently looped her arms about his shoulders, then pressed even closer. He could feel her soft body against his chest but knew no arousal—Because I’m stuck on Ella . . . Red-haired Ella . . . Ella who works here . . .
He glanced at Miss Millie, who was watching him with a disconcerting appraisal in her eyes. “Come now, Anna. I don’t think the gentleman prefers blondes.”
The girl in his arms pouted, then pressed a quick kiss against his cheek before backing away.
“So it’s our Ella who you want?” Miss Millie asked, and he knew he was flushed with his answer.
“Yes, but just to—”
Millie held up an imperious white hand. “I know—just to talk.”
He thought he heard the girl called Sasha give a faint protest, but Miss Millie shook her head in dismissal to the girl.
“Very well. Go on up after her, honey. I believe she’s in the front bedroom.” There was something enigmatic in Miss Millie’s words, but he didn’t want to take time to think about it. He glanced once more at the flagrant, hanging menu, then felt for his wallet—wishing that “talking” was listed somewhere.
“No charge for the first time, honey.”
“Uh . . . oh,” he muttered. “Danki.”
He’d slipped into the dialect of the Amish but didn’t care as his hand met the smooth balustrade and he began to climb the polished staircase with quick steps . . .
* * *
Ella forced herself to focus on pouring lemon oil into a clean cloth and tried not to think about the fireman she’d seen downstairs . . . but it was no use. She would have been lying to herself if s
he said that she didn’t think him attractive. She found that the image of his face and form burned behind her eyes. And even more powerfully, her artistic nature recognized that he was truly beautiful, someone she’d love to paint. His dark hair was cropped close to his head and his blue-green eyes were lined with thick lashes that brushed his flushed cheeks. His shoulders were broad and his waist trim and his hands . . . Oh, she shivered at the thought of his large, lean-fingered, competent-looking hands. Hands that held me, cradled me . . .
After Jeremy’s quick actions, she understood the mechanics of sex—but there was something more involved with the firefighter—something tantalizing and bracing, both at the same time—like the salt spray and wind of the ocean at dawn. And you’re pregnant, my fine miss . . . by another hatefully good-looking man . . .
She started when there was a slow knock on the door. By some strange intuition, she knew it was he—Stephen—and she felt an odd tingling. “Come in,” she called, forcing her voice to sound hard. Remember what happened with Jeremy . . . Remember . . .
The door was eased open and he entered. She gave him a brisk nod, then set about focusing on dusting the bedside table. She lifted a small marble hippo from the wood, then put it back down again when he didn’t speak.
She straightened her back and turned to face him, glad of the expanse the big white coverlet-strewn bed between them provided. “What is it?” she asked.
“I wanted to talk . . . that’s all.”
She clutched her dusting cloth tightly. “I thanked you already for saving me. You said you wanted nothing for paying my hospital fee. Have you changed your mind?” Because I’m not for sale . . . Not, not, not . . .
“Nee, sei se gut—I mean, no, I haven’t.”
“Why,” she exclaimed, studying him more carefully, “you’re Amish . . .”
* * *
Stephen swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, but I guess I don’t spread that around so much.”
“Where is your Amish community?”
“You—you know about the Amish?”
She smiled faintly, and he felt like warmed syrup was running down his spine at the endearing glimpse of her pearl white teeth. “When I was—when I was traveling here, the train had a stopover for a few hours at a town called Renew. I was sort of hungry, and a kind Amish woman had a small stand at the depot. She seemed to know that I didn’t have much money, and she gave me a cheese sandwich and a ripe red tomato to eat. She wouldn’t take any coins and—” Ella shrugged. “She talked to me a lot—some in English and some like you just did. I—I’ve never forgotten.”
She looked back to the cleaning rag she held, seemingly embarrassed by her torrent of speech, and he wanted to geh round the bed and touch her, comfort her. But he stood still and cleared his throat. “I come from a place called Ice Mountain—you might have heard of it. Anyway, that’s where I lived until—until I came here and started work at the station.”
“Why did you leave?”
It was an innocent question and softly spoken, but it roused an assault of memories in his mind—his mamm’s sobbing accusations and his aenti’s chilling glare, the feel of the worn shovel handle as he dug the grave . . . He came back to himself abruptly and saw Ella waiting for his response. “It no longer felt like home,” he said. “Why did you come here?”
He realized how personal the question was, given their surroundings, and regretted it deeply when she pressed a hand against her belly, smoothing down the simple housedress she wore. But then she smiled again and raised her chin. “The place I was raised—it no longer felt like home.”
They laughed together softly at her joke, and he had the strange feeling that he’d known her for a long time and had only been waiting for her to come into his life. I’m narrish, he told himself. Crazy as can be . . .
But being crazy didn’t stop him from taking a few steps around the bottom of the large bed. He noticed her tense up and he stood still. “I just want to talk,” he soothed. “Nothing from the—uh, menu.”
He saw the puzzled look on her face, and then she gasped and put a hand to her mouth, giggling. He squared his shoulders, wondering what he’d done to seem so foolish when she drew her fingers from her lips and shook her head. “I’m so sorry. You thought that I work here?”
He exhaled roughly. “Well, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I do.” Her beautiful smile was wide. “But I’m the housekeeper.”
Chapter Five
Ella still smiled as she dusted—the look of consternation on the fireman’s handsome face had quickly been accompanied by a ruddy flush as he’d stumbled to apologize. She’d come round the bed and held out her hand, not wanting him to feel so embarrassed. “Please,” she’d said shyly. “Can we be friends?” It was an odd, impulsive request, like jumping into the surf of the Atlantic in the gloaming and expecting the water to be warm . . .
But he’d taken her hand readily in a firm handshake, and she’d felt as though some electric current had simmered through her fingers at his brief touch. Funny, I never felt such a thing with Jeremy . . . Then Stephen had backed away with a nod. “Jah, friends.” His tone had been brisk but warm, and she’d watched him walk out of the room, wondering if he’d truly meant the friendship that he’d pledged . . .
* * *
“The housekeeper?” Nick repeated, and Stephen let his head loll back as he sat in a comfortable chair in their rooms. It was evening, and Stephen had not found much peace on his off day.
“I know,” he muttered. “I know. I looked like a damn ass, and I suppose I was a laughingstock to that Miss Millie and her girls.”
Nick chuckled. “Aw, Miss Millie meant no harm. But I would have given anything to have seen your face . . . And you an Amish man, at that.”
Stephen lifted his head to give his friend a sour smile. “She asked about me being Amisch—Ella did. I’d let some Penn Dutch slip and she recognized it.”
Nick sobered instantly. “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard for you to talk about Ice Mountain, but . . .” His friend paused. “It’s also not good for your health to hold bitterness inside for long.”
“Is that the doctor talking or my friend?”
“Both.”
Stephen gave him a rueful smile. “Part and parcel of telling you the truth, I suppose.”
“You were proven innocent of the false accusations against you.” Nick put his glass on a nearby table and leaned forward in his chair. “Innocent . . .”
“Yeah, but I didn’t feel innocent. They all shunned me, except Joel.”
“The one who is now their spiritual leader? What do you think he’d want you to feel?”
“Joel is—different somehow from the others. Look, Nick, I know you’re trying to help, but I just need to clear my head. I think I’ll go for a walk.”
Nick sighed. “All right, but how about not walking down to Millie’s Social Club?”
Stephen punched his friend’s shoulder lightly, then set out in the early evening. People were scarce on the brick sidewalks. Everybody’s probably home having supper . . . He was about to go into Davidson’s Pharmacy to get a birch beer when a faint sound made him pause. He turned his head and listened hard. The splash of water came to him and he immediately began to move in the direction of the town’s large pond. The place was good for fishing but lacked a safe fence, and the water was especially deep and murky.
His steps quickened, and then he was running full-out when he heard a scream and a garbled cry for help . . .
* * *
Mitch thought back to the kindness of Lester Pike and tried to turn it over in his mind. Lester had told him straight that a fairly new-to-town redhead worked as a housekeeper in the local bawdy house, and it had taken very little for Mitch to bide his time, then hide beneath one of Millie’s downstairs open windows in the dimness of the evening. He knew women chattered like jays, and it wasn’t long before someone told a girl called Ella that she was to run to the drugstore for some bicarbonate.
&nbs
p; Mitch followed Ella with soft footsteps; the telltale red hair made him sure of his prize. He couldn’t believe his luck in getting her alone in the dark. He fingered the edge of the knife he carried, almost ready to make his move. Then Ella flicked on a flashlight, and Mitch fell to his knees at the unexpected brilliance of the light. It seemed like noon, and he dropped the knife. He was suddenly unable to move and could only fix his gaze on the wash of light in front of him. He swiped at his face, thinking he’d had too much to drink, but the light persisted. And then, in his mind’s eye, he saw himself having breakfast with the blind man. What had he said? Something about changing direction and God’s love chasing him . . . Mitch shook his head and slowly came back to himself as he heard the splashing of the pond water. He bent down and fumbled for the knife in the sudden darkness. Am I losing my mind? Mitch muttered a curse and stayed still as he watched and listened . . .
* * *
Ella was admiring the lightning bugs as she walked the road to downtown. For a moment, she could remember being young and catching the beautiful things in her hands, but never being willing to put them in a jar overnight. She hated to see anything trapped . . . She sighed to herself and turned her flashlight on. She truly didn’t mind going to the pharmacy to run errands late for Millie—it kept her from being in close contact with most townsfolk. She valued her privacy and was still surprised at herself for asking Stephen to be her friend. She didn’t have many friends in town, except maybe blind and congenial Lester Pike . . .
She stopped abruptly when she heard a frantic splashing and turned the beam of her light into the cattails that grew up around the town’s pond. A faint cry for help reached her ears, and then eerily nothing, and she knew by instinct that someone was drowning. But Ella was a strong swimmer, having learned in the sea, and she didn’t panic now.
She dropped her small purse on the ground and surged forward into the edge of the pond. The ground was mucky, and she lost her cheap pair of shoes within three steps, but she plunged on, her flashlight in her hand. She hoped the beam of light might show some ripple in the pond’s surface, if the victim had gone under already. But the dark was closing in and she despaired of seeing anyone until the urgent sound of a dog barking from the opposite bank made her turn. She was about to kick off into the deeper water when an arm slid around her waist, holding her fast. She would have screamed, but then she recognized the voice that sounded close in her ear.
