by Kelly Long
“Well, I doubt it, but I’ll try.”
“Sounds gut to me!” Joel slapped his right knee.
But Stephen gave his friend a sour smile and did not share in his enthusiasm.
* * *
Viola Lambert opened the heavy chest, and the smell of mothballs and cedar rose up to fill her nostrils. She was alone; Esther had gone to swap quilt squares with a distant neighbor. And, for some reason, Viola knew a keen sadness in the quiet of the cabin and had been drawn to Ben’s trunk. Of course, she reflected, Esther had urged her to give away all of Ben’s things, as was only charitable . . . but there were a few items she had kept in secret from her older sister.
Now she laid aside a stack of patchwork quilts and reached to the very bottom of the chest. She felt for the tissue paper, and then her fingers touched the light cotton material. She felt her heart beat a bit faster as she pulled out the shirt. Instinctively, she pressed it to her face and took a deep breath. Past the smell of cedar and age, she knew there was the scent of Ben—pine and salt, winter sunshine and spring rain. Against her will, she felt her eyes fill with tears. How proud and happy Ben felt when Stephen was born, and how joyful I was at Ben’s pleasure . . . But then came the hunting accident—just before Stephen turned six months old—and Esther moved in . . . to help, to help, but ach, how she hurt me sometimes . . . me and Stephen.
Viola swallowed hard and resolutely put the shirt back in its place. What gut was it to think uncharitable thoughts about her older sister? Esther was undoubtedly right—most of the time. And surely, surely what Esther says about the depravity of Stephen and Ella Nichols must be true . . . She placed the quilts back hastily and got to her feet, remembering that she had promised to go to Sol Kauffman’s for baking powder. She hoped the brisk walk would clear her mind—and heart.
* * *
Ella was in the languorous place between waking and sleep when she felt the hot press of lips against her throat. She forgot that she was in the healer’s bed and stretched deliciously. “Mmmm,” she murmured, smiling, delighting in the sensation. She arched her back and turned her head on the thick pillow, wanting the kisses to go on and on. She’d never felt this way with Jeremy, and she sensed on an instinctual level that it was Stephen who kissed her—heated, handsome Stephen, who could wipe away all rational thought from her mind. She felt their tongues meet in a sultry dance—wet, insistent, and she knew a burning deep inside. She wanted something but didn’t know what it was. “Please,” she whispered, half opening her eyes even as she felt him pull back slightly.
* * *
Please? Please what? Stephen drew in a ragged breath. Am I to touch her here, in May Miller’s bed? He felt the idea was not without merit, but then his conscience suddenly intruded; a reserved Amish conscience that surprised him . . . I am not married to Ella. She has no one to protect her or the baby, and I promised to be her friend. It was like a bucket of icy water being poured down his back, and he withdrew from her arms despite the sound of protest that came, sultry and high, from the back of her delicate throat.
* * *
“Don’t take umbrage with me! I had no part in the fool turning himself in.” Douglas Nichols growled the words low, but his wife looked unconcerned.
“Douglas, what are you worried about? A letter from Mitch Wagner talking twaddle about the Light?” She moved toward him with a serpentine swing of her hips. “Besides, darling, I’ve found someone much—colder—in nature. He’ll take care of any potential talk and investigation Wagner’s babble may produce, and we will own the Sea Glass Castle free and clear of our dear redheaded niece.”
“Humph! Well, who have you found? I admit my man has not panned out, and your instincts are usually right.”
“Thank you, darling. I’ll have him sent in . . . His name is Jeremy Collier.”
Chapter Seventeen
“I’d like us to stop by Sol Kauffman’s store to get a few supplies before we head up to the cabin.” Stephen was infinitely grateful to be back on safe footing with Ella—anything had to be better than the torturous feelings he’d known when kissing her in May’s bed.
He glanced down at her now, walking beside him in the still-wet day, and took her hand lightly. She slid her fingers through his with all the trust of a child and he once again had to tell himself that it was going to be all right living alone with her at the cabin—despite the obvious temptation. The key, he considered, as he indicated the dirt path to the store, would be to hang on to the thought that he was her friend and protector. If he could do that, all should be well. He was actually surprised that Joel had allowed their living situation; but Joel was Joel, and the mountain would know the truth soon enough.
“You’re deep in thought.”
Her soft voice roused him and he smiled at her. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you that Joel invited us to church this coming Sunday.”
He saw her dubious glance and squeezed her hand. “Will I be welcome?” she asked, and he didn’t miss that she pressed her free hand to her belly.
“Jah—you both will be welcome. I will introduce you and tell the community your story—our story. Then, likely they will make known to us that you are safe here.”
She nodded, and he longed to wipe the concern from her brow, but they had reached the store, and he led her up the stairs with a gentle hand.
Sol Kauffman’s general store had anything and everything within its humble confines, and it was always stimulating to one’s senses to enter the place. Today was no different, and Stephen drew in a quick, appreciative breath redolent with peppermint candy, cooking spices, leather, and sharp cheese.
“Oh, my,” Ella whispered to him.
“What is it?”
“I feel like I could eat everything in here.”
They laughed softly together, and he would have taken a quick moment to swipe a kiss across her nose if a cutting female voice hadn’t interrupted from the aisle in front of him.
Ruby Raber was a girl who’d been sweet on him over the past few years, and he stifled a groan at meeting her with Ella on his arm. Ruby no doubt felt a certain proprietorship over him, even though he’d never even hinted at courting with her. He wanted to explain all of this to Ella but didn’t have time as Ruby stepped close and spoke bitingly.
“Stephen Lambert—I’d heard you’d left Ice Mountain for the Englisch world.” Ruby’s gaze raked Ella. “Or did you bring part of the Englisch back with you—no matter her dress—or condition?”
Stephen smiled grimly as he felt Ella tense up against him.
“Ruby—this is Ella Nichols. Ella, this is Ruby Raber—a friend.” He said this last word slowly, wondering if Ruby had ever truly been his friend, as Ella seemed to be.
But then, Sol Kauffman called out to them from behind his counter and Stephen excused himself and drew Ella from Ruby’s path.
“Hiya! Hiya there, Stephen!” The store owner was a bear of a man, both tall and rotund. Sol was always full of news and good cheer, and he came around the corner to welcome Ella with a giant handshake and the presentation of the licorice jar. “Take one, my maedel!” Stephen caught a glimpse of Ella’s smile and a surge of pleasure filled his heart to see her so welcomed.
“Sol only hands round the candy jar when he’s really happy,” Stephen confided in Ella’s ear.
She nodded and graciously curtsied to the big man, whose face reddened at her gesture.
“Kumme now,” Sol blustered. “What else can I get for you folks, huh?”
“We’ve got quite a list.” Stephen produced a crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it over, while he watched Ella slowly wander away from him toward the cracker barrel, then teeter suddenly.
He quickly followed and caught her wrist in his hand, feeling her frantic pulse beat. One look at her pale face told him all he needed to know. He scooped her up against his chest and spoke in hurried tones to Sol. “Ella’s feeling faint—I’ll take her out for some fresh air.”
Sol waved away his words.
“Nee, Stephen, bring her into the back. Frau Loftus will make some tea for her and she can rest on the couch.”
Stephen obeyed the older man and stepped around the counter through a long curtain that Sol held aside. Then Sol followed his friend into the back of the store, which was Sol’s family home. Stephen nodded at Frau Loftus as she turned with a baby on her hip and a toddler hiding in her skirts; then he carefully lowered Ella to the comfortable-looking couch that Sol indicated.
Ella looked up at him and smiled despite her pallor. “I’m fine, Stephen.”
“I know,” he whispered. “But just lie still for a few minutes.”
Frau Loftus bustled over with a teacup and saucer. “Ach, poor maedel! The pregnancy is not easy sometimes, hmmm?”
Stephen watched Ella accept the warm tea and wondered vaguely if everyone on Ice Mountain already knew about Ella and the baby.
* * *
Viola straightened her bonnet and walked up the steps of Sol Kauffman’s store. She liked to get her shopping done and leave the place, not wanting to socialize—but today, Ruby Raber flounced into her path as soon as she entered.
“Frau Lambert, gut day. I had the questionable pleasure of seeing Stephen and his—Englischer inside. And of course,” Ruby continued, her voice becoming saccharine sweet, “she had to feign passing out so he had to carry her—and—and . . . Well, never mind. I hope I don’t have to lay eyes on either of them again!”
Viola drew in a sharp breath. Used to Esther’s tirades, Viola found that this girl sounded like a purring kitten, and she almost told her so. Instead she merely nodded and continued on into the store.
Once inside, Viola moved hastily to the baking aisle and was pondering the merits of teaberry candy or peppermints for Esther’s sweet tooth when Sol Kauffman came hurriedly toward her. It felt as if she was being cornered by a galloping rhinoceros and she was sure that everyone in the store heard the owner’s booming words. “Right back here, Frau Lambert . . . Stephen’s got the maedel lying down. You remember how light-headed you could become when you were carrying, I’d imagine . . . Just kumme with me.”
Carrying? Carrying what? A rutabaga or an oversized grapefruit? But nee, how about a boppli, a babe, how about Stephen himself. Can I remember what it felt like? Ben was so caring and tender . . . ach, how he loved me . . . But none of that matters now—he’s gone . . .
Sol swept her into the back of the store and through the curtain to the Kauffman home. Viola glanced over to where Stephen knelt beside Ella Nichols as she lay on the couch. She told herself that she didn’t need to see the raw concern on her sohn’s face, that she didn’t want to see it . . . Yet Sophia Loftus pulled a chair close to the couple and Viola sat down automatically even as one of the many Kauffman babies was plopped on her lap.
Sophia smiled down at her. “There. You must practice, Frau Lambert—the dandle on the knees . . . Besides, Ben is a happy baby.”
Viola ignored the raised eyebrow of her sohn and tried to concentrate on the sweet-smelling baby in her lap. If Esther could see me, she’d think I was an old fool—of course, Esther has no time for children. The baby pulled at the front of her dress and she gently reached to rub his downy head. Images, soft and wondrous, played behind her eyes—holding Stephen close while Ben held them both near his heart, recognizing the cry and need of her sohn . . . My sohn, my boppli . . . Against her will, her eyes lifted to Stephen and Ella and she swallowed hard. The years since Ben had died seemed to have been swallowed up in fear and worry and anger—
“Mamm, you’ll have to excuse us.”
Stephen’s deep voice and remote tone shook her from her thoughts. She watched him help Ella to her feet as the baby in her lap suddenly began to wail. Things hard and deep churned in Viola’s chest as she automatically began to hum a disjointed tune. Stephen and Ella had already made their gutbyes before Sophia Loftus came to take Ben from her lap. Viola left the store without the baking powder or the candy . . .
Chapter Eighteen
Ella had considered the interior of Stephen’s mother’s cabin to be sparse in decoration, as she knew was fitting for the plain people. But the cabin Stephen led her to in the high timber was a place of almost artistic charm.
Snowshoes, long-handled tools, and preserved pelts hung about the exposed beam walls. A rustic rock fireplace took up one wall, while a cookstove and bent willow bed occupied nearly the whole of the other side of the tiny home. There was just enough room for a small table and chairs and an old-fashioned rocker.
“It’s charming,” she said, smiling up at Stephen. Then she followed his gaze to the big bed. A quilt of pretty flower designs lay atop the mattress and two fluffy pillows looked comfortable at the head of the bed.
“Jah,” he murmured. “Joel and Martha sent the bedding—but—I’ll sleep on the floor.”
Ella turned to face him. “Stephen . . . friends, remember? I think we can share the bed and there will be no—um—problems. Besides, I wouldn’t feel right to have you on the floor!”
But she saw by the set of his jaw that his mind was made up and she stopped trying to persuade him; instead she asked if he would like something to eat.
“Frau Loftus packed a bunch of different things for us in with the groceries you bought.” Ella moved to the wicker basket Stephen had carried to the high timber and lifted the flat lid. She pulled out bags of sugar, flour, and brown sugar, as well as other various baking supplies. Then she uncorked a small brown bottle and breathed in the heavenly scent of vanilla.
She saw Stephen smile at the expression on her face and he came forward and took the bottle from her fingers. “Did you ever taste vanilla?” he asked softly.
“Mmm-hmmm. Our housekeeper told me not to but I ran outside in the sunshine with the bottle and took a big swallow. Ugh!” She made a face.
“Ah, but maybe you don’t know the secret of tasting vanilla.” His voice was low and she gazed up at him with suspicion, feeling the nerves in her belly begin to tauten and dance.
“What’s the secret?” she asked, surprised when her voice came out as a high squeak.
“Well—” He rocked his hips closer to her so that his long legs pressed against her Amish dress. “You need to put something sweet behind the vanilla taste.”
She furrowed her brow in confusion. “Wh—what do you mean?”
He reached his hand to gently ease his fingers beneath her kapp. “Sweet . . . like back here.” He pulled his hand away and she watched rather breathlessly as he poured a drop of vanilla on his forefinger then moved to brush the wetness against her neck.
“Stephen . . . I . . .” She made a hoarse sound of pleasure when she felt his tongue follow the dampness on her skin. Then he was facing her again, and she bit her lip at the raw sensuality displayed in the depths of his now-green eyes . . .
* * *
Sweet . . . sweet . . . sweet . . . He continued to dab the vanilla on her cheek . . . her forehead . . . and then her red lips. He kissed her without reservation, his head in a tumult. He had no idea what he was doing—except . . . That wasn’t quite the truth . . .
He wrenched himself away from her and smacked the vanilla bottle back on the table so hard that it would have tipped had Ella not caught it with what he realized were shaky hands.
He turned from her, his gaze riveted to a spot outside the nearest cabin window.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“You’ll have to understand if I don’t forgive you right away,” she returned in what he considered to be a stormy tone.
“Don’t cry, Ella . . . sei se gut . . . I couldn’t bear it if you cried.”
He felt her move beside him but he didn’t take his eyes off the window. “Stephen? What’s wrong?”
He shook his head, and he knew the moment her eyes followed his.
“Oh, there’s a gravestone outside,” Ella murmured. “Do you know whose it is?”
It took him a full half minute to answer. “Yeah—he was—a friend.” The diffic
ult words edged out from the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to hold the memories at bay. But then he saw himself, holding the cold wooden handle of the shovel. Digging the grave as punishment for the crime . . .
“Stephen?” Ella touched his arm and he turned, swiping at his eyes.
“Stephen, you’re crying.” She stood suddenly on tiptoe and put her arms around him, holding him close. “I’m sorry that you miss your friend so much. Is that what’s wrong?” Her words were gentle, tender, and he choked back a sob.
“His name was Dan Zook—he was murdered—shot in his own bed.”
There was a long pause and then she sighed. “So, it was he who everyone thought you—”
“I let them think it,” he bit out. “I suppose I wanted them to think it . . . My mamm and aenti had blamed me for one thing or another for as long as I could remember, so when the auld bishop pronounced me guilty of murder, I said nothing to defend myself.”
“But Stephen, why did the bishop believe . . . ?”
“I’d been up here in the high timber and I came upon a pregnant doe—she’d been shot by a poacher. I could do nothing to save her but I had my knife and tried to help the fawn. I failed . . . I failed and I was covered in blood. Blood on a white shirt was enough to convince most of the community when the bishop had me stand before them. Everyone but Joel felt I was guilty. The bishop—he decided that I would be shunned, but first I would have to dig Dan’s grave. This was Dan’s cabin—it’s where I lived until the truth became known about the actual murderer. We later found out that Joel Umble’s older brother had killed Dan. After that, it was clear to everyone that I was innocent.”
He heard her soft inhalation and wanted to muffle himself in the folds of her dress—to hide and cry out that he’d felt shunned all of his life. But Dan—Dan had been a true friend and father figure. His burial still shook Stephen . . . made him feel unclean somehow. But Ella’s gentle touch was a balm for his senses and he slowly pulled himself together.
