An Amish Match on Ice Mountain

by Kelly Long

  “Danki, Ella,” he said, lifting his head.

  “You’re welcome.” She stretched to kiss his cheek. “I understand now why you became a firefighter.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you’ve spent your life in trials by fire and you’re probably all the stronger because of them.”

  He smiled faintly. “Gott gives us strength—but I like knowing you understand part of me now.”

  She reached to give the vanilla bottle a faint tip and looked up at him rather wickedly. “I’d like to understand more of you,” she murmured.

  He pulled her close with alacrity. “Now that—would truly be . . . our pleasure.”

  * * *

  Ella set out a generous meal for the two of them and found that she could barely hold Stephen’s gaze across the food-laden table. It’s silly really, she thought. Just a few vanilla kisses . . . But she knew her face was flushed with the memory of how the skin of his throat had tasted and how bold she’d become in finding a spot along his shoulder to kiss that had made him loosen his shirt with quick movements. But, she sighed to herself, then he had pulled away from her, apparently regaining control much faster than she.

  Now he was looking at her with sea blue eyes as the quiet lengthened while they ate. Ella grew restive under the sound of silence.

  “I can bake things,” she burst out and he gave her a slow smile.

  “Can you?” he asked with interest while he spread apple butter on a piece of Sophia Loftus’s whole-grain bread.

  She nodded, remembering the pristine kitchen at the Sea Glass Castle and the numerous baking lessons she’d had with their housekeeper, Mrs. Broom.

  “I can indeed. Any kind of cookie you want.”

  He laughed. “Ach, nee . . . then I’m to be tempted at every turn?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him, wondering if there was a double meaning in his casual words. “You’ll be tempted no more than usual, sir. You simply must exercise restraint.”

  “Well . . .” He grinned at her. “There’s the rub . . .”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Stephen listened to every rustle Ella made as she got situated in the big rope bed. His own bed, on the hard wood floor, was not nearly as comfortable, but it was far more conducive to his peace of mind. Ella was a constant temptation to him, and now, having shared what he had about Dan, he felt closer to her than ever.

  “Are you awake?” Her soft voice seemed part of the nacht, and he thought about not answering.

  “Jah.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  You . . . in my arms . . . “Not much . . . just listening to the crickets.”

  “They make a symphony all their own, don’t they?” she asked.

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  “Stephen—I—oh!”

  Her cry was one of pain and he jumped to his feet, feeling frantically for the kerosene lamp beside the bed.

  “Is it the baby?” Dear Gott, let it not be the baby!

  “N—no. My leg!” She was rubbing her calf muscle in obvious desperation and he moved her hands away to massage the area himself.

  “Charley horse,” he muttered, trying to slow his heart rate. “We need to drink more water . . .”

  She finally relaxed back against the pillows, and he sucked in a deep breath of air. “It’s all right now, Stephen . . . but . . .”

  “But what?” He ran his eyes over her, looking for any other problem.

  “Stephen—you said ‘we.’ ‘We have to drink more water . . .’”

  “Right.” He nodded. “It’ll help with the leg cramping. But we should also check with May Miller tomorrow.”

  She smiled at him and he felt caught and held by her gaze. “Do you know how wonderful you are?” she asked softly.

  He had no idea how to respond to her words. He knew that brushing them off would do her a disservice but no one had ever told him he was wonderful before and it was hard to take in.

  “Maybe I’ll believe that someday, Ella Nichols . . . maybe someday.”

  * * *

  Jeremy Collier ran a self-assured hand through his blond hair and took a seat on the train headed out of Cape May. The fact that he was planning murder did little to disturb his peace of mind—in fact, the proposed victim herself was of little consequence in his thoughts. Ella Nichols might still be carrying the brat, and getting rid of her would eliminate more than one problem from his calculating mind. Of course, it had occurred to him that he might hold her for ransom and let her aunt and uncle pay to have her executed. But, after thinking it through, he knew he was somewhat of a coward and had no desire to get caught in the cross fire and end up dead himself.

  He patted the breast pocket of his suit as he gazed at the slow-moving scenery outside the train window. Nichols’s payment included a nice bonus if he could also rid the world of Mitch Wagner to eliminate any possible connection between himself and his niece.

  Jeremy glanced up as a boy selling newspapers passed down the aisle; he bought one, then curled up comfortably behind its sheltering pages and, feeling bored, went to sleep.

  * * *

  In the first pink light of dawn, Ella awoke, momentarily confused as to where she was, but then she looked down to the floor and saw Stephen sprawled among a tangled pile of quilts. She studied him covertly, admiring the lean lines of his back and the strength of his shoulders. He was so beautiful and so hurt—she thought about all that he had shared with her the day before, and she knew that she was falling in love with him in a way that she had never cared for Jeremy. In fact, Jeremy seemed like some long-ago, unsettling dream, while Stephen made her smile and clearly cared for her and her baby. In fact, she felt a togetherness with Stephen that she had not experienced since she had been in her father’s home.

  Stephen stirred a bit, and she leaned back against the pillows, not wanting to be caught studying him. She wondered what it would be like to be an Amish housewife like Martha was to Joel. The other woman seemed to know such serenity, but Ella realized that peace did not come from putting on a kapp or pinning on a dress. No, based on what Pastor Rook had taught back in Coudersport, true peace could only come from God.

  * * *

  “Breakfast is ready, sweetheart.”

  Stephen sat on the edge of the bed and watched Ella wake and stretch with a tousled beauty that more than stirred his heart.

  “Oh my, I’m sorry. I must have fallen back to sleep. I was up earlier.” She gave a delicate yawn behind her hand.

  He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “You sleep because of the babe, but now kumme and have some food.”

  He helped her to her feet, then she folded back the sleeves of the overly large cotton nightgown that Frau Loftus had given her. She found that she was starving and was pleasantly surprised at the plate he set before her. Scrambled eggs, bacon, fresh grilled tomatoes, and toast did much to assuage her appetite.

  “Thank you, Stephen,” she said when they were through. “It’s hard to believe, sitting here in this bright cabin, that my aunt and uncle want to kill me.”

  He shook his head and gave her a sober look. “It haunts me . . . I wonder—you said something to that Mitch Wagner about a letter and a will. Can you tell me what they have to do with your aunt and uncle?”

  She smiled sadly. “There was a letter that my father left, and also his will, that named me his heir and legal owner of the Sea Glass Castle. My uncle had hidden them both, and he knew a lawyer who made sure he got title to the place. But one day I found both of them hidden in my uncle’s study.”

  “What did you do next?”

  He watched a myriad of emotions cross her pale face, and she placed a hand against her belly. “I went to Jeremy—that—that was his name . . .” She paused and Stephen nodded. “I told him about the will . . . and also that I was going to have his baby. He . . . wanted me to end the pregnancy. It was Mrs. Broom, our old housekeeper, who gave me the fare money to run away, and I ended up in Coudersport.”


  “Remind me someday that I owe Mrs. Broom a great thank-you.”

  He watched her blush at his words and reached across the small table to take her hand in his. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that spending a lot of time alone with her in the remote cabin was not going to be a gut idea. Even now he wanted to make love to her. He closed his eyes briefly on the thought, then got to his feet with abrupt movements.

  “Ella—I—uh—I need to go over to the spring for a bit. It’s just a stone’s throw away. Don’t worry about cleaning up.”

  He knew she was watching him with confusion, but he could not explain to her that he needed the cold water against his skin—anything to distract him from his unpredictable and tantalizing thoughts . . .

  * * *

  Ella tidied the small eating area quickly, then did her best to fasten her dress with the proper pinning. She was innately curious as to what Stephen was doing at the spring and decided with youthful reasoning that there would be no harm in following him.

  She walked out of the cabin and carefully latched the door behind her, then set off in the direction of the spring, which Stephen had indicated the previous evening. She stopped near some leafy bushes, surprised at what she saw. Stephen was kneeling on the ground near the mossy rocks and the freshwater spring that poured from the mountaintop. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be praying.

  For Ella, it felt like she was intruding on a very intimate moment, more intimate than any scene of him bathing at the spring. What does he pray about? she wondered. And immediately on the heels of this thought came the fear that perhaps she was a burden on him, despite all that he said.

  She tiptoed back to the cabin and set about making the bed and tidying up the quilts that Stephen had used during the night. Before she was through, Stephen returned with an air of quiet about him. The knees of his black pants were muddy, but he smiled at her and made some murmured excuse. Then he grabbed a second pair off a peg in the wall. “I’ll change out back and then we’ll geh fishing, if you’d like?”

  “I’ve only fished from a jetty in the sea.”

  He laughed. “Well, I can’t offer you so stimulating a view, but the pond down the mountain is always pretty nice.”

  She nodded, still wondering what might truly be going on behind the sea of his eyes . . .

  Chapter Twenty

  He walked beside her in the bright morning light, carrying two fishing poles in one hand, while with his other, he carefully supported her arm. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day and he felt a sense of renewal as the birds sang and butterfly moths danced before them. He wondered at Ella’s quietness until she suddenly broke the warm silence.

  “I have to confess—I saw you at the spring,” she said contritely.

  He smiled down at her. “Saw me praying?”

  She nodded and he thought for a moment. “Well then, I’ll have to confess that I had originally gone to the spring to cool off from—wanting you. But when I got to the spring, I realized that trying to care for you and the baby was something I needed Gott’s help with—I was praying to have strength when you need me. And I suppose I believe that you can store up prayers in Heaven, like savings in a safety deposit box.” He shrugged, feeling insecure. “I probably sound strange.”

  “I think you sound wonderful, Stephen. More candid and wonderful perhaps than even my father was about his prayer life.”

  “Danki, Ella. That is something I’ll treasure.”

  She stopped still and stretched to kiss his cheek before they went on. “I guess you’re right about praying,” she commented as he adjusted the fishing poles in his hand. “If we’d pray a bit every day, I guess our lives would be that much richer.”

  “Jah, and perhaps our children’s lives and our grandchildren’s.” He realized that he was probably being too exuberant and clammed up, lamely trying to change the topic of discussion to relatively safe tales of fishing.

  * * *

  Ella carried on a mundane conversation with Stephen all the while that it seemed her heart was beating like a hummingbird’s wings. She wondered, deep inside, if he’d been talking about their very own children and grandchildren—it was a heady thought. But perhaps he was simply talking in general. She resolutely decided not to ask for clarification—and besides, his thinking certainly didn’t need to be consumed with her . . . That was vanity! So, she concentrated on her footing instead and was glad when they reached a pretty pool of water.

  She waited while Stephen found a comfortable and safe rock for her to sit on, baited her hook, and helped her cast her line in. She had a large rainbow trout out of the water before his line even hit the pond.

  “Sorry,” she apologized sweetly. “Papa always said I was a good fisherman.”

  “I should say so!” He smiled. “All right, Lady, you’re on your own from here on out. I’ll just sit over here and keep an eye out for bears. They sometimes come down to the stream to fish too!”

  She laughed and it felt enormously good. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel edgy or afraid. She felt safe and cared for—even with Jeremy she had never felt like this. She threw Stephen a saucy look as she pulled in another nice fish and basked in the Amish man’s approval.

  * * *

  Sunday morning dawned clear and bright and Stephen helped Ella pin her hair into a proper bun, but not before kissing the back of her neck in a sultry manner that left him faintly gasping and not especially in a hurry to geh to church meeting. But Stephen knew that Joel would expect them there on time, so he led Ella out of the cabin and onto the trail.

  They walked in companionable silence until Stephen took a branching path that led off the trail and they emerged at the edge of a hayfield. “This is Franz Stolfus’s farm. The service will be held in his large barn. We move around twice a month so that everybody in the community who can has a chance to host. And then there’s usually a big picnic dinner afterward.”

  “Oh, good!” Ella exclaimed, and they both laughed together.

  Stephen was glad when Joel and Martha came to greet them. He knew from the way she clung to his hand that Ella was just as nervous as he felt inside. Ach, he didn’t mind what people thought, but the last time he’d stood in front of this community, he’d been accused of murder . . . Still, Joel was bishop now, and he and Martha were kindness itself. When Stephen would have reluctantly left Ella sitting with the other single women, Martha spoke up clearly.

  “Nee, Stephen. Ella is our guest for today; she can sit by me for company.”

  Stephen gave Martha a grateful look, then smiled encouragingly at Ella before he took his place standing behind the benches with the other single men. It’s a funny thing though, he thought to himself. I don’t feel that single anymore. I feel—married to Ella . . . He would have considered this revelatory thought more, but just then the service started with the two traditional hymns. Soon, Stephen was lost in the familiar, soothing church time, but his eyes strayed often to where he could see Ella sitting, and he wondered if the backless benches were too uncomfortable with her pregnancy.

  Then it was time for Joel to bring the message, and Stephen shifted his weight on his legs, wondering what his friend would talk about. Then Joel began.

  “The Bible says that ‘Derr Herr was a Man of sorrows and well acquainted with grief.’ I often think to myself of the things that grieved Him, made Him sorrowful, and do you know what? Those things are quite often exactly what trouble us on occasion. Now I will say with certainty that we have not been hurt to the extent that He has, but we all know what it is to be lonely, alone, restless, lost, broken, and worn. And chances are, if you have not experienced these feelings and times in life, you someday will—not as a cruelty or punishment but simply because sorrow and grief are often part of this life—and, if you look very, very closely with the eyes of your heart, these things might even come to be gifts, initially disguised . . .”

  Stephen smiled at the blessing Derr Herr had provided to Joel. His fri
end was able to address difficult subjects and lay them before the community in a positive light. Suddenly Stephen lost his worries about appealing to his neighbors. All would be well . . .

  * * *

  Viola felt Esther bristle beside her at the bishop’s words. No doubt Esther has felt these things herself, but she will not yield her heart or her mind to what Gott might give . . . And how much more do I hold back—from my own sohn . . . Viola felt tears fill her eyes and quickly swiped them away, but her eyes filled again and again, until she was forced to borrow Esther’s handkerchief . . .

  * * *

  Ella sat listening intently to Joel’s earnest and inspired words. She’d gone to church services in Cape May with her father, of course, but rarely had she paid as much attention to the sermon as she did now—even when she’d listened to Pastor Rook in Coudersport.

  She considered all of the things that had happened—many of her own choosing—over the past few months and knew for a certainty that God had brought her here, to Ice Mountain, to shelter her in the palm of His Hand. She looked down at her Amish dress and then over at Martha’s kind profile and knew that there was no mistaking her thoughts—God brought me here . . . us here . . .

  She placed a gentle hand over her belly and then looked up in time to see Stephen striding to the front of the barn near Joel. She was wondering what this part of the service was about when Martha reached over to grasp her hand in an affirming touch.

  “You all know my friend, Stephen Lambert,” Joel said. “And I understand that there’s been talk since Stephen has returned to the mountain about what his role in the community may be and who the maedel is that he brought along with him. I think it best if Stephen explains himself.”

  Ella watched Stephen’s face and felt her heart begin to speed up. She wanted to help him in some way, especially because he stood up there alone to defend her. But then Martha gently squeezed her hand once more and Ella calmed, remembering her thoughts of peace and comfort of only a few moments ago.

  She sat up straighter and began to pray in her mind, softly and with confidence, that Stephen would know exactly what to say . . . Stephen glanced at Joel and nodded briefly before turning to face the Amish community of Ice Mountain.