An Amish Wedding (6 page)

“
Nee
. . . I haven’t had the time of late.”

Joshua nodded. “Just as well. You’ve enough of your own to care for without chasing after the
Englisch
, no matter how fitting the cause.”

“Wouldn’t
Mamm
say that helping another is always worth the doing?” Luke’s voice was level.

Joshua clapped him on the shoulder. “
Ya
, she would. But not everybody’s like she was.”

“And that’s the truth to be heard,” Luke muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

T
HE DAY WAS ONE TO STIR THE SENSES; BLUE SKIES AND
cotton fluffed clouds. Geese flying in south V-patterns, and the mingled scents of nature in its hurried pursuit and preparation for sleep, all joined in a rapturous serenade.

But Rose was uneasy. For once she couldn’t discern Luke’s mood, and it made her nervous. Of course there was the guilty worry that, from his perspective, she’d been kissing a stranger in the rain. That had to make him angry, and she thought once more of telling him what she knew. But the moment passed and she focused on tossing the quartered apples into the Lantzes’ cider press as Luke turned the crank handle.

The smell of ripe apples and the crispness of the fall day seemed to burgeon with life and abundance, and part of her wanted to dance with the red and yellow leaves that swirled in graceful arcs to land on the ground. But Luke was uncommonly silent, moving mechanically, almost as if she wasn’t there.

“Are you all right?” she asked at last.

He glanced at her—calm blue eyes and a solemn expression. “
Ya
. And you?”

She frowned. She didn’t want to talk about how she felt. “Fine,” she mumbled.

He straightened and came toward where she sat on a low stool. His work boots brushed the rounded fall of her dress as it spread upon the ground, and she squinted up at him in the sunshine.

“
Ya
, you are fine, Rose,” he said, reaching down to brush the curve of her cheek.

She sat still, mesmerized by his warm fingers and that mysterious side of him that teased at her consciousness.

He dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking of late . . . our engagement . . . perhaps we set the wedding too soon. Maybe you’d prefer another year in which to plan?”

“What?” she squeaked in dismay.
Is this why he’s so quiet? Does he want to break our engagement?
Surprisingly, the thought made her sick at heart, even as she considered how she might feel if she thought he’d been kissing someone else in the dark.

He turned his back to her and ran a hand over the damp board of the press, shrugging his broad shoulders. “You’re much younger than I, Rose.”

“I’ve always been younger than you—it’s never mattered before.”

“
Nee
, but now . . . with all of the responsibilities of the house . . . perhaps you desire still a continued bit of freedom.”

Her eyes widened in a rush of feverish thought. What had she said to him last night about freedom? Did he suspect that she knew?

She rose and touched his arm, and he turned to face her. “I want to marry, Luke. I do.”

He nodded, but she felt him search her face, and she lifted her chin.

“All right, Rose.”

She longed for him to touch her, but he was back to the apple press. The moment was gone, and the day seemed to lose some of its color as she shifted on her feet and tried to sort through her emotions.

W
HEN ROSE STOOD BEHIND HIM
, L
UKE TRIED TO CONCENTRATE
on the gush of juice from the press and put aside the thought of touching his future bride—kissing her as the “thief” had last night. But he’d meant what he said—perhaps she needed a bit more time. Maybe that’s why she spoke of freedom in the dark and yielded to—
nee
, returned a heated kiss with such passion. Yet he didn’t want to complicate matters by bringing more physicality into the moment . . .

He looked up in relief at the diversion when his brother Mark emerged from the woodworking shop nearby. Mark was two years older than Luke, still single, and was the family’s tease. But today he appeared frustrated.

Mark dropped onto the stool Rose had abandoned and sank a dipper into the bucket of cloudy cider. He slurped loudly as Luke ran the last of the apples through.

“What’s wrong?” Luke asked.

“What’s wrong with you two?”

Luke started to take the apple press apart to prepare it for drying and ignored his brother’s question.

“You leaving already, Rose?” Mark prodded. “Seems like Luke could do something to persuade you to stick around more often.”

“She has her own chores to be about,” Luke observed in a warning tone.

“I’d imagine that a girl would want to spend every second possible with her betrothed.”

“Ya.”
Luke smiled then. “You’d have to imagine it—since it seems no one’s standing in line to be your bride.”

Rose giggled.

“Watch your mouth, baby
bruder
. Or I may have to watch it for you.”

Luke laid the crank down with care. “All right. You are in a fine temper and in front of my future bride. Why is that?”

Mark sighed. “
Ach
, I messed up the piece of burled elm
Daed
had me redoing for that piano front. You know how rare that wood grain is.”

Luke turned from the press. “How bad is it?”

Mark shrugged. “I don’t know. I was off somehow in the scrolling design, and now the whole thing’s lopsided.
Daed
’s gonna have a fit when he and Josh get back from their delivery.”

“Let me take a look.”

Mark shrugged. “Go ahead. It’s on the second workbench.”

Chapter Nine

R
OSE FOLLOWED
L
UKE’S PURPOSEFUL STRIDES INTO THE
shop. A generator powered several overhead bulbs and cast light onto the worktable that was laden with tools, wood curls, and a beautiful piece of wood. But the design clearly had a flaw. She watched as Luke picked up the foot-long panel and ran his large hands down the unusual sheen of the wood.

His eyes were intent as he scanned the workbench and chose a slender tool from among the gougers and scrapers. There was an air of suppressed energy in his movements, almost a sensuality in the way he turned the wood in his hands.

“Luke?”

“Hmmm?”

He was making small additions to the scrollwork, bending to cast an eye over the wood, then straightening to start again.

“Why don’t you tell your
daed
the truth?”

He stilled and stared at her. “What do you mean?”

She gestured to the wood. “You love this; you always have. Tell your father so you can get out of that office.”
And away from women like Barbara
. . .

He bent over the wood again with a shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”

She was silent, watching him work, liking the way the dust motes he stirred up played in the fall of light and landed in his brown hair. She’d rarely seen him so enthused, and her throat ached when she thought of the hours he gave without complaint to the work his father expected of him. Perhaps that was why he sought some sort of diversion—dressing like an
Englischer
, playing at being a thief. But still, it didn’t quite make sense . . .

After a few minutes he looked up with satisfaction. “There.” He blew the wood off and tilted it toward her as the sound of a wagon and horse echoed from outside. Luke put the wood down, stepped away from the workbench, and caught her hand. He pulled her toward the door as Mark entered, looking hunted.

“
Daed
’s back.”

Luke gave him a swift cuff on the shoulder and looked out to see their father coming toward the door.

“Daed
.
”
Luke greeted him calmly. “I was about to see Rose to her buggy, if you’ll excuse us.”

“
Ya
, surely. I wanted to see how Mark did on the—”

Rose watched as he broke off and drifted past them to the workbench. The older man lifted the wooden piece with near reverent hands. “
Ach
, Mark. What is this?”

Mark stepped forward as if to speak when Luke caught his arm.

“It’s wondrous craftsmanship, my son. And I’ll risk the vanity to tell you so. I’ve never seen the like of such an intricate design.”

Rose watched Mark open his mouth again, and Luke turned abruptly. She felt the jolt through their entwined hands when his elbow connected with Mark’s ribs, knocking the breath from him. Then Luke pulled her out the door and into the sunlight.

“W
HAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?
” R
OSE HISSED
. S
HE SNATCHED
her hand away from him as he moved to help her up into the wagon.

He swung up beside her. “What?”

“Why would you let your
daed
think that Mark fixed that design?”

Luke lifted the reins and tilted his hat back a bit, exposing his handsome profile. He answered slowly. “It would trouble my father—make him feel torn if he knew I could work wood like that. It’s less worry for him if I do the books. And he doesn’t need any worry—not since
Mamm
. . . well . . .”

“You miss her so much, don’t you?”

She watched him reach to rub at his neck as if to soothe an ever-present ache. “
Ya
, of course I do.”

“I never asked you before . . . did she know? I mean, how much you love the woodworking?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I planned on telling her once, and then there was the flu. It all happened so fast. And
Daed
, well . . . it nearly broke him.”

Rose took a deep breath and a shot in the dark. “You’re afraid. It’s not your
daed
, Luke—it’s you. You’re afraid to be who you really are.”

He turned to face her, blinking solemnly. “
Ya
. You’re right, Rose. And you’d know, because your secret is that you’re afraid yourself. So don’t tell me about being who you really are.”

“I know who I am,” she cried, wanting it to be true. Wanting to banish the meetings with him as the
Englischer
in the woods from her mind. Suddenly, the planned footing of her future seemed treacherously slippery.