The Rebel (14 page)

“Time out.” One of the mothers who'd been setting up supper on a long folding table waved her hands. “Supper is ready,” she called over the groans of the more avid players.
“Komm, esse.”
Come, eat.
Teenagers, especially boys, couldn't resist that.

As the kids flocked to the table, Ben's hand fell from her arm. Faint embarrassment crossed his face. “I'd best see if they need anything,” he muttered, and started toward the table.

And better for her to stay where she was for a second, at least until she could be sure no one noticed . . . Well, there wasn't anything to notice, she told herself crossly.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Mary peel off from the group and head toward the house. A problem? She'd been keeping an eye on Mary but hadn't noticed anything. Still, she should find out.

Mary had a head start, and by the time Barbie reached the kitchen, she was firmly telling her father to go and rest while she put the kinder to bed. So that was it. Not a problem, just a responsibility.

“I'll help Mary,” she said, when Moses showed signs of arguing. “We'll have it done in no time.”

He nodded, and she thought he still looked a bit tired. “Denke, Barbie. Mary. You're gut girls.” He sank down in his rocker.

Little Libby had wrapped both arms around Barbie's legs. “Sory,” she demanded.

Mary smiled. “She means story. She remembers the stories you told them Friday evening.”

Barbie scooped Libby up in her arms. “A story it is. As soon as you're ready for bed.” Mary had Abram by the hand, and Barbie followed them up the steps, bouncing Libby a little with each stair so that she giggled.

“I gave them their baths before everyone came, so we just have to do faces and teeth and get them to bed.” Mary led the
way to the small bedroom that contained a twin bed with a rail for Abram and a crib for Libby. Their night things were already laid out on the bed.

“You're very organized,” Barbie said, carrying Libby into the adjoining bathroom to wash her face and hands. “I'm impressed.”

Mary flushed a little, as if pleased. “I have to be. There's a lot to do with two little ones in the house.”

Surely Ben didn't expect his young sister to do all the mothering. “Doesn't their daadi put them to bed?” She tried to sound casual, not censorious.

“Ach, sure, he does sometimes. But he's usually busy with the stock this time of day. And we're trying to keep Daad from overdoing.” Mary efficiently washed the wiggling little boy and reached for a small blue toothbrush. “Still, it's nice to have another woman here.” She gave Barbie a shy smile.

Barbie smiled back, but her heart ached, just a little. Naturally everyone in the family would pitch in and help, but it seemed Mary felt extra pressure to be the mammi in this situation.

She couldn't help but compare Mary's state with her own at sixteen. Her thoughts would have been completely occupied with who would sit across from her at singing, and who might want to drive her home. She certain-sure wouldn't have been thinking about putting kinder to bed.

“You do a fine job with the young ones,” she said carefully as they bore two clean kinder into the bedroom. “But I can see that another woman in the house would make a lot of difference.”

Mary nodded, pulling back the log cabin quilt that covered Abram's bed. “Daad says Benuel's not too old to fall in love and get married.”

She shouldn't ask, but she was going to. “What does Ben say to that idea?”

Mary wrinkled her nose. “He says falling in love is for teenagers, not for a grown man. Really, that's what he says. Isn't that silly? He was telling Daad all the things he wants in a wife, just like he's making up a shopping list.”

Barbie could practically hear him. No doubt his list was studded with qualities such as practical, sensible, serious, and responsible—all things notably missing in Barbie Lapp, as far as he was concerned.

Well, she didn't care. She wasn't interested anyway.

“Do you have a shopping list of things you're looking for in a come-calling friend?” she asked, her tone teasing.

Mary shrugged. “I'm not ready to settle down. I'd rather be like you.” With a sudden change of tone, she added, “Will you do the story again?”

Barbie nodded. She sat on the bed, snuggling Abram against her side and Libby on her lap. Like her. Mary wanted to be like her. What exactly did that mean?

“Once upon a time, there were three bears who lived in a cottage in the woods,” she began, keeping her voice soft and soothing.

She didn't know what Mary had meant. But she suspected that whatever it was, Ben would not approve of it.

Abram and Libby settled down quickly, probably worn out by all the excitement of having the rumspringa group here. She and Mary tiptoed out, leaving the door ajar so Moses could hear if anyone cried.

Barbie studied the girl as they walked back toward the picnic table, where a few of the adults were helping themselves
to food now that the teenagers had eaten. It was typical teen food—potato chips and pizza, popcorn and cookies, with a fruit tray brought by some health-conscious mother.

Mary felt the weight of responsibility strongly, maybe because of her nature or because of her mother's death. Was that behind the acting out she'd done with those Englisch boys? As far as Barbie could tell, that had been a one-time thing, but she couldn't be sure. Teens were experts at fooling their elders.

But at least she felt certain that there was a connection. If Mary's home responsibilities could be eased a little, would that help?

Barbie found her gaze seeking Benuel, finding him as quickly as a horse found the barn at feeding time. He was leaning against the barn where they'd had worship that morning, his straw hat tilted at an angle that hid his eyes. The setting sun, striking down on him, turned his reddish-brown beard to flame.

Should she say something to him about the responsibility Mary carried? Or would he think she was inquiring as to his love life? The thought probably embarrassed her even more than it would him.

But Mary was more important than whatever minor embarrassment it might cause her. Anyway, she didn't have to bring up Mary's revelation about his search for a suitable wife. She just needed to point out her concern about relieving some of Mary's responsibilities in the household. Surely Ben could hire someone to come in and help out a few hours a day.

It would have to be the right person, of course. He couldn't turn those precious little ones over to just anyone. Someone gentle and loving and experienced . . .

Now she was the one making up a shopping list. It wasn't up to her anyway. But if she intended to strike while the iron was hot, she'd best speak to Ben now, before the games came to an end and the singing began.

Barbie drifted in Ben's direction, trying not to be obvious, until she ended up next to him. She kept her gaze fixed on the game.

“It looks as if everyone is having fun,” she said. Was she being impetuous, bringing this up without thinking it through first? If so, well—that was part of her character, wasn't it? Anyway, it couldn't do any harm.

“Hard to believe we used to enjoy evenings like this, isn't it?” Ben sounded relaxed. “I saw you go in the house with Mary. Is everything all right?”

He was leading right into what she wanted to say. “She didn't want to leave your daad to put the kinder to bed, so I helped her.”

He turned to face her. “I had planned to do it, but Daad insisted.”

At least he'd had good intentions. “He was still insisting when we got there, but between us, we managed to convince him.”

“Denke.” A line appeared between his brows. “I should have realized.”

She suspected he hated to admit that his young sister had been more diligent than he was in this particular circumstance. “Mary certainly takes on a lot of responsibility for someone her age. I'm sure I wasn't nearly as reliable at sixteen.” She darted a look at him. “And if you suggest I'm still not, I'm not going to be very pleased with you.”

The slight frown disappeared, and his eyes crinkled. “I
wouldn't dream of it.” There was a certain warmth in his gaze that flustered her.

“I . . . I started to wonder if Mary might have been feeling overwhelmed.” She had to tread carefully, not wanting to suggest that he was at fault. “Perhaps that had something to do with her cutting loose that night.”

“If you're saying I expect too much of her—”

“No, I'm not.” She snapped the words in exasperation. “That's just what I was afraid you'd think. I'm saying that Mary expects too much of herself.”

It must have taken a moment for him to absorb the words. He stood looking down at her, his face grim as he struggled with it. Finally he let out a long breath, and his broad shoulders moved restlessly under the fabric of his shirt.

“Before Mamm died, Mary was the perkiest little thing you'd ever want to see.” He said the words slowly, looking back into a past that had more than its share of pain. “Then . . . ach, Mamm's death changed everything. And then Donna.” His face twisted. “If you're expecting us to be a normal happy family after all that, you're not as smart as I'd thought.”

She had the sense that the bitterness in his words wasn't really intended for her. “I know,” she said quietly.

The sun slid behind the ridge, streaking the sky with pink and purple. The game in front of them came to an end. In the barn, someone had lit the lanterns on the tables, and their glow filtered out. As if in answer to an unseen signal, the kids began to form two lines—boys in one, girls in the other.

Ben shook his head like a dog coming out of the stream. “We'd best get inside,” he said shortly, and turned away.

She followed him more slowly. She still hadn't brought up
the idea of finding someone to come in and help with the house and kinder, but obviously now wasn't the time.

In the barn, the tables were arranged end to end to form one long table with benches along the sides. There were chairs placed at either end for the adults, so Barbie moved to her place next to one of the mothers, while Ben settled at the far end.

After a moment, the youngsters began to file in, just as they would for worship. But unlike at worship, this was a cheerful, chattering parade as they came past the chaperones, shaking hands and joking before going to the tables, boys on one side, girls on the other.

Gradually the group fell silent. One of the boys would probably start the singing, and judging by the glances, they'd picked Seth Unser, a shy sixteen-year-old. He looked around, gulped, and began a song in a surprisingly deep voice. The others joined in, and their young voices lifted to the rafters of the old barn.

Barbie was startled to find tears stinging her eyes. They were so young, their voices so pure. When she'd been their age, she'd thought life was such a simple thing. Her worries then had been trivial, almost silly, in comparison to those that confronted her now.

Or those that confronted Mary. She sought out the girl. Her face was lifted, her throat moving as she sang. If only . . .

Well, she didn't know what. She just knew she wanted to make things better for Mary.

Barbie found her gaze drawn to Ben, sitting almost directly opposite her. He was looking at her, his eyes intent, and she felt the flush rising in her cheeks. What was he thinking? That she had intruded into his family's private sorrows? Or something else entirely?

The singing went on, from one song to the next with barely a pause between them. Now the girls were starting, with the other voices joining in at the end of the first line. Barbie tried to concentrate on the words and the voices, keeping her eyes from straying toward Benuel by force of will.

She'd succeeded fairly well up until the point at which the young singers took a break, heading for the tables where lemonade, soft drinks, and snacks had been put out. They would chatter, refresh themselves, and be ready for another hour of signing.

They would also begin to pair off. She remembered that part of the process only too clearly. Barbie slipped toward the door. If she went outside, she could both keep an eye on any couples who decided to take advantage of the moment and also evade Benuel, who seemed to be working his way through the crowd in her direction.

She tried to tell herself she wasn't being cowardly in avoiding him. But those moments when he'd let her see a small part of his inward pain—she hadn't quite known how to handle it. She still didn't. It was far easier to spar with Ben than to speak seriously with him.

Just a step or two from the barn door the spring evening enveloped her. The breeze was cool enough to be refreshing and carried the faint scent of hyacinths from the spring bulbs that someone, probably Ben's mother, had planted beyond the toolshed. She was near the paddock gate, and one of the buggy horses, displaced from the barn for the day, whickered softly, sensing her presence.

“Hush, now.” She moved to the gate and patted the nose that poked over inquiringly.

“Barbie.”

She hadn't heard him coming, but she, like the horses, had sensed Ben a second before he spoke.

She turned toward him, trusting the darkness to hide it if that betraying flush returned to her cheeks. What was she thinking of, to let herself be flustered by someone like Ben Kauffmann?

“Just thought someone should take a look around, in case any courting couples decided to make a break for it.” She kept her voice light.

“I think we are the only ones out here now.” He moved until he was only a step away.

“I guess we can go back in, then, can't we?”

“Not yet.” He put out a detaining hand and clasped her wrist in a warm grip. “We didn't have a chance to finish what we were saying. About Mary.”

Her taut muscles relaxed. She was perfectly willing to talk about Mary, just as long as it didn't move into dangerously personal territory.