The Rescued (16 page)

“Dratted things,” Onkel Simon muttered. “Creeping along in silence and ruining things.”

Isaac shrugged, searching carefully through the plants and finding three more that would have to go. “I suppose he's just following his nature. Still, you can't let him ruin your whole crop.” He passed the squash to his uncle and moved on down the row.

“Judith can make that squash casserole she does with the raisins in it. Tell her to save some for me.”

Isaac didn't comment, and he could feel his uncle's gaze on him. Weighing him, much as he'd weighed the squash in his hand. It sometimes seemed Onkel Simon knew him even better than his own father had.

They worked their way past several more plants in silence, but it wasn't the comfortable one Isaac was used to. He had to speak, but he couldn't figure out how to begin.

“I noticed you and Joseph didn't have much to say to each other this morning.” His uncle said the words without emphasis, maybe leaving open the chance for Isaac to respond or not.

“No.” He didn't have to talk about it, but he suspected his uncle would read his silence anyway. “We had a . . . a disagreement yesterday.”

“Ja?” Onkel Simon looked at him, waiting.

Isaac straightened, clutching a squash in each hand, and felt the words pressing against his lips, wanting to come out. “I thought Joseph was just . . . well, at a difficult age. That's what everyone says, anyway. But it turns out—” The effort seemed to be choking him. “He doesn't want the dairy farm. Can you believe it? Here he has a chance most Amish boys would give anything for, and all he can think of is to run off and play with machines.”

“Play with machines?” Again Onkel Simon waited. It was a habit of his that never failed to get his kinder talking.

“That's not fair, I guess,” Isaac muttered. “He says he wants to work with machinery, not with dairy cows. But he's fourteen. How can he really know what he wants?”

Onkel Simon shrugged. “He's always seemed a levelheaded lad to me. We all know how gut he is at fixing things.”

“Being able to fix things is a long way from giving up a decent dairy farm to try and make a living at it.” Isaac clenched his teeth together for a moment. “It sounds like Fred Yoder's been encouraging him, too.”

“Fred runs a fine business, so I've heard.” His uncle's tone was mild. “He provides jobs for a number of unser Leit.”

Unser Leit
. Our people. Isaac admitted, grudgingly, that Fred hired only Amish to work at the machine shop, and he did always seem to have plenty of customers. But that didn't mean working there ought to be the first choice for an Amish boy.

“Amish should farm. Working with the land is working close to God.” Isaac repeated the words that had become a litany to him over the years.

“That's what your father used to say. And our father, before him.” Onkel Simon paused, glancing over fields showing the faint golden tinge of autumn. “But times have changed. Not every Amish person can farm. A man can work at another job and still serve God.”

“I know.” Isaac did. He certain-sure wouldn't look down on someone who did other honest work that honored God. “But Joseph.” He stopped, trying to find the right way to say what he felt. “I'm responsible for Joseph, just as if I were his
daad instead of his brother. I've always known Daad intended the dairy farm for him, and that's what I planned, too, from the day I took over. I've never thought of it as mine, just as Joseph's.”

“Seems to me it's Levi who has the gift for working with the animals,” his uncle said mildly. “I see it get stronger every year.”

“I'll make sure he has a place of his own.” Somehow. He had to. But the generator, the dairy contract—it all buzzed around in Isaac's thoughts, confusing him.

Onkel Simon's face was troubled, making Isaac think he wanted to argue the point. But that wasn't his way. “What does Judith think of this whole thing?”

Isaac felt himself stiffen still more, if that were possible. “We haven't talked about it.”

“Not talked about it?” Onkel Simon's eyebrows lifted as if in disbelief, his lean face shocked. “Judith is as gut as a mother to that boy. And she is your wife. Don't you think you should talk about it with her?”

Isaac didn't have an answer—or at least not an answer he could put into words he wanted to say out loud to anyone. His response was so tangled up with grief and guilt that he didn't know which was which any longer. But he couldn't go on meeting the challenge of his uncle's gaze.

He took a deep breath and tried to relax his taut muscles. “Maybe so.” Maybe. Once he got over feeling betrayed by her silence each time he looked at her.

Onkel Simon ruffled his gray beard and moved his hand down the back of his neck, as if trying to let go of some tension of his own.

“Do that,” he said gently. He grasped Isaac's shoulder with a firm, warm hand that was still strong from a lifetime of work. “I know you're one to keep your troubles to yourself, but a man's wife is part of him. She needs to understand, and you need it, as well.”

“It's hard.” The words were inadequate to the way he felt.

“Ja, I know.” Onkel Simon seemed to look past him for a moment, his faded blue eyes focused on something Isaac didn't see. “Your aunt has been gone nearly nine years now, and I still find myself wanting to tell her things. But in the beginning, I had to make myself speak.”

Isaac didn't know what to say. “Aunt Emma was a gut woman.”

“Ja. She was. Always trying to make folks happy. And your Judith is another such.”

Was she? He supposed she was, though he'd never thought that much about it, not being one to analyze how he felt about others.

“Well, now.” His uncle cleared his throat. “Since you didn't really come over to help me with the squash, how about telling me why you did?”

The question surprised him into a feeble smile. “You always did seem to read our minds when we were kids. Lige used to complain that he could never get away with anything, because you knew what it was before he even did it.”

“Lige wasn't so difficult.” Manlike, Onkel Simon seemed relieved to be onto a safer subject. “He talked too much; that was what gave him away. Still does, in fact. So what's the trouble?”

Isaac might as well plunge right in. Stepping over the plants,
he put a couple more squash in the wheelbarrow. “The thing is, I'm going to have to buy a new generator.”

Times like this he might almost envy the Englisch, with their insurance. The Amish preferred to trust in God and the generosity of their people.

“I thought Fred Yoder wasn't in any hurry to have his back.” Understanding dawned in his uncle's eyes. “But you don't want to keep something that's his, ain't so?”

Isaac shrugged, feeling as if he were about sixteen and trying to explain something that wasn't quite reasonable. “I can't go on using it forever, and I haven't been able to find a used one.”

“You're better off to have a new one anyway. No sense in taking on someone else's trouble.” His uncle seemed to understand the rest of it without the need for explanation. Of course he knew that it had strained Isaac financially to add to the herd. “You need some help with paying for it, ain't so?”

“I can go to the bank—” Isaac began, but his uncle cut him off with a gesture.

“Nothing wrong with that, but it's not needed. I can put up the money.” His gaze lingered on Isaac's face. “But you're not holding a grudge against Fred, I hope. If he encouraged Joseph, it would be because Joseph went to him.”

“I know.” Knowing didn't make it any easier. Joseph had gone to a stranger instead of to his own brother. Well, not a stranger, but someone he barely knew.

Onkel Simon nodded, seeming satisfied with his answer. “Come back to the house, and I'll get a check for you. And a bag to carry some squash home to Judith, too.”

“Denke, Onkel Simon.” His voice roughened. “I'll pay you back as soon as I can.”

“Ach, I know you will, Isaac. There's no hurry between us. And things will work out with Joseph, you'll see.”

He headed for the house, Isaac following with the barrow full of squash. Things would work out. That was a comforting thing to hear, except that he wasn't sure exactly how Onkel Simon meant it. Did he mean that Joseph would come to his senses? Or was he thinking that Isaac would accept his brother's rebellion?

If he asked his uncle, he suspected he knew what the answer would be. He would say that things would work out according to God's plan. That was the answer of faith . . . to give the problem to God and accept what God sent. But he hadn't found that an easy thing to do for a long time now.

B
y
Saturday, Judith couldn't stand avoiding the subject with Isaac any longer. He had been polite but distant with her, and, as far as she could tell, he and Joseph weren't talking at all. Was that better than shouting at each other? She'd reached the point that she didn't know.

She stared down at the bowl of late green beans in her lap. She'd come out to the back porch to snap them so she could keep an eye on the young ones. Levi and Paul were weeding the rhubarb patch, with Noah “helping” them. Judith knew she could trust Levi not to let him pull out any of the plants or chew on the leaves, but she still felt a bit better when she was within earshot.

If she didn't have so many worries crowding her mind, she could enjoy the early fall afternoon, with the bushes along the hedgerow and at the edge of the woods showing the first colors of fall and the slant of sunlight that proclaimed the time of year as surely as any calendar.

Fingering a mushy bean, Judith tossed it into the basket at
her feet. It may as well go straight to compost. Her hands stilled on the bowl as she looked toward the barn and its surrounding outbuildings. Isaac would be there now. It was a chance for a quiet word with him.

Rebecca's comments about trying to intercede between Isaac and Joseph slipped into her mind, troubling her. But Rebecca didn't know what it was like to watch two people you loved being at such odds with each other. Surely God didn't expect her to stand back and not even try to make things better.

With sudden conviction, she set the bowl aside and rose. She'd try to catch Isaac alone. Maybe by now he'd be willing to listen to her.

Standing, she had a view of the back of the barn. Startled, she stared, frowning. A truck was pulled up behind the barn where the generator was. It must have come in by the farther lane the milk trucks used, since it hadn't driven past the house.

What was going on? Isaac hadn't mentioned any deliveries coming today, had he? She walked quickly toward the barn, waving at the boys as she passed the rhubarb patch.

The truck was painted with the logo of the local farm supply store. It was backed up to the rear door of the barn, its ramp lowered. Even as she approached, she realized the workmen were sliding what looked like a brand-new generator into place. The generator Fred had supplied sat near the truck ramp, already disconnected.

“It's a good location for the generator, all right,” one of the men was saying. “Sheltered but with plenty of ventilation. You won't need to worry about any fumes getting into the main part of the barn.”

“Gut.” Isaac leaned over, watching the process.

A quick glance told her Joseph was nowhere to be seen, and her heart sank. Why was Isaac having a new generator put in without Joseph, who would inevitably have the responsibility of taking care of it? And, more to the point, how could they afford it?

A chill went through her. Surely Isaac hadn't taken out a mortgage on the farm. That was one option they'd always been determined to avoid.

“Isaac?”

He turned at the sound of her voice, looking for a moment like one of the boys caught sneaking a snack before dinner. Then his expression firmed.

“Not now, Judith. We can talk after the men are finished.” He spoke in dialect, knowing the Englisch workmen wouldn't understand, although they glanced at her with curiosity, and the one who had spoken to Isaac nodded.

She returned the nod, managing a smile, and then looked at Isaac again. “Please. We have to talk.”

She'd intended to speak to him about Joseph—to try and mend what had been broken between them. But the delivery of a generator they couldn't possibly afford only served to show her how upset Isaac still was. Clearly he didn't want to be beholden to Fred Yoder for a second longer than he had to.

For a moment she didn't think Isaac would respond. Then, with a word to the men, he walked over to where she waited.

“You have bought a new generator.” Even though the Englisch wouldn't understand the rest of the sentence, they'd know the word
generator
, since there was no equivalent for it in the Pennsylvania Dutch dialect.

“As you see.” His face was stony. “I should get back to them.” He gestured toward the men.

“I know you're upset with Fred for encouraging Joseph,” she said quickly, before he could move away. “But if you're returning his generator for that reason—”

“It would have to go back sometime. That's all.”

Frustration nipped at her. They both knew that wasn't all. “You are angry with Fred Yoder.” She said it flatly, daring him to deny it as her own temper, always so controlled, slipped a little.

“All right. I don't want to be beholden to him. Leave it alone, Judith.” His blue eyes narrowed as if to warn her.

“How can I? We can't afford a new generator. Why didn't you talk to me about it?” They always discussed any purchase before they made it. After all, that was only common sense. But this time . . .

His jaw hardened. “You kept secrets from me, ain't so?”

It was like a blow to the heart, said as it was in a furious undertone. But somehow she had to go on.

“I found out by accident. I wanted to tell you, but it seemed more important to get Joseph to tell you his feelings himself. And to get you to listen to him, at least.”

Maybe it was the unaccustomed tartness in her voice. Isaac actually seemed to listen. For an instant he didn't move. Then he gave a curt nod.

“Onkel Simon has lent us the money for the generator.” Isaac didn't meet her eyes, and she knew how hard it was for him to admit he needed help.

Relief swept through her. He would have to be paid back, of course, but at least there was no danger they'd lose the property. “Onkel Simon is wonderful kind to us.”

“Ja. He is.” Isaac seemed to struggle for a moment with his emotions before he turned away. “It had to be done, Judith. That's all there is to it.”

Before she could find something to say, Isaac had turned away and was giving instructions to the driver about returning the borrowed generator to the machine shop. She expected to hear him sending a message of thanks to Fred, but he didn't.

She studied his closed-in face, feeling a touch of despair. Isaac was obviously still upset, still unwilling to listen to any viewpoint but his own. How were they ever going to get back to normal?

Lancaster County, Late September 1953

Mattie was reaching for a large pumpkin to heft it into the pony cart when Adam, hurrying to the farm stand, seized it from her. He lifted it into the back of the cart while Rachel held Dolly's head. Not that Dolly, their black-and-white pony, wasn't well trained, but they knew too well that Dolly could be unpredictable at times. She'd made a spirited effort to kick the cart to pieces one day when a blaring horn startled her.

“Denke, Adam.” Mattie smiled, realizing he must have come to help as soon as the milking was finished. “I could have managed.”

“You could, but you don't have to.” He reached for the basket of squash at her feet. “This goes, too?”

She nodded. “We'll take it all back to the house today.”

“It looks as if either you had a wonderful big load of produce today or not much sold.” He eyed the stack of fall vegetables on the counter.

“A little of each.” She was being evasive, she feared, but she
didn't want to talk about her lack of business in front of Rachel and Anna, who had come to the stand to help her pack up. Well, Rachel was helping. Anna was attempting to roll a pumpkin that was far too big for her.

“Take this one next, Cousin Adam.” She patted it. “It's my favorite.”

“It's bigger than you are,” he declared, lifting first Anna, then the pumpkin. Looking at the laughter in Adam's face as he teased her daughter, Mattie remembered what he'd said about Anna giving him the gift of remembering his little Sarah. That was a gut thing, for sure.

Working together, they quickly had everything packed up and ready to go. Adam lifted his eyebrows. “Don't you usually leave a few things out with a jar for money?”

Instead of answering, she nodded to Rachel and helped Anna up to the seat of the pony cart. Once Rachel had started down the lane, she met Adam's gaze and shrugged. “Usually. But not any longer, I'm afraid.”

“Why? What's wrong?” Instant concern filled his face.

She moved slowly down the lane with Adam beside her, trying to think how to frame her answer without upsetting him. “It was my turn to close yesterday, and I'd left a few pumpkins and squash out, like we usually do. Sometime in the night I was wakened by noises out at the farm stand.”

Trying to be calm wasn't working. Her voice had trembled, and Adam, always so quick, would hear it. Even as she thought that, his hand closed over hers. “Who was it?”

“I don't know. Englisch teenagers, I think. I could hear them shouting and laughing. They were throwing the pumpkins on the road, breaking them.”

“You didn't go out!” His grip tightened.

“No, no, I'm not so ferhoodled as that. I waited until morning, and then I got Ben's daad to help me clean it up before the others saw. I'm surprised he didn't say anything to you.”

“We didn't have much chance to talk today.” Adam's straight eyebrows were drawn down, and his usually merry face looked suddenly older.

“I'm thinking it might have been just some early Halloween mischief, ain't so? The Englisch kids get wilder every year with their pranks. I'm glad we don't celebrate such a holiday.”

“Maybe,” Adam said, sending a frowning glance at her. “But it could be that the kids were showing off their ill will toward the Amish.”

“And my family in particular, you mean, because of Rachel.”

She'd struggled with that thought through most of the night. Fear was infectious, it seemed, and she'd certainly felt its power when she'd lain awake, listening for any sound.

“It's not safe.” Adam stopped in the shelter of the massive willow tree that overhung the lane, turning her to face him with his hands on her wrists. “You being here at night alone with just the kinder. I'll bring some blankets over and sleep in the barn until this trouble is over.”

“No, Adam.” As tempting as it was to be able to sleep knowing he was near, she couldn't let him. “That wouldn't be right. Besides, what could you do?”

“I don't know.” He was as angry as she'd ever seen him. His blue eyes flashed, and even his beard seemed to bristle with it. “But I'd be here. I wouldn't let anyone hurt you.”

His emotions touched her own, and she fought to tamp them down. In the shadow of the tree they were as alone as if
they were shut away in a room somewhere. “If we are persecuted, it is because God allows it.”

“Those who commit evil can't escape the responsibility of their actions so easily.”

“It's not up to us to punish them.” She put her hand on his arm, feeling the muscles so taut that they trembled. “Just leave it alone. We will be fine.”

He caught her by the shoulders, startling her so that her gaze widened. “You and the kinder mean too much to me to let you go unprotected. Don't you know that? Don't you feel it each time we're together?”

Mattie could only stare at him, trying to understand the feeling that surged through his voice—that radiated from his very touch, so that it flowed through her as well. Her breath caught.

Adam's lips found hers. For an instant Mattie's mind rejected the idea, but then emotion swamped her reason and she was responding, returning the kiss, holding him closer—

With a gasp she pulled back, feeling heat flood her face. She put her palms to her cheeks. How could she? She had no right—

“Mattie.” His voice deepened on her name. “Don't. Don't be embarrassed. You must know how I feel about you. I've tried to deny it to myself, but I can't. Don't you see? Ben is gone. We both loved him, but he's gone, and it can't be wrong for us to be happy.”

She shook her head. “Don't. It's not that.” In the confusion of her mind she realized that perhaps it should be, but that wasn't what her immediate thought had been. “You're too young. Don't you see that? You should marry again, but someone young. You're ready to start a new family, not take over a half-grown one. You are so kind, so loving, Adam. That's what you deserve.”

Adam studied her face, seeming to find something there that
made him smile just a little. “But that's not what I want. I want you. And the kinder. And any others we might have together.”

Mattie put her palms to her cheeks again, hoping she could hide the blush she knew was there. “You—you're confusing affection and responsibility with love.” She drew in a breath, trying for calm. “You'll see that when you've had a chance to think.”

“I don't think so.” His voice was as calm and cheerful as always.

“You will.” Mattie was regaining her poise, thank the good Lord. She pinned a smile on her face and turned toward the house. “We won't speak of this . . . of what happened just now. We'll forget it.”

Again Adam fell into step beside her. “I might be able to keep from talking about kissing you, Mattie. But I know I can't forget it.”

She judged it better not to comment on that, since she didn't think she'd be forgetting it very soon, either. But Adam mustn't know it.

They'd reached the back porch before he spoke again. “Somehow I'd almost forgotten the thing I came to tell you.” His lips curved slightly. “Something must have distracted me.”

Mattie chose to ignore his comment. “What did you want to tell me?”

Adam's smile disappeared, and concern filled his eyes. “I heard the news just a bit ago. Two more from our district—Thomas Beiler and Josiah Kile—received their warnings today. They must send their children tomorrow or face arrest.”