Katie's Choice (5 page)

Ruth washed her face in the bathroom sink, then padded her way to the bedroom she shared with Abram. How many years had it been? Thirty-six if she counted the first year they were married. They had adopted the traditional way and spent the first year of their marriage traveling from one family member’s house to another until they moved back in with her
elders
.

Thirty-six years together and never had she felt this self-conscious around her husband. It was wrong, she knew, and everyday she asked God for guidance and deliverance from her prideful thoughts. She had suffered through the surgery, accepted that her body was forever altered. She had accepted it as much as a person possibly could. But each day she was more and more aware that her bones practically showed through her skin, skin that was pale and waxy, as her hair fell out in huge clumps.

“Time for bed,” Abram said, standing on the opposite side from the door.

“
Jah
,” she said, touching her bonnet only briefly. Not too long ago this was the time of night when she would brush her hair, running her fingers through it to keep it healthy and whole. But after this last treatment, she barely had any hair to speak of.

Lord, I did as You commanded. I’m fightin’ this cancer, but I’m not able to fight these unholy thoughts. Help me, Dear Lord, to change these thoughts and accept this change without grief. Aemen.

She didn’t want to feel this way, to be vain and proud, but how could she not lament her hair? The Bible said a woman’s hair was her crowning glory. All the glory was to go to God, but she had no glory left.

She extinguished the lamp and pulled back the covers on her side of the bed. She slipped between the sheets and turned away.

“Ruth?”

She didn’t answer, hoping he would just go to sleep. The medications had left her moody and tired, and she wanted nothing more than to be left in peace. Just what did the Lord want from her to fight this awful disease? Why didn’t He just allow her to die with dignity?

Shame washed over her at the thought.

Abram touched her shoulder, his hand calloused and warm. “Ruthie?”

She choked back a sigh at the comfort his touch brought. She was weak and unworthy. Not quite whole and not quite healed. Undeserving.

“I’m tired, Abram.” She pulled the covers upward, until he relented, retreating back to his side of the bed they shared. Then she silently cried herself to sleep.

Zane felt a hand on his shoulder and a not-so-gentle nudge.

“Day’s comin’. Get up.
Mach schnell
.”

“Huh? What?” He pried his eyes open, but had to blink to make sure he was seeing everything correctly. John Paul stood over him, a big grin on his face and not looking at all like he’d had less than—Zane checked his watch—five hours of sleep.

“
Guder mariye
, sleepy bones. The cows are a’waitin’.”

Zane resisted the urge to throw the covers back over his head and pretend he wasn’t home. He really thought they’d been joking when they said their day started before the sun. He wasn’t a slacker, but at least he let the sun make an appearance before being forced out of bed.

“The cows are waiting on what?”

“Us.” John Paul pulled the covers to the floor, and Zane pushed himself into a sitting position, still wiping the webs of sleep from his brain. He shouldn’t have stayed up so late logging in the countless questions he had for the Fishers. Sometime around midnight he had powered down his computer, dry-swallowed a sleeping pill, and tried to let the day ease away. Considering the foggy state of his brain he should have probably only taken half the tablet, but how was he supposed to know that early meant
early?
Besides, he couldn’t rest without one. Between the nighttime pain and disturbing dreams of war, medication was his only solution for a restful sleep.
Note to self: Go to bed at a decent hour tonight. Morning comes before sunrise to the Amish.

Zane staggered to his feet, still rubbing his eyes awake. “We have a date with the cows?”

“Every mornin’. Gotta milk the cows, slop the hogs, feed the chickens and the horses, the cows, goats—”

“How many animals do you have on this farm?”

“More’n enough. That’s why you’ll earn your keep while you’re here.”

“Right.” Zane pulled his suitcase from under the bed and rummaged around for a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Maybe a jacket. Oklahoma wasn’t nearly as chilly as Illinois, but there was a definite nip in the air.

“Oh, and
Dat
said to wear these. He said if you were goin’ to live with the Amish, then you are goin’ to look like the Amish.” John Paul pitched a bundle of clothes toward him. Only his quick reflexes kept them from landing on the floor. “Be downstairs for breakfast in five minutes.” He winked and then closed the door behind him, making Zane wonder if he had been to bed at all. Ah, the joys of seventeen.

With a shake of his head, Zane shook out the clothes and laid them on top of the bed.

Was John Paul kidding? Or rather, Abram? Did they really expect him to go around in these . . . pants? They weren’t so bad by themselves, but when added to the suspenders and the dress shirt, then he was sure he’d look like an escapee from a theatrical production of backward lame-oids.

Maybe he could plead
rumspringa
and wear his jeans like John Paul? And then he remembered the hard line of Abram’s mouth from the night before. Doubtful, very doubtful.

Or maybe he should just buck up and wear the crazy black pants with the flap in the front and rows of buttons across. He’d promised to come here and live like the Amish, work with them side by side, and get to know what it was like to be part of their community. He sighed once again at the crazy outfit. He’d worn worse. It was only for three months, he told himself again.

Then a foreign correspondent’s mantra came to mind:
When in Rome . . .

Zane quickly dressed, looking down at himself in horrific amazement.

He felt ridiculous. Who dressed like this these days? Okay, stupid question. The Amish dressed like this, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why.

Zane had never considered himself tall. He was almost six foot, but he was apparently longer legged than the pants’ previous owner, and two inches of white sock glared in between the hem and the laces of his black work boots.

Like anyone was going to see him. He donned the dressy blue shirt, grabbed his camera, and made his way down the stairs.

The enticing smell of bacon hit him before he even entered the room. It was barely five a.m. and the house bustled. Ruth stood at the stove, flipping the irresistible strips, a black bonnet covering her head again this morning. Annie hovered behind her. Zane couldn’t tell if she was trying to help or flat-out take over. She reached toward the stove, and Ruth swatted her hand away.

Annie sighed. “You should sit.”

“You should check the biscuits.” Ruth might be engaged in the battle of her life, but she still had some spunk. Dark circles underlined her tired, puffy eyes, but her wan smile served as a testament of her courage.

Zane had liked her immediately. Almost as much as he liked coffee. He looked around, realizing there wouldn’t be an automatic drip machine waiting on the counter, and focused instead on the stove. Ah-ha. An old-fashioned enameled coffeepot sat in plain sight, a puff of steam rising up and competing with the bacon for the most tantalizing smell of the morning.

“
Ach
, milk time.” John Paul slapped a round brimmed black hat on Zane’s head and grabbed him by the arm.

“But coffee—” Zane protested as he was dragged toward the back door of the house, so close to the beloved coffee, but too far away for a snatch and grab.

“Amish cows don’t wait for
Englisch
habits.” John Paul laughed, then frowned at the camera Zane held. “And you won’t be needin’ that.” He plucked the Nikon from Zane’s fingers and deposited it on the big wooden table.

Zane caught one last glimpse of the coffeepot before he was forced out the door.

A fine sprinkle of dew covered the grass. Stars twinkled above them, but already the sky had lightened to a deep shade of purple as morning approached. Zane had seen the sun rise from points all over the globe, but there was something unique about this cool, misty morning. He couldn’t say what it was, just a specialness lingering in the air.

Maybe because it reminded him of his childhood. He was old enough when his parents died to remember their faces, but not many other details. Few photographs were left behind to jog his memory. He did know he was a perfect genetic combination of Thalia and Robert Carson. He’d gotten his fair coloring from his mother. She could sit on her long blonde braid, and her blue eyes sparkled when she laughed. She hadn’t been overly maternal, but he always felt loved. His father had a thick beard he wore year round in the cool temps of the Cascade Mountains. His hair had been dark, his eyes deep brown, a definite trait they shared. His father had a booming laugh which he used often, content as he was to live off the land and not compromise his integrity by “working for the man.” Or at least, that’s what his uncle said when he came to get Zane after the fire.

He shook away those thoughts before they turned down a path he didn’t want to walk today and instead focused on the way to the barn.

“You ever milk a cow, city boy?”

“No, but I’ve milked a goat.”
How different could it be?

John Paul stopped in his tracks, and for the first time since Zane had arrived he felt like he had the jump. “For sure?”

“I’m more than just a pretty face.”

John Paul laughed and slapped Zane on the back. “You’ll do, city boy, you’ll do.”

“So what do you think of the
Englischer
?”

Katie Rose shrugged at her niece’s question, then nodded toward the mound of dough rising on the butcher block countertop. “That needs punchin’ down.”

Mary Elizabeth popped the last bite of cookie into her mouth and wiped her hands on the damp dish towel. “He’s cute, don’t you think?”

Cute wasn’t the word that Katie Rose would have used to describe Zane Carson. He was . . . disturbing. Those knowing brown eyes, deep and bottomless, seemed to search her soul. He had taken her hand and stared at her, not lettin’ her go when decorum demanded. And that was disturbing.

Katie Rose shrugged. “I guess. If’n you like
Englischers
.” She couldn’t say that she did. Not that she disliked them, but they were outsiders not prone to the traditions of the Plain people. And men in general, well, she had accepted the plan God had for her.

When Samuel Beachy had left to discover the ways of the
Englisch
world, she had been devastated. She had loved him so very much. It wasn’t always the way of the Amish to love before marriage, but they had been truly blessed. Then Samuel had come to her one night and confessed that he wasn’t ready to join the church, that there was a great big world outside their little community. The time they were allowed to experience it just wasn’t enough to see everything that he wanted to see. He left the next morning before anyone was awake, leaving a note for his father. The bishop had been crushed that his eldest son had left, but Katie Rose hid her mourning behind a smile. After a few years, the smile became genuine instead of forced, no longer a place to hide, but her makeup as a person, as a Christian.

Without Samuel there, Katie Rose joined the church and took over teaching the children in the community. That was where she belonged. In time she knew that this was God’s plan for her. Teach the children and raise little Samuel for Gabe. She was happy with her life. It was fulfilling. She didn’t ask for more, to do so would be ungrateful. She had plenty to fill her prayers—her mother’s health, peace for Gideon, knowledge for Annie, safety for John Paul. More important prayers than her personal wants.

“I thought he was really handsome.”

Katie Rose did too, but no way would she admit to that. “When did you start carin’ about such things, Mary Elizabeth?”

Her niece blushed. “I am almost sixteen.”