Katie's Choice (6 page)

“You just turned fifteen.”

“A year, then. Won’t be long before I can attend a singin’.”

Katie Rose shook her head. “You’d better not let your father hear you talk like that.”

“Isn’t that what we all long for? To be old enough to start to enjoy the world? Maybe take a carriage ride with a boy, drive in a car—”

“You know there’s more to life and courtin’ than that. It’s a special time to pick a life partner. Someone special you can share your life with, raise a family, carry out God’s work.”

“I know it’s just . . .”

Katie Rose stopped kneading the dough and gave her full attention to her
nichte
. “It’s just what?”

“Nothin’,” she mumbled.

Katie Rose let the subject drop and instead gathered up the plastic bowl of bread dough. “Help me get these into the buggy. It’s time to go to
Grossmammi’s
house and make pickles.”

“That handsome
Englischer
will be there, too.”

It was the one thing Katie Rose hadn’t been able to get out of her mind all morning long.

Zane pulled off his hat and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. Oklahoma was definitely warmer than Chicago this time of year. Or maybe it was all the physical work. Walking behind a plow pulled by two sturdy horses was no joke. Evidently the part about the Amish not using tractors in the field was as valid as their aversion to electricity. Zane’s arms shook from the effort of holding the reins to guide the beasts, his shoulder ached, his legs were stiff and tired. Surely they were about to stop for a break. Snack . . . lunch . . . anything to get him out of the sun for awhile with a cool drink of water to wet his throat. But he wasn’t about to ask when they were stopping. After all of John Paul’s ribbing about him being a city boy, Zane was determined to hold his own among the men.

Gabriel and his oldest sons had arrived shortly after breakfast, followed closely by Gideon. Before the sky was even light, they had set out to the fields. Only Abram had not joined them. John Paul explained that he had a meeting in town with a man selling seeds for a new blend of wheat. That’s what they were planting. Winter wheat he called it, which explained the crazy planting schedule. Despite the hard work everyone had put in that morning, no one else looked ready to drop.

Zane plopped the hat back on his head, took a deep breath, and forced his feet to make one more step. Then another. He had prided himself on being strong. He had trained long and hard, toning his body for the hardships of his job. He went into countries sometimes with nothing more than the clothes on his back and what he could carry in a knapsack. That required strength of character—mind, body, and soul. In between jobs, he worked out tirelessly in the gym, lifting weights, running on the treadmill, even hitting the hiking trails in order to keep himself strong, his stamina high. But since the accident, he’d let himself slip, fighting the physical therapy, allowing himself to sit too long on the couch and wish for an assignment, a future. And look where it had gotten him: Amish country, sweating like a pig and wondering where the strength for the next step would come from.

“Ho, now!”

He turned as Abram came striding toward the fields. In all of Zane’s efforts to remain upright, he didn’t hear the buggy turn down the drive and the patriarch of the Fisher household return.

Zane clicked the horses to a standstill, grateful for the excuse to rest, if only for a moment.

Abram stopped to talk to John Paul first, then he motioned for his other sons to join them. Zane stayed where he was, not wanting to intrude on the family moment. Could it be that Abram had other news to share with them than just information on the seeds? Maybe something to do with their mother’s condition? Very possible, he thought, as he watched John Paul’s head droop. The other men stared at the soil beneath their feet as their father continued. Then as a group they approached Zane.

“Zane Carson,” Abram said.

Zane hid his smile at the title. That was one thing he had picked up in the short time he’d been with the Amish. They liked to use full names. What was it John Paul said about their names? That they used a lot of them over and over until it got so confusing that they used nicknames to differentiate? He’d lay money down that there wasn’t another Zane in all of the district.

“Zane Carson, it seems my boys have not forgotten their sense of humor, but this time it’s been aimed at you.”

A smile flashed across Gideon’s face before the man successfully hid it. “We’re sorry,” he said.

“It was all in fun,” the stern-faced Gabriel added.

Abram braced his hands on his hips. “Fun for who?” The brim of his hat shaded his eyes, but his posture was unmistakable.

John Paul stepped forward. “Don’t get mad at them. It was all my idea.”

Abram’s expression didn’t soften. He looked as stern as ever. “You treat our guest with the respect that he deserves. I’ll not have him goin’ ’round tell tales about unfair treatment in my household.”

John Paul’s shoulders slumped under the weight of his father’s scowl. “It wasn’t supposed to be for long. It’s just once we started our own plowin’ we plumb forgot that we’d—”

“Given him your
grossdaadi’s
plow?” Abram shook his head in apparent disbelief. “It’s a wonder Zane Carson still has arms for hangin’ at his sides workin’ with that old thing.”

That’s when Zane noticed that the plows pulled by the other men were bigger than the one he’d been behind all morning. A lot bigger. And newer.

“Now say what you’ve come to say.”

Each man in turn shook Zane’s hand and apologized for the part they’d played in the joke. Zane was uncomfortable accepting their words; it was all good-natured ribbing. He supposed he had it coming. He had invaded their world, and they wanted him to know that he didn’t belong. Zane had been through worse. Much worse. For now he’d accept their apologies and would bide his time for the right moment to return the favor.

“Now, Zane Carson, go on up to the house. John Paul here will finish this field with the plow he expected you to use while you drink lemonade with the womenfolk. These boys’ll finish the plowin’. Tomorrow, we plant.”

Zane thought about protesting, but something in the set of Abram’s jaw kept the words at bay. He nodded once toward the four men, then started for the house, a cold drink of something wet filling his thoughts.

The sun beat down on him as he made his way across the freshly turned earth. Zane felt a sense of accomplishment as he stepped over the soil that he had readied with nothing more than steel and the pull of horses. As a child at the cooperative, he’d been called to hoe the garden, pick small vegetables and fruits, like cucumbers and strawberries, and of course, milk the goats, but he’d been too young to realize how satisfying a day’s hard work could be. He’d been too interested in getting to the end of the chore so that he could go fishing or swimming, two of his favorite pastimes as a child.

Funny, but he hadn’t thought about those days in a long, long time. Maybe because so many of his formative years had been lived in Chicago with his uncle. And yet he’d thought about those first years in Oregon with every other breath since he’d arrived in Oklahoma’s Amish country.

With each step fueled by the need to sit, rest, and drink something cool, Zane crossed the bustling yard and bounded onto the porch. As he opened the door, he was immediately assaulted by the smell of vinegar. Zane pulled off his hat as he had seen the other men do, blinked a couple of times for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the rambling farmhouse, and resisted the urge to cover his nose. The stench burned his sinuses with each breath, yet he couldn’t imagine that he smelled much better.

He’d expected to step into a quiet kitchen, fan lazily turning, refrigerator humming, lemonade waiting for him to come and drink it. A beautiful fantasy really, most likely fueled by his writer’s imagination and sunstroke. He had never really wondered how the fan would turn without electricity, or how Amish kept perishables cold. As for the pitcher of lemonade? Purely wishful thinking.

What he did find was half the women in the county bustling around like crazed cooks while Gideon’s Annie barked orders like a drill sergeant.

Yet only one woman captured his attention. Katie Rose stood in the middle of the chaos, as angelic as last night, as peaceful as a spring breeze. She seemed the epitome of the Amish: serene, composed, and . . . godly. He’d never had a thought like that before about a woman, and it surprised him. She exuded some sort of quality that had him wondering about a higher power. Or was it just the belief in such a being that could make the difference? He shook the thought away. He’d never been one to focus on the supernatural. Katie Rose’s look of serenity came from clean living and lack of cosmetics. That was all.

He cleared his throat, hoping to gain someone’s attention.

But not that of the entire room.

All eyes turned toward him, and whatever the ladies had been doing, forgotten, if only momentarily.

“I’d like to get something to drink, please.” This would have been so much easier if the kitchen had been empty, even if the lemonade hadn’t been waiting on the table for him. As it was, he was reliant on the women before him since they filled up every available space, leaving him no room to maneuver.

Mary Elizabeth nudged Katie Rose in the ribs and nodded in his direction. “
Aenti,
would you get our guest a drink?”

Katie Rose turned toward the rectangular box in one corner of the kitchen, her expression indifferent.

Zane shifted from one foot to the other, ignoring the strange looks he received as one by one the women returned to their duties.

He wasn’t entirely sure why Katie Rose was the one chosen to get him a glass of lemonade. It wasn’t her home, and he certainly wasn’t Mary Elizabeth’s guest since she lived with Gabriel still.

He watched Katie Rose with hooded eyes as she poured him a tall glass and brought it around the counter toward him.

“For you, Zane Carson,” she said, handing him the drink, her eyes not meeting his.

“Thank you.”

“
Danki
,” she said quietly.

“Does that mean ‘You’re welcome’?”

“It means ‘thank you.’” She turned toward the other ladies, and Zane had to fight the urge to reach out for her like Samuel and tag along behind her.
Ridiculous.

He looked for a place to sit, preferring the company of the busy women to his own. It had nothing to do with the willowy blonde. Nothing at all. He pulled out a chair from the table and moved it to an out-of-the-way corner where he could watch without getting in the way. Four ginormous pots bubbled on the stove, rows upon rows of jars lined every available countertop space, and the table was covered with mounds of cucumbers.

“Pickles!” he said, sounding so much like the man who hollered “Eureka” that he almost laughed out loud.

Gideon’s Annie turned to him, her orders put on hold momentarily. “Yes?”

“You’re making pickles,” he reiterated, only quieter this time.

Annie nodded. “That’s right.”

“A lot of pickles.”

“They’re for Ruth.”

Zane glanced about the room. Ruth Fisher was nowhere in the fray of busy-bee workers. “I take it Ruth likes pickles.”

“They’re to help pay for Ruth’s treatment.”

He knew firsthand that was going to take a lot of pickles. He’d watched his uncle battle cancer and lose, his half-a-million-dollar life insurance policy barely enough to cover burial expenses after the doctor bills had been paid.

Mary Elizabeth nudged her aunt once again. “Go explain it to him.”

“It was Annie’s idea,” Katie Rose protested.

“She’s busy,” Mary Elizabeth explained. “And you know more about the operation than anyone else. Maybe if he puts it in his magazine . . .”

Mary Elizabeth didn’t need to say anything else. They all hoped that exposure in his story would spur pickle sales, so Katie Rose’s love for her mother convinced her to give him her attention.

He tried not to appear too pleased. After all, it was only for a story.

Katie Rose came around the counter again, Samuel watching her from his perch on the corner stool. He had a piece of string in his hands, making familiar designs that Zane remembered from his own childhood. Some things didn’t change.

She pulled out her own chair, placed it as far from him as she could get and still be heard over the din, and took a moment to rest. He knew that Amish women worked hard, but a pickle-making production as big as this one had to require a ton of energy.

Finally, Katie Rose spoke. “Well, I guess you could say that it all started when Annie came back to us.”

“Came back?”

She nodded, but didn’t elaborate, her gaze fixed on her lap. “She put her car up for sale and gave the money to the community fund. That went a long way to helpin’ pay for
mamm’s
treatment. But it wasn’t enough.” She looked up and met his eyes, and he tried not to notice how the green of her dress reflected in her gaze. He didn’t need to notice such things.

He cleared his throat. “And the pickles?”