The Saddle Maker's Son (2 page)

“What about the boy and the girl—?”

Susan's glare forced Rebekah to stop.

The children tumbled from the wagon and trotted to the door, introducing themselves to Teacher as they tromped by. Rebekah
caught the names
Rueben, Micah, Ida, Nyla
, and
Liam
offered in tones that ranged from soft and respectful to downright giggly. Liam, the youngest, barely whispered his name with a cheeky grin before he scampered up the steps. Susan and Levi followed.

Tobias hopped from the wagon and then planted himself next to Rebekah. “I'll help you look.”

He towered over her. Up close he looked even more solid and broad through the chest. Tearing her gaze from his beefy arms, Rebekah took a breath. “Why would you do that?”

“Because it's obvious you'll never forgive me if I don't.”

“We're called to forgive, no matter what.” Her tone sounded tart in her ears. If he only knew how hard it was for her to take her own advice. What a hypocrite she was. She worked to soften her tone. “It would be wrong to hold a grudge.”

“Do you always do what's right?”

Her hand went to the spot where she'd tucked Leila's note inside a torn seam on the back side of her apron. He asked too many questions and his green eyes seemed to see too much. “I try.”

“Me too.”

His shadow made him seem ten feet tall. Rebekah's neck hurt from looking up at him. “I don't think we should go off on our own.”

“They're only children. You'll be safe with me.”

The faint sarcasm that tinged his words didn't make her feel safe.

Just the opposite.

Tobias lengthened his stride. Rebekah Lantz might be thinner than his shadow, but she made up for it with a powerful energy that propelled her tall—for a girl—frame across the schoolyard toward a cluster of what passed for trees in South Texas. The exertion, or maybe nerves, brought out the pink along her high cheekbones. She looked neither left nor right and certainly not directly at him. He had a sudden urge to laugh. Not at her, but at the idea that any woman would be nervous around him. Despite having reached the ripe old age of twenty-two, he had little experience with women.

At least not positive experience.

“Are you coming, or what?” Rebekah's gaze darted somewhere in the vicinity of his left shoulder. Her blue eyes were as brilliant as any he'd ever seen under chestnut hair that lined the edge of her kapp. “They can't have gone too far.”

“They seemed in an awful big hurry to me.” Forcing his gaze from her face, Tobias veered between a live oak and a large sprawling nopales cactus. No little boy hiding there. “Maybe they changed their minds.”

“About food? Nee.” She sounded aggrieved, as if he personally
had starved the poor little ones. “Didn't you see how thin they were?”

Thin and dirty and scared. He let his gaze sweep the carpet of black-eyed Susans just beginning to bloom. Having had a hand in raising his younger brothers and sisters, Tobias knew all about the voracious appetite of a growing child. Worrying about them had become like second nature, like wearing an overcoat year-round. “Lupe! Diego! Come out! I'm sorry I yelled at you.”

For the first time Rebekah rewarded him with a smile. It came with a set of dimples that made her look even younger than he first thought. She was too pretty for words. She shook her head. “They don't speak much English. But good try.” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Lupe, Diego.
Por favor. Hay comida
.”

A southern accent gave the jumble of unfamiliar words a strange lilt. “What does that mean?”

“Please. There's food.” She ducked her head and studied the overgrown weeds. “At least I think it does.”

“You know a lot of Spanish?”

“Nee. And I'm not even sure I'm pronouncing the words right. I got them from a book.”

Pretty and smart.

“
Vayan.
Go.”

The voice, high and trembling, floated from behind a mesquite tree.

“I'm sorry I scared your little brother.” Tobias paused, letting Rebekah move closer first. “I didn't want to hit him with the wagon.”

“We go.”

The voice shook.

“We go.”

“No. Stay.” Rebekah seemed so determined to help these two children. Pretty, smart, and kind. She held out a hand as if offering it to the unseen children. “At least eat and then you can decide what to do next. Comida, then go. On the school porch.”

“Hombre malo.”

Rebekah's glance held something Tobias couldn't read. “What did she say?”

“She says you're a bad man.”

“I am not a bad . . .” Tobias clamped his mouth shut.

Rebekah shook her head. “She's probably scared of all strange men. Who knows what has happened to her, running around like this with no one to protect her.”

No one to protect her.
Tobias's gut twisted at the thought. He saw to it every day that his own brothers and sisters were protected. “I'm not . . . malo.” He jerked his head at Rebekah. “How do you say
gut
? Tell her I'm gut.”

“Are you?”

She thought he was a bad person because he'd scared off these kinner? “I'm not bad.”

The corners of her lips turned up. She was pulling his leg in the middle of this situation apparently of his making. “No malo.
Bueno.
Hombre bueno.”

Lupe stuck her head out from behind the tree. She didn't look convinced. “Malo?”

“No. Bueno.” Rebekah inched closer. “Come out. Please. Food. Comida.”

Diego shot past his sister and scampered across the clearing. “Comida.”

“Diego, no!” Lupe followed, one hand outstretched as if to pull him back.
“¡Cuidado!”

Why was she so afraid? Tobias put both hands in the air to show her he held nothing. Nothing that could hurt her. “I'll go back to the wagon and wait.”

He turned and walked away, acutely aware of the sound of Rebekah's soft, sweet murmurs that soothed and cajoled. His own breath eased and the knotted muscles between his shoulders relaxed. No wonder she was a teacher, or teacher's aide. She had a way with children.

A few minutes later the two runaways—they had to be runaways from somewhere down south—were seated on the porch, plowing through sandwiches, pickled okra, and cold fried potatoes. They had gained a modicum of trust in Rebekah, especially after she produced a handful of oatmeal cookies. Her expression grim, Lupe seemed to have one eye on the food and the other on him. He kept his distance for fear she'd take off like a deer trying to escape a hunter.

After a few minutes he reached into the back of the wagon and rummaged in the burlap bag Martha kept there for Liam and the other little ones. They were growing like weeds and always, always hungry. Sure enough. Two beautiful, shiny Granny Smith apples.

With a light step and a careful, neutral expression, he walked toward the porch. Lupe stopped chewing, the sandwich suspended in midair. Fear the likes of which no child should ever feel swirled across her face. He'd seen that kind of fear in the skittish horses his daed trained. As if they were sure their last day on earth had arrived.

“Here.” He held out the apples, which fit nicely in his overgrown hand. “Apple.” He glanced at Rebekah. “How do you say
apple
?”

She shrugged. “I don't remember that one.”

“You give them to her.”

Rebekah picked the apples from his hand without touching him.
“Danki.”

“There's more. Martha keeps a supply of snacks in the bag.”

“Let's start with this.” Rebekah rubbed an apple on her apron and held it out. Lupe took it as if receiving a special gift. She handed it to her brother. “Diego eat, he more hungry.”

Tobias doubted that. “Give her the other one.”

Rebekah obliged. Lupe took a big bite. The sound of crunching filled the air as she demolished the sweet treat. Juice ran down her chin, leaving a trail in the filth that covered her skin. He itched for a washrag. Martha would have them cleaned up in no time. He could take them to his house, with all the boxes still everywhere waiting to be unpacked. With nine kinner ranging in age from six to twenty-two already crammed into the five-bedroom, ramshackle, wood and Sheetrock structure, what were two more? Everything about their clothes, their dirty faces, and their fearful expressions said they needed protecting.

When it came to children, Tobias made protecting them his business. He couldn't afford to lose any more people he loved. He jerked his head toward the yard. Rebekah followed him a few feet from the picnic feast. “What will you do with them now? You're not really going to let them leave on their own, are you?”

Rebekah shook her head. “We don't know their story yet. I don't want them to leave, but it'll be up to Jeremiah what we should do next. Susan will want to talk to him and Mordecai. Jeremiah is the bishop and Mordecai is—”

“I know. Jeremiah is the one who talked Daed into coming here after Leroy Glick retired. Mordecai came by this morning to
welcome us.” With a wealth of honey and stories that made even little Nyla, eight, smile, and that girl never smiled. “Let us take them home for now, until it's figured out.”

“What makes you think they'll go with you?”

“They're kinner. They'll do as they're told.”

“They've found their way to our doorstep from somewhere far away, someplace dangerous. I reckon they have minds of their own.”

An impasse. “Let's ask them.”

They turned. Lupe had her arm around her little brother. He slumped against her chest, eyes closed, his dirty face relaxed in slumber, his apple still clutched in his dirty hand. He looked so very young. Lupe glanced up at them. She shrugged.
“Mucho sueño.”

Tobias turned to Rebekah. She was smiling at the girl. “Me too. After I eat.”

“What did she say?”

“He was sleepy.”

“Ah. The beds are already set up at our house—that and the kitchen.” He nodded toward the school. “With all those little ones, beds were first, for our peace of mind, and cooking food for theirs.”

“I imagine your mudder thinks so.”

The knife sliced as deep as ever. Six years of trying to come to terms with God's plan for Daed, for himself, for Martha, who at age ten had taken to carrying around a baby as if he were her own, for all those little ones. It made no sense to Tobias, but Daed frequently reminded him that it didn't have to make sense to them. In those long days working in the saddlery shop in that companionable silence, in those long evenings, legs sprawled on
the front porch, contemplating the sheer majesty of an Ohio sky, he'd struggled to absorb his father's stalwart faith, but to no avail. “My mudder passed six years ago.”

“Ach.”
She nodded but offered no meaningless platitudes. Another thing to appreciate. “Your daed has his hands full then.”

“We all do. My sister Martha keeps everything running in the house. My brothers David and Milo help. Everyone pitches in, even the little ones.”

As was expected in any Plain household, but in particular one missing the cornerstone, the
fraa
and mudder.

“A big job.”

Tobias cleared his throat. “Made easy by kinner who know what they're to do.”

He turned to look at Diego and Lupe again just as Rebekah did the same. “You should take them.” Rebekah's voice was soft. “They'll feel at home with a big brood like yours. Kinner will understand each other.”

“But she's afraid of me.”

“She saw all the children in your wagon. If they're not afraid of you, why should she be? If they think you're bueno, you must be bueno, right?”

Wise for so young and so pretty.

She slid onto the seat next to Lupe and began to talk softly, almost a whisper. He couldn't make out the words. Lupe kept glancing at him, her expression noncommittal at first, then curious, and finally hesitant.

After a few moments Rebekah stood and brushed her hands together in a definitive gesture. “She says for one night.”

“One night. Where are they from? And where are they going?”

“They came from El Salvador. I couldn't understand the
name. I think she says they have family in San Antonio. A daed, maybe. I heard the word for ‘family' and ‘San Antonio' as the same. Something about eating fish, which makes no sense at all.” Her tone combined with her expression suggested she wasn't sure whether to believe much of what the little girl said. “Anyway, it's a start.”

Indeed it was. “I'll tell Daed.” He clomped up the stairs past her.

“You said Jeremiah talked your daed into coming here.”

He looked back.
“Jah.”

“Why did Jeremiah want y'all to come?”

“Because we're saddle makers and we train horses. He figured it was more goods and services to offer to the Englisch folks. To keep the community going, Daed said.”

“So you'll work with Leroy's sons breaking horses?”

“They will.”

“You don't break horses?”

“I'd rather work the leather.” Breaking horses was a dangerous job, one he once had embraced and enjoyed, but now someone had to stand back in order to make sure the kinner were never left alone, never left without someone to protect them. “I'm in charge of keeping the shop, doing the bills, and making the saddles.”

Should something happen. Because no one knew better than he did how something could change a man's entire life in the time it took him to inhale the sweet scent of roses in spring and exhale the
schtinkich
of burial plot dirt in fall.

The bishop managed to arrive before the supper dishes could be cleared. Susan suspected Jeremiah hoped a piece of Abigail's pecan pie might still be on the table should he arrive at the opportune moment. Not tonight. Not with Levi Byler's brood crowding the benches interspersed with Abigail and Mordecai's combined bunch. Susan liked having a full table and a full house. The chatter and the way food disappeared faster than a coyote after a chicken made her feel content. She smiled to herself as she poured
kaffi
in a huge earth-colored mug and added a splash of milk fresh from Mordecai's latest addition, one dairy cow named Buttercup.

All the company would put Mordecai in a good mood too. Her brother liked commotion as much as she did. She needed him on her side to convince Jeremiah to let Lupe and Diego stay until things could be figured out. However long that took. Until that hollow, hunted look disappeared from the little boy's face. He'd polished off two bowls of ham and beans and three pieces of cornbread at supper.

She'd rather they stay here in the King home, not the home of folks she hardly knew, but that would be up to Mordecai. Letting
Levi take them to his house had been a mistake. She hadn't had time or inclination to argue, what with her scholars hanging on every word and Levi standing there looking so . . . so what?

What was it about the man that made her lose her normal gabbiness? She couldn't figure out how Levi, Tobias, and David could look so much alike, yet so different. All three were tall and broad chested, like triplets. They had hair the color of toast well done and eyes that color of green that reminded her of fresh sprouts of grass peeking through the dirt in early spring.

The younger boys, Milo, Micah, and Liam, must look like their mother, with their blond hair and blue eyes. Levi's face had lines around his eyes from squinting in the sun, or laughing, and streaks of gray highlighted his beard. But that wasn't what made him look different from his sons. It was something in the way he carried himself. As if a burden she couldn't see weighed him down. Sadness he attempted to hide cloaked him as surely as if he wore Joseph's coat of many colors.

Though she'd never had to carry that burden herself, Susan had seen it before. In Mordecai after his first fraa died. And then in Abigail when she first arrived from Tennessee, a widow in need of a
mann
for herself and her five kinner. The two had managed to shed their lost air and sadness in a second season of love. Now all seemed right in their world.

Contemplating
Gott's
goodness, Susan picked up a platter of peanut butter cookies—not as good as pecan pie—but they would help soften up Jeremiah. Jeremiah, Mordecai, and Will, the three who would decide little Lupe's and Diego's fate.

She turned and there stood Levi Byler, calloused hands tucked around his suspenders, a bemused look on his face that said he'd been there awhile.

She jumped and dropped the kaffi cup. And the platter of cookies. Hot kaffi splattered in all directions, including on her apron and bare feet. “Ach!”

Levi's eyebrows arched. He strode forward, stopped, and knelt by her mess. “Sorry.”

Susan's hands fluttered to her chest and she heaved a breath. “You scared me.”

“So I gathered. Hand me a towel.” His tone remained soft and distant. “Mordecai asked about kaffi for Jeremiah. Abigail and Rebekah took the kinner outside to organize a game of volleyball, so I came around to see if you might get it.”

“There was kaffi.” She couldn't contain a chuckle as she knelt across from him. “And cookies.”

“That's a shame. Reckon you could make more?” Levi didn't join in her laughter. Contemplating the soft gruffness of his voice, she reached for the platter, which somehow had remained unscathed in its rapid descent. Her hand grazed his fingers. His hand shot back as if he'd touched a skillet on the stove. He stood before she could speak, towering over her, his expression bleak.

“I'll bring in the kaffi in a jiffy.” She tried out a smile. He didn't return it. “There are plenty of cookies.”

He nodded and turned.

“I wanted to say . . . the children, Lupe and Diego, they should stay here with us. We have room and plenty of food.”

Levi pivoted and looked down at her. “That will be for the men to decide.”

No equivocation there. “I know, but they're only children, and they're scared and in a country where they don't know anyone.”

“You have a heart for children.” His gaze rested somewhere beyond her shoulder. His lips twisted as if he were remembering
something bitterly sweet. “Naturally as a teacher you would, even though you don't have experience—”

“With my own. Nee.” She scooped up the soggy cookies and deposited them on the plate. “That doesn't make me blind to what a little girl and a little boy need.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“If you call the authorities, they'll send them to one of those holding places and then back to their country.”

“They'll get their hearing. It's the law.”

From a motherly perspective, that meant little. And Plain folks had their own book of rules. It didn't always jibe with that of the Englischers. “They've come so far. A parent wouldn't send them on such a long, dangerous journey for no reason.”

“They can't expect to come into this country without papers and make themselves at home.”

“I doubt they expect any such thing. They're children who did what their parents told them to do.”

“It's not for you to decide.”

She wanted to say it wasn't for him either, but then, he was a man, so he would have more say than she. Men always did. Which was fine, except when it came to kinner. “Since they're here, you could leave them with us. We likely have more room than you do with such a large brood.”

“The kinner have adopted them already. They're teaching them English.” For the first time he smiled. The years fell away and he became Tobias's twin for a split second. “Martha, Ida, and Nyla are like little mudders. I reckon it comes from taking care of Liam.”

The smile fled. Susan caught a glimpse of raw pain before he shuttered it just as quickly. “They may pick up their share of Spanish as well. It might come in handy in this neck of the woods.”

“But nine are so many.” While she had none. That fact had come to bother her more in recent years. She couldn't say why, nor had she admitted it to another soul. Gott's plan was not to be questioned. “Your beds are surely full.”

“Catherine wanted more.”

“Your fraa?”

He nodded. “She always said there's room for one more, isn't there? Every time. A house full of kinner is a blessing.”

“She was right.”

“Nee, sometimes enough is enough.” His hands gripped his suspenders so hard his knuckles turned white. “I best get back. They'll think I got lost.”

“I'll bring the kaffi.”

One quick jerk of his head and he was gone. Yet Susan felt his palpable presence left behind. She shook her head. The man was so still and measured in his movements and his words. But when he opened his mouth and spoke, she felt a storm bearing down on her, the pressure burrowing to her bone and marrow.

“Rubbish.” She said the word aloud. It came from one of the many novels she read every night in the endless quiet while the others slept. She checked them out from the library or bought them at garage sales in Beeville when she could. They were stacked in all the corners of her bedroom.
Jane Eyre
.
The Hounds of the Baskervilles
.
The Scarlet Letter
.
The Raven
.
Little Women. Gone with the Wind. The Oregon Trail.
Stories from across continents and countries she would never see. New words, words no one ever spoke around her, gave her pleasure, a secret pleasure she didn't share with the others. They would think she was daft. This one exactly fit her strange reaction to Levi. “Rubbish, indeed.”