Brush of Angel's Wings (15 page)

She heard the clip-clop of a fast horse coming up from behind them. She gave the reins another light snap and Ginger picked up her pace.

He glanced behind them, then glared at her. “Are you racing that buggy?”

She ignored his question.

He reached out and firmly covered her hand with his.

A discharge of current zipped through her body and curled her toes. Distracted by the effects of his touch, she released control of Ginger to him.

“Whoa.” His shoulder brushed against hers as he pulled back the reins.

Ginger obeyed, slowed her pace, and stopped when Jordan called, “Whoa,” again.

Before he started lecturing about buggy racing, she blurted, “We don't believe in worldly—”

The phone suddenly blared with a song Rachel had never heard. Jordan fumbled and nearly dropped it before answering the call.

“Okay . . . Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Okay, thanks for letting me know.” He jammed the phone back into his pocket. “That was Kayla. She wanted to tell me how to find the songs and games on this thing.”

Rachel's hands trembled as she straightened the folds on her dress. “You're bringing sin into
mei
father's
haus
.”

Jordan's eyes broke from her gaze. He straightened his position on the seat, took up the reins, and used the words the horse understood. “
Geh
on, Ginger.”

“Jordan, the Master is calling,” Nathaniel said, standing over the charge's bed.

Jordan forced his eyes open. Had someone tapped his shoulder? He peered around in the darkness. Of course, there was nothing and no one.
Just a dream
, he thought, and closed his eyes.

“Jordan,” Nathaniel repeated.

Now fully awake, Jordan sat up in bed. From under the door, yellow light seeped into the otherwise dark room. It crawled along the floor in a dense fog. Suspended in a dream state, he saw himself throwing back the bedcovers and rising. Given freedom to move about the room, he stepped into the warmth of the fog and, as it coursed its way, he was drawn to the source of heat.

An icy breeze alerted Jordan's senses. He opened his eyes fully. Familiar with his surroundings, Jordan understood he was seated in the sitting room's rocking chair with the Bible lying on his lap. He touched the vellum texture and heat radiated off the pages.

“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.”

Jordan let the words of Jeremiah sink in.
“Future and a hope .
. .
”
Did any of this have to do with the information he'd been able to gather about truck-driving school?

Timothy motioned for Jordan to follow him out of earshot of the Sunday crowd. “So Rachel was racing again?”

“Who said Rachel was racing? When?”

“Yesterday. On Davy's Road.”

Jordan tapped his chest. “I had control of Ginger when the buggy passed.”

Timothy nodded pensively. “I was driving the other buggy, and seeing Rachel on the driver's side, I assumed she was racing.”

Jordan smiled. “She didn't willingly give me the reins, but I don't want her in trouble with Micah. She already thinks I've come between them.”

“She needs to understand her place.”

Jordan crossed his arms and shifted his stance, feeling unreasonably defensive for this girl.

Timothy slapped him on the back. “Don't get worked up. I've always been fond of Rachel, but I'm afraid she'll stay
leddich
.”

“Leddich?”

“Unmarried.” Timothy rocked back on his heels. “She's too competitive. She isn't a
gut
cook.” He chuckled. “Would a man want to say he lost a buggy race, and then lost his heart to the winner?” Apparently, he didn't expect Jordan to answer. Timothy continued, “Sadie won
mei
heart with her cooking.”

Rachel needed practice. Sure, her eggs were inconsistent, sometimes hard and sometimes runny, but he ate them.

“Let's eat.” Timothy's expression changed suddenly, his forehead creasing.

“What is it?” Jordan followed Timothy's gaze to his wife holding her belly.

“Sadie, she isn't feeling
gut
.” He picked up his pace across the yard. “I need to take her home so she can rest.”

Jordan continued into the house. He bowed his head, as though in a silent prayer of thanks with the rest of the folks, until he heard others moving about. He filled a plate and grabbed a cup of coffee. He moved toward the door, hoping to pass through the crowd unnoticed. Watching his feet instead of his surroundings, he bumped into Rachel, spilling the coffee all over himself. He buried a yelp. The hot liquid soaked through his vest and thin shirt and dripped down his pant leg. His skin felt scorched. Thankfully, the coffee had spilled over him and not on her Sunday dress.

“
Ach
, I'm so sorry,” she said. “I'll find you a towel.” She rushed over to the sink.

With his plate in one hand and his half-empty coffee cup in the other, he couldn't stand in a room full of people and remain silent in his pain any longer. He fled the house, stopping under the maple tree. Placing his plate and cup on the ground, he lifted the corner of his saturated shirt to inspect the burn. He hadn't thought of himself as a spectacle until he heard Rachel's gasp.

He looked up at her wide eyes and dropped the corner of his shirt.

“I brought you a towel.” She extended her hand. “Are you . . .” Her eyes darted up and down the soiled area.

“Burned?” He reached for the towel in her hand. “It isn't bad.” He dabbed the cloth over the soiled area of his shirt.

“Your
gut
clothes too. I'm sorry.”

“It wasn't your fault.” When he glanced up, an unexpected jolt struck his core as he caught the concern in her eyes. Why didn't the unmarried men see this side of her?

“Are you sure you're
nett
burned?”

“Do I need to remove my shirt to prove I'm fine?” He placed his hands on the top hook and eye of his vest.

She spun. “I don't find you funny, Jordan Engles.”

“I was joking.”

She marched off without looking back.

Jordan sat under the tree to eat. Even though the green bean casserole didn't look appealing, he selected it knowing Rachel had made it. One bite of the mushy mixture, and he couldn't deny her cooking skills still needed lots of work. He considered dumping the plate of food somewhere near the barn and going through a fast food restaurant in town. His mouth began to water as he considered a greasy hamburger and fries versus mushy green bean casserole. When he spied the host family's dog, he clicked his tongue and the dog ran to greet him.

“You like Rachel's cooking, don't you, boy?” Jordan waited in anticipation as the dog licked the plate clean. He left the empty dish on the table and headed to his buggy. Once he pulled onto the road, he thought over his decision and wondered if it would be wise. He didn't want to be disrespectful of Micah or the others in the community by eating in town on the Lord's day. He sighed, turning the buggy onto a different road than he'd planned. Too bad making the right decision didn't stop his mouth from watering.

As Blaze trotted along the dirt road through the farmlands, many of the
Englisch
farmers were plowing their fields with tractors while the Amish homes were void of activity.

He admired the Amish way in many things—but at the moment he'd give anything to have that burger and fries followed by the luxury of a hot shower.

After arriving at the Hartzlers' house, he unhitched Blaze from the buggy and turned him out to the pasture, then headed to the little house to change into his work clothes.

He tossed his Sunday clothes over the chair and picked up the pants he'd worn earlier to milk the cows before church. As he fastened the suspenders, he noticed the picture of his mother had fallen out of his nicer pants and was lying on the floor. His breath caught. It looked wet—had the coffee splashed on it? He picked it up and inspected it. Seeing that the photo was not destroyed, he breathed easier and tucked it back into his pocket before heading outside to do the chores.

Jordan fed the calves and horses, but it was still too early to milk the cows. He scooped chicken feed into an empty coffee can and trekked over to the henhouse. The chickens flocked around him, clucking as he scattered corn over the ground.

Kayla's truck pulled into the drive and stopped. She climbed out and waved. He tossed the remaining grain to the chickens. She probably wanted her cell phone.

“Hello, Jordan,” she said as she walked in his direction.

“I'll get your phone.” He set the coffee can on a stump and headed for the little house.

Kayla followed. “Were you able to find the information you wanted?”

“Yeah, thanks.” He opened the door and stepped inside.

She followed him. “Whoa.” She looked around the room. “Does Rachel clean for you?”

“No,” he said as he continued to the bedroom. “I'm self-sufficient.”

“You make your bed too.” She smiled as she stood in the doorway.

He took the phone from the dresser and handed it to her. “Sorry. I ran your battery down.”

She laughed. “I forgot to give you the charger. Not that it would matter since you don't have electricity here.” She slid the phone inside her pocket.

“Let's go,” he said and led her back toward the front door.

Kayla stepped outside and put her hand up to shade her eyes. “It's probably still too muddy for riding. What do you think?”

“I hope you're not serious.”

She smiled. “I guess it would be foolish to ride today.”

“Yup.” He stopped near the woodpile and took hold of the ax. “Thanks again for letting me use your phone.”

“Anytime.” She started to walk backward to the barn. “I'm going to check on Pepper.”

He started to follow her with his eyes, then purposefully focused on the wood to be split. His ax strike hit dead center. As he picked up the split pieces, he noticed Rachel and Micah stepping out of their buggy, each carrying a small bundle. Rachel looked in Kayla's direction, then at Jordan.

His heart thumped hard. Had Rachel seen him watching Kayla walk away? He placed a chunk of wood on the block and wielded the ax.

He didn't owe Rachel any explanations.

He tossed the chopped oak into a kindling pile and readied another log to split. With his constant pace he had cut enough wood to service the cookstove for a week. But with his thoughts still fixed on Rachel, he needed the hard work of the ax to process them. When he paused to wipe the sweat from his neck, Micah was heading toward him. “I see you've been busy,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” Then, noticing Micah's sober expression, he asked, “Did I do something wrong? I thought you'd be pleased.”

“I understand . . . more than you think. Come with me.”

Jordan sank the ax into a stump and continued on with Micah. Nothing was said until they both entered the barn. “She's distracting, I know, but Sunday is a day of rest.”

He wasn't sure if Micah was referring to Kayla or Rachel, and he wasn't about to ask.

Micah motioned to the back door. “Slide it open, please.”

Jordan did as instructed. He sheepishly waited for the cows to enter.

Micah chuckled. “Don't look so grim,
sohn
.”

“I view wood as a necessity, like milking the cows,” Jordan said. He slid the door closed after the last cow entered. “I didn't mean to offend God . . . or your faith. I'll be more mindful.”

“You didn't offend me. And God understands your heart.” He tied the cow to the milking post and arranged his stool. “Hard work tends to keep a man out of trouble.” Micah sat and dipped a washrag in a sudsy bucket. “David certainly had too much time on his hands when he watched Bathsheba bathe.”

“God forgave him. He didn't remove him from kingship.”