Forbidden (22 page)

This would never work.

Roc stared at his reflection in the small, dingy mirror outside the changing stall. It looked like someone had highjacked his body. Decked out in an austere black jacket, white shirt, black pants, and black work boots, he looked…ridiculous. This plain getup was fine for folks like Levi or any of the other Amish folks he'd met while in Pennsylvania, but for him…no way.

He never believed he belonged on the cover of
GQ
Magazine
or anything. He'd always been a rebel, not a conformer. The only rebellious thing on him now was his beard, which was beginning to fill in but still looked scruffy. Since married Amish grew their beards long, he figured he could keep that unruly streak a while longer.

“This isn't going to work.” He expressed his doubts to Rachel, who was now dressed in a plain, cornflower-blue dress with all the black accoutrements.

“It must.” She spoke softly. “The Fishers' lives depend on it.”

The new suspender rubbed against his shoulder wound, and he shrugged out of one coat sleeve and let the suspender dangle at his side. As he slid his arm back into the coat, he realized the problem with these pants—they needed suspenders. The loose sides of his plain trousers drooped.
Great.
Where would he hide his Glock? He couldn't stuff it in the back of his pants, and he'd left the holster back in Brody's apartment. So for now, he slid the Glock in his coat pocket.

“Doing okay back there?” The store clerk walked toward them.

It wasn't much of a shop, more a catchall kind of place. When they had reached Peebles, Rachel had asked an Amish woman, who looked older than the hills, where they might buy some clothes. The elderly woman had directed them to this out-of-the-way, unassuming shop.

“Can I get you anything else?” the clerk asked.

Roc glanced at Rachel then told the clerk, “Yes.” Then he thought better of his response and added, “
Ja.
A hat.”

After being fitted with a wide-brimmed straw hat, Roc paid the shop owner.

“
Danke
,” Rachel said to the man. It was her subtle way of showing Roc how to behave. He watched her demeanor, the slight lowering of her chin, the demure look.
Did
the
men
have
to
behave
the
same?
He tried to remember how Levi spoke and acted. Levi Fisher was a man—solid, strong, and yet humble all at the same time. Roc admired the younger man, and yet he didn't know if he could conduct himself in the same way. But he'd try. So he followed as Rachel walked toward the door and attempted to parrot her. “Yes…
ja
, right.
Danke.
”

He tried to pick up the rhythm of the speech and dialect, but it wouldn't be easy. His plan was to get to Jonas Fisher's place and stay in lock-down mode until the danger had passed.

Earlier, Roc had explained to the shopkeeper they had run away from home and eloped. They were coming back to apologize to their families, but they wanted to look respectable and plain as they did so. The man's gaze avoided Rachel's big belly, but he nodded and then had found what they needed.

Roc held the door for Rachel as she stepped outside. Both of them carried a small plastic bag with an extra change of clothes they'd purchased.

It was a sunny day with a cloudless sky, and the temperature was climbing its way up the thermostat. They'd taken train, bus, car, and bus again to get this far, purposefully taking a circuitous route. They were in Adams County, an hour or so away from Cincinnati, and not too far from the little community of Unity. Just beyond was Harmony, where Levi's folks lived.

This quaint town had a Main Street running through the center, where most of the businesses lined up respectfully. Mostly, cars traveled along the two-lane road, but occasionally he spotted a horse and buggy, the clip-clopping sound so reminiscent of Promise.

Most stores had hitching posts for the Amish buggies, which made Roc feel as if they'd time-warped back to the 1800s. The village was situated not too far off the Appalachian Highway, which placed them in a remote part of the country. A place Roc hoped Akiva would never be able to find.

“Now what?” Rachel asked, glancing around at the tall oaks and pines.

“While you were changing”—Roc guided her down the edge of the road, which didn't have a sidewalk—“I asked the shopkeeper if there was a driver we could hire to get us to Harmony.” He'd remembered talking to Amish teens back in Promise, who had told him they couldn't own a car, but they could hire a driver without any ramifications or consequences from the
Ordnung
. He figured it was the best way to arrive at the Fishers'. “He told me of a fella who runs a nursery. A Mennonite. His son drives some of their Amish neighbors around.”

She nodded. “But we need to take care of your beard.”

“My beard?” Roc rubbed his jaw. “I thought a married Amish man grew a beard, and since we're supposed to be—”

“Yes, but”—she covered her upper lip with her forefinger—“not here.”

“You're gonna make me shave my moustache?”

“Of course not,” she said, her mouth curling at the corner.

He frowned. “All right, fine. We'll get a razor at the general store. You'll have to do it though, so it's authentic.”

It wasn't a far walk to the general store and then the nursery, and his shoulder was feeling somewhat better as long as he didn't move it much. A sign for Serpent Mound grabbed his attention. Below the arrow, pointing cars in the direction of the tourist attraction, the sign read, “Ancient Native American Burial Mound.” He figured he'd stay clear of that location. Cemeteries of any kind had never interested him, and since rescuing Rachel's sister in the Promise Cemetery he preferred to keep his distance.

It felt as if suddenly every eye in the village stared at him. The sun blazed downward like a spotlight, and Roc sweated as a couple of girls on bikes giggled at them.
What? Did he have his zipper undone? Oh, yeah, right. No zipper.

A little boy pointed. Roc glowered back.

It was then that he realized they were all gawking at what they believed was an Amish couple walking along the sidewalk. Even in this area, with many Amish around, apparently they were still quite a novelty to the “English.”

A woman in a car stared at them as she drove by, her car swerving out of her lane. Roc glared at the woman and opened his mouth to holler “Get a life!” when Rachel placed a restraining hand on his sleeve. It was a subtle touch, but it jolted him like a shock of electricity. He jerked his gaze toward her.

She gave a tiny shake of her head. “It's okay, Roc.”

“No, it's not.” His head swiveled back toward the woman in the car, but she was long gone. “What are they staring at, anyway? You'd think we were buck naked or something.”

Rachel's cheeks brightened. “We're interesting to them.”

“Like a zoo animal or what?”

“They're just curious.”

“They're the freaks.” He raised his voice and glanced around.

Her hand smoothed out the material of his sleeve as if she could soothe his flustered emotions. “It's all right. Just ignore them.”

It wasn't that he was embarrassed or humiliated, but he felt protective of Rachel, realizing what all she and her family and friends had to put up with from these bozos. “So, you can do that? Just ignore them?”

As they slowed to a stop in front of the general store, she turned and looked right into his eyes. “We must.”

***

A few minutes later they had procured a ride from the Mennonite's son, along with a pair of scissors and razor. Roc sat on a metal stool behind a shed and refused to look at the hair falling around his feet as Rachel trimmed his hair into the bowl shape Amish men wore.

Finally, she gave his hair an approving nod and reached for the razor, examining it. “You sure you don't want to do it?”

He held a can of shaving cream in one hand and a snow-cone-looking pile of it in his other palm. “What if I shave the wrong part? Then I'll look wrong. Out of place.”

She gave a grim nod. “All right.”

Dipping her fingers into the mound of shaving cream, she dabbed it around his mouth. He ignored the sensation her touch provoked. It had been a long time since he'd been this close to a woman, but he stared straight at her swollen belly and reminded himself she belonged to someone else…if not in reality, then at least in her heart.

“There,” she said, surprising him that she'd finished already. She wiped the excess shaving cream away with the corner of her apron.

He fingered the bare, smooth skin around his mouth. In an absurd way, he felt naked. Awkward and vulnerable in front of this woman, he avoided her gaze. His fingers followed the line of hair in a U-shaped beard, and he slapped his hat on his head. Then he rubbed his hand across his mouth and dared a glance at her. “So…what do you think?”

She was picking up the locks of his hair off the ground. “About what?”

“Am I…you know…Amish?”

She looked surprised by his question. “Of course not.”

“I mean, do I look it? Well enough to pass for Amish?”

“Oh, well.” Her gaze flicked over him. “Yes, you do.”

“Good.” He caught himself and then said it the way the Amish did: “
Goot.
I think. So the transformation is now complete.”

“I believe something like that begins and ends in the heart.”

“Yeah, well…” He avoided her penetrating gaze and rubbed his jaw and mouth again. “Do you have a mirror?”

She crossed her arms above her belly. “Are you that vain, Roc Girouard?”

“Just want to see how weird I look. In case I catch my own reflection sometime and shoot myself.”

She giggled then hid her laugh behind the tips of her fingers.

His gaze sought hers for affirmation. If he had to look this strange, at least he wanted to be authentic. “So it's true? Looks real, huh?”

“Yes, you look Amish.”

His lips twitched. “And why do the men do this?”

“It is a sign of a married man.”

“But why?” Before she could answer, he said, “I know—the
Ordnung
.”

He didn't understand why these people followed rules set out by some arbitrary group of people. But then again, didn't all societies? He followed rules and laws set forth by the government. Others followed the tenets of their religion, be they the Ten Commandments or fashion magazines. What was the difference?

“Why no mustaches, though?” he asked. “The Amish wives don't like mustaches?”

Her head tilted as if she didn't understand his question.

“You know, in case it tickles…when they kiss.” He drew the word out, realizing his mistake in mentioning it.

Heat infused her face, and something stirred deep inside, a feeling he hadn't experienced in years. Why now? Why her? Rachel's eyes sparkled until she shaded them by looking at the ground. He cleared his throat, feeling awkward.

She spoke calmer than his heart rate. “It is considered vain to sport a mustache.”

“Huh.” He wasn't sure what to say or how to get out of this conversation. “All right then.” He glanced down the pathway along the side of the nursery, searching for a distraction of some kind. But there wasn't much of one behind the shed under the shade tree, so he clapped his hands on his thighs and stood. “When is this guy supposed to be here to pick us up?”

“Should be soon.” She shifted from foot to foot.

“Uh, here.” He gestured toward the metal stool he'd been sitting on during her ministrations. “Take a load off.” He realized then it had been a while since they'd last eaten at a bus station. “Are you hungry?”

“I'm all right.” But her stomach rumbled.

He eyed her belly warily. He'd never been around pregnant women much, and it put him slightly on edge. “Was that the baby or you?”

“Me, I guess.” She gave a soft chuckle. “Or maybe both.”

“Come on then. Let's find something to eat.”

Food, glorious food!

The words of the old song floated through Akiva's mind as he finished off the last of his meal. It wasn't the taste of blood compelling him though, it was the powerful surge flowing through his own veins when he'd finished. It was intoxicating, invigorating, and more than addictive. He swiped his mouth on his sleeve, and pushed the remains of the body away, which flopped over into the dirt.

Slowly, Akiva turned toward his companion. The stocky male was lying on the ground in repose, his hands folded across his stomach, his eyes shuttered closed. But he wasn't sleeping. None of the bloods ever slept. It was something he missed from his old life. Because in sleep he could dream. He could conjure up people and places and anything he wanted. And for just a few hours, he could escape.

But no more.

He nudged the blood's foot. “I'm ready.”

Brydon opened his eyes, and a dark, solemn gaze assessed him.

Akiva had garnered Brydon's trust when he'd saved him. Akiva had provided nourishment when Brydon had been too weak, too close to death to find what he had needed to recover.

Ever since, Brydon had remained quiet and aloof, as if something smoldered inside him like a coal of vengeance. And Akiva had stoked it into a blaze, because he needed Brydon on his side to help him in the very near future. But he would never totally trust this blood, just as he'd never trust any of them.

“Where now?” Brydon asked.

Akiva sniffed the air. He'd followed the scent of Roc Girouard's blood for a while, but unfortunately, the smell had become too faint. Still, he sensed where they were going. “North.”

He wasn't in a hurry. Plenty of time remained before Rachel's baby came. And he'd be there when it did.