Love Redeemed (39 page)

He liked hunting and he was giving Michael the first shot of the archery hunting season. That said something too. What, Michael couldn't be sure. Life returned to normal. It marched forward, surely and inexorably. A person either went with it or got left behind, doomed to live the same painful moment over and over again.

A simple invitation to hunt moved his life forward. His dad might not say it, but he meant it. Did Silas feel the same? How could he?

Focus.

Michael measured the distance. No more than thirty yards, well within range. Hand on the back end of the arrow, he inched his bow up and took aim. He pulled the string taut, feeling every bit of the fifty pounds of tension needed to pull it back twenty-eight inches. Carting around tubs of dirty dishes had served some better purpose.

Steady, steady.

The buck raised his head, his dark eyes bright in the dazzling sunlight. He danced on the shimmering snow and tossed his head, his neck long and graceful. Swinging around as if to bolt, he gave Michael the broadside target he sought.

Now.

A clean, sure shot, the sound a zing in the stillness. The deer snorted, bucked, and went down.

Michael let out his breath. Daed brushed past, his bow at the ready. “Good shot. Hit him right behind the elbow of his front leg.”

A kill shot.

Michael was glad. He found no joy in taking the life of a magnificent creature such as this, one of God's creatures. Better he not suffer. Michael did take pleasure in knowing the venison would feed their family this winter. With the fryers that had been butchered during the frolic earlier in the week and the wild turkey and pheasant already hunted, they assured themselves that they would eat through the bitterest of cold winters.

He slotted another arrow in his bow. “Is he gone?”

Silas moved forward, his own bow still raised. After a few seconds, he snatched a branch from the ground, shook off the snow, and touched the animal's shoulder. “His eyes aren't moving.”

Michael hung back, letting the older men take the buck's measure. He'd been surprised—shocked almost—when his daed suggested he accompany him on the first hunt of the season. He'd been even more surprised when Silas drove up to the house well before dawn. Daed could've mentioned he was coming, but chose not to. Michael still didn't know why.

Silas didn't have much to say. A nod of his head. Hand out to
accept the cup of kaffi Mudder offered. An affirmative grunt that the weather was good for the first hunt. That had been the extent of their early morning conversation. Which suited Michael fine. Nothing left to say. Yet something still lingered in the air, something heavy and dark on his shoulders every time he looked at Silas and saw in his blue eyes, the shape of his mouth, and his high cheekbones the face of a little girl no longer with them.

The ride out to the meadow edged by a deep stand of trees had been equally quiet. Michael kept waiting for Silas to give him some hint of what went on in his mind. Nothing. An occasional grunt of
jah
or
nee
in response to Daed's conversation about hunting turkey after they bagged their limit on deer. That was it.

Silas slid his pack from his back and settled it on the ground next to the animal. “Let's get him dressed.”

Daed chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound in the stillness of the morning. His laugh always made Michael want to laugh. For a minute, Michael had that feeling, that feeling that life could maybe get back to normal. It could be like it once was when he was a boy, hunting with his father.

Silas looked up from pulling his knife from the pack on his shoulder. “What's so funny?”

Daed slapped Michael on the back. “I was just remembering the first time I took this boy hunting. You were what? Five, six?”

“Six.” Michael knew what was coming. His daed loved to tell this story. “We were hunting deer with rifles then.”

“You didn't have the strength yet to use a bow.” Daed leaned his bow against a nearby spruce and shed his gloves. “Anyway, I told him we needed to dress the deer. He wanted to know why a dead deer needed clothes.”

The deep lines around Silas's mouth and eyes dissolved into a full-out grin. “Ain't nothing to be ashamed of. I think my brother Elijah might've asked the same question. My boys were too excited to give it much thought.”

Michael let his gaze rove beyond the two men, trying to capture again the joy he'd felt in those days, the abiding joy of being chosen
to hunt with Daed. Daed had given him the gift of a day, just the two of them. Father and son gathering food for the family. A long, quiet day sitting in the stand with few words spoken, sharing a companionable silence. A good day, one of many he would share over the years with Daed.

“You handle the bow well.” Silas wiped the blade of his knife against his leg and then crouched. “Clean, merciful shot. You like bow hunting better than rifle?”

Pleased at Silas's assessment of his skill, Michael considered the question as he squatted next to the deer and helped roll it on its back. “It seems fairer, I guess.”

“You mean more sporting?”

“Jah, more sporting. The animal has more of a fighting chance.”

“We don't hunt for sport.”

“I know. We hunt to eat. But they are God's creatures and they're beautiful.”

“They are.” Silas stuck his knife under the hide and cut the deer in one long, straight slice across his belly. “All of God's creatures are beautiful.”

He let one knee drop to the ground and looked up at Michael. “Ain't one of them perfect.”

Michael froze, caught in the older man's piercing gaze. What was he saying? “Nee, not one.”

“Not one.”

Silas went back to the task at hand. Between the three of them, they made quick work of it. They'd done this hundreds of times, but it never ceased to amaze Michael how quickly a living, breathing animal could become food on their table.

“Help me get him situated.” Daed cocked his head toward the spruce. “Let's string him up there.”

Once that was accomplished, they had to pass the time for about an hour before carting the animal back to the wagon. Daed announced his intention to walk back to it and bring it up farther along the road so they wouldn't have so far to carry the deer. Before Michael could offer to do it himself, his father stalked away, leaving Michael alone with Silas.

The older man brushed snow from a fallen tree trunk and plopped down on it. He tugged a thermos from his pack and gestured toward Michael. “Kaffi?”

“I have some.” He pulled out his own thermos, prepared by Mudder, her face bright with anticipation of the work they would do later today should the men have success. “I hope it's still hot.”

What else could he say? He poured kaffi into the cup and watched the steam rise and curl in the air over his hand. He pulled it closer to his face and let it warm his lips and cheeks.

“It's good you came home.”

Silas's gruff words couldn't have surprised Michael more. “You think so?”

“I do.” Silas slurped his coffee and gazed out at the meadow, glistening in the sun. “You need to finish the baptism classes.”

Michael leaned against a tree, one boot propped against its trunk. He tried to understand what Silas really wanted to say. “I will.”

“You can't marry or start a family in your community until you do.”

“I know.”

“Do you believe?”

“I do.”

“I'll get with Luke and Thomas about starting another class so you can be baptized before Easter.”

Michael struggled for words, found none. “Danki.”

“Don't thank me. It's what's right.”

“I know, but it must be hard. For you. How can you do it…do this?”

Silas's head came up at that. He stared into Michael's face. “It's what is right. Whether I like it or not. Sometimes it feels like a test. You made a mistake. Will I compound it and lose my own salvation by failing to forgive?”

“Nee.” He didn't dare say more. His voice would crack and he would be mortified. “Nee.”

“We both have to bend to the will of God.”

“I'm trying.”

“That's the thing. You best try harder. My girl is waiting. Her heart is sore.”

Michael tried to sort through befuddled thoughts. “You would still have me court Phoebe?”

“Ain't up to me. It's up to the girl, I reckon.” Silas tossed the dregs of his coffee and snapped the cup back on the thermos. “When you lose a child, you figure some things out. I want Phoebe to marry and have a family. It seems she's picked you.”

Silas often gave long-winded sermons, but it was rare for him to put so many words back to back on a day not meant for a prayer service. Michael contemplated the love of a father for his wayward daughter, his daughter who had strayed and caused him such pain. How great must the love of a father for his child be? He hoped to have that experience one day.

Soon.

“You think she'd still have me?”

“I may be old, but I recognize the look on her face.”

“Jah.”

“Don't fiddle faddle around, either, or it'll be too late.”

“I won't.”

Silas didn't say anything else. He sat sipping his coffee and staring at the meadow, his face hidden in the shadows of the branches that bobbed in a chilly northern wind. Not talking. For that, Michael was glad. He had enough to chew on.

“They're here! They're here!” Phoebe dashed from the screen door through the front room to the kitchen. They'd been waiting all day to see if Daed and Tobias would bring home a buck. Now there was work to be done. They had to butcher, cook, and can the meat before it spoiled. “The wagon's coming up the road.”

Mudder stood in the kitchen talking to Edna and Irene. They'd spent the morning inspecting the canning jars for cracks and chips and washing them with hot, soapy water while Phoebe cleaned the pressure cooker. Cleanliness was important when canning anything, but especially meat, Mudder liked to point out every time they canned. Their
small refrigerator would not hold such a bounty of meat and Daed preferred it canned, anyway. Edna clapped her dishwater-red hands together and smiled. “If they're back already, they bagged a deer. I wonder who got the shot.”

“I imagine your Tobias did. He's the best shot. That's what Silas said last night.” Mudder dipped a jar in hot, clear rinse water and set it on a towel spread out on the counter. “They'll want to go back out tomorrow for another one.”

“I know Ben wants to go later in the week when he's done fixing the roof.” Irene handed Mudder another jar. “He hated missing out today, but we can't have snow coming in through the ceiling.”

“We'll have canning frolics all week long.” Phoebe liked canning. Not the heat of the work so much, but the chattering that went on as they trimmed and chopped and cooked the meat before filling the jars and placing them in the pressure cooker. She liked the aroma of the meat cooking. It smelled like autumn and the promise of meals around the family table. She liked carting the jars into the cellar and filling the shelves. It felt like contentment and security. “We'd better get the pressure cooker ready.”

“No rush.” Mudder sharpened a butcher knife on the whetstone and touched her thumb to the blade with great care. “They still have to butcher it. Bring in the pants off the clothesline and hang them next to the woodstove to finish drying. They'll be frozen stiff as a board. Check to see if the men need anything while you're out there.”

Feeling almost lighthearted, Phoebe grabbed her woolen bonnet from the hook by the back door, put it on over her kapp, and then shrugged her shawl over her shoulders. Doing laundry in the snow was not high on her list of favorite things, but it had to be done. She traipsed through the backdoor and down the steps and ducked between the pants on the clotheslines. Her brothers had gathered around the wagon to help Daed and Tobias carry the carcass from the back of the wagon and string it up on the elm next to the corral. Simon stood sharpening long carving knives at the wooden table they wheeled from the barn each time they butchered an animal. “Hey, Simon, Mudder wants to know if you need anything before you get started.”

“Nee. We'll have meat for you to start trimming in about an hour, tops.”

They'd done this many times and would make quick work of it. “I'll tell her…”

Michael strode into view at the front end of the long pole. The buck hung, swaying, between him and Tobias. A beauty from the looks of it. Phoebe's gaze strayed back to Michael. He looked up. They stared at each other. “Phoebe—”

“Over here. We'll string it up here,” Simon interrupted. “Let's get started. The sooner we get it butchered, the sooner the women can start canning. Phoebe, tell Mudder we could use some kaffi.”

“But you said—”

“Go.”