Sarah's Garden (18 page)
She heard steps behind her and turned to see the doctor picking his way to her over the plowed fire breaks that had done so much to contain the fierce blaze. He came and stood behind her while she turned back to the field.
“What do you think of, Sarah, when you see this?”
It was not a question that she had expected and her eyes welled with tears.
“Maybe what you did when you saw the sun bear,” she replied. “Only the trapped person is the one who did this; the one who is held by all of this.”
“‘And her worth is far above rubies.’” He stepped closer, then placed his hands on her shoulders.
She swallowed and felt the tears fall at his compliment from the Bible.
“Why do you say those kinds of things to me?”
“Because they’re true. I told you from the time we first met, I wanted truth between us. I don’t know why or how or for what reason . . . I just wanted it. And still want it.”
She drew a deep breath. “Last night, before this, I felt peace that the Lord would work this thing out between us, but now. . . it’s all a mess when I’m with you. I forget who I am, what I believe.”
He gently rubbed her shoulder blades with his thumbs. “No, you never forget. You remind me in a thousand ways that you are different . . . as unique as any jewel. Your faith is real and vibrant and alive.”
They stood still for long moments.
“Tell me about the Fishers,” he requested, breaking the silence.
She shook her head. “The Fishers? What is there to tell?”
“They have a story; everyone does. What happened?”
She gazed out over the broken land and thought hard. In truth, her understanding of the Fisher family was shadowed by childhood perceptions, vague references caught but not understood from her brothers. Only as she matured did she realize the extent of the distance that the family had drifted into the world’s ways.
“There were only two sons and one daughter . . . small for an Amish family.”
He squeezed her shoulders, acknowledging her words.
“Matthew was my age, and Ammon was three years older. Mary Ann was somewhere in between . . . I’m not sure how old exactly. Mr. Fisher had a quick temper; I remember hearing him yell at the boys outside of meeting once for not hitching up the buggy properly. Everyone was pretending not to stare out of the windows of the house, but we did. Actually, the horse was lame . . . Mr. Fisher began to beat it, but Father came out and spoke to him quietly and he stopped. His face was beet red, and he hustled his family into the wagon and then drove off. They didn’t come to meeting again for the next month, sending word that Mrs. Fisher was ill. Mother went to call, but no one came to the door. This is unusual for an Amish family, to stay behind locked doors when visitors come to minister to the sick. When they did come to the next church meeting, Mrs. Fisher’s face was scarred . . . burned actually, from inside her
kapp
on one cheek to the bottom of her chin. She said it had been an accident with the kerosene lamp . . .”
She shivered and he pulled her back into his chest.
“Go on, Sarah.” He pressed his mouth against her temple and she struggled to concentrate.
“The bishop didn’t believe it had been an accident. He and the elders confronted Mr. Fisher, who became enraged. He swore he would leave the community, and he did. But Mrs. Fisher took the children and left first, hiding somewhere in the
Englisch
world. Then Mr. Fisher sold the farm . . . to you. No one has seen or heard of him or the family, except that day at the stand with Matthew. Why do you ask about the Fishers?”
“I’m not sure exactly, but I think there ’s something going on here that has to do with that family and your own.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “Remember, I told you how Matthew accused my family of being part of why they left. He was so angry.” She shuddered, and Grant dropped to his knees behind her.
“Where are your shoes? You’re going to catch pneumonia.” He caught up her left foot, forcing her to turn and balance with one hand on his shoulder as he set about rubbing her ankles, arch, and toes. Sarah gasped at the warmth of his touch and the intimacy of what he was doing, but he didn’t look up and went briskly on to the other foot. She let him because it felt so good, but then she realized that they were within eyeshot of anyone from the farmhouse, and soon her father and brothers would be awake.
“I have to go,” she told him, pulling away from his touch. “Good-bye.”
She ran back across the damp earth without looking back and entered the house with her feet tingling. She proceeded to make breakfast for Father and the boys while she struggled to clear her thoughts. She felt torn within, part of her so alive and vibrant when she was with Grant and another part of her feeling dark with the secrecy that was beginning to consume her. So she tried to focus on the mundane doings of scrambling eggs and frying bacon.
After the griddle had been scraped clean and the last of the dishes washed, she decided to make cornbread for the coming lunch hour. She lifted an egg and cracked it against the rim of the yellow mixing bowl. Her brothers had gone to the fields, and Luke was at the stand, while Father had stayed behind to wait for a neighbor who was interested in buying one of the Kings’ cows.
Father put his coffee cup in the sink and sighed as he gazed out the small kitchen window to the fields beyond. Sarah turned toward him. “We were all so happy last night,” she murmured.
He smiled at her. “And you are not happy with what comes from
Der Herr
’s hand today?”
“Not the loss of the crop,
nee
.”
“You forget our new grandbaby, Sarah.”
She bowed her head. “No, I am grateful for him.”
“Then perhaps it is something else that discontents your soul, hmm?” Father laid his hand on her arm. “I saw the doctor walk from the field early this morning. Were you with him?”
Sarah was amazed at the desire that welled up in her to lie to her father. She remained silent instead.
“
Ach
, Sarah. Be careful of your ways. You may convince yourself of one thing, but it may be far from the will of
Der Herr
.”
“I know that,” she choked out, thinking of the heat the doctor’s touch had inspired on her bare feet.
“I told you before,
Mamm
and I trust you. You’re a good girl, Sarah—you will do what’s right, what’s honorable. I know this.”
“
Jah
, Father, but I—”
A knock at the back door interrupted her.
“That’ll be the buyer for the cow,” Father announced, going to open the door. But it was Jacob who stood there instead, his hat in his hands.
“I came to see if all was well this morning, sir.”
“
Jah
, come in, come in.”
Sarah turned her back to him, facing the counter and staring blindly down at the wet cornmeal. Father trusted her, believed in her, yet she ’d been betraying him and
Mamm
again and again. Her heart was wrung within her and she thought how much easier it would be if she could just return the affection of an Amish man instead of the complicated attraction she felt for an outsider.
She closed her eyes and prayed. Maybe it was as easy as choosing how to feel, choosing to do the right thing, no matter how her emotions interfered. She opened her eyes and turned back to find Jacob alone in the kitchen.
“Your father went out to the barns to sell a cow. Are you all right?”
Sarah stared up at him, his familiar handsome face, his beautiful eyes. She knew that he was kind and competent. More than that, she liked him, even if it was nothing more than as a friend.
“What is it, Sarah? You look funny.”
She stepped away from the counter and held her hands out to him. He took them and squeezed, an old, familiar greeting.
“Jacob,” she murmured, and her eyes filled with tears at the word.
He shook his head. “Sarah, don’t cry. I’m sorry about the fire. I’m going to try to find out who did it so we can stop anymore of this from happening.”
“
Nee
,” she sniffed lightly. “It’s not the fire—it’s you—us. I just want to do what’s right.”
He frowned down at her. “What are you talking about?”
She swallowed hard. “I’ve been wrong lately, not walking with
Der Herr
. I—I’ve just been doing what I want, not what’s right. I’ve thought since that day we went for a buggy ride; I’ve been a fool.” She couldn’t stop the tears that dripped down her cheeks, and she steeled herself when he cupped her chin and reached gentle hands to thumb away each damp drop.
He leaned close to her, and she lifted her head with determination, closing her eyes. When he didn’t kiss her, she opened her eyes once more to find him watching her sadly.
“I’m the fool, Sarah, not you. It would be so easy for me right now, to hold you to a promise, to bind you to me—I want it so much I can taste it.” He brushed his mouth across her cheek, then drew back. “But I won’t have you like this, forcing yourself—not when I know you’d just be thinking of him.”
He put her from him and stepped back. “You’ve got to wrestle with your own heart, Sarah. I can’t help you in this. I—I’ve got to go.” He grabbed his hat off the table and made for the back door, letting it close quietly behind him.
Sarah sank down on the floor by the table and sobbed. She couldn’t get anything right, it seemed. And not even trying to choose mattered. She closed her eyes in despair and tried to pray.
A
s Grant was heading home, the early morning fog still curled across the highway, and his low beams barely picked out the bulky shape on the road before he braked. It was a deer, bloody, but still struggling. He stopped and pulled off, leaving his lights on and grabbing his bag from the back. He’d never treated a deer, and he thought it ironic that God should place him in this position considering the way his parents had died. It was a doe, from what he could tell, and it was flailing in misery. There was probably no helping it, he thought grimly, and threw his coat down on the ground as a makeshift slide to get it off the road. He looped the two slashing back hooves together with a rope from his bag, then eased his coat beneath the animal, inch by inch.
In the gleam of the headlights, he saw that its neck was broken. He reached for his bag to draw up a needle to euthanize the animal, but something made him take a second look. He knelt to run a hand along the abdomen to find it swollen in the latter stages of pregnancy. He drew out his stethoscope and listened; a rapid heartbeat filled his ears—too rapid. The fetus was in distress, but in the time it would take for the injection to kill the mother, he might well loose the baby. He looked down into the desperate eyes of the doe.
“I know, old girl. I know.” He briefly wished he carried a gun like some rural vets he knew but had never come to terms with doing that, so he drew a lean scalpel from his bag and neatly cut the pulsing veins in the valiant neck of the animal. As soon as her head dropped, he did a hasty cesarean and slid his jacket from beneath the mother to wrap up the wet fetus. He wasn’t completely sure of the gestation period of the whitetail deer, but the baby seemed to be fine and breathing on its own. He opened the car door with one hand, laid the little bundle in his backseat, then moved to drag the doe farther off the road into a field. He thought it to be a waste of good meat for some hungry family, but he didn’t have room in his car and couldn’t take the risk of leaving the fawn to chill. So he got back in, wiping his bloody hands on his jeans, and cranked up the heat, making time toward home.
Mrs. Bustle greeted him at the back door as he parceled the fawn inside.
“Sir . . . you’re covered in blood! What happened?”
“A rather unhappy delivery; I lost the mother.” He laid his coat on the kitchen table and opened its sticky folds to reveal the beautiful animal inside.
Mrs. Bustle ’s maternal instincts kicked in at once. “The poor thing! Will it be able to survive?”
“Yes, if we get her on fluids and then on a bottle quick enough. If you’ll clean her up a bit and wrap her in flannel, I’ll go back and Google some information on the whitetail.” He left Mrs. Bustle to it, paused to wash his hands and explain to Mr. Bustle, then made his way to his recent Internet connection. He searched for the right site, but one part of his brain was occupied with Sarah, wondering if she felt all right after the fire. How strange that he should be brought to rescue the fawn on a morning when he worried so much for the one he loved.
The one he loved .
. . He ’d admitted it to himself before, of course, on some level, but today, seeing the fragility of life, he thought about the fact that he loved Sarah irrevocably. And that meant risk to him. Of course, there was nothing in life that was worth having that didn’t call for risk. Risk in pregnancy, risk in relationships, risk in faith. There would be a huge risk in attempting to speak to Sarah’s father about his feelings.
He stared at the computer screen for a long time before rising to go and help the innocent creature that was virtually cast into his arms and decided to name her, for the time being, Risk.
T
he harvest was in, and
Mamm
declared that Chelsea could do with an extra pair of hands with a new baby and said that it would be good for Sarah to go help her for a week while Luke ran the stand.
Sarah had reluctantly agreed, though her heart wasn’t in it—and more than that, she had no chance to see Grant to tell him she was leaving. But she told herself that this was probably for the best and determinedly tried to be happy for the upcoming time with her sister.
“Be sure to get some fresh air each day while you’re there,”
Mamm
instructed, as Sarah climbed into the closed buggy with Luke. “You’re far too pale.”
“
Jah
,
Mamm
,” Sarah replied.
They’d started off on the crystal bright day. The late October air was bitingly cold, and Sarah half closed her eyes over her scarf top as she watched the farms drift past. Housewives were gathering half-frozen Amish clothes from clotheslines to take indoors to iron dry, and Amish men were working on fences and rooftops, securing all for the coming season.