The Amish Heart of Ice Mountain (12 page)

Chapter Sixteen

On the heels of another glorious fall day, Edward had been drinking—just enough to ward off the chill of the coming
nacht
, he'd told himself, and now his blood felt warm and he hurried his steps toward the cabin, hoping to catch Sarah in the bath. Heated images of her small, well-formed breasts dripping with moisture drove him forward and there was a catch in his breath when he mounted the steps and opened the door. Then he stopped still.

“Edward—I, uh, wasn't expecting you,” she stuttered, dropping her hands from the lean body of the handsome half-dressed man before her.

Edward blinked. Stephen Lambert, an
Amischer
a bit older than himself, stood with his shirt off and his suspenders hanging about his waist. His hands were braced on the mantel of the fireplace, splayed far apart, displaying the strong musculature of his forearms and back as the heat from the low fire before him made his dark hair curl and his tall frame glisten with sweat.

“Clearly,” Edward bit out as jealousy roared through him. “But don't let me interrupt . . . although I recall a similar situation that ended in a hasty marriage. . . .”

Stephen smiled, displaying even white teeth, obviously oblivious. “Sorry, Edward, to be here after supper, but I took a bad fall today from a barn ladder—stupid mistake.”

“
Jah
,” Sarah nodded, lifting her slender hands back to the other man's rib cage. “He's badly bruised, but I believe nothing's broken. I was just putting some herbal oil on his side.”

Edward swallowed, telling himself that he could bear this torture.
It's her job, right?

He sat down at the kitchen table, facing the intimate picture of his wife touching another man. Everything seemed to play out in slow motion before him, from Sarah adding more oil to her hands to Stephen arching his back and sighing in obvious pleasure as her fingers worked against his side. It was part arousing, part torment, and all so very much something Edward doubted any husband could sit through.
But I am . . .

The crackle of the fire and the sensuous smell of the fragrant spiced oil teased at him and he shifted restlessly against the wood of the chair. He half-closed his eye, his mind simmering with images of what it might look like if she ran oiled hands down his own body, touched him until he begged, felt him until he hurt....

“Edward . . . Stephen's leaving now.” Her quiet voice was hesitant, and he sat back up at attention, his fantasies doused by the reality of watching Stephen dress and pull on his coat with gingerly movements.

“
Danki
, Sarah,” Stephen said, handing her some money, which she accepted with visible reluctance, but the moment irked Edward just the same.
My wife—getting paid for giving a man a
gut
rubdown . . .

The door had barely closed on Stephen's back when the words were out of his mouth. The whiskey had loosened his tongue and he felt keyed up and angry. “Did you enjoy that?”

She eyed him warily and he gave her a surly smile and rose to round the table to where she stood drying her hands on a linen cloth.

“I don't know what you mean,” she said finally.

He ran his hands down the back of her fragile neck and leaned close to her, forcing her to press her skirts against the table. “Oh, I think you know very well, Sarah King,” he whispered. “He's built like a damn stud and you spent how long touching his warm skin before I came in?”

She half-turned, her gray eyes lit with rage at his insinuation, and he couldn't help the mockery that he knew glinted in his eye.

“How dare you? I—I'm your wife and you think that I'd . . .” She spluttered to a stop when he placed a finger against her parted lips.

“He paid you for it, too. I wonder if I'd get anywhere going that route? What do you say? Payment for your—services.”

“You're drunk,” she snapped, jerking her mouth from his hand.

“I'm serious as death.”

He watched her swallow, knowing he was goading her, and half-expected a
gut
slap in the mouth for his efforts, but then her demeanor changed, softened, and she turned. He stared at her in bemusement, amazed at her beauty.

“All right, Edward,” she whispered, splaying her fingers across his chest. “Pay me.”

 

 

Sarah knew she was playing with fire, but suddenly she wanted to catch him at his own game, best him at it for once. And by the look of mingled shock and interest on his handsome face, she knew she'd knocked him off guard.

“Very well,” he said roughly after a heartbeat of a moment. “I tell you what I want. You tell me how much it costs.”

“Done,” she murmured, trying hard to come up with a businesslike manner.

She watched him skim his eye down her modest dress; then he looked up with a wicked smile. She braced herself mentally.

“A kiss,” he whispered, staring at her mouth, then looking over her head and back again. “One kiss.”

She felt herself exhale with relief until he spoke again.

“Here.” He tapped himself on the collarbone. “No shirt.”

“Five dollars.”

He laughed. “You rate your kisses so low, sweet Sarah? I would have easily paid a hundred.”

She mentally stood her ground, not moving while he eased out of his suspenders and shirt, then let the fabric fall to the floor behind him.

“Payment first,” she said tightly.

He pulled out his pocketbook and found a five-dollar bill. She bit her lip when he held it practically under her mouth.

“Funny, I never thought of you as bearing the sin of avarice, Sarah. We would have rubbed along much better had I known before this.”

He is simply trying to make me lose my temper
, she warned herself internally
. And I won't . . . I will not.
Yet she couldn't keep herself from practically ripping the bill from his long fingers. Then inspiration seized her and she moved away from him a bit, bending to lift her skirt to reveal her high black wool sock, and she made a show of sliding the money inside.

“This could get interesting,” he drawled, and she dropped her skirt to move up close to him, giving him a quick peck on his collarbone.

“There,” she announced.

“
Nee
, sweet, that hardly qualifies as a fair kiss.”

She pursed her lips and longed to tap her foot against the wooden flooring in irritation, but then she remembered her resolution to win the game he so loved to play and let her lashes fall in demure calculation.

“What is a fair kiss?” she asked softly and almost had to smile at the visible tightening of the muscles surrounding his lean ribs.

“Hot,” he exhaled. “Wet . . . hard, then soft, then a thousand things at once and more.”

“All that for five dollars?” she mused aloud, deliberately ignoring the lurid images his description conjured up.

“
Jah
,” he half-choked when she reached to brush the back of her left hand against the hard male nipple nearest her.

“
Gut
,” she whispered, then stretched on tiptoe to put her mouth against his collarbone, moistening her tongue against the satiny warmth of his skin, then allowing her teeth to edge over him in time to the movement of her fingers against the hard nub of flesh on his chest. She pulled away after long moments, then looked at him to gauge his reaction.

“Sarah, I want . . . would you ask me to . . . ?”

She was unprepared for the raw emotion that flushed the contours of his face and she knew she'd both won the game and lost.
I've pushed him too far and now he wants . . . but it wouldn't be right if I asked him now, not when I know that it would be lust driving him and not love.... And no matter what I thought about
Grossmuder
May's potion, I can't . . . not like this . . .

“
Edward, I'm sorry . . . I shouldn't have . . .” She took a definitive step backward, coming up against the table, not touching him but leaving him breathing in ragged gasps.

She automatically reached down, intending to retrieve his money from her sock when he caught her shoulders in a grip of steel.

“Don't,” he growled, forcing her upward to meet his gaze. He shook his head, his hair falling over the eye patch that now seemed so much a part of him, and her eyes filled with tears. “You keep that money, Sarah. You earned it well—you deceiving . . .” He half-shook her, and her mouth tightened in anger.

“Deceiving? Me? All you've been to me is deceiving, Edward King.... Your women, your drinking, your whole stupid game of push me/pull me, and you get one small taste of your own medicine and you cannot manage it. Why, I should feel sorry for you, right?” She half-choked on a tight sob and he released her abruptly.

“
Gott
save me from a nagging woman,” he muttered, loud enough for her to hear as he turned to snatch his shirt off the floor, yanking it back on.

“
Gott
save you from yourself, my husband,” she mimicked hotly. “Because you—are your own worst enemy!”

She watched him stomp toward the door; then he turned to look at her with his hand on the latch. “It's getting late,” he sneered. “Try not to entertain anyone while I'm gone.” Then he slammed the wood behind him and Sarah dropped, furious and crying, into the nearest chair.

Chapter Seventeen

A storm came up fast that
nacht
; the wind howled, rattling windowpanes as early autumn hail and rain took a merciless swipe at Ice Mountain. But the elemental chaos suited Edward's mood fine as he threw a saddle on Sunny and recklessly grabbed the reins. He sensed that the horse's temperament fit the storm and had no fear as they navigated the landscape, illuminated only by momentary flashes of lightning. It was relatively easy to get to the still, and then he sought shelter in a vacant barn with Sunny, three jars of moonshine, and a fast-turning conscience that told him he'd been perhaps less than a
gentlemon
to his wife.

He threw himself down on a moldering pile of hay and took a long pull of the first jar. By the time he'd gotten to the bottom of the Mason glass, he was already feeling the familiar warmth and drift the alcohol typically brought him, but he felt no less uneasy about Sarah. He unscrewed the lid of the second drink, drained it, then tilted his head back to drowse, and somewhere between being drunk and asleep, he began to dream....

Edward woke with a start and stared into the darkness surrounding him. Sunny edged nearer and nudged him, making a low sound that brought some comfort from the dream. He reached up a hand to fondle the horse's nose absently, then reached for another jar. . . .

 

 

Sarah had tearfully tucked herself up in bed after banking the fire and listening to the howl of the storm. She was angry with herself that she still felt compelled to pray for Edward's safety, even after his unforgivable behavior earlier that evening.

“Probably out drinking somewhere, as comfortable as a clam,” she muttered aloud, then froze when she heard a violent pounding on the front door. She jumped from the bed, knowing that she had not set the latch and assumed that her husband was too drunk to enter, but when she opened the door, she was surprised to see the lanky form of Aaron Zook, Deborah Zook's younger
bruder
. His face was pale, his brown eyes set. “
Mamm
says to fetch you now.... Deborah's bleedin' somethin' fierce.”

“What? Where is she hurt?”

He dipped his head for a moment, then looked back up. “Woman trouble, Ma says.”

“All right.” Sarah nodded. “
Kumme
in. I'll get dressed. . . .”

“
Sei se gut.
” The boy caught her arm. “There's no time.”

“All right, but I need some supplies.” Sarah threw a cloak over her nightdress, slipped her feet into a too-large pair of Edward's tall boots, and then scrambled to grab bottles and linens from the big cupboard, stuffing them all into a large carpetbag.

“I'll take that.” Aaron grabbed the bag from her hand. “I only have the one horse. You'll have to ride behind me and hold on. I didn't have time to saddle her.” He spoke over his shoulder as Sarah blew out the lantern, then ran out into the onslaught of wind and rain. Her hair was plastered to her face before Aaron even hauled her up behind him and she found herself holding on for dear life, then praying for Deborah.

 

 

Aaron let her off near the front porch and she slid to the ground, grabbed her bag, then sloshed through chilling puddles up the rather worn wooden steps. She hugged her sodden cloak close to her as she lifted her hand to knock, but the door was opened before she could make a sound.
Auld
Herr Zook, Deborah and Aaron's
fater
, stood staring down at her, his wrinkled face inscrutable in the half light.

“I . . .” Sarah began, trying to speak over the pounding of the rain.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “They're in the bedroom yonder.”

Sarah nodded and tramped into the house, deciding against removing Edward's big boots and revealing her bare feet or wet nightdress to the elder Zook. She made for the indicated door and eased it open. “Deborah?”

A choked sob was the only response as Esther Zook, Deborah's mother, tearfully widened the door. Sarah swallowed at the sight of so much bright red blood staining the older woman's apron front.

“
Kumme
in,” Esther whispered in obvious despair. “Dear
Gott
, do something to help her.”

Sarah inhaled and caught the unmistakable tang of warm blood in the air. She quickly stepped out of her boots and let her wet cloak drop to the floor. Then she let her gaze sweep the shabby room.

“We need more light.
Sei se gut
, Esther. I will see to Deborah.” Sarah kept her voice brisk, leveling her words in the hope of giving the mother something to hold on to as she reluctantly slipped out for more lanterns.

Sarah approached the bed and found Deborah naked, half-covered by a blood-soaked sheet. Her color was a grayish pallor, and as Sarah tried to count her erratic pulse, she knew that the other girl was bleeding badly enough to require surgery. Then Sarah raised the single lantern from the bedside table and carefully lifted the sheet, suppressing a gasp. She'd never seen so much blood. Deborah's legs were splayed and Sarah knew immediately what was wrong.
An early miscarriage . . .
Even as she began to pack the area, the words from
Grossmuder
May's diary entry about her own miscarriage floated eerily through Sarah's mind....
Bled out . . . orange juice . . .
And then Sarah nearly stopped still as she remembered Deborah coming to her, asking for help to prevent pregnancy, but she'd been too angry, too judgmental.... Dear
Gott
, her mind screamed.
Let her live. Let her live....

She was continuing to tear the linen as fast as she could when some small sensation made her look up and she met Deborah's open eyes.

“Deborah, it's going to be all right. We'll get through this. . . .”

“You.” Deborah gasped as spittle ran down the side of her now greenish-toned skin.

Sarah wet her lips and leaned closer. “
Jah
, Deborah?”

The other girl lifted a blood-splattered hand and caught Sarah's hair with curled fingers and surprising strength. “Your—fault.”

Sarah understood and nodded faintly, longing to draw away and run from the horrific room, the dark
haus
. . . . “I know, Deborah. I'm . . .” She broke off as the other girl's eyes suddenly rolled backward in her head and her body arched, seizing. Then she collapsed, her fingers still knotted in Sarah's hair.

“Deborah?” Sarah whispered, automatically feeling for a pulse she knew wasn't there. She jumped when a hand touched her shoulder moments later.

“She's gone, ain't she?” Esther Zook asked.

Sarah swallowed. “Yes.” She worked at untwining her now bloody hair from Deborah's fingers and felt numb with shock.

Esther sank down on the floor by the bed. “This was a babe what killed her—I knows. But I'd dearly 'ppreciate it if ya didn't speak of it to anyone else.”

“
Nee
, I won't,” Sarah choked out as her gaze happened to light on the black gauze-covered mirror, a common enough thing on the mountain to guard against vanity but now ominous with portent.

And then she was running, barefoot, cloakless, leaving
Grossmuder
May's medical bag behind as she struggled with the front door and ignored Herr Zook's voice. She ran out into the rain and the wind and the
nacht
, careless of anything but getting away.

 

 

Edward slouched over the dark horse's saddle, trying to focus his blurred vision on the rough road ahead of him in the dark storm-slashed air. He jerked upright when he saw a flash of white on the road ahead of him, and then Sunny reared. Edward barely kept his seat and then he felt a sickening thud as the horse's hooves made contact with something other than the road. Edward pulled to a sharp stop, then slid down and staggered back to the puddle of white nightgown lying on the ground. His heart beating in his throat, he knelt and gently turned the body over, knowing already, intuitively, that this vision was somehow his wife, and then he saw the blood streaming down her face, making wet rivulets in her hair and pooling on the ground.

“Sarah,” he cried out, his voice sounding low and useless against the power of the storm. “Sarah!”

He was afraid to move her so he screamed helplessly, and then he threw his head back and stared up into the rain. “
Gott
, if you're there, spare her. Dear
Gott
, spare her. Take me instead.” He began to sob, his warm tears mingling with the cold rain. He reached up and tore off his eye patch, wanting to be fully revealed to the only Divine Being who could save his wife. And then, clearly, like the stirring, mesmerizing words of a song, he recalled his conversation with Ernest.
What is love? True love means hope and sacrifice and life and death . . . a gift from
Gott
. . . Death, a gift from
Gott
. . .

“I'll change,” he cried out, rocking over her on his knees. “I'll be the sacrifice. Take my life, Dear
Gott.
Take my life. . . .” And then he felt he could see her, even through his vacant eye: flashing vibrant images of her smile, the curve of her cheek, the movement of her small gentle hands. He shuddered and bent his head, sobbing, then looked up again as the unmistakable clip-clop of a horse and buggy came from the road beyond. He saw the light of a buggy lantern and stood up, waving his arms wildly, filled with transcendent gratitude.