The Amish Heart of Ice Mountain (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

He wanted a drink....
Dear
Gott
, I spent the first
nacht
with my wife; it's a fine autumn day; I'm dressing for church and I want a drink.
The need burned through him with such intensity that his hands shook as he pinned his shirt. He turned away from Sarah, who was making up the bed, not wanting her to see. Then he had to escape the room, get out somewhere—anywhere. . . .

“Sarah, if you don't mind, I think I'll take a quick walk before church.”

She came into his arms, all warmth and softness, and stretched up to meet his mouth.

“What's wrong?” she asked, pulling away after a moment.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”
She reads me so easily . . . maybe I should tell her. But what would she think of me?

He kissed her again. “I'll be back to walk you to church.”

He escaped the room, knowing her keen gray eyes followed him but unable to stop or slow his steps as he went outside into the briskness of the sunshiny air. He'd turned in the direction of his still when he reached out and caught hold of a slender oak tree, his breathing ragged. Derr Herr
, help me; help me because I cannot help myself....

“Hello, Edward.”

He spun round and saw Bishop Umble standing not more than ten feet away. Then he swallowed and straightened from his hold on the tree. “What . . . shouldn't you be preparing for service?”

“
Ach
, I am.” The bishop's wizened face broke out in an enigmatic smile.

Edward frowned. “I don't . . .”

“What,
sohn?
What don't you want to lose? What do you want to do?”

He didn't ask how the
auld
man knew but simply bowed his head and choked out the words that had been haunting him all morning. “I want a drink.”

“Yet you've gone for quite a while without one, but I know the power of addiction.” The bishop stepped closer, and Edward had to resist the urge to back away.

“I'm a monster,” he rasped.

The bishop shook his head. “No, Edward, you're a man, and you've been commanded by
Derr Herr
to love your neighbor as yourself . . . but you seem to have a great deal of trouble loving yourself.”

Something clicked in Edward's brain and he stared at his spiritual leader, asking the painful questions with all the plaintiveness of a child. “Why? Why am I like this? And why would you ever tell me to lengthen the distillate—to make the still better? Why hurt me?”

The bishop spread his hands before him. “I told you a fact, but was it the truth?”

Edward rubbed his head in confusion. “I cannot talk in riddles now.”

“
Nee
.” Bishop Umble sighed. “Nor should I make you try. The point is, Edward King, that
Gott
is the only thing stronger than your addiction. To love Him more, to surrender each time to Him, requires a bravery of the spirit. It also needs bravery to love yourself, your wife, your one-day children . . . bravery to be kind to yourself.... Can you understand that?”

A gentle breeze blew through the trees, clearing Edward's thoughts, easing his desire to drink. He straightened and looked the bishop in the face and slowly nodded. “I can try—every day.”

“
Jah
, my
sohn
, and you can start today.”

Edward thought for a moment, watching the drift of a yellow leaf as it swirled peacefully to the ground. “May I speak before the church family today, Bishop?”

Bishop Umble moved to catch him in a hearty embrace. “You certainly may, Edward. You certainly may. . . .”

 

 

Sarah sat down on the edge of the now-made bed and began to pray out of her heart for Edward. There was something he wasn't telling her, and even after the amazing intimacy of last
nacht
, she knew there were shadows in his soul. And, as her spirit prompted her, she went to
Grossmuder
May's journal, which in its latter entries had become rather a log of care for the different folks she saw on the mountain.

Sarah scanned the spider webbed handwriting, not knowing what she was looking for but feeling it was important all the same. And then she came across the name Elijah King . . . Of course there was no telling if this was any direct relation to Edward and his family. The King surname was prevalent in
Amisch
communities everywhere, but she read the entry all the same.

Something about the mention of drinking spurred Sarah on, and she turned the page, finding another entry not long after.

Sarah reread the entry and tried to puzzle out how old Edward might have been.
Grossmuder
May was sketchy on dates in the latter part of the journal. Then she flipped the pages idly backward to when
Grossmuder
May was still bearing the brunt of Elias's anger.

“Sarah?”

She looked up at Edward's call from the next room and hastily closed the book, determined to figure out things about the past if it might mean helping her husband.

 

 

Edward was nervous. He listened to the regular order of hymns, trying to let the sound of his people's voices soothe him as he'd been soothed in the woods that morning. He hadn't been able to work up the courage to tell Sarah that he was going to speak at the end of the service but decided it might be better this way.

The bishop preached, but Edward could absorb none of it. Instead, he simply waited until the time was his.

Bishop Umble rose again after a prayer for unity, then turned to face the group. “A few weeks ago, I talked about forgiving ourselves. Well, today one
kummes
with the fulfillment of that sermon—young Edward King.”

Edward rose, sensing Joe's surprise beside him but concentrating on simply getting to where the bishop stood, and then his eye swept the crowd and he found Sarah's beautiful face, looking expectant and encouraging as she sat next to Martha Umble.

Edward drew a deep breath
. Help me,
Gott
. Help me to remember what it is I wanted to say here, that it might even help someone else....

“I'm an addict,” he said baldly. “I'm addicted to alcohol. And after time with my lovely bride these past weeks, I thought that I could control it. Control the wanting and the fever that seems to get in my blood when I feel like I need a drink.” He swallowed hard.

“But I learned this morning that I cannot control it—I can only turn to
Gott
, each time, every day, and ask Him to stay my hand. I've also made a lot of mistakes that have hurt many of you—my wife . . .” He struggled for words. “My language has been coarse. My
daed
, I've dishonored. My
bruder
, I've struck and berated. And you, all of you, I've broken community with you all through my letter to Marcellus Shale.” He held out his hands in supplication. “I want to beg forgiveness for these and a million other sins, but I know that forgiveness only
kummes
in truth through
Derr Herr
.” He glanced at Bishop Umble to find that man smiling and nodding. Edward bowed his head. “That's all, I guess.”

He was unprepared for the surge of people around him, hugging him and clapping him on the back. And then Joseph and his
fater
were there, Mahlon Mast and Ernest, and then, finally, Sarah reached for his hand. He took her cool fingers in his, feeling as if he'd just grasped a lifeline. She stood with him until the service began to break up, small groups of men and families, pausing for a bit more chatter before heading over to the Umbles' farm for volleyball and the usual huge bimonthly Sunday gathering.

“
Danki
, Sarah,” he whispered, bending his head to brush his mouth across hers.

“I love you,” she said simply. And he knew a temporary cleansing in his heart.

 

 

Jim Hanson showed up at Bishop Umble's, much to Sarah's surprise. She offered him his plate of potato salad, deviled eggs, baked beans, and pulled pork with a smile, though, wondering if he knew that the community was divided over the idea of buying shares in the well.

She was washing dishes in a large tub when she saw the man approach Edward and hastily got to her feet, unsure of what alarmed her but feeling the need to be close to her husband.

She reached the two men in time to hear Jim present his idea for a share in the well to Edward.

“Do you have any paperwork to back this up? Drilling specs? Fracking? Anything?” Edward asked, slipping an arm around her.

“Sure.” Jim smiled. “I'll get all that to you soon.” He looked down at her. “Hello, Sarah.”

Sarah felt Edward's arm tighten possessively around her waist and nodded a brief greeting. “You'll have to excuse us, Mr.—uh—Jim. My
bruders
want Edward on their side for volleyball.”

“Surely,” the
Englischer
said agreeably. “I'll talk with you soon.”

“You don't trust him?” Sarah asked in a whisper as they walked away.

“Not as far as I can throw him, sweet. But let's forget him for a moment and see how well a one-eyed man can play volleyball.”

She swatted at his arm and he laughed, then pulled her close with a nuzzling promise for that
nacht.

 

 

The next morning, Edward listened to Sarah's happy chatter at breakfast, but his gaze strayed throughout the meal to the innocent, half-undone slip of ribbon at the throat of her
nacht
shift. For some reason, it spoke to him of things secret and sweet, and he played idly with the honey spoon while his thoughts strayed and he felt as if he was coming apart, held in painful abeyance, until he could make his fantasy come true....

“Would you like anything else?” she asked, eyeing him quizzically.

“Latch the door and
kumme
sit on my lap,” he commanded in a rasp.

A slow smile spread across her face as she hurriedly rose to obey. His keen eye traced the curve of her hips and bottom when she turned in the thin fabric, then he watched in equal fascination as her breasts bounced with each step she took back toward him.

He slid his chair back a bit but he didn't rise, instead patting his thighs. “Sit down.”

She complied, nestling close to his chest, with her legs pressed tight together. He savored her nearness and the fresh, heady scent of her hair, but then he inched her upright, turning her shoulders slightly until she faced him. He reached out a hand and slid the honey pot closer....

 

 

Sarah shivered in excitement when he let go of the little jar of honey and lifted his big hands to her shoulders, massaging gently.

“Remind me,” he whispered casually, “that I owe you a new
nacht
shift. . . .”

“What?” she murmured, then gasped as he tore the thin gown from her shoulders in one easy move, leaving her bare from the waist up. “Edward . . .” she stammered in surprise.

“I've needed to do that since you sat down to breakfast, sweet. And now it occurs to me that I'm wanting more honey.... Will you oblige?”

She felt breathless with excitement and reached an unsteady hand toward the table.

He caught her arm. “Ahh . . . not quite what I'm thinking. Let me show you.”

A sunbeam shot through the window, bathing them both in a halo of light. And Sarah watched in fascination as he drew the long honey spoon from its jar. The sunlight played through the golden goodness as he pulled a long strand onto the spoon. She thought he meant to suck the spoon and then perhaps have her kiss his lips, but instead he drizzled the dripping honey down the full curve of her left breast.

She gasped at the sudden warmth and sensation, her senses overflowing at the decadence of his action.

“
Ach
. . .” she whispered.

He grinned at her, a tender, wolfish look, then continued to bathe her breast with honey, finally laying the spoon full against her taut nipple. She felt giddy and awkward and a thousand other things at once when he put the spoon aside and slid his hands around her waist.

“Arch your back, sweet.”

She put her fingertips on his shoulders and did as he asked. She'd never been more proud nor more conscious of her breasts as he lavished her skin with his tongue—first wet, then hot, then he blew softly on her nipple before closing his teeth over her, edging and then sucking hard at the same time until she felt a cramping response deep inside.