The Beekeeper's Son (The Amish of Bee County Book 1) (34 page)

He’d planned to inspect as many hives as possible today. He needed to make sure they were amassing food for the winter season when pollen would be scarce. If they weren’t heavy enough, he would have to set up the feeders and buy some protein supplement to add to the syrup. From the looks of the sky, those visits would have to wait at least another day. High winds didn’t bode well for the apiaries either.

Nothing to do about it now. Instead, he would board the windows on his home and make sure everything in the small shed that served as his barn had been secured, including the buggy and horse his father had loaned him until he could afford his own.

He shoved his hat back and picked up the hammer and a slab of plywood from the pile he’d stockpiled for this purpose. He
slammed a nail into the wood. Swinging the hammer felt good. Better than it should. Maybe between the physical labor and the rain, he would be able to sleep when he descended into the basement to wait out the worst of the storm. He hadn’t been able to sleep much since moving to the new house. Not with the steady stream of pictures that pestered him every time he closed his eyes.

Deborah, a look of wonder on her face as she saw pelicans for the first time. Deborah examining the bee sting on her finger, her expression asking him to make it all better. Deborah, angry and fierce, confronting him about buying this house. Deborah, sitting on the curb, holding his hand because she wanted to comfort him.

Deborah.

He went to sleep thinking about her and awoke from dreams that made his throat ache when he realized they’d only been dreams.

Ever since that day in Weslaco, he’d paced through the fields, debating what to do next. Hearing Esther’s words echoing in his ears.
“She’s made herself vulnerable to you. That’s a gift. Don’t miss out.”

Every time he saw Will, he wanted to tell him, “Nee, nee, you can’t have her.”

Yet he hadn’t done the one thing he needed to do. Declare himself to Deborah.

He leaned his head against the solid wood for one second, trying to shake the feeling of disorientation. He had to return her gift. He had to make himself vulnerable to her. The thought made his stomach lurch. What if Esther was wrong? It seemed more than likely.

It didn’t matter. He knew how
he
felt, and he had to take a chance or he would never know.

Gott, no more arguing. You win. Thy will be done. If it’s meant to be, show me how. I want to be happy and I want to make Deborah happy. I can’t do that without You. Give me the strength to tell her.

Phineas sucked in a ragged breath and turned to pick up another board. The long barrel of a rifle bobbing at chest level greeted him. He froze for an everlasting second. Then, with only the slightest of movement, he forced himself to look from the rifle to the man who held it.

He was tall, gangly, and his skin had the rough, red look of a man who worked outdoors. His Adam’s apple stuck out in a long, skinny neck. A tattoo of a single upside-down thorny, long-stemmed rose covered one arm from the bottom of the sleeve of his grimy white jumpsuit to his wrist. His blond hair, highlighted by a smattering of silver, was wet and plastered to his head. The gaze of bloodshot eyes darted from Phineas to the house, out to the yard, and back.

Phineas worked to keep his expression neutral even as his heart took off like a buck startled by hunters. An escaped prisoner stood on his porch, a rifle in his hands.

Escaped prisoners were the worst kind. They had everything to lose. They’d already broken the law and they had no qualms about doing it again. They were desperate for the most precious commodity of all—freedom.

“Afternoon.” He kept his voice soft and even, the one he’d heard Leroy use when he approached a horse that needed to be broken to a saddle. “Can I help you with something?”

“You can give the keys to your car.” The man had the raspy voice of a smoker. “And whatever money you got in your pockets.”

“I don’t have a car.” Phineas patted his chest. He had no pockets. Even if he had cash—which he didn’t—he had no place
to carry it. “I don’t have any money, but I can feed you if you’re hungry.”

“Don’t lie to a desperate man. You’ll regret it.”

The escapee shoved the rifle barrel into Phineas’s gut like a man wielding a sword. Pain forced him to double over. Instinct or sheer desire to survive overcame him. Without thinking, he grabbed the weapon with both hands and fought to wrest it away from his attacker.

Gott, don’t let it go off. Please, Gott, don’t let him shoot me or me, him.

The escapee ripped the rifle from Phineas’s hand and swung full force, catching Phineas on the side of his head. A second blow smashed into his shoulder. An explosion of sound blew up around him, ringing in his ears, the smell of gunpowder acrid in his nostrils. A white-hot pain sliced through his arm above his elbow, taking with it his ability to think about anything but the pain.

He slammed against the wall and found himself sliding, sliding down until he sat on the cold, hard, wet cement porch. He hunched over, left hand clutching at his right arm.

“You shot me.” The wonder in his voice made Phineas want to laugh. How could he be surprised at such a thing? The man was a criminal holding a gun. “You didn’t mean to do it, but you did.”

“It’s just a scratch, but there’s more where that came from.” The escapee panted, his face mottled red and white with anger. “Get up, get up, you moron, get up.”

The rifle barrel hovered near Phineas’s temple, the heat burning his skin. “Next time I’ll blow your head off. Get up. We’re going inside to finish this conversation. I know you’ve got money in there somewhere.”

Maybe he
had
meant to do it. It didn’t matter. Phineas knew
one thing for certain. He did not want to die here on his front porch. He didn’t want to die until he had the chance to tell Deborah he loved her.

Gott willing, he would survive this and he would tell her.

Gasping, he dragged himself to his knees and then to his feet. Legs and arms shaking, he forced himself to breathe, in and out, in and out, as he reached for the screen door.

“Easy, bubba, easy.” The escapee gouged Phineas in the back with the rifle barrel. “You were stupid once, don’t be stupid again.”

“I don’t have any money.” His voice sounded odd in his own ears, like it belonged to someone else. “I don’t have a car, but I have a horse and a buggy. You’re welcome to both. I have food.”

“Shut up and get inside. Someone might have heard the shot.”

Phineas did as he was told despite the cold, hard fact lodged in his throat. No one had heard. No one would come. The other farmhouses in his settlement were miles away and everyone was hunkered down in basements waiting for the storm to pass.

He was on his own.

Deborah shoved her bonnet forward over her prayer kapp while she wrapped her other hand around the reins. Little good it did her. The wind whipped the bonnet back. Dirt pinged against the tender skin of her cheeks. A fat drop of rain smacked her in the nose, quickly followed by another that hit her right between the eyes. The horse shook his head and whinnied as if he’d suffered a similar fate. His head bobbed and the wet reins nearly slipped from her fingers.

“Come on, come on, it’s okay.” She shouted to be heard over
wind that pinned her to her seat. The wagon swayed and dipped in the rutted road. Only another quarter mile and she’d be at Phineas’s new home. She had to get word to him that this was more than a run-of-the-mill thunderstorm. “Haw, haw, come on, you can do it.”

Barking greeted her exhortation. She glanced back. Butch raced alongside the wagon, his short legs a blur. The dog didn’t give up. She’d sent him back to the store twice, but he kept reappearing. “Butch, go find Mordecai!”

The dog picked up his pace, nose into the wind. He barked again. Butch had a stubborn streak about him that reminded her of someone else.

The King men maybe.

“Fine.” She tugged on the reins until the horse halted, snorting his irritation and confusion. Butch didn’t hesitate. He leaped and scrambled into the wagon. Not the most graceful entrance, but it did the job. His muzzle widened in the usual grin as he climbed into the seat, panting, his tongue hanging out.

“You belong to Mordecai, not me.”

Butch’s response was a breathless
woof
. He settled onto the seat, smelling of wet dog and whatever he’d rolled in earlier in the day, and surveyed his new view of the world.

“Fine, but after this, home you go to your owner.” She snapped the reins and the wagon jolted forward. “I don’t mind the company, but this isn’t weather to be gallivanting about the countryside for you or me.”

So what was she doing out here?

Same thing as the dog? Making sure a loved one was okay?

Life as a dog had to be confusing. People coming and going every which way. It confused her, and she had a little more book
learning than Butch. The thought fled as she rounded the bend in the road and Phineas’s house came into view. Two windows had been boarded, but the others remained uncovered, open, curtains flapping in the furious wind. If he didn’t close those windows right now, he’d have wet floors or worse. She snapped the reins, spurring the horse on.

Phineas had started boarding up the house. Why had he stopped? Deborah halted the wagon next to the small porch with its two steps and let her gaze roam the property. A stack of boards lay on the cement-porch floor next to a rusted hammer and a coffee can filled with nails.

“Phineas?”

No response. Uncertainty assailed her for the first time. Phineas lived alone. The bishop would not look kindly on Deborah traipsing into a man’s house. Just the two of them alone with a storm coming that most likely would prevent her from leaving right away. She’d flung herself into action without thinking ahead. Despite the steady patter of rain on her face, her cheeks heated. She’d come this far. Her only reason for being here was to make sure Phineas was safe. To make sure he’d received word of the hurricane’s fury working its way north, flinging storms and tornadoes in every direction. She’d tell him and she’d go. Quickly, before the storm worsened.

No harm done. None whatsoever. In fact, it was the right thing to do. The neighborly thing.

Deborah hopped from the wagon and marched up the steps. She glanced back. “Are you coming with me?”

Butch cocked his shaggy head and took a flying leap onto the porch.

“I guess that would be a yes.” A dog as a chaperone? Leroy
wouldn’t buy that story even if she gave him a dollar to go with it. “Your feet are muddy, so don’t be racing around inside.”

His tail wagging, Butch lifted his nose in the air as if offended she would suggest such a thing.

“Phineas?” She knocked on the screen door. The inner door stood open, despite the wind and rain. If he was inside, he’d hear her. “Phineas, where are you? It’s me, Deborah. I just wanted to make sure—”

“Go home.”

His hoarse voice sounded distant and angry.

More so than usual.

“I drove all the way out here in the wind and rain—”

“Please. Go home.”

Please? Something wasn’t right. Phineas wouldn’t stand on ceremony or use fancy manners. His voice held a distinct tone he’d never used with her before. Desperate to get rid of her. He didn’t want her around. Fine. “It’s raining into your house. If you don’t want help from me, that’s fine. But don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. You better get out here—”

Butch growled, low and deep in his throat. A pulsating, feral sound that sent goose bumps racing up Deborah’s arms. The dog’s ears were back and his tail stood straight up. The fur on his crooked spine clustered in a long ridge.

“What is it, boy?” she whispered. The dog lifted his snout and howled. “Okay, okay. Stay. You stay right here.”

She grabbed the screen door. Wind snatched it from her hand, tossed it open, then slammed it against the frame. She jumped back, saving her fingers by the skin of her teeth. Butch barked a furious bark that mingled with long, rolling thunder and the
snap
, crackle,
pop
of lightning.

The wind knocked her forward against the wall and sucked her breath from her chest. Gasping, she grabbed the screen door a second time and struggled to open it enough to slide in. Butch, still barking, darted past her and hurled himself into the front room.

No light shone in the interior, even though the storm had sucked the sun behind mammoth, furrowed clouds that looked like black, wrinkled cotton. It took a second for her eyes to adjust. And even longer for her mind to understand. Phineas stood in the middle of a room empty of furniture with the exception of a straight-back chair, a desk, and one of Mordecai’s finely crafted rocking chairs. A pole lamp had not been lit despite the fact that day had turned to night in the middle of the afternoon.

Phineas had his hands in the air.

A man in a muddy jumpsuit stood a few feet from him, a long rifle pointed at Deborah’s head.

At first, the weapon blotted everything out. Then the rest came into focus.

The man wore a white jumpsuit. His eyes were bloodshot in a red face with a five o’clock shadow in gray. Nothing else about him seemed important. A prison jumpsuit and a rifle. Those were the important details.