Courting caleb, p.11
Courting Caleb, page 11
“Yes, ma’am.” He half laughed.
Mercy frowned. His big body hung over the bottom and side of the couch, but she told herself that there was no way she’d take him into her bed. Even the thought of the word bed caused her to feel a hot flush in her cheeks.
I’m a fool, she told herself as she hurried to grab towels and a medical kit that she kept for Joshua’s occasional bumps and cuts.
She bent over Phillip and realized that the blow to his forehead was not as bad as she’d first thought. “The head just bleeds a lot,” she muttered to herself, as she cleaned the wound and wrapped a bandage around his head. She didn’t forget that she was still angry with him for talking about her, but her focus now was on being gentle and kind.
“You might have a concussion,” she said softly, surveying the knot that protruded from his head to the edge of the bandage.
“I do feel like I could geh to sleep.”
“Absolutely not!” She was surprised at the fear she felt. She’d read somewhere once that a concussed person should not geh to sleep anytime soon after the injury.
“I’ll keep you up,” she vowed.
“That sounds great,” he muttered in mock horror.
But Mercy didn’t smile as she covered him with a quilt, then slid her rocker close to the couch....
* * *
Phillip gazed at Mercy and realized that she looked blurry. Lantern light cascaded around her and he thought her hair shone beautifully but remembered in time that she didn’t like to talk about her hair. “You have a halo,” he commented instead. “And I lost my glasses in the storm.”
She groaned aloud. “You’ll never find them. And you’ll have to geh to Farwell to get another pair.”
“I’ll geh tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” she reminded him. “We have church service.”
“Right . . . I forgot.” He sighed, feeling as though his eyelashes weighed a ton. If I can just geh to sleep for a few—
“Nee sleeping!” She jerked him by his shirt collar, and he opened his eyes wide at the pain in his head.
“All right . . . all right. I know you’d prefer me dead, but do you have to torture me too?”
He watched her outline recede.
“I would never want to see you dead,” she said stiffly.
“Because of Abigail?” he asked, not really expecting a reply.
But then Mercy’s answer shot across his consciousness and set his head to pounding worse than any shaking might.
“Nee,” she whispered. “Because of me.”
Chapter Sixteen
Caleb stared at Abigail in surprise and confusion. “Tell each other stories?” he asked. “What kind of stories?”
“Courting stories,” she answered promptly.
“Are . . . are there such things in Blackberry Falls?”
Abigail laughed. “I think there should be. Maybe I’ve just made them up.”
“Ach, now I remember—your ad. It asked for poetry and a gut reading voice; is that right?”
“Jah, I did write that, but now it seems a bit silly. I should have written about the value of gut kissing instead.”
He saw her blush but had to ask the question that teased at his mind.
“Have you experienced gut kissing?”
“Jah, perhaps you know it, too.”
“I do, sweet maedel, but I wonder—” He broke off, feeling silly himself now.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Nee, speak, sei se gut.”
“I wonder if Phillip has kissed you?”
“Is—is that your business?”
He heard the tinge of anger in her pretty voice and regretted his words.
“Nee, it’s not mine to know. Forgive me,” he said stiffly.
“I’ll answer your question,” she said into the silence. “Phillip has not kissed me, but I have kissed him.”
“Oh . . .” Caleb recalled begging her to kiss him, to court him, in the maze at Farwell. And he remembered all too well how he had responded to her kissing. Now he wondered if Phillip had done the same.
Abigail sighed aloud. “I suppose I ought to tell you the truth. . . .”
He waited, his breath tight.
“I kissed Phillip because of you. Because of how much I enjoy kissing you . . . I wanted to see if it felt the same with the other mail-order groom.”
Caleb didn’t really want to hear the answer but asked anyway. “And did it?”
“Nee,” she said flatly.
He resisted the urge to smile.
* * *
Mercy bit her lip and found her heart pounding. She couldn’t believe that she had essentially admitted to Phillip that she cared for him.
She glanced over to where he lay and saw that he no longer looked drowsy but was watching her with keen intent.
“What did you say?”
Mercy shook her head. Perhaps he didn’t hear me correctly. She rose from her chair and headed to the small kitchen area. “I’ve got scalloped potatoes and ham casserole ready. Would you like a plate?”
She waited, hoping he’d let the previous conversation drop, and to both her disappointment and relief, he did.
“That sounds delicious. Danki! I was supposed to go back to Grossmuder Mildred’s for chicken and biscuits but—I got hit in the head. Obviously.”
Mercy scooped a healthy portion of the casserole onto a blue plate and added a serving of the bright green beans she’d put up the past summer. Who would have thought that when I canned these beans I would be feeding a man I barely know. Yet he is a gut man—kind . . . and Abigail’s . . .
She swallowed hard as she put the plate on a tray and added a cup of tea. She carefully brought the food and drink to the couch. She gestured with her chin and Phillip grabbed the side table and eased it close to him before lying back with a sigh of what sounded like pleasure.
“Danki, Mercy. I would bless the food if it pleases you?” He gave her a myopic stare and she nodded hard.
“Dear Fater in Heaven, I thank You for the bounty of this meal and for the gentle hands that have worked on its preparation. I pray that Joshua and Tad are enjoying themselves at the school and that the storm will ease up. In the Name of Derr Herr. Amen.”
She nodded in agreement, then offered him a cloth napkin. It’s going to be all right, her mind whispered. He didn’t hear . . . he didn’t hear. . . .
She watched him take an enthusiastic bite of the casserole. “Mmmm,” he praised. “It’s delicious!”
“Danki.” She turned and headed back to the cookstove, but his rich voice stopped her.
“Hey, Mercy?”
“Jah?” She turned back to face him, thinking she had left something off his tray.
“What did you mean when you said that you care for me?”
* * *
Abigail gave Caleb what she knew to be a rather prim look that was at odds with her admission of how much she enjoyed kissing him. She knew instinctively that she had pleased him, and she longed to test the warmth of his mouth once more. I am brazen . . . and he looks like he would be more than pleased if I were to bend down and . . .
“Stop that,” he said roughly.
She blinked. “Stop what?”
“You—you’re looking at my mouth.”
She felt warmth course through her veins and was hypnotized by his words. And his mouth . . .
She swallowed hard and looked away from him for a moment. Then she felt his hand against her cheek, brushing, touching, making her close her eyes with pleasure.
“Ach, Abigail, I think—”
She opened her eyes and bounced off the bed, moving to the relative safety of the rocker by the fire.
“Now,” she said firmly, “we will tell courting stories—so that we may kumme to know each other better.”
His blue eyes flashed with a hint of mischief, but he nodded just the same. “All right. But first, since we are doing this in the name of courting, I say we geh also with a much aulder courting tradition.”
Abigail gave him a suspicious look. “What aulder tradition?”
“Bundling! You know . . . you lie next to me atop the quilts and I lie beneath them. You have to admit that being physically close might also foster better courting stories.” He smiled at her and she wasn’t sure what to say.
It was true that bundling was still practiced by some couples as a means of knowing each other better. Usually a bundling board was placed down the center of the bed, but in a pinch, under-over quilt bundling was permitted.
“Abigail, please. Perhaps the heat of your body near mine will warm me. I’m still cold.”
When he said he was cold, her heart went out to him and she rose from the rocker to tentatively lie down atop the mound of quilts while Caleb moved over to make room for her.
“See,” he whispered. “I feel warmer already. Now, sei se gut, begin your courting story.”
Abigail thought for a moment. “I am used to being alone.”
“So, you don’t need company? That doesn’t bode well for your mail-order groom, does it?”
She turned her head to look into his eyes, cherishing the rich fall of his blond hair and the fine arch of his brows. “I wouldn’t mind some people’s company.”
“Ah . . .”
“I should like to tell you the worst about me,” Abigail whispered.
“How bad could the worst be?” His tone was light, but his bright blue eyes had grown serious and kind. He worked a hand out from beneath the quilts and used a lean finger to solemnly tap the tip of her nose. “Please tell me, my sweet.”
Abigail drew a deep breath. “When I was seventeen, I had just started work on my own in the pottery. I went to church meeting, of course, and the occasional social gathering, but as I said—I preferred to be alone. Yet, even by myself, when customers came by or Tabitha visited a bit, I caught word of what was going on in the community.” She paused, then looked away from his steady gaze. “I came to know that Zinnia Stolfus, a girl my age, had breast cancer. I knew her, of course, from school . . . but I did nothing to help her or the community in ministering to her. I never called on her or made her food. I would see her from a distance—her hair gone. Her parents took her to Farwell and beyond, trying to find help. The community had fundraisers for her but I never participated or gave even a dollar to help her. I—rarely even prayed for her. She died within a year.... I didn’t geh to the funeral. I told Bishop Kore that I was sick . . . and . . . that is all. You may tell me what you think of me now.”
She felt him lean up on one elbow and gently turn her chin so that she was staring up at him, his face close to hers and the fall of his hair caressing her cheek. “I think, Abigail, that you have told me a courting story, true—but I know enough about you to understand that there was some reason for what you did. I don’t believe that you have a cruel bone in your body. So, tell me the rest, Abigail. . . .”
She shook her head, feeling tears run down either side of her face. Caleb bent and slowly traced the path of her tears with his mouth, down then up again. “Please, Abigail. Tell me. Trust me.”
She drew a sobbing breath. “I—can’t.”
He drew her close, quilts and all. “Jah. You are so strong. You can.”
Abigail choked out the words, trying to concentrate on forming the sounds in her head as a distraction, but in the end, she simply told him. . . .
* * *
Phillip watched as Mercy stalked over to him and pressed a small hand against his bandaged head. “Feverish, you must be,” she declared. “Thinking up some nonsense about me caring for you! You are my sister’s future husband—get that through your daft head!”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “Perhaps I will become your bruder-in-law but perhaps not.”
“One suits as well as the other, if you ask me. Though I’ll not see Abigail’s heart broken on any account.”
“I know that.” He kept his voice soothing. He didn’t want her to be upset—not because her mood bothered him, but rather to spare her all pain. He wondered at this protectiveness on his part when all that he had done with Abigail was peruse seed catalogs.
“It’s gut you know that—it will save a lot of discord in the future,” Mercy fumed.
Phillip smiled at her. “Do you expect—uh—discord?”
“Eat your food,” Mercy bit out. “It’ll grow cold.”
Dutifully, he picked up his fork and dug into the rich potatoes. He wanted to say something more to Mercy, but she had turned from him and was pumping water into the sink to wash the dishes.
He thought about getting up to help her, then realized that a nice nap might be in gut order after such a delicious meal. He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting slowly to sleep....
* * *
Caleb eased his body from the bed as Abigail slept on, exhausted by her story. He saw through the window that the storm had abated much as Abigail’s tears had done. He was angry for her, angry at the past, perhaps even angry with Gott. . . . He silently tested his thoughts against the Gott Who had made him and remembered the story of Jacob who wrestled an angel of Derr Herr for a full night. In the morning, Jacob’s hip was hurt, but Gott gave him a new name—Israel.
Caleb moved to stare out the frosty window at the huge snowdrifts and knew in his spirit that Gott didn’t mind when you wrestled with Him. . . . He thought back to Abigail’s story and could see it happening in his mind . . . Abigail at fourteen, dressed in an Englischer bathing suit of yellow, red, and green though she couldn’t swim—the sunlight on the water—three girls wading waist-deep, seemingly innocent—and then Abigail being attacked by the other two. Thrust beneath the surface, her mouth open, choking on the cool water, and then when she almost got to the top, being pushed under again.... She finally managed to free herself and stagger away from her tormentors, who laughed as her as she gasped to catch her breath.
It was enough of a horror story to make him shudder. Abigail might have been killed. Drowned. She had never spoken to either girl again despite the closeness of the Blackberry Falls community . . . and when Zinnia got cancer...
“Caleb?”
He turned quickly at Abigail’s soft call. She had sat up on the bed and her hair had fallen from her kapp. She looked confused as she glanced around the room, and Caleb hurried to sit on the edge of the bed beside her.
“Abigail, you were really sleeping deeply.”
He watched her regain her focus. “I remember. I told you—”
“Jah,” he said, then reached out to finger comb the long tendrils of her hair. “You spoke the truth. That confession will free you now.”
“I can never be free of what I did or didn’t do. I cannot change the past. Even Heather is a grim reminder of what happened.”
“Forget Heather,” he said quietly. “When I think that you might have drowned because of those two . . .”
Abigail let her shoulders fall forward. “I realized—in telling you, that I should have extended kindness to Zinnia. Forgiven her . . . and now I can’t.”
Caleb pulled her gently against his chest. “Perhaps you might have responded differently, but you were hurt, still hurt. Maybe even wondering where Gott was when you were under that water. . . .”
Abigail began to sob softly and he rocked her slowly, from side to side. “Jah,” she choked. “Where was Gott ? I don’t understand. . . .”
“Gott was with you the whole time,” Caleb said, reaching to stroke her back and the fall of her hair.
“If Gott was with me, then why did He allow me to be under that water?”
“Gott’s ways are not our ways, and you didn’t drown. And you can learn from Zinnia’s death and perhaps extend forgiveness to Heather or at least try. . . .”
“Jah,” she whispered, then lifted her head as his lips found her damp mouth and she was lost in the gentleness of his caress.
* * *
Phillip became aware of being shaken so hard, he felt as if his head would fall off. He opened his eyes and found Mercy kneeling beside the couch, shouting his name and pulling at his shoulders.
“I—I’m awake, Mercy. . . .” he managed, and she must have heard because she collapsed against his chest in apparent relief.
“Ach, Praise Derr Herr,” she mumbled. Then she seemed to rally and lifted her head, looking into his eyes. “I—You fell asleep.”
He nodded and impulsively leaned forward to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.
She froze like a baby rabbit. He could tell she was holding her breath as he trailed his hand down to touch her tender, frantic pulse point. Phillip caught his own breath, compelled to act but not completely sure of what he was doing. Then something flashed in Mercy’s eyes and she got up from her knees.
He looked up at her, realizing that tears sparkled in her eyes.
“You’re addled,” she said in an unsteady tone. “And I will never again be someone’s castoff ! Never!”
He tried to speak but she turned and hurried away to the main bedroom of the little cabin, then slammed the door.
Chapter Seventeen
Blackberry Falls buzzed with energy following the snowstorm as cabins were dug out by all who were able to do so. Abigail felt as though a burden had been lifted from her shoulders after talking with Caleb. She also felt a childlike delight in realizing that Christmas would soon be upon them.
She was happy when Tabitha came for a visit, leaving Caleb and Matthew to geh out on Birchbark’s sled for some business or another. Abigail made tea and joyfully opened the small gift that Tabitha had carved for her. Tabitha was an expert carver, and Abigail had a mantel of small creatures created by her friend’s hand.
Abigail unwrapped the green tissue paper and carefully lifted the sea creature up in her hands. “It’s a manatee and its boppli! Why, they’re beautiful.”
Tabitha nodded. “I thought that poplar would best capture the arch in the back and the fluid tail. I wanted to give you something different this year.”
“Ach, I love it. I can’t wait to put it on the mantel to join its wunderbaar family of wooden forest creatures. This is the first time you’ve carved a mamm and babe!”
