Brush of Angel's Wings Page 3

  Chapter Three

  Rachel overslept. She crawled out of bed and slipped into a dress, her eyes still closed. Her internal clock never failed to wake her before the rooster’s alarm, but this morning the rooster was crowing again as she fastened the straight pins on her dress. Yawning, she adjusted her prayer kapp, shoved her stocking feet into a pair of stiff work shoes, and then took her wool cape off its hook on the way out the door.

  A horse, not of her father’s stock, whinnied near the barn. Although it wasn’t uncommon to find a new horse in the corral, this particular sorrel didn’t pace the fence as did most young colts in need of training. He looked a bit familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

  She loved horses, and if it hadn’t already been so late, she would have spent a few minutes checking out the new gelding. She glanced at the pink horizon and stepped up her pace. By now she and Daed should have the chores nearly finished. Once inside the barn she followed the dim lamplight to the milking area.

  Daed looked up from milking the cow. “Gut mariye.”

  Rachel yawned. “Mariye,” she replied, picking up the feed bucket. Usually once she stepped out of bed she was wide awake, but not today. Today she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Since Iva married and they no longer shared a bedroom, she’d spent restless nights listening to the wind brush the tree branches against the window.

  Her shoulders slumped against the support beam and she yawned as she filled the bucket with grain. The wooden door leading to the pasture slid open, and Jordan Engles entered with a cow on a lead. His unexpected appearance stole her words away.

  At least now she knew who owned the gelding in the corral and why the horse looked familiar.

  “Good morning,” he said as he tethered the cow to a post. He then reached to take the bucket from her hand. “No need. I fed the horses already.”

  Rachel grasped the handle tighter. “Then I’ll feed the calves.”

  “Did that too.” Jordan cleared his throat. “Besides, that isn’t what calves eat.”

  Rachel glanced into the bucket. “Jah.” She instinctively bit her bottom lip as pride roared within her. She was tired. Certainly she knew the difference between what horses and calves ate. Jordan had merely distracted her a moment.

  Daed stood from the milking stool and reached under the cow for the bucket. “Help your mamm get breakfast started.” He glanced at Jordan. “Hungry?”

  “Oh yes, sir.”

  Her father patted him on the back as though entertained by the appetite of the younger man. “Gut.” He turned to her. “Remind your mamm to set an extra plate.”

  “But . . .” A lump the size of her fist lodged in her throat. She swallowed. “I always help you in the barn.” Ever since James died, she had tended the animals every morning with her father. They’d managed fine without hiring help before, so they certainly didn’t need Jordan—half Englisch, half Amish—attempting to replace her brother. And wouldn’t his presence just make that pain even stronger, a reminder every day that her brother was gone forever? Daed still wore a cloak of sadness even though he pretended to accept the Lord’s will.

  And pretended not to blame her for her brother’s death.

  Jordan reached for the feed bucket in her hand; this time he was successful. “The barn’s damp. You should go inside so you don’t catch a cold.”

  How dare he treat her like a small child or an imbecile. “I’m quite familiar with how drafty this old barn is. After all, I’ve spent plenty of hours working out here, ain’t so?” She would have shown him her calloused hands to prove her labor had Daed not stepped forward.

  Her father held the milk bucket out to her. “Rachel, take this one to the haus. We’ll bring the other one when we kumm.”

  She glanced at Jordan but couldn’t find it in her heart to return his smile. The longer she stared, the wider his smile grew.

  Daed offered her no support. He shooed her toward the door. “We won’t be long.”

  “Jah,” she muttered.

  Her brother’s death was hard on her father in so many ways. Immediately after James was buried and the other farmers had to return to their work, she stepped in to help, enjoying working with her father, learning, becoming strong. She loved the livestock, the planting, the harvesting. It didn’t matter that they rarely spoke of anything except the work at hand. It had been gut. Hadn’t it? She had even felt lately that their strained relationship was on the mend. But now—how could he dismiss her so easily?

  Rachel slipped through the kitchen door, keeping the screen door from slamming behind her. She swung the milk bucket up and placed it on the counter with ease—something she could not have done two years ago.

  Mamm glanced over her shoulder from the stove. “Gut mariye.”

  “Vass iss gut?”

  Mamm moved away from frying the peeled potatoes. A deep frown settled over her face as she swept Rachel’s stray hair away from her eyes. “What are you upset about?”

  “Why is Jordan Engles here?” The words escaped her mouth sounding harsher than she had intended.

  Mamm’s typical smile was slow and steady in coming. “Jordan is helping your daed ready the fields for planting.”

  Her father had talked of wanting to clear more acreage to farm, but she assumed the two of them would prepare the land.

  “Daed needed help and asked Jordan. Since he’s new to the community, he has more availability than the other young men.”

  Rachel hated the truth in Mamm’s statement. She took a ladle along with some tall glasses and poured fresh milk into each one. No matter how careful she was, she could never seem to do it without slopping it down the sides and making puddles on the counter.

  Her mother scraped the potatoes off the bottom of the cast iron skillet and flipped the raw side into the grease.

  “Daed knows I wanted to work with him.” She took a cloth and swiped at the spilled milk.

  Mamm added a heaping spoonful of lard to a second cast iron fry pan. “You’re twenty and nett a child.”

  “Jah.” And this year she was stronger. She could control the plow easier and not tire in the heat as quickly. If anyone was going to replace James, it should be her, not an outsider. Sure, Jordan might know a few Deitsch words from his mother, and he dressed like one of them, but he remained detached from the community.

  “You need to spend less time in the barn,” Mamm said stiffly, cutting off any further discussion. “It’s time you put into practice your cooking and sewing skills.” She handed her the basket of eggs from the counter. “When you finish with the milk, you can fry these eggs for your daed and Jordan.”

  Rachel groaned under her breath. Didn’t she know enough about cooking? If the kitchen wasn’t so stuffy and confining, maybe she’d like to cook. And maybe she didn’t have the culinary skills to please the palate, but at least she could cook well enough to stay alive. She’d spent a good deal of every summer canning vegetables from the garden. And sewing too. What more did a girl need to know other than how to darn socks and patch pants? True, her stitches were not evenly spaced, but they served their purpose. Why did it matter when the boots covered one’s socks and hid stitching imperfections? Daed hadn’t once complained.

  Mamm poured vinegar into a bowl. “Kumm, the eggs must be washed.”

  Rachel washed the eggs, then carried them to the stove. The first egg she cracked too hard and the runny yolk broke and splattered into the grease. The next one slipped into the pan with its yolk intact. It didn’t break until she attempted to flip it. She left them for a moment to put the glasses of milk on the table. By the time she’d returned, the eggs had a small layer of burned crust on one side. But they were still edible, jah? She set those aside for Jordan. With the next two she took extra care as she cracked their shells and when she flipped them over. She peered at them while they sizzled in the pan. The yolks were probably cooked a little too long, but she supposed they would be runny enough. Those she reserved for her father.

  “Here th
ey kumm.” Mamm stepped away from the kitchen window and wiped her hands against her apron, then eyed Rachel. “Straighten your apron.” Mamm moved over to the stove and picked up the kettle. “I’ll pour the kaffi. You can set the utensils in their places.”

  Rachel prepared the table as instructed. She placed the plateful of hot biscuits and the butter dish in the center of the table as the men entered the kitchen.

  Jordan handed her a milk bucket. She took it too roughly and the milk splashed against the side and over the brim, spilling down her dress front. “Ach.”

  “Careful.” Jordan grinned.

  She looked inside the bucket. “This was all you could get?”

  “Well, you spilled some,” he said under his breath.

  She placed the bucket on the counter next to the other, annoyed at herself, her daed, and especially at Jordan.

  “You’ll want to keep the cream separated,” he told her, as if she didn’t know.

  Apparently he didn’t know cream sometimes took twelve hours before it fully separated. Even she knew the method for gravitational extraction. “Most dairy farmers know it takes several hours to produce heavy cream.”

  Jordan leaned closer. “You must mean the farmer’s fraa. I’ve never heard of a farmer with spare time enough to wait for the cream to be skimmed.”

  Something the opposite of Amish meekness rose up inside her. She glared at him. He responded with a grin that annoyed her even further. After a brief pause, she pasted on a smile and took the plates of food to the table while her mother poured the coffee.

  Daed pulled a chair out and offered it to Jordan. “Have a seat.”

  Rachel set the plate of eggs on the table in front of her father.

  She swallowed hard, trying to remind herself that Jordan was their guest and she needed to treat him as such.

  Mamm gave Rachel’s shoulder a subtle nudge, and Rachel placed the other plate in front of him.

  After a brief look at the platter, Jordan lifted his head, settling his green eyes on her. “Thank you. It smells good.”

  Was he lying? Or could he not tell that the kitchen smelled of burnt potatoes and eggs? If Jordan meant what he said, his senses were probably tainted from mucking out the horse stalls—which should have been her job.

  Rachel crinkled her nose. “Gut.”

  When her father cleared his throat, she forced a smile at her guest, trying not to ask him to change seats—she didn’t like him sitting in James’s chair any more than she liked him usurping her place beside her father in the fields.

  Mamm leaned toward Rachel. “Sit. Your father is ready to pray nau.”

  Rachel slid onto her chair and bowed her head, silently begging God for forgiveness of her jealousy. Had she lost her mind to be jealous over barn chores? Anyone would gladly welcome more helping hands. She chewed her bottom lip and forced herself to concentrate on her prayer.

  God, with your blessing, every year our crops have provided a decent yield and our garden is larger than we need. Why has Daed requested Jordan’s help? Am I not enough?

  I thank you for this food, Aemen.

  Jordan shifted in his seat, opening and closing his fist. Obviously he hadn’t milked a cow before. No wonder he didn’t get a full bucket. She grinned. He wouldn’t last working for her father. Maybe God would answer her unspoken prayer and she would soon be back at Daed’s side where she belonged.

  Daed and Mamm opened their eyes at the same time.

  Jordan bowed his head, then lifted it immediately. “Aemen.”

  “Aemen?” Rachel raised her brows.

  Jordan ignored her and jabbed his fork into his eggs. He paused to look at Daed soaking his biscuit in his runny yolks. Jordan made a slight shrug, then lifted his over-hard cooked egg on top of the biscuit.

  “Gut meal,” her father said, exchanging a glance with Mamm, seated at the end of the table.

  “Yes, very good,” Jordan echoed.

  Miriam lowered her fork from her mouth. “Rachel cooked the eggs.”

  Her mother was always so careful not to sound boastful. Why would she tell of Rachel’s cooking, as though frying eggs was a great achievement? It wasn’t like she’d mastered her grandmother’s recipe for schnitzboi.

  Jordan shifted his attention. “Micah, what do you intend to plant in the back field? Corn?”

  “Soybeans,” Rachel replied, eager to show her knowledge of their farming plans.

  Her father looked at her. “We’ve planted soybeans in that field the past two years—”

  “Jah.” Rachel made one sharp nod aimed at Jordan.

  Daed cleared his throat. “We’ll plant corn.”

  Corn? Daed actually agreed with Jordan.

  “Why?” she blurted.

  “Crop rotation.” Jordan lifted his brows at her. “Helps control cloddy soil.” He turned to her father. “Am I right?”

  Her father smiled. “Jah.” He pivoted in his chair to give Jordan his full attention. “It also helps the nitrogen balance and groundwater runoff.”

  Jordan’s eagerness to please and her father’s elation with his new field hand gnawed away at her. How had Jordan weaseled his way into her family—and so quickly? She had enjoyed working in the barn with her father while her older sisters helped Mamm with the indoor chores. She preferred it. Now Jordan’s presence threatened the thread of normalcy her family had found after James’s death.

  Rachel set the fork on her plate of half-eaten food. She’d lost her appetite. She stood, taking the plate with her.

  “While you’re up, maybe Jordan would like more kaffi,” Mamm said.

  Rachel and Jordan locked eyes. She forced herself to turn away from him and focused on picking up the coffeepot and refilling his cup without his asking for more.

  “Thank you.”

  “Kaffi, Daed?”

  “Jah. Warm it, please.” He moved his cup closer to the edge of the table, then shifted his attention back to Jordan. “We can take a walk and I’ll show you the property lines. If the ground is dry enough, I’ll show you how to use the plow.”

  Rachel collected the dirty dishes from the table and loaded them into the sink. If she hurried, she could have the dishes washed before they finished their coffee. Then she would ask to go along. Maybe Daed would explain the importance of nitrogen balance to her.

  Rachel emptied the kettle of hot water into the sink and added soap. She washed as Mamm brought more dishes from the table.

  “Are you finished?” Daed asked Jordan.

  “Yes, sir,” he said and pushed back his chair. Jordan picked up his empty cup and took it to Rachel. “You want this in here?”

  “Jah, denki.”

  As he leaned close to put his cup in the sink, his hand brushed against hers. The way he studied her bored into her, causing a whooshing sensation to speed through her, leaving her feeling off balance. He followed Daed out of the kitchen, but his woodsy scent lingered.

  “They will work well together,” Mamm said as she scraped the grease from the fry pan into an empty can. “You should have plenty of time to sharpen your household skills.”

  Rachel knew what she wanted to sharpen, and it had nothing to do with household skills.

  The peas had sprouted despite last week’s late frost. Thankfully, Rachel had listened to Mamm and waited before sowing the other seeds. The soft ground held a few wet patches, so instead of planting today and chancing seed rot, she would till the remainder of the garden. Although, this year, they wouldn’t need a large garden. They’d planted extra last year anticipating Iva’s wedding meal. Truly, there might not ever be a need for another large garden. Rachel had suppressed her hopes of marriage shortly after she became of courting age and no one paired up with her or offered to drive her home after the singings. The disappointment was easier to handle once she accepted that her life wouldn’t necessarily follow the path of the other young women in the community.

  Rachel worked until her bare hands became raw from not wearing gloves and the co
ld April wind hindered her progress.

  She kicked off her dirty shoes at the door and padded into the kitchen, shaking her hands and then tucking them under her arms in an attempt to get them less numb.

  Mamm set a water-filled jar on the counter, then proceeded to fill another one from the tap. She glanced at Rachel. “Is something wrong with your hands?” Mamm turned off the tap, dried her hands, then reached for Rachel’s to examine them. “Ach, your hands are cold.”

  “I should’ve worn gloves.”

  “Jah, the wind is chilly.”

  Rachel put her hands into her armpits again and wiggled her fingers, hoping to get the blood flowing. “What are the water jars for?”

  “I thought your daed and Jordan might be thirsty.”

  “They might want kaffi too.” They were bound to be cold in the open field.

  “Gut idea. And you might want to use some beeswax salve on your chapped hands. It’s in the cabinet.”

  “I’ll take the drinks out first,” Rachel said.

  Mamm pulled the thermos from the cupboard. The kettle already filled with heated water, she made the coffee as Rachel slipped back into her cape and shoes.

  Rachel trekked across the field with the thermos clutched under her arm and a jar of water in each hand. Like the aroma of morning-brewed coffee, the scent of freshly turned ground jolted her senses. Her daed used to tease her that she liked dirt as much as the earthworms. She smiled. It was still true. She was not afraid of dirt and hard work. And considering her love for the animals, she wondered why she couldn’t spend all her days outdoors.

  She found Jordan and Daed squatting down in the center of the field studying the dirt. Probably analyzing the cloddy soil, maybe the nitrogen content, whatever that was. Rachel had never concerned herself with soil to that degree. She also had never shared long conversations with her father about water runoff. Jealousy pricked her conscience. She knew to rebuke sinful thoughts but couldn’t just yet.

  They both looked up as she approached. Jordan tossed the handful of dirt he held and returned to the plow, commanding Clyde forward. Her father stood, his dirt-smudged forehead wrinkled from squinting against the bright sun.