Brush of Angel's Wings Read online

  “I’ll find you a bar of soap.” She scooted into the kitchen, grabbed the soap next to the sink, and returned. “You’ll want to wash up so you’re—” For a split second all words fled from her. Jordan had unfastened the top eye hook of his shirt. “—not itching. I mean scratching all nacht.”

  “Thanks for your concern.” His fingers moved down to unhook the next one.

  Rachel lifted her hand to shield her eyes and hurried to the door. “Nacht.” She grasped the knob, but her sweaty hands couldn’t get a firm grip. As she stopped to wipe her hands on her apron, the sound of his boot steps came up behind her. She caught a glimpse of the small patch of chest hair centered over his breastbone, and her heart rate increased. She rubbed her hands against the folds of her apron once more.

  Leaning close, he reached in front of her for the door handle. “Having problems?” With an effortless twist, the door sprang open.

  A welcoming gust of night air immediately cooled her hot face. Unable to form a simple thank-you, she rushed outside. He should’ve known how improper it was to bare any skin in front of an unmarried woman. Was he trying to mar her reputation?

  Chapter Six

  Jordan closed the door, still puzzled by Rachel’s panic. He was only taking off his shirt. Surely with a father and a brother in her family she would’ve seen a guy without a shirt before.

  He looked around at the lamplight flickering against the bare walls, the handmade wooden furniture, and the tattered braided rug in front of the stone fireplace. The Amish were more primitive than he originally thought. Judging by the way his nose clogged and his eyes itched, the musty-smelling house had been closed up for years. Still, there was something special about the rustic home.

  Nathaniel circled the room alongside Jordan. “Don’t focus on their lack of material possessions or overlook the family’s closeness with God. The value of love far exceeds gold.”

  Jordan plopped down on the chair next to the fireplace. He opened the lid of the wicker basket next to the chair and found it full of newspapers. Jordan enjoyed reading, and since his arrival, he hadn’t had the time to find a library in town. He pulled out a newspaper and read the masthead. Budget News. Although he’d grown up with an Amish mother, he’d never heard of the publication. He flipped the pages and skimmed the columns. Amish news from Holmes County . . . Lancaster . . . Mecosta . . . Hope Falls. It amused him that instead of communicating by phones, it seemed they kept in touch through this newspaper. He set the paper back into the basket and closed the lid. He would wait until he was more desperate for something to read. Even then, he couldn’t imagine that plowing stories or canning news would be of any interest.

  Although his mother never mentioned an Amish newspaper, she had talked about the tight bonds within Amish families. They passed furniture and quilts, farming land and houses, down to their children. From one generation to the next, the Amish faith and Plain ways continued.

  “Your mother ran away. You stay much longer and you’ll experience the same suffocating bonds that force these families together and forced your mother to leave. Once they get you, there’s no way out.” Tangus strutted the length of the room. “Jordan, you know this. First they give you hand-me-down clothes to dress like them. Your own buggy. A horse. Now it’s the haircut. You look silly.

  “The noose around your neck comes next. Every move you make will be watched and reported—and probably scorned.”

  Jordan rubbed his neck, then jumped to his feet as tiny hair shavings prickled his back. He pulled off his shirt without bothering to unfasten any more of the hooks. Holding it carefully by the collar, he opened the door and snapped it a few times.

  Jordan combed his fingers through what was left of his hair. He dreaded looking in a mirror, knowing his Dutch-boy cut probably resembled an untreated case of mange. Thankfully, the Amish didn’t have large mirrors. “Maybe this is why Amish men wear hats,” he grumbled. “The women can’t cut their hair right.” He gave his shirt one final snap and looked toward the lit main house. “I’ll find a way to get even with your antics,” he said under his breath.

  Rachel rubbed the knot in her lower back during church service until she caught Jordan watching her from the men’s side of the barn. His mouth curled into a smirk and she dropped her hand and straightened her shoulders. With guarded breath and a tightened abdomen to deflect the soreness, she maintained her proper position.

  He turned his eyes away.

  She sighed. Her shoulders slumped and the muscle tightness returned. She’d never hurt like this after gardening. It was Jordan. After she left, she saw him shirtless at the woodpile. The vision had messed with her sleep. Apparently she tossed more than she thought during the night. She continued to squirm until the service ended with Bishop Lapp’s dismissal. Thankful for the release, Rachel eased off the wooden bench.

  Jordan strolled toward her, his hat in hand. “You think you’re stiff nau, walk behind a plow.”

  “I can nett only handle Clyde better than you, mei rows are straight too.” A shard of pain shot through her squared shoulders, but she was determined to hold the rigid stance until he walked away.

  “You’re cringing.” He glanced quickly around the room, then leaned close so only she could hear. “You should take a breath. You hold it too long and you’ll pass out.”

  She exhaled loudly. “I’m sure you’d let me fall to the floor.”

  And understandably so after eating her bad cooking for several days. She liked his wide-eyed expression yesterday the most when she had served him eggs she’d poached in milk. The slightly undercooked eggs jiggled on the plate and his face had contorted into a dreadful shape. But after a brief hesitation, he ate them without complaint and even complimented her in his dry humorous way, telling her she would get them right someday.

  “I ought to catch you,” he said, “and put you in a soiled wheelbarrow for the bad haircut you gave me.” He tugged on his exposed earlobe before placing the hat on his head.

  Rachel imagined him dumping her on top of the compost pile.

  Naomi practically skipped over to them, taking Rachel’s hands in hers. “Please tell me you plan to attend the singing tonight.” Naomi’s mouth turned down lower the longer she waited for Rachel’s response. “Ach. You forgot?”

  Rachel hadn’t forgotten about her friend’s get-together, she simply relished the idea of going to bed early. Besides, Naomi knew she didn’t attend any singings.

  Her friend’s lips puckered into a pout.

  “If my parents permit me to use the buggy, then jah, I’ll kumm. For a little while.” Rachel immediately regretted the promise, but at least if she drove herself she wouldn’t have to depend on a bu to drive her home.

  Naomi smiled and glanced at Jordan. “You’re invited too.”

  “Denki.” Jordan tapped the brim of his hat at Naomi and exchanged a brief glance with Rachel before he walked off.

  “He probably won’t kumm,” Rachel said.

  Naomi sighed. “I know. I hear he hasn’t attended anyone’s singing.” Naomi weaved her arm around Rachel’s elbow. “I don’t care if he is Englisch. He’s over twenty so he should be thinking of marriage.”

  “Not all men should be married,” Rachel said.

  Jordan walked away, the image of Rachel’s blushing cheeks still on his mind. Maybe the suggestion that he would catch her in a wheelbarrow was a little harsh. The timid girl had made a mad dash out of the house last night. Perhaps she pulled a muscle in her back as she tugged on the door.

  Yet she still showed up to help milk the cows before church. She grimaced when Micah sent her back inside.

  Micah was right.

  She needed to learn how to cook, or the man she married would go hungry. Although he was certain she’d spitefully left out the sugar in the rhubarb pie. He figured that out when he returned his plate and saw her wry grin. And had she lopped his hair off on purpose? He wasn’t sure.

  Perhaps Micah had hired him merely to force Rachel int
o performing more womanly chores—he wouldn’t be surprised. Without certain skills, an Amish woman had a difficult future.

  Attending the evening singing would be a step in the right direction for her. She’d be around other women, exchanging recipes, or whatever they did when they were together. And that couldn’t hurt. He observed her from a quiet corner. Even as she favored her lower back with the support of her hand, she was beautiful.

  He blinked a few times to get the vision of her out of his mind. He’d kept his distance from everyone since coming to live with his Amish kin. He didn’t need a woman confusing him when it came time to leave.

  He moved outside to the yard. The unmarried men had gathered in the meadow to play stickball, while the married men milled near the wheat thrasher. Timothy stood next to his father-in-law, Micah.

  Onkel Isaac waved Jordan over to the group; his uncle wanted him to feel welcomed into the Amish community. He even made a point to invite him to church service on this side of the district to introduce him to more members.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Jordan strolled toward the wheat thrasher.

  Onkel Isaac clapped his shoulder. “Brother Micah tells me you’re a hard worker.”

  Jordan leaned forward to acknowledge his appreciation of the good words of Micah, who stood on the other side of his uncle. “Thank you.”

  “Brother Micah said he’s going to show you how to shoe horses. That’s a fine trade.”

  “I’m sure it is,” he said, then turned to scan the yard.

  The men’s conversation shifted and diminished into the background of Jordan’s drifting thoughts. The menfolk’s interest in taking him under their wings surprised him, since his own father—a truck driver—never found him important enough to come see in all the years Jordan lived at home. It had been very difficult growing up without a father. School friends invited him to their church activities and family outings, sharing their fathers for a few hours or a day. But the stand-in fathers never replaced the longing in his heart to know his real dad. Sure, his mother made excuses for him, but even at a young age, he knew truck drivers could still come home.

  Jordan studied the fine, dusty film on his shoes. It didn’t matter who his father was, he hadn’t been there for his mother when she lay dying and he wasn’t there for him after she passed on. What remained for him was an uncertain future, vast and open, void of the direction usually offered by parents.

  He’d promised his mother he would learn about the Amish life before moving on. After her death, when Onkel Isaac invited Jordan to come live with him for a little while until he could get on his feet, he accepted. He’d never intended on staying, but the people brought him into their lives as though he was. Yet no matter how kind they were to him, after experiencing living the simple life, he knew it wasn’t a path he wanted to choose.

  If his mother were alive, she would consider him againish, too self-willed to study the Ordnung and learn the truth about the faith. Before she died, she repeatedly told him he must approach faith with his heart, not with his head. It had to be through his heart. But he had opened his heart when he needed God the most—and God didn’t respond. As a result, Jordan didn’t know if he’d lost what little faith he had or if he just walked away. How could a good God ignore his continuous prayers that his mother get well? If God wasn’t going to care enough about him to spare the only person he had in the world, why should he care about God anymore? It was time to walk away. Time to live the best he could, the best he knew how. If it wasn’t for his promise to his mother that he would give faith a chance by returning to her birthplace, he wouldn’t be here in the Amish community. He was thankful, though, that being here also offered him the opportunity to work and try to sort out what he wanted in life. Unless sending him to live with his uncle was God’s will, which Jordan doubted.

  Jordan glanced up at the clouds. I’m fulfilling my promise to my mother, but, God, I still don’t understand so many of their ways. Did she think I would feel a kinship and want to become Amish? Is becoming Amish what she wanted? After all that happened to her?

  “What do you think, Jordan?”

  Hearing his name spoken broke Jordan’s thoughts. Lingering in the past had choked his voice. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t following the conversation.”

  “I asked what you thought of planting oats near the barn,” Micah said.

  “I think it’s a good idea. The angle of the sun and the positioning would give them optimum growth opportunity.”

  Micah looked over his shoulder. Jordan followed his gaze and saw Rachel and Naomi, locked arm in arm, strolling across the yard toward them. They must’ve come to announce it was time to eat. Not at all too soon, given that his stomach had started growling over an hour ago. They stopped in front of the group of men.

  A few strands of Rachel’s golden hair came out from under her bonnet, and the sunshine cast a perfect glow on her face, making her freckles look even more pronounced.

  Naomi jabbed Rachel’s side and nudged her forward.

  Rachel cleared her throat. “Daed, there’s a singing at Naomi’s haus tonight. I would like to drive myself.”

  Before Micah answered, the cast iron bell clanged to announce the meal was ready. Jordan blew out a breath as the group headed toward the house. If Jordan had any smarts, he would’ve kept walking. Instead, he looked from Rachel’s down-turned head to Micah. A dullness had cast a shadow over his employer’s eyes.

  Micah made an apologetic sigh and admonished his daughter. “I don’t want you driving the buggy after dark. Unless . . .” Micah turned to Jordan. “Are you going?”

  “No! I mean . . . I didn’t plan to attend.” It wouldn’t be right. Those evenings were intended to provide the youth with time to socialize in hopes that they would find a suitable mate within the faith. He wouldn’t be suitable for any Amish woman. Nor did he want to be.

  Rachel looked straight at him with narrowed eyes while slowly shaking her head as though giving him some kind of message. Obviously she didn’t want him to go. But there was something more. A veiled threat? The thought of aggravating her a little was tempting, especially after the haircut she’d given him. Jordan turned to her father. “I’ll see that she gets home.”

  He tugged his earlobe at Rachel when she trained her angry eyes on him.

  Micah patted his back. “Denki, sohn.”

  Instantly Jordan changed from mischievous to serious. He swallowed an emotion he couldn’t grasp.

  “Kumm on nav,” Micah said, looking at the people standing at the tables. “I think they’re waiting for us to say grace.”

  Jordan walked behind them, his head bowed. He’d never been called son except by his mother. He’d quickly developed respect for Micah as he worked with him, but Micah referring to him as son left an unpleasant knot in Jordan’s stomach.

  Chapter Seven

  After Micah and Jordan had taken care of the evening chores, they were leaving the barn when Micah’s forehead creased with concern. “She’s mei boppli. I trust you’ll bring her back early, jah?”

  “And I’ll keep her safe.”

  “Gut.” The tension lines on Micah’s forehead relaxed. A wide smile crossed his face. He clapped Jordan on the back and began to take long strides toward his porch.

  Jordan went the other way, to the small house, wondering what he had gotten himself into. He didn’t want anyone getting the wrong impression about his taking Rachel to the singing. He had done well to avoid joining the youthful buddy group thus far. They ran in packs, dated in packs, and joined the church in packs.

  His Sunday shirt and vest lay sprawled over the bed where he’d tossed them earlier. His pants hung draped over the back of a chair. It seemed pointless to spend so much time changing clothes. From barn clothes before church to his Sunday clothes, then back to barn clothes, and now, once again, he must change into the handed-down, too-small vest. For what? Couldn’t he dutifully monitor Rachel without having to wear church clot
hes?

  He heated water for washing up, missing the ability to just turn on the tap and have the hot water flow. He propped a small, chipped oval mirror against the shelf ledge. As he shaved the stubble off his face, he considered all he had left behind—friends, job, technology. Not that any of those were all that satisfying. He’d been ready to move on from the friends who were choosing lives he didn’t care for. His job was one he’d considered quitting anyway. And the technology? Well, taking a small break wouldn’t hurt, although he had to admit it was tough the first few weeks. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on it.

  Before leaving the cabin, he added a few more logs to the fireplace, hoping that would make for a nice bed of hot embers waiting when he returned.

  He stepped outside, tugged the edges of his vest, and headed for the corral. Blaze trotted to the fence to greet him. “Hi, boy,” Jordan said as he gave the horse’s forehead a little rub. He took the halter and slipped it easily over Blaze’s nose and buckled it behind his ears. He talked to him under his breath as he harnessed him and tethered him to the hitching post. After another quick rub on Blaze’s forehead, he walked the short distance to the Hartzlers’ home and climbed the porch steps. After drawing a deep breath, he knocked.

  Miriam opened the door. A warm smile filled her face. “You don’t have to knock. You’re part of the family nau.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hartzler. That’s very kind.” He wished his heart felt what his words said. But he didn’t, and he couldn’t, create them out of nothing. He just didn’t belong. Not here. Not anywhere. His feet dragged over the braided rug in the hall as he followed Miriam into the sitting room.

  “Have a seat. I’ll see if Rachel is ready.”

  Jordan eased onto the wooden rocker. The Bible on the stand next to the chair had a tattered leather binding that clearly indicated someone’s priority for reading it. His mother’s dogeared Bible pages had frayed over the years as a result of her own extended time in the Scriptures. The Bible she’d given him remained stiff and unused.