Saving Gideon Page 24

  He glanced around. He was alone. There was no rain. No Miriam. No Jamie. No Annie.

  With a steadying sigh, he pushed himself off the bed. His knees popped as he stood. He shuffled across the floor, out of the bedroom, and down the hall toward the kitchen.

  He half-expected to see Annie curled up asleep on the couch, Louie at her feet. He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. She wasn’t there. Then he stumbled into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.

  With the amount of work he’d put in that day, he should have been in a deep, dreamless slumber, but his thoughts kept him awake with their churning.

  He stared out the window over the sink, just able to make out the edge of the chicken coop and the north section of fence around the empty hog pen. He needed to buy some pigs, he told himself there in the dark. And a couple more chickens. Maybe a couple of goats. Anything to keep busy. At least until the day of his confession. After that, he could start living again. He would be free to forget about Annie, to let her go.

  But until that day . . .

  Gideon sat his glass down in the drainer and made his way back into the living room. Why did it seem as if his whole house was filled with Annie?

  After the accident, he’d sold their farm, the haus and all the animals except for Molly, Kate, and Honey. He’d had to get away, the sharp edges of guilt slicing through him every time he looked out onto the fields, at their clothes, Jamie’s toys—even at the meticulously-kept garden in the front of the little house.

  So he’d gotten rid of it all only to move out here and now be constantly reminded of Annie. Everywhere he turned he found a piece of her. He eased down on the couch, positive he could still smell the scent of her shampoo and the dab of lavender she wore. Across from him sat the chair where he had dozed after pulling her in from the cold.

  And the stack of books she’d brought in from the library. He turned on the oil lamp closest to him, then leaned down and traced the cover of the book on top—the one she’d borrowed about alpacas. The face that stared back at him was not unpleasant—dark, intelligent eyes and gentle-looking in nature. She’d said they were good creatures, though she had never seen one in real life. He’d seen them at the auction. He considered himself a good judge of people and animals, and the alpacas appeared to be everything Annie said they were and more.

  A perfect alternative to sheep.

  If a man decided he wanted to raise a creature like that.

  And he hadn’t.

  Still, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look.

  Gideon picked up the book and sat back, propping it in his lap. He traced the cover one more time before opening it to the first page and starting to read.

  He had to get off the farm. Gideon took one last tug at the harness rig on Molly and Kate, then swung up into the buggy.

  He told himself it was because he needed to return her library books, and that he could use a few things from town. But really, he had to get away from her. At least in this open-air rig he wasn’t confronted with her scent, her very presence, every time he rounded a corner.

  He enjoyed the ambling trip into town, the sun on his face, and the smell of spring and horses all around. It was gut. One day at a time, he thought, pulling to the side so a car could move around him.

  Tonight he was going over to his parents’ haus to talk about his mother’s treatments. Together they would make a plan that, with the Lord’s help, would see them through. He knew Ruth Fisher’s faith was strong, and he tried his best to steel his up too. But he . . .

  Nay. He pushed those thoughts away, tamped them down inside. He’d not go around doubtin’. He had to remain strong for his mamm, and that’s exactly what he was goin’ to do.

  Gideon straightened his shoulders, and clicked Molly and Kate to a slower pace. They passed the sign welcoming them to Clover Ridge, The Best Little Town in Oklahoma. It was a gut town. The people there supported the Amish, let them set up shop right next door and sell their goods, Amish cheese, furniture, and even a restaurant that brought visitors in from all over the state.

  Gideon pulled the buggy to a stop in front of Anderson’s General Store. He’d pick up a few things for the haus before dropping off the books on the way back out of town.

  “Mornin’,” Coln greeted as Gideon stepped in from the sunlight. He tipped his hat in response and nodded once to Hester Stoltzfus’s brother-in-law, then made his way over to the hardware section. He needed a few nails to brace up the fence posts around the hog pen. Wouldn’t do any good to go get hogs and have them bustin’ out and runnin’ over the garden and crops. He might even need to get a couple of two-by-fours to brace it up as well. Which meant a stop at the lumberyard.

  “Gideon Fisher.”

  He turned, not realizing how engrossed he was in his own thoughts until nearly startled out of them by the shopkeeper.

  “Coln. Gut to see you.”

  “And you too, Gideon. But I don’t see your lovely visitor with you today.”

  Gideon felt his heart twist inside his chest. “Nay.” His voice sounded a little rough. He cleared his throat, hoping no one noticed the cloud of emotion that settled over him.

  “Well, I hope she’ll be in soon. We have a new shipment of fabric. Just arrived. She was asking about something to make a new frack. I believe my wife said Katie Rose was planning to make her a dress.”

  Annie had said the same thing. The day he had brought her into town and had her father come and fetch her.

  Gideon wagged his head. “She’s gone home,” he finally managed, thankful his voice sounded almost like himself.

  Anderson’s face fell. “Ah, well that’s too bad. She was a lovely sight when she came in.”

  That she was. Gideon only nodded.

  “You’ll tell Katie Rose for me, in case she’s still interested?”

  Gideon nodded again. He wanted to pay for his nails and get back out into the sunshine. Away from even more memories.

  He stepped around Anderson and walked toward the counter. “I’ll just buy these now.”

  If Gideon was rude, Coln made no mention of it, not even a twitch of his expression to show that he felt slighted. Gut. Gideon wasn’t trying to be rude. He just needed a breath of fresh air.

  Finally he stepped out of the general store with his little bag of nails, everything else he’d thought to pick up while in town forgotten.

  Perhaps he’d walk over to the library to return Annie’s books. The air might do him some good, even though he’d gotten plenty of that on the trip into town.

  He gathered the books and started off toward the library.

  He’d not been inside the building since his rumspringa. Not that it wasn’t allowed. More often than not, the Plain people passed knowledge down from one to another through word of mouth and teachings. He’d learned what he knew from his dat and his grossdaadi. Even Miriam’s father had taught him much of what he knew about raising sheep.

  The library was cool and well lit, but not too bright. The skylights from the ceiling added a natural effect to the indoors.

  He stepped up to the counter and nodded to the woman seated there.

  “Guder mariye.”

  She smiled back at him. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I need to return these books.” He placed them on the counter and pushed them closer to her. “My guest borrowed them and . . .” he faltered. “I need to bring them back to you.”

  “All right. Were you able to get all that you needed from . . .” She looked up at him. “These were Annie’s.”

  “Jah,” he said. “She’s gone back . . . home.” He couldn’t help the slight hesitation before he said the word. In the time she was with him, he’d started to consider his farm her home as well. But that wasn’t how it really was. She belonged in the big city. He did the right thing
by making her leave.

  “Aw, that’s too bad. I so liked seeing her come in.”

  Unable to think of a proper response, Gideon just nodded. Then he shifted from one foot to the other as he waited for her to do whatever she had to do with the books. On his way home, he would stop by the lumber store. At least there he wouldn’t have to listen to another person lament the fact that Annie had gone home.

  “All set,” the lady said, smiling up at him.

  “Danki.” He tipped his hat as he turned toward the door.

  “Onkel!” Mary Elizabeth stopped, her body half in and half out of the library. Something on her face made him wonder what part of the Ordnung she was breaking by being here.

  “Mary Elizabeth.” He tried to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice sounded unnaturally high pitched. Poor child, she all but wrung her hands.

  “I came to return the books Annie borrowed from here.” There, see, it was getting less and less painful to say her name. “What are you doin’ here?”

  Her face crumpled. “Please, please, please don’t tell Dat.” She grasped his hand into her own, squeezing hard in her earnest. “Please.”

  It wasn’t in the Amish nature to say please. It was understood, a part of life. And that made Mary Elizabeth’s anxiousness all the more curious. Still, she was a good child, and fast approaching her rumspringa.

  Gideon looked around. “Is there something going on here that I should tell?” He nearly turned in a circle as he looked around. “I see nothing that deserves a tellin’.”

  A small, knowing light shone in his niece’s eyes. “That’s right. There is nothing to tell. I just came to read a few books.”

  “Jah,” he said, disentangling his fingers from hers. “And that you should do.”

  She almost wilted in relief. “Danki, Onkel.”

  “There is no need to thank me.”

  Whatever secrets she harbored, his sweet niece could carry them with her another day.

  15

  Where are you headed so early on this fine Sunday morning?”

  Avery turned to face her father. She had hoped to get out of the house without anyone knowing she was gone. In the almost two weeks since her return, her father had been treating her as if she had some sort of twisted Stockholm syndrome and had fallen in love with her kidnapper—never mind that she hadn’t been kidnapped. But every time she looked around, her father was right behind her. She turned a corner, he was there. She hadn’t been alone more than five minutes since returning to Dallas.

  Maybe this was for the best. Time alone would give her more time to think about Gideon. And that was one thing she wasn’t going to do. Because thinking about Gideon led to tears and remorse and dwelling on past mistakes she didn’t want to remember.

  “Church,” she said.

  “Uh-hum.” Her father scrutinized her with a critical eye, taking in every detail of her most conservative dress and her low-heeled designer shoes. “I see.”

  Which meant, That’s why you’re dressed that way.

  Avery had not had the energy to pick up where she had left off. She had tried, but things she once considered to be of great importance, seemed trivial at best. She didn’t look bad. For the most part, she looked like the “old” Avery. But she had yet to figure out where “Annie” fit into the English world. The girl she had been before was long gone, and her father knew it, even if he couldn’t explain it.

  “I called Ramon and got you an appointment to have your hair done before this weekend. We’re lucky he could squeeze you in—especially after you missed your last appointment.”

  Avery raised a hand to her hair. She couldn’t remember the last time it had been this long.

  “And your nails. For heaven’s sake, make sure you have something done to them—professionally—before the benefit.” He tempered his words with a kiss on her cheek, as if the tiny token of affection could take away the sting of his criticism. Had he always been this shallow?

  That wasn’t fair. They came from a world where—sad, but true—appearance was everything.

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  The children’s hospital benefit was in less than a week, and Avery was expected to attend and play her part. That left six days to ready herself and maybe, somehow, find a little of the old Avery to carry her through.

  He patted her on the cheek and continued toward his home office.

  Avery watched him go, and then made her way to the garage. Her father had replaced her Mercedes with a brand new one, this one pearly white. She felt guilty driving the car. She would rather have had an ordinary Honda and send the rest of the money to Ruth and Abram—not that they would actually take it from her. Still, somehow she would find a way to help with the costly treatments.

  Until then, all she could think about was Gideon. Since the Amish met every other Sunday, the day had finally come—his day of redemption. He’d be in the service right now, but she didn’t know which family was hosting today’s preaching. Though she couldn’t say she understood the methods, she knew that today he would be forgiven and welcomed back into the community. Soon he would start courting another woman, and eventually he would marry her. A loveless marriage based on needs and finances and companionship.

  Lizzie had told her during one of their many talks that the Amish didn’t view love in the same way the English did. Love was a bonus, not the foundation of a relationship. Sometimes love came many years later—if at all—and didn’t rule the emotions and decisions of the couple.

  Avery could see the benefit in such thinking. Love had gotten her in too much trouble to count. In the past, she had given her heart away freely and had it handed back to her without remorse. This time was different. She’d left her heart with Gideon, and she knew it would never be hers again.

  The parking lot of the Boston Avenue Methodist Church was packed when she pulled in. She liked the church because she could sneak into the balcony and listen without staring eyes. It wasn’t as big as the First Methodist and other churches in the Dallas-Ft. Worth area, but it suited her just fine.

  Today’s message was love and forgiveness. As a man with dark, brown hair came forward to kneel and pray, Avery thought once again of Gideon. She bowed her head and prayed God would give her the strength to go on without him.

  At the end of the church service, Bishop Beachy spoke. “I’d like to call a members meetin’.”

  Gideon twisted his hands together in his lap and waited. How fitting that he would repent at the service held at his parents’ house.

  The young people who hadn’t yet joined the church, and the visiting members from other districts rose and glanced warily around, but filed out quietly all the same.

  When the door had closed behind the last one, Gideon cleared his throat. “I want to confess that I have failed. I want to make peace and continue in patience with God and the church and in the future to take better care.”

  “Gideon Fisher, please come forward.”

  He caught his mother’s eye, and steeled himself against the emotion he saw there. “Kneel before the church and tell us what is your sin?”

  Gideon dropped to his knees on the hard, wooden floor surrounded by the members of the church and the walls that had protected him as a child. It served as just another reminder of all he stood to gain. “I didn’t trust God. I went against the Ordnung. And I am truly sorry for the error of my ways.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m ready to change.”

  The deacon stepped forward. “We know that many of you have heard the rumors. How Gideon Fisher shaved his beard and took up with an outsider. We all went out to talk with Gideon, and we are satisfied that he has repented from those ways. But as always, it is up to the church to decide.”

  “Gideon Fisher,
you may leave,” the bishop said.

  He pulled himself to his feet and walked quietly to the door that led to the kitchen. From there he went out back and sat on the porch to await his fate.

  He wasn’t worried. The district was full of good people, and today’s confession was just a formality. If no one had found out about his loss of faith, he wouldn’t be here now. But since others had found out and started talking, the bishop had to do something public. Gideon understood. When he was called, he’d go back in, accept the discipline of the church, and would mostly likely be forgiven right away. His offense was not serious enough to warrant a six-week ban. Tomorrow he’d head over and state his intentions to Rachael Miller. And that would be that.

  “Bruder.” Gabe stood at the door to the house, his brooding expression giving nothing away. “They’re ready for you.”

  Gideon stood and followed his brother inside.

  Crickets chirped and stars twinkled in the dusky purple sky. Gideon pushed aside the thought of a certain pair of eyes the exact same color and, instead, concentrated on the woman standing on the bishop’s porch with him.

  “Danki for supper, Rachael Miller. It was gut not to have to eat my own cookin’ for a change.” The bishop had arranged this evening meal prepared by his wife and Rachael, and Gideon had officially begun the courtin’ of the young widow. He knew the others were watching from inside the haus.

  Rachael smiled shyly and smoothed a hand over her apron. “You’re welcome, Gideon Fisher.”

  He twisted his hat brim in his hands and walked the few steps to the ground, while she wrapped an arm around the support post and remained at a respectable distance.

  He had to admit that she was a pretty little thing. The kind of woman that made a man feel strong and protective. She had silky brown hair tucked under her prayer kapp and big brown eyes, sweet and honest. She could cook like the dickens and had two of the sweetest girls he had ever had the pleasure of being around. She would make a fine wife.

  “There’s been some talk about the district,” she said into the still night.