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  Zane felt a hand on his shoulder and a not-so-gentle nudge.

  “Day’s comin’. Get up. Mach schnell.”

  “Huh? What?” He pried his eyes open, but had to blink to make sure he was seeing everything correctly. John Paul stood over him, a big grin on his face and not looking at all like he’d had less than—Zane checked his watch—five hours of sleep.

  “Guder mariye, sleepy bones. The cows are a’waitin’.”

  Zane resisted the urge to throw the covers back over his head and pretend he wasn’t home. He really thought they’d been joking when they said their day started before the sun. He wasn’t a slacker, but at least he let the sun make an appearance before being forced out of bed.

  “The cows are waiting on what?”

  “Us.” John Paul pulled the covers to the floor, and Zane pushed himself into a sitting position, still wiping the webs of sleep from his brain. He shouldn’t have stayed up so late logging in the countless questions he had for the Fishers. Sometime around midnight he had powered down his computer, dry-swallowed a sleeping pill, and tried to let the day ease away. Considering the foggy state of his brain he should have probably only taken half the tablet, but how was he supposed to know that early meant early? Besides, he couldn’t rest without one. Between the nighttime pain and disturbing dreams of war, medication was his only solution for a restful sleep. Note to self: Go to bed at a decent hour tonight. Morning comes before sunrise to the Amish.

  Zane staggered to his feet, still rubbing his eyes awake. “We have a date with the cows?”

  “Every mornin’. Gotta milk the cows, slop the hogs, feed the chickens and the horses, the cows, goats—”

  “How many animals do you have on this farm?”

  “More’n enough. That’s why you’ll earn your keep while you’re here.”

  “Right.” Zane pulled his suitcase from under the bed and rummaged around for a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Maybe a jacket. Oklahoma wasn’t nearly as chilly as Illinois, but there was a definite nip in the air.

  “Oh, and Dat said to wear these. He said if you were goin’ to live with the Amish, then you are goin’ to look like the Amish.” John Paul pitched a bundle of clothes toward him. Only his quick reflexes kept them from landing on the floor. “Be downstairs for breakfast in five minutes.” He winked and then closed the door behind him, making Zane wonder if he had been to bed at all. Ah, the joys of seventeen.

  With a shake of his head, Zane shook out the clothes and laid them on top of the bed.

  Was John Paul kidding? Or rather, Abram? Did they really expect him to go around in these . . . pants? They weren’t so bad by themselves, but when added to the suspenders and the dress shirt, then he was sure he’d look like an escapee from a theatrical production of backward lame-oids.

  Maybe he could plead rumspringa and wear his jeans like John Paul? And then he remembered the hard line of Abram’s mouth from the night before. Doubtful, very doubtful.

  Or maybe he should just buck up and wear the crazy black pants with the flap in the front and rows of buttons across. He’d promised to come here and live like the Amish, work with them side by side, and get to know what it was like to be part of their community. He sighed once again at the crazy outfit. He’d worn worse. It was only for three months, he told himself again.

  Then a foreign correspondent’s mantra came to mind: When in Rome . . .

  Zane quickly dressed, looking down at himself in horrific amazement.

  He felt ridiculous. Who dressed like this these days? Okay, stupid question. The Amish dressed like this, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why.

  Zane had never considered himself tall. He was almost six foot, but he was apparently longer legged than the pants’ previous owner, and two inches of white sock glared in between the hem and the laces of his black work boots.

  Like anyone was going to see him. He donned the dressy blue shirt, grabbed his camera, and made his way down the stairs.

  The enticing smell of bacon hit him before he even entered the room. It was barely five a.m. and the house bustled. Ruth stood at the stove, flipping the irresistible strips, a black bonnet covering her head again this morning. Annie hovered behind her. Zane couldn’t tell if she was trying to help or flat-out take over. She reached toward the stove, and Ruth swatted her hand away.

  Annie sighed. “You should sit.”

  “You should check the biscuits.” Ruth might be engaged in the battle of her life, but she still had some spunk. Dark circles underlined her tired, puffy eyes, but her wan smile served as a testament of her courage.

  Zane had liked her immediately. Almost as much as he liked coffee. He looked around, realizing there wouldn’t be an automatic drip machine waiting on the counter, and focused instead on the stove. Ah-ha. An old-fashioned enameled coffeepot sat in plain sight, a puff of steam rising up and competing with the bacon for the most tantalizing smell of the morning.

  “Ach, milk time.” John Paul slapped a round brimmed black hat on Zane’s head and grabbed him by the arm.

  “But coffee—” Zane protested as he was dragged toward the back door of the house, so close to the beloved coffee, but too far away for a snatch and grab.

  “Amish cows don’t wait for Englisch habits.” John Paul laughed, then frowned at the camera Zane held. “And you won’t be needin’ that.” He plucked the Nikon from Zane’s fingers and deposited it on the big wooden table.

  Zane caught one last glimpse of the coffeepot before he was forced out the door.

  A fine sprinkle of dew covered the grass. Stars twinkled above them, but already the sky had lightened to a deep shade of purple as morning approached. Zane had seen the sun rise from points all over the globe, but there was something unique about this cool, misty morning. He couldn’t say what it was, just a specialness lingering in the air.

  Maybe because it reminded him of his childhood. He was old enough when his parents died to remember their faces, but not many other details. Few photographs were left behind to jog his memory. He did know he was a perfect genetic combination of Thalia and Robert Carson. He’d gotten his fair coloring from his mother. She could sit on her long blonde braid, and her blue eyes sparkled when she laughed. She hadn’t been overly maternal, but he always felt loved. His father had a thick beard he wore year round in the cool temps of the Cascade Mountains. His hair had been dark, his eyes deep brown, a definite trait they shared. His father had a booming laugh which he used often, content as he was to live off the land and not compromise his integrity by “working for the man.” Or at least, that’s what his uncle said when he came to get Zane after the fire.

  He shook away those thoughts before they turned down a path he didn’t want to walk today and instead focused on the way to the barn.

  “You ever milk a cow, city boy?”

  “No, but I’ve milked a goat.” How different could it be?

  John Paul stopped in his tracks, and for the first time since Zane had arrived he felt like he had the jump. “For sure?”

  “I’m more than just a pretty face.”

  John Paul laughed and slapped Zane on the back. “You’ll do, city boy, you’ll do.”

  “So what do you think of the Englischer?”

  Katie Rose shrugged at her niece’s question, then nodded toward the mound of dough rising on the butcher block countertop. “That needs punchin’ down.”

  Mary Elizabeth popped the last bite of cookie into her mouth and wiped her hands on the damp dish towel. “He’s cute, don’t you think?”

  Cute wasn’t the word that Katie Rose would have used to describe Zane Carson. He was . . . disturbing. Those knowing brown eyes, deep and bottomless, seemed to search her soul. He had taken her hand and stared at her, not lettin’ her go when decorum demanded. And that was disturbing.

  Katie Rose sh
rugged. “I guess. If’n you like Englischers.” She couldn’t say that she did. Not that she disliked them, but they were outsiders not prone to the traditions of the Plain people. And men in general, well, she had accepted the plan God had for her.

  When Samuel Beachy had left to discover the ways of the Englisch world, she had been devastated. She had loved him so very much. It wasn’t always the way of the Amish to love before marriage, but they had been truly blessed. Then Samuel had come to her one night and confessed that he wasn’t ready to join the church, that there was a great big world outside their little community. The time they were allowed to experience it just wasn’t enough to see everything that he wanted to see. He left the next morning before anyone was awake, leaving a note for his father. The bishop had been crushed that his eldest son had left, but Katie Rose hid her mourning behind a smile. After a few years, the smile became genuine instead of forced, no longer a place to hide, but her makeup as a person, as a Christian.

  Without Samuel there, Katie Rose joined the church and took over teaching the children in the community. That was where she belonged. In time she knew that this was God’s plan for her. Teach the children and raise little Samuel for Gabe. She was happy with her life. It was fulfilling. She didn’t ask for more, to do so would be ungrateful. She had plenty to fill her prayers—her mother’s health, peace for Gideon, knowledge for Annie, safety for John Paul. More important prayers than her personal wants.

  “I thought he was really handsome.”

  Katie Rose did too, but no way would she admit to that. “When did you start carin’ about such things, Mary Elizabeth?”

  Her niece blushed. “I am almost sixteen.”

  “You just turned fifteen.”

  “A year, then. Won’t be long before I can attend a singin’.”

  Katie Rose shook her head. “You’d better not let your father hear you talk like that.”

  “Isn’t that what we all long for? To be old enough to start to enjoy the world? Maybe take a carriage ride with a boy, drive in a car—”

  “You know there’s more to life and courtin’ than that. It’s a special time to pick a life partner. Someone special you can share your life with, raise a family, carry out God’s work.”

  “I know it’s just . . .”

  Katie Rose stopped kneading the dough and gave her full attention to her nichte. “It’s just what?”

  “Nothin’,” she mumbled.

  Katie Rose let the subject drop and instead gathered up the plastic bowl of bread dough. “Help me get these into the buggy. It’s time to go to Grossmammi’s house and make pickles.”

  “That handsome Englischer will be there, too.”

  It was the one thing Katie Rose hadn’t been able to get out of her mind all morning long.

  Zane pulled off his hat and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. Oklahoma was definitely warmer than Chicago this time of year. Or maybe it was all the physical work. Walking behind a plow pulled by two sturdy horses was no joke. Evidently the part about the Amish not using tractors in the field was as valid as their aversion to electricity. Zane’s arms shook from the effort of holding the reins to guide the beasts, his shoulder ached, his legs were stiff and tired. Surely they were about to stop for a break. Snack . . . lunch . . . anything to get him out of the sun for awhile with a cool drink of water to wet his throat. But he wasn’t about to ask when they were stopping. After all of John Paul’s ribbing about him being a city boy, Zane was determined to hold his own among the men.

  Gabriel and his oldest sons had arrived shortly after breakfast, followed closely by Gideon. Before the sky was even light, they had set out to the fields. Only Abram had not joined them. John Paul explained that he had a meeting in town with a man selling seeds for a new blend of wheat. That’s what they were planting. Winter wheat he called it, which explained the crazy planting schedule. Despite the hard work everyone had put in that morning, no one else looked ready to drop.

  Zane plopped the hat back on his head, took a deep breath, and forced his feet to make one more step. Then another. He had prided himself on being strong. He had trained long and hard, toning his body for the hardships of his job. He went into countries sometimes with nothing more than the clothes on his back and what he could carry in a knapsack. That required strength of character—mind, body, and soul. In between jobs, he worked out tirelessly in the gym, lifting weights, running on the treadmill, even hitting the hiking trails in order to keep himself strong, his stamina high. But since the accident, he’d let himself slip, fighting the physical therapy, allowing himself to sit too long on the couch and wish for an assignment, a future. And look where it had gotten him: Amish country, sweating like a pig and wondering where the strength for the next step would come from.

  “Ho, now!”

  He turned as Abram came striding toward the fields. In all of Zane’s efforts to remain upright, he didn’t hear the buggy turn down the drive and the patriarch of the Fisher household return.

  Zane clicked the horses to a standstill, grateful for the excuse to rest, if only for a moment.

  Abram stopped to talk to John Paul first, then he motioned for his other sons to join them. Zane stayed where he was, not wanting to intrude on the family moment. Could it be that Abram had other news to share with them than just information on the seeds? Maybe something to do with their mother’s condition? Very possible, he thought, as he watched John Paul’s head droop. The other men stared at the soil beneath their feet as their father continued. Then as a group they approached Zane.

  “Zane Carson,” Abram said.

  Zane hid his smile at the title. That was one thing he had picked up in the short time he’d been with the Amish. They liked to use full names. What was it John Paul said about their names? That they used a lot of them over and over until it got so confusing that they used nicknames to differentiate? He’d lay money down that there wasn’t another Zane in all of the district.

  “Zane Carson, it seems my boys have not forgotten their sense of humor, but this time it’s been aimed at you.”

  A smile flashed across Gideon’s face before the man successfully hid it. “We’re sorry,” he said.

  “It was all in fun,” the stern-faced Gabriel added.

  Abram braced his hands on his hips. “Fun for who?” The brim of his hat shaded his eyes, but his posture was unmistakable.

  John Paul stepped forward. “Don’t get mad at them. It was all my idea.”

  Abram’s expression didn’t soften. He looked as stern as ever. “You treat our guest with the respect that he deserves. I’ll not have him goin’ ’round tell tales about unfair treatment in my household.”

  John Paul’s shoulders slumped under the weight of his father’s scowl. “It wasn’t supposed to be for long. It’s just once we started our own plowin’ we plumb forgot that we’d—”

  “Given him your grossdaadi’s plow?” Abram shook his head in apparent disbelief. “It’s a wonder Zane Carson still has arms for hangin’ at his sides workin’ with that old thing.”

  That’s when Zane noticed that the plows pulled by the other men were bigger than the one he’d been behind all morning. A lot bigger. And newer.

  “Now say what you’ve come to say.”

  Each man in turn shook Zane’s hand and apologized for the part they’d played in the joke. Zane was uncomfortable accepting their words; it was all good-natured ribbing. He supposed he had it coming. He had invaded their world, and they wanted him to know that he didn’t belong. Zane had been through worse. Much worse. For now he’d accept their apologies and would bide his time for the right moment to return the favor.

  “Now, Zane Carson, go on up to the house. John Paul here will finish this field with the plow he expected you to use while you drink lemonade with the womenfolk. These boys’ll finish the plowin’. Tomorrow, we plant.”
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br />   Zane thought about protesting, but something in the set of Abram’s jaw kept the words at bay. He nodded once toward the four men, then started for the house, a cold drink of something wet filling his thoughts.

  The sun beat down on him as he made his way across the freshly turned earth. Zane felt a sense of accomplishment as he stepped over the soil that he had readied with nothing more than steel and the pull of horses. As a child at the cooperative, he’d been called to hoe the garden, pick small vegetables and fruits, like cucumbers and strawberries, and of course, milk the goats, but he’d been too young to realize how satisfying a day’s hard work could be. He’d been too interested in getting to the end of the chore so that he could go fishing or swimming, two of his favorite pastimes as a child.

  Funny, but he hadn’t thought about those days in a long, long time. Maybe because so many of his formative years had been lived in Chicago with his uncle. And yet he’d thought about those first years in Oregon with every other breath since he’d arrived in Oklahoma’s Amish country.

  With each step fueled by the need to sit, rest, and drink something cool, Zane crossed the bustling yard and bounded onto the porch. As he opened the door, he was immediately assaulted by the smell of vinegar. Zane pulled off his hat as he had seen the other men do, blinked a couple of times for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the rambling farmhouse, and resisted the urge to cover his nose. The stench burned his sinuses with each breath, yet he couldn’t imagine that he smelled much better.

  He’d expected to step into a quiet kitchen, fan lazily turning, refrigerator humming, lemonade waiting for him to come and drink it. A beautiful fantasy really, most likely fueled by his writer’s imagination and sunstroke. He had never really wondered how the fan would turn without electricity, or how Amish kept perishables cold. As for the pitcher of lemonade? Purely wishful thinking.

  What he did find was half the women in the county bustling around like crazed cooks while Gideon’s Annie barked orders like a drill sergeant.