Saving Gideon Read online

  All in all, it had been a good day. She had weeded most of one garden and tomorrow she would start on the other. If it didn’t take her too long, maybe she’d have time left over to give Louie a bath. She was fairly certain there wasn’t a doggie spa within fifty miles, and her pampered pooch was starting to smell like a dog.

  5

  Every muscle in her body protested as Avery dragged herself upright the following morning. Weeding and cleaning were a better workout than she had ever gotten from her personal trainer. It was a good sore, the kind that came from accomplishment.

  She pulled up the quilts and folded them across the foot of the couch. Sometime around 2:00 a.m. she had given up trying to sleep in the bed and wandered back to the couch. There was just something too familiar about lying where Gideon slept. It made her uncomfortable and unable to sleep. Now the clock read half past nine.

  Usually up and about very early, Gideon was nowhere to be found. As tired as she had been when she finally drifted off to sleep, he could have easily come into the house, gotten his breakfast, and left again without disturbing her one bit.

  That must be what happened. Avery pulled on her borrowed pants and headed for the kitchen to make coffee. She took a mug from the cupboard and turned to find Gideon stepping into the house, his eyes bright, as if he’d been awake for hours. He carried a plastic sack in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.

  “’Mornin’.” He hung his hat on its peg. “I take it you didn’t get my note.” He handed her a piece of paper that had been taped up somewhere. “I had to go to town for a few things. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  Town again? Mary Elizabeth would be impressed.

  “Coffee’s ready.” She pulled down a mug for him and filled it with the hot brew. “Have you eaten?”

  “At my brother’s.”

  Avery nodded. She was starving. Must be from all that work she did yesterday. Normally she would have a carton of yogurt and call it good, but not today.

  She rose from the table and poured herself a bowl of milk and added in the granola mixture she had been eating for the last couple of days. It was delicious and filling, and she would need all the energy she could muster to tackle the other garden plot this morning. She still wished she had some eggs, maybe some bacon or ham. Turned out Amish life required a lot more fuel than city life. This would have to do for now.

  “Your brother doesn’t like me,” she said once she had returned to the table with her breakfast.

  “It’s not that.”

  “Okay, I’ll be fair.” She dug her spoon into the cereal. “He doesn’t like that I’m here.”

  “It’s not his house.” Gideon took a sip of his coffee, but refused to meet her gaze.

  Honestly, the man could be so stubborn. “Gideon, I don’t want to cause problems between you and your family.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I’m enjoying my time here. I don’t want to leave, but I will.”

  Gideon shook his head. “You don’t have to leave. I invited you to stay, and I’ll stand by my promise. But I do need somethin’ from you.”

  At the seriousness in his voice, Avery’s heart gave a hard pound. “Of course.” Anything was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back.

  “As you know I’ve planted corn, and corn brings crows.”

  She hadn’t really thought about it, but that sounded logical enough.

  “When you have crows, you need a scarecrow.”

  She raised one brow in question. “And how do I play a part in this?”

  “I need back those clothes.”

  He grimaced, and Avery still wasn’t certain as to where this conversation was going. She supposed she’d look a little odd planting vegetables in a cocktail dress, but she had spent half her life wearing one, and it hadn’t slowed her down yet. The shoes on the other hand . . .

  “O-kay.”

  “You can wear this instead.” He handed her the sack.

  Avery was almost afraid to look inside.

  “There’s a frack in there. One of Mary Elizabeth’s old ones. Katie Rose is just too tall. And when I told them what I needed, they insisted we go into town to the general store and pick up a few more . . . personal items.” He cleared his throat, and Avery looked up to see the faint tinge of pink rise to his cheeks.

  How refreshing to find a man who wasn’t so bold that a package of women’s panties could make him blush.

  “Just while you’re here,” he added. “I know it’s not exactly what you’re used to, but—”

  “They’re perfect.” Any other man she would have hugged in thanks, perhaps given a quick peck on the cheek, but that didn’t seem the right way to show her appreciation to Gideon. She would just have to find other means to show what his gesture meant to her. “I’ll be right back.”

  She fairly ran to the bedroom and dumped the contents out onto the bed. In addition to the dress, there was also some kind of an apron, what looked like a cape, and a few other things, but Avery had no idea how to work them. Instead she concentrated on the items she understood.

  The dress was a pale shade of blue, almost lavender. It had snaps in front that were hidden from view, and a narrow waist band. A far cry from the labels she was accustomed to wearing, but beggars and choosers . . .

  She pulled it over her head, enjoying the fresh scent of clothing dried outdoors. The sleeves settled below her elbows, the hem a few inches below her knees. Serviceable, if not a little big around the waist, but a much better fit than Gideon’s castoffs. Still, she hadn’t worn something so modest since elementary school.

  He hadn’t bought her a bra, though, which was probably just as well. An item that familiar might have given him a heart attack.

  Avery couldn’t help but smile. He was so different than the men she had known in her life. So unassuming. He wanted nothing from her, and yet he gave. He had opened his home to her—though she knew at first he had thought it a mistake. That’s why she was trying so hard to help. It just seemed the right thing to do.

  She had been washing out her undergarments every night in the sink, so a new pair of panties felt downright heavenly. Maybe the fact that he had given her some clothes to wear meant that he was willing to let her stay a little longer than he had originally planned.

  She ran her fingers through her hair to fluff it back in place, scooped up his clothes, and headed back to the front room, a smile on her face.

  “What do you think?”

  Gideon blinked once, then nodded. But no smile. He grunted out some sort of response, snatched up his clothes, and scuttled to the door, muttering about scarecrows as he went.

  Gideon didn’t show up for lunch . . . dinner, but Mary Elizabeth did.

  She breezed in, that big cherub smile on her face. “Wow! Look at you. Dat wouldn’t let me come yesterday.”

  “I’m glad you came today.”

  “Do you like the frack?”

  “I do. Thank you.” The garment was comfortable, and she was pleasantly surprised to discover how easy it was to get around in.

  “Danki.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We say danki. That’s thank you.”

  “Well then, danki, Mary Elizabeth. I like the dress very much. Would you like some lunch, er, dinner?”

  The girl nodded enthusiastically, and before long, the two of them had the table all set with leftover chicken made into sandwiches and cold roasted potatoes.

  Avery looked at Gideon’s empty chair. She had set him a place at the table, hoping he’d come in from whatever he was doing and eat.

  “He’s at my house,” Mary Elizabeth said, taking another bite. “You know what this needs? Applesauce.” She got up and rummaged around in the refrigerator. “Ah-ha.” She turned around with an unmarked j
ar. “Have some.” She scooped a big helping onto her own plate, then gave Avery’s the same treatment.

  Avery had never been one for applesauce, but she hadn’t been given the choice—it appeared that life with Mary Elizabeth was like that—and tried it anyway. “It’s delicious.”

  Mary Elizabeth smiled. “Aaron’s Rachel’s Sarah made it.”

  “Aaron Rachel Sarah . . . that’s an interesting name.”

  Mary Elizabeth laughed out loud. “Her name is just Sarah, but the Amish like certain names more than others, and we tend to use them a lot. Sometimes it’s easier to refer to someone by other people in the family. Aaron is her grossdaadi, or grandfather, and Rachel is her mamm. Her given name is Sarah. So she’s known as Aaron’s Rachel’s Sarah.”

  “Well, she makes good applesauce.” She took another bite, then eyed the younger girl thoughtfully. “Do they call you Gabriel’s Mary Elizabeth?”

  “No. There’s not another here named Mary Elizabeth. And so I’m always known as that. But I wish . . .” She looked down at her plate. “Never mind.”

  “You wish what?”

  “I wish I could be called something different.”

  “Like?”

  She took a deep breath and held it. “Lizzie.”

  “And no one will call you that?”

  “Dat won’t allow it. My mother named me, and she’s gone now.”

  “She named you after herself?”

  “No, but she liked my name just like it is.” Mary Elizabeth grimaced. “I miss her, but I wish I could be called something else.”

  “Then you shall. At least around here anyway.”

  That seemed to brighten the child back to her normal sunshiny disposition.

  “It looks like Onkel has been planting.”

  Avery nodded.

  “That is wunderful-gut.”

  “He is a farmer.”

  Lizzie gave her a strange look. “He has never planted more than he needed to care for his sheep and barn animals. But once, I mean, he sold them. No one knew what he would do this year. I overheard Dat and Grossdaadi talking. They were worried that Onkel had not planted anything this year. Not even hay for the cows and horses.”

  “He planted corn.”

  “That is gut,” she said again.

  “He’s been very working hard.”

  “Jah.”

  Too hard to come in from the fields and eat cold leftovers every night. She had it! The perfect way to show her appreciation to Gideon for all that he had done for her.

  “M-Lizzie, could you help me cook something?”

  The young girl dimpled at the sound of her new nickname. “Are you still hungry?”

  Avery hid her smile and shook her head. “For your uncle. For supper.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “I have a little time before I have to go back home.”

  “I want to surprise him. He’s been so kind to me, and I’d like to say thanks.”

  Lizzie smiled. “Then you will. I’ll show you how to make his favorite—chicken pot pie. He’ll be so shocked!”

  Gideon had nothing in his pantry, so Lizzie left to get the ingredients for the meal. Once she returned, she showed Avery how to boil the chicken and pull it from the bone, peel the vegetables, and roll out the dough that would eventually become noodle-like.

  And then she left. Lizzie had been gone from home all afternoon. Surely she would be in trouble if she stayed away from her chores for much longer.

  Avery ran the back of her hand over her brow. Who knew rolling out dough could be so strenuous? No wonder the Amish ate such hardy meals filled with lard and butter and all the fat the rest of the world avoided. They burned up the calories just trying to cook the stuff!

  And that’s just what Gideon deserved—a meal that would stick to his ribs.

  Amish chicken pot pie, it turned out, looked nothing like pie. Instead it was more like the chicken and dumplings Avery had eaten once in Georgia. The part about the pot was correct, but it didn’t seem right to give him just the one dish. So as it bubbled on the stove top, Avery dug around for some side dishes to accompany it. She found the applesauce that she and Mary Elizabeth had eaten that afternoon along with a jar of homemade pickles and another jar containing something called peach chow-chow. Once she sliced the last of the sourdough bread, they would have themselves a fabulous meal!

  Gideon was bone weary by the time he finished brushing down Molly and Kate from their trip to Gabriel’s. It was a gut way to be. The exercise had done him right, though he didn’t really want to admit it. As tired as he was, he felt better than he had in days.

  He tried not to smile as he remembered pulling up and Miss Hamilton running out onto the porch to tell him that they were having “something special” for supper. But the sight of her in that pale purple dress made him grin in spite of himself.

  He’d tried all day to forget how the color had made her eyes seem bigger and more like gumdrops than ever before. And that her hair seemed darker and silkier than it had yesterday just after she had rinsed it clean. Even if it was too short.

  He pushed the image from his mind as he washed up in the rain barrel. He brushed the dust from the road off his pants and went into the haus.

  It was hot inside—near stifling. The biggest pot he had ever seen bubbled on the stove. Was that even his pot? The table was set with plates, silverware, and two large glasses of fresh milk. A jelly jar sat in the middle of the table, serving as a vase for a couple of late-blooming daffodils and a few unfortunate weeds.

  “Surprise!”

  Jah, surprise.

  He hung his hat on the peg and tried to think about what to say. His little pixie princess had made him natchess. Such a wunderbaar surprise. Such a sweet accomplishment. Such a . . . mess. All he could manage was, “Danki.”

  “You’re welcome.” She grinned at him. “Come on. Come eat.” She pulled out his chair and stood there waiting expectantly, that huge smile still on her face.

  He sat down, trying not to let his doubts show. It didn’t look like any helping of pot pie he’d ever eaten. But looks don’t mean a thing. For sure and for certain, chicken pot pie wasn’t the purtiest dish ever made, but it was tasty. His favorite.

  He scooped up a bite and immediately wished it had been smaller. Much smaller. The dumpling seemed to grow the more he chewed it. And the more he chewed it, the more he felt like he needed to—it was lumpy and tough and tasted like school paste.

  But she was so pleased with herself, and it was generous of her to cook for him.

  He managed to swallow the bite, the knot of food slowly sliding down till it hit his stomach.

  “How is it?” She looked as eager as a child at Christmas.

  He swallowed again, hoping to choke out a response. “It’s gut.” He’d been taught his whole life not to lie, but this one was necessary. He couldn’t hurt her feelings for all the properly cooked pot pie in Oklahoma.

  She beamed at him.

  Somehow he gathered a smile and sent it back to her.

  “You’ve been working so hard, and I hated to see you eat nothing but sandwiches. You deserve more than that.”

  “Jah. Danki.” Maybe if he concentrated on the chicken. He forked up a bite and chewed. And chewed and chewed and chewed. It was like eating a piece of harness. The vegetables were overcooked, even by Amish standards, and the soupy part was as thick as gravy.

  Miss Hamilton watched him expectantly, her untouched portion cooling on her plate.

  He bravely took another bite. She smiled, and again he managed to return it.

  She laughed. “Oh, I was so busy watching you eat, I forgot to eat for myself.” Her eyes twinkled as she forked up her own bite, but the more she wallered the food around in her mouth, the less enthusiastic her expression
became.

  Finally she swallowed. “Does it . . . does it always taste like this?”

  Time to tell the truth. “No.”

  She looked crushed, her big gumdrop eyes melting. “But Lizzie . . . Mary Elizabeth said it was your favorite. And I wanted to make it for you.”

  “Jah, that you did.”

  “But I wanted it to taste good.”

  “Then you should’ve had Katie Rose to come help. Mary Elizabeth is the worst cook in three districts.”

  She looked like she was going to cry. Gideon reached across the table and covered her hand with his.

  And immediately wished he hadn’t.

  Her skin was soft as a late spring breeze, warm and sweet. Just touching her made him think of so many things he never thought he’d think of again. Long walks, sitting on the porch swing and drinking lemonade, hot summer nights and long winter days.

  He allowed himself to run his thumb over the thin, blue vein on the back of her hand, feeling it jump beneath his touch, then he retreated. He released her hand and sat back in his chair.

  “It’s not so bad.” He scooped up another bite.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Jah.” A chuckle escaped him, then another. He couldn’t help himself, and soon she joined in. “Annie, this is a meal to stick to your ribs.”

  She giggled, and he noticed the start of a line of freckles across the curve of her cheeks.

  “Annie?” she asked.

  The named had slipped naturally from his lips. To him she seemed much more an “Annie” than a sticker label.

  “Jah.” He nodded to back up his decision. “Annie.”

  And her smile grew a little brighter. “I like it.”

  He didn’t know what to say, so he filled his mouth and used eating as an excuse not to answer her at all.

  “Why are you pulling up the strawberry plants?”