The Amish Midwife's Courtship Page 2

  Their gaze met for seconds. Her whiskey-brown eyes caused the oddest sensation in the pit of his stomach, like butterflies flittering from flower to flower. He frowned and hardened his resolve. The last thing he needed was a woman trying to take care of him.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” She smiled. Her brown eyes sparkled.

  He looked away, concentrating on the colorful braided rug on the floor. Her touch was gentle, the cream she spread with her fingertips cool and soothing. She unwrapped a small butterfly bandage and pressed it down, careful not to touch his cut.

  “There, all done.”

  Tray in hand, she backed toward the door. “Now take your pills and drink your coffee. I’ll see you in the kitchen in ten minutes.”

  “Wait!” He realized he didn’t want her to leave. It had been a long time since he’d had a conversation with anyone, much less a kindhearted woman who made him feel alive. “What’s your name?”

  “Margaret, but everyone calls me Molly,” she said, whirled round, and then was gone.

  The door shut behind her, and he stared at the spot where she’d stood. When she left, all the life seemed to have been sucked out of the tiny room.

  * * *

  Molly leaned against the closed bedroom door and allowed herself to take a deep breath. She exhaled with a whoosh, then hurried back toward the kitchen. No man had ever affected her the way Isaac Graber did. She lifted her hand and watched it tremble. He had flustered her, made her pulse race. She was as happy as a kinner on Christmas morning and had no idea why.

  Ridiculous! A man was already considering her for courtship, not that she was interested in him or ready for marriage to anyone. Still, her future had been mapped out by her mamm, and she really didn’t have any choice in the matter.

  No doubt she’d soon see the flaws in Isaac, like she did most men. She had to be practical. Mamm was counting on her to make a good marriage that would end all their financial problems.

  She hurried through the hall and into the warm, cozy kitchen fragrant with the aroma of hot biscuits and sliced honey ham. At the stove, she turned on the gas, lit a blaze under the old iron frying pan and then added a spoon of reserved bacon fat.

  Her hands still shook as she broke three eggs into a bowl and poured them into the hot oil. Crackling and popping, the eggs fried but were forgotten when the troublesome renter awkwardly maneuvered his way through the kitchen door, lost his balance and tripped over his own feet. He lay sprawled on the worn tile floor. Facedown. Not moving.

  “Herr Graber!” Molly stepped over his crutch and kneeled at his side. The morning headlines flashed through her mind. Man Killed by Abusive Landlady. “Please be all right.” She shook his shoulder.

  Nothing.

  She shook it again, harder this time.

  “If you’d stop trying to break my shoulder, I might be able to get up.”

  Molly stamped her foot, angrier than she’d been since he’d called her a thief earlier. Why did this man bring out the worst in her? “You scared me. Why didn’t you say something, let me know you weren’t dead? I thought...”

  He leaned up on one elbow. “Did you seriously think I was dead? It would take a lot more than a spill to kill me, Miss Ziegler.”

  She gathered her skirt around her and scooted away, not sure what kind of mood he was in, but stayed close enough, just in case he needed help getting back on his feet.

  His green eyes darted her way and then over to his fallen crutches. “Your mother seemed normal enough when I signed in last night. I wonder if she knows how you treat her guests when she’s not around.”

  “I take offense to that remark, Herr Graber. I in no way harmed you. Well...here in the kitchen I didn’t. I was busy cooking your breakfast, and you fell over your own big feet.” He wore scarred, laced-up boots, the kind bikers favored. Maybe that was how he’d hurt himself. A nasty bike spill, and now he was in pain and taking his misery out on her.

  “You’re right. I did fall over my own feet. That’s what cripples do.” He leaned heavily on a single crutch and pushed his way to his feet, his face contorting with pain.

  “Ach, you’re no cripple,” she said, standing.

  “What would you know about being crippled?”

  He’d crossed the line. Molly lifted her skirt an inch and showed him the built-up shoe on her right foot. “I think I know a lot about being crippled.”

  He flushed, his forehead creased in dismay. He moved to straighten, and groaned.

  A wave of sympathy washed over her. He had to be suffering. She’d almost been a teenager when she’d fallen out of a tree and broke her leg, damaging the growth plate. Her pain had been excruciating, but she got around fine now. He looked pale with pain. No wonder his mood was dark. “Can I help—”

  He lifted his hand to warn her off. “Nee. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself up. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

  He rose and towered over her. He had to be at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a slim waist.

  The smell of burning eggs reached Molly’s nose. She gasped as she turned and saw smoke rising from the overheated frying pan. “Your eggs! Now look what you’ve made me do.” She pulled the pan off the burner and then turned back, ready to do verbal battle with the wretched man.

  Unsteady on his feet, Isaac Graber hobbled across the kitchen floor and stepped out the back door, waving gray smoke out of his face as he shut it behind him with a slam.

  Chapter Two

  A gust of wind accompanied Ulla Ziegler through the back door. She hurried into the kitchen, the folds of her once-clean apron smeared with mud and brimming with a load of gritty brown potatoes and freshly pulled carrots. Fat rain drops spattered against the kitchen window.

  Finishing the last of the breakfast dishes, Molly stopped mid-swipe. To her amazement her stout little mother, who slipped and slid through the door, managed to make it across the room without dropping one potato.

  Molly’s brow rose in agitation. Her mamm’s plain black shoes had left a trail of gooey brown mud across the recently mopped linoleum floor. Naturally her mother made no apologies for the added work.

  Wiping her hands dry, Molly couldn’t help but smirk. The sudden morning shower had turned her mamm’s wooly gray hair into a wild riot of curls around her untidy, limp prayer kapp.

  A natural trader, the older woman was blessed with the gift of bartering and had bragged at breakfast about the promise of ten pounds of freshly dug potatoes from old Chicken John, a local chicken farmer, for six jars of their newly canned peaches. Molly had a feeling the old farmer had more than peaches on his mind when it came to her mother. She’d noticed the way the widower looked at her, not that Ulla gave the man much encouragement. Her mamm seemed satisfied with being a widow with no man to tell her what to do.

  Isaac Graber came back into the house moments after Ulla, the wind catching the door and slamming it again as he fell into the closest kitchen chair. The renter jerked a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped rain from his pale face.

  Sniffing, Ulla took in a long, noisy breath and coughed on the kitchen’s putrid air. She dumped the potatoes into a wicker basket in the corner of the big kitchen and twirled.

  “What’d you burn, dochder?” She jerked a dish towel off its peg and pressed it to her lips. Her watering blue-eyed gaze sliced from Molly, who stood transfixed in front of the cast iron sink, to the smoldering frying pan floating in a sea of sudsy dishwater.

  Molly shrugged. She would not lie. She wanted to, but she’d never been good at weaving believable tales. Best to tell the truth. “The eggs got away from me.”

  She waited for her mother’s reaction, her gaze slanting Isaac Graber’s way, daring him to deny the truth of her words. Had he had a chance to tell her mamm about what had happened this mornin
g? She looked at the bump on his forehead and then glanced away. If her mamm made a fuss, she surely wouldn’t get to the singing practice on time.

  Ulla looked in the kitchen trash and made a face, her full lips turned down at the corners. “You know it’s a sin to waste good food. That dog hanging around out back would have eaten those, burned or not.”

  Ulla began to flap the dish towel around the room, propelling the smoke toward the slightly opened kitchen window.

  “Molly didn’t forget the eggs, Mrs. Ziegler.” Isaac smiled and flashed his straight, white teeth. His green eyes sparkled with sincerity. “She helped me get off the floor when I tripped over my own big feet. The eggs paid the price for her efforts. Isn’t that right, Molly?”

  Why was he taking up for her? She put her hands on her hips and looked him over. Pale and slender, he reclined in the old kitchen chair as calm as could be, his crutches leaning against the wall behind him. He smiled at her and her stomach flip-flopped. She went back to scrubbing the frying pan’s scorched bottom. Seconds later she glanced back up at him and caught him staring at her. What was he up to?

  She’d expected him to be full of tales and gretzing to her mamm about this morning, and there he sat, being nice, even generous of heart. The man kept her off-kilter, and she wasn’t having any of it. “Ya, like he said, Mamm. He fell and I helped him up.”

  One of Ulla’s gray brows spiked. She mumbled, “Ya, well. No matter. It’s gut you were here to help.”

  Molly’s gaze drifted from her mamm’s suspicious expression back to Isaac’s calm grin. He had the nicest smile.

  Ulla opened the cupboard door and asked, “You two want kaffi?”

  “Ya.” Molly nodded and went back to scrubbing the pans.

  Moments later mugs of steaming coffee and plates of buttered biscuits, with a dab of homemade raspberry jelly, appeared on the cluttered kitchen table. Molly sat next to her mother and looked at their new tenant. He gazed over his mug at her. A smile lit his face. She looked away, concentrating on spreading jam on her hot biscuit.

  “Herr Graber tells me he bought the old bike shop yesterday and got it for a good price.” Ulla shoved half of her late-morning snack in her mouth and began to chew.

  “Did he?” Molly blew on her hot coffee.

  “Please call me Isaac.” He glanced at Molly, his green eyes bright.

  Distracted by their shine, she took a gulp of coffee and burned her tongue, but would have died a million deaths before she let on. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he had once again disturbed her.

  “I thought since Herr Graber had some issues with his crutches this morning, it might be gut if you went with him when he takes a look at the shop.” Ulla drained the last of her coffee and placed the mug on the table.

  “You bought the shop sight unseen?” Molly asked.

  Isaac nodded. “I did.”

  Foolish man. She turned to her mother and tried to keep the whine out of her voice. “I’d love to help Herr Graber, but singing practice is today. There’s a frolic in a few weeks. I promised I’d come this time.” Molly watched her mamm stuff the last crumbs of her biscuit in her mouth and sighed. She knew the mox nix expression her mamm wore. There’d be no singing practice for her today.

  “I’m sure I can—” Isaac tried to interject.

  Ulla rose from her chair. “It is settled. No more chatter from either of you.” She dusted crumbs off her generous bust and headed for the sink, not giving Molly or Isaac another glance as she continued talking. “You are a paying guest, Herr Graber, and an Amish man in good standing with the community. Molly will be glad to help you while you stay here. She has nothing better to do.”

  Nothing better to do! Molly held her breath, praying she wouldn’t say the angry words begging to come out of her mouth. As long as she lived in her mamm’s haus, she’d never have a say in her own comings and goings.

  Molly stole a look at the dark-haired tenant and was amazed to see a hangdog expression turning his bruised forehead into a deep furrow. Maybe he didn’t want her to go with him. She pulled at her prayer kapp, content in knowing the idea of her tagging along was an irritation to the infuriating man. Molly put on her sweetest smile and purred, “Ya, I’ll take him. I can always go to practice next week. We wouldn’t want Herr Graber to fall again.”

  * * *

  Isaac balanced himself on one crutch as he wedged himself between the peeling garage wall and the rusty old golf cart. He eyed the cart’s front tire and gave it a tap with the toe of his boot. “How old is this contraption anyway?” Not completely convinced the rusty bucket would move with both their weight on board, he tossed his crutches in the big metal basket behind the bench seat and struggled to climb in. One hip on the cart’s bench seat, he scooted over as far as he could, giving Molly plenty of room to drive.

  Molly gathered up the folds of her skirt and climbed in on the driver’s side. She kept her eyes looking forward, ignoring his questions about the cart. She started the engine. The machine sputtered for a moment, but then took off down the pebbled driveway with a roar.

  Wind blew off his black hat. It dropped into the basket at the back of the cart. He held on and sucked in his breath as she took a corner too fast. Her prayer kapp fluttered against her head. The sound of glass breaking invaded his thoughts, the flashback so real it could have been happening again.

  His breath quickened.

  His heart pounded.

  He practiced the relaxation techniques he’d been taught in the hospital, pushing away the memories of his leg twisted unnaturally under him.

  Breathe deep and hold.

  Traffic slowed, and he loosened his grip on the seat. Why were there no seat belts on these contraptions?

  They drove through the tiny town of Pinecraft. Bahia Vista Street came up within a matter of minutes. Isaac thanked Gott for their safe arrival as Molly pulled into the driveway of a small strip mall and parked around the back of the little bike shop squeezed in between a fancy pizzeria and a Laundromat desperately in need of some paint. Isaac got out on his good leg, grabbed for his crutches as he wobbled like a toddler, fighting for balance.

  “Here. Let me help.” Molly shoved his left crutch farther under his arm, handed him his blown-off hat and walked across the minuscule patch of paved driveway toward the shop’s wooden back door.

  Determined to be independent, Isaac took a step. Pain shot up his leg. He stifled a moan and kept putting one foot in front of the other, leaning heavily on his crutches for support. The doctors said the pain would soon go away. The broken leg held together with nuts and bolts would finish healing. But he would always have a limp.

  A split second in time had taken Thomas’s life and turned the past two months into the most miserable period in his life. He’d expected more of himself, of the surgery that was supposed to put him back on his feet. He was lucky to be alive. Painful memories pushed their way in again. The sound of an ambulance screamed in his head. He pushed the sound away and took in a deep, shuttering breath.

  “The door’s locked. Do you have the key?” Molly asked, rattling the handle. She glanced his way, but seemed to avoid looking directly at him.

  Isaac nodded. “The Realtor said it should be under this.” He carefully shoved away a pail of murky motor oil with his good foot. He bent to grab the silvery key, swayed and then felt surprisingly strong arms go round his waist to steady him.

  Molly stood against him, her breath tickling his ear for long seconds. She made sure he was stable and then gradually released his body. Without a word she stepped away, pulled back her skirt and grabbed for the key covered in muck.

  “You do the honors. This is your new business.” Molly handed him the key and then gave him room to maneuver closer to the door.

  This business purchase had been on impulse, something he probably shoul
d have thought more about. He normally would have, but he’d been desperate for a reason to get up every morning. A reason to keep living.

  His hand shook as he pushed open the door. He felt around for a light switch, found it, then flicked it on. A bare bulb lit the dark, cavernous bike shop with harsh light. Broken and bent bike parts, torn golf-cart seats and rusting tools lay strewed across a filthy concrete floor. Total chaos. He faltered at the door. Another fine mess he’d got himself into.

  “Was isht?” Molly glanced around him and then said, “Oh!”

  “Ya, oh.” Isaac maneuvered around scattered bike wheels and seats, carefully picking his way through the rubble that was Pinecraft Bike Rental and Repair. “This is what I get for buying sight unseen. What a zot I am.”

  Molly walked around him, surveying the clutter. She looked Isaac’s way, her expressive brown eyes wide open.

  He knew pity when he saw it. His stomach lurched. He didn’t want or deserve her pity. He’d earned everything bad that happened to him. Let Gott’s retribution rain down on him.

  “You’re not a fool, Isaac. We all act impulsively sometimes. We’ll get this place fixed up in no time. You’ll see.” She grinned, her face flushed pink.

  “We?” he asked, unable to resist the urge to tease her, to take his mind off his misery.

  Molly turned her back to him and moved away. “Ya, we. The church. Pinecraft. This community. We always pull together. You are part of us now. You’ll see. Gott expects us to help each other.” Molly went into the small office with a half wall that looked ready to fall with the least provocation.

  He watched a blush creep down Molly’s neck. She was young and beautiful in her own quiet way, not that he let her good looks affect him. She had no business being nice to him. She didn’t know him, know who he was, what he’d done. She’d soon lose interest when she found out the truth about his past.