A Christmas Visitor Page 6

  “Apple, but I can’t sit. I have to get back. I’m helping spot the bidders. Leroy invited me to help out when I met with him last night.” Rocky’s tone had a so-there quality to it. He’d met with the bishop. He’d been invited. Would wonders never cease? “I may spell him after a bit as auctioneer. He looks pretty tuckered out.”

  Frannie held out his change, trying to ignore her aunt’s surprised stare. Leroy had invited Rocky. That was a good thing. Besides, a man had to eat. She hadn’t done anything to encourage him. Not one thing. “You know how to call an auction?”

  “Uncle Richard used to take me to the livestock auctions up in Jamesport all the time.” Rocky waved away his change and picked up his plate instead. “I loved going and I used to imitate the auctioneers in our backyard. Uncle Richard said I got to be pretty good.”

  “You forgot your change.”

  “Nee, this is a fund-raiser, isn’t it? Consider it my donation.”

  There he went using a Deutsch word again. Frannie eyed her aunt, whose eyebrows knotted in a fierce line across her forehead. “We appreciate it.”

  Humming a soft tune that sounded like a Christmas hymn, he sauntered away, already picking at the meat loaf with his plastic fork.

  “He is quite the talker, isn’t he?”

  “Jah.” Frannie counted the bills again. And again. Sitting here in the food shack far from the auction had become unbearable for no apparent reason. The first time she met Rocky outside the restaurant had been at a Jamesport school fund-raiser auction. The memory of his smile and the way he asked her if he could call on her sometime—that’s the way he put it—was so sweet it hurt to think of it. “Maybe I should take food to the boys at the water table.”

  “I don’t think so.” Aunt Abigail pursed her lips, her eyes narrowed. “But you could take a plate to Joseph. He’s partial to hamburgers. And lemon meringue pie, it’s his favorite.”

  “There’s nothing between Joseph and me.” And there never would be. Both of them knew it.

  Smiling, her aunt whipped from one end of the table, wrapping a burger with all the trimmings in a paper napkin and placing it on a Styrofoam plate, along with a baked potato steaming in its tinfoil and a thick wedge of pie. “Sometimes you have to work at it a little. Give things time to grow. Get it to him while it’s hot.”

  Frannie sighed. She needed a breath of fresh air. She needed to be someplace else. Anyplace. Skirting folks who stopped in the middle of the road to chat and sip sodas or bottled water covered in condensation, she trudged past the Combination Store intent on her errand. At least Joseph would get a decent meal out of it. He would appreciate that.

  “Where’re you headed?”

  Frannie stumbled. Rocky grabbed her arm. She tugged away. “Are you following me? You’re supposed to be eating your meat loaf.”

  “I lost my appetite after you gave me the cold shoulder. We have to talk.”

  “I know.” Frannie glanced around. A crowd of Englischers pressed them, no one she knew, but that could change any second. “Not here.”

  “I was thinking of buying some chickens. The Cotters don’t have any.” He pointed toward the livestock area. “Maybe you can help me pick them out.”

  Joseph’s plate clutched in her hands, Frannie veered to her right. Her mind said, Nee, nee, nee, but her heart seemed to be in control of her body. She slipped between the sheds to the pens that held chickens, pigs, goats, and sheep. The stench nearly knocked her back a step.

  “Remember the auction in Jamesport?” The smell of manure didn’t seem to bother Rocky. He leaned on a fence post with one elbow and surveyed a mama hen and her chicks.

  “I do.”

  “You looked so cute with your sunburned nose. Your freckles tripled in one day.”

  His teeth had been white against his tan, and his eyes, always so vivid blue, were made even more vibrant by his blue shirt.

  “It was so hot that day, at least a hundred and two.”

  “You drank three cups of lemonade and ate two helpings of homemade ice cream.”

  “You kept track?”

  “I didn’t want to get you in trouble. So I gazed upon you from afar until I realized I wouldn’t get another chance like that to ask you out.”

  She giggled. “From afar?”

  “Yeah, haven’t you ever read a romance? Mr. Shakespeare or something.” His hand came up and his fingers brushed at her cheek. They were so warm. “I keep telling myself to follow the rules, to wait, to be patient, but when I see you, all I can think about is . . .”

  He leaned so close she caught a whiff of peppermint on his breath. She found herself stretching on her tiptoes to meet him. “Think about what?”

  He pulled back. She felt as if she’d been dropped into a deep well of cold water. “Rocky!”

  His face flushed, he straightened. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “I feel the same way.” The words came out in a stammer. “I’m trying so hard to do the right thing.”

  “But sometimes it’s hard to know what the right thing is.”

  “Exactly.”

  Rocky returned to the fence post, his hands gripping the wood as if determined to stay put. “Remember the sewing machine?”

  “The Singer treadle?” It was a nice machine. They had one just like it in their front room. Most Plain folks did. “Of course I do.”

  “My mom embroidered a tablecloth and draped it on top.” He shook his head, his expression sheepish. “She set her begonias on it. Looks very pretty.”

  Frannie chuckled. “Not much of a sewer, I guess.”

  “Nope. She likes the way it looks in her living room, but if she wants to fix a hem or something, she drags out her Sears electric and lets it rip.”

  The chuckle they shared had a homey feeling, as if they’d known each other years and years.

  “My parents bought a used wringer wash machine.” Frannie rubbed her hands across the slats of the fence, the wood rough under her fingers. “Can you ever imagine them filling it with dirt and planting begonias in it?”

  “Or using the canning jars you bought for them as planters?” Rocky shook his head. “They’re practical people who live in a practical world.”

  “Our worlds are different.” For one thing, her parents couldn’t afford to buy something for looks. “Besides, when you work the land, you have a lot of dirty clothes.”

  His sigh had a strange, sad echo in it. “That doesn’t mean never the two shall meet.”

  “You are in a funny mood today.”

  “Very literary.”

  His college education sometimes bled through, making Frannie feel worlds apart. As if she didn’t already. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “I know. Do you understand why I’m meeting with Leroy?”

  “To talk to him about . . . being Amish.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He says it’s a very big change, not one most Englischers can make. They try, but they fail.”

  “What do you say?”

  “I’m not big on failing or losing. I’m not doing this because I want a simpler way of living. I don’t have any illusions about how hard your life is.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  He shook his head without meeting her gaze. “There’s something in me that needs filling up, I guess.”

  Not for her. That was good. Very good. “Because of your dad and your uncle?”

  “Because of my life.” His gaze leveled with hers. “Who�
�s the burger for?”

  Frannie glanced down at the plate in her hands. She’d forgotten about it. Grease had begun to congeal on the bun. “Oh, that.”

  Rocky took only one step back, but the gap between them widened to a chasm. “Joseph?”

  As much as she wanted to deny it, she wouldn’t. She could never lie to Rocky. “Yes.”

  “These chickens look a little small.” He took another step back. “I should spell the boys in the auction barn. It might not be a hundred and two, but it’s warm and muggy. They might need a swig of water.”

  “Taking a plate to someone doesn’t mean anything.” Only to her aunt. Even Joseph knew where he stood, and he didn’t seem all that upset about it. “He’s a friend of the family.”

  Rocky’s face twisted with pain. “I love you.”

  He whirled and strode away.

  The words floated in the air around her. She wanted to collect them and hold them close to her heart where she could hear them over and over again in the middle of the night or in broad daylight, morning and afternoon. “Ach, Rocky!”

  He kept walking. Soon he disappeared into the steady stream of folks moving between the auction barn and the food shed and the buggies for sale in front of the Combination Store.

  She closed her eyes. Love you too.

  In her world, love might not be enough. Faith and community also counted. Rocky knew that.

  They both did.

  A chicken squawked and the goats bleated in response. The smell choked her. She glanced at the plate in her hand. The offending hamburger needed to be delivered. She plodded toward the honey table, glad only the animals could see the misery and pain riding piggyback on her shoulders.

  Joseph leaned over the table, sacking an array of jars ranging from honey to wild mustang grape jelly to strawberry jam for an elderly lady leaning on a walker that tilted unsteadily on the uneven ground. He smiled at Frannie and went back to his chore. She set the plate on the table and touched the woman’s arm. “Can I help you carry that?”

  “Thank you, young lady, but my grandson is around here somewhere. He’ll be back any second to help me to the car. Sweet of you, though.”

  Indeed, the young man in overly tight blue jeans and a fluorescent orange T-shirt that matched his orange-and-green sneakers returned just as Joseph handed the lady her change. “Enjoy, ma’am.”

  “I plan to. Deacon here loves strawberry jam on English muffins. Don’t you, Deacon?”

  The teenager’s big ears turned a deep shade of purplish red. She leaned on her walker and tottered away, Deacon’s arm around her bowed shoulders in a surprising—to Frannie, anyway—show of affection.

  “That was sweet of you to offer to help her.” Still smiling, Joseph snapped the plastic lid onto the battered coffee can that served as his cash box. “You do have a sweet disposition under all that sassiness.”

  “Sassiness?”

  “Jah. You give a lot of lip, but I see more to you.”

  None of this was his fault. It was her Aunt Abigail’s fault. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry for what? For being lippy and not the best housekeeper? Don’t be.” He rearranged the jars on the table, from four in a row to five, still smiling. “You may not be the most ordinary Plain woman, but I like you just the way you are. Life with you would be interesting.”

  More likely irritating and annoying in the long run. The shiny would wear off. Most Plain men would wish for a fraa who could make gumbo without burning it and bread that wasn’t hard as a rock. Men like Joseph would want a fraa who knew her place and also knew how to sew a tear in his pants so that it held. “You will find your special friend one of these days.”

  “And you don’t think she’ll be lippy?”

  “I think you know what you like, and you’re too nice to tell my aunt to leave well enough alone.” She slid the plate toward him. “I brought you your favorite pie. Aenti Abigail said you’d rather have a hamburger than meat loaf, but I can always take it back and trade it.”

  “It’s too bad Abigail is already taken. She does make a fine pie.”

  He grinned at her despite the Englisch girl in a pink T-shirt—why did young Englischers wear their clothes a size too small—who flashed a five-dollar bill at him and said her mother wanted to know if she could get two jars of honey with that. The answer was no, but Joseph ignored her for the moment. “Your aenti is only trying to save you from a world of hurt.”

  “You have a customer.”

  He tended to the girl, who seemed happy with her one jar. Whether the mother would be was another question. She traipsed away and he turned back. “Abigail is a wise woman.”

  “Sometimes the heart doesn’t listen to wise words.”

  “For your sake and the sake of your parents, you should try harder.” He plopped onto an overturned bushel basket, unwrapping the hamburger. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone your secret. I can even keep coming around to take you on rides if you want.”

  “That’s okay. You shouldn’t waste your time on the likes of me.”

  “It wasn’t a waste. Abigail is a good cook.” He grinned. “And Rebekah is a firecracker.”

  “She is indeed.” Frannie grinned back. “See you around.”

  “Not if I see you first.”

  As she walked away, the sound of the auctioneer floated from the big shed. “I’ve got two, who’ll give me three, there’s three, how about four, anybody give me four . . .”

  Rocky’s voice, deep and sure and full of delight. Leroy had let him take over.

  Wonders would never cease.

  Frannie could use unceasing wonders about now.

  CHAPTER 9

  Rocky snapped the reins again. Chocolate picked up his pace. Such a good piece of horseflesh. Rocky felt guilty monopolizing Seth’s horse all the time, but the elderly farmer assured him it was no imposition. Seth paid Rocky well, and he squirreled away every penny he could in savings. Even with his nest egg, it would be awhile before he could afford to buy his own horse and some property for settling down. If he was here that long. Gott willing. The soupy gray sky hung so low it felt as if it weighed on his shoulders. He wouldn’t miss the south Texas weather, that was for sure. November in Missouri meant crisp fall weather with leaves turning brilliant oranges, reds, and golds. Frost sparkled on the grass in the mornings. “Downright dreary” described Bee County this time of year. Dreary matched his disposition this morning.

  On the bright side, warmer weather meant winter strawberries could be planted, along with cabbage, broccoli, onions, and English peas. Which gave him an excuse to head to the district to help out. Maybe Mordecai would extend an invitation for Thanksgiving.

  Stop it.

  He hadn’t seen Frannie since the auction. Frannie with her plate for another man. Leroy said Rocky must leave her out of the equation. Regardless. Make a decision based on a desire to live out his faith according to the Bee County district’s Ordnung. Could he do it? Did he want to do it? Did God call him to do it?

  Leroy asked all the hard questions. Rocky turned the buggy onto the farm-to-market road, contemplating his answers. The sun broke through clouds that began to scud across the sky in a chilly breeze that hadn’t been there a few minutes earlier. The sudden brightness blinded him for a second. Chocolate snorted, whinnied, and began to pick up speed. “Whoa, whoa, what’s gotten into you?” He tightened the reins with one hand and pushed down the bill of his cap with the other. If he planned to stay, he really should get a straw hat. More of a visor. Chocolate whinnied again, the sound high and nervous.

  Rocky saw what had the horse worried. A buggy capsi
zed in the ditch just beyond the turnoff that led to the highway and Beeville. A horse, still tethered to it, bucked and tried to free itself. Mordecai’s Morgan. A vise tightened around Rocky’s chest. Fear choked the flow of blood to his heart. “Come on, Chocolate, let’s go.”

  He gave the horse free rein for several hundred yards and then pulled him in as they approached the overturned buggy. “Easy, easy does it.”

  Don’t let it be Frannie.

  He hopped into the ditch and shot across the muddy terrain, slipping and sliding despite the tread on his work boots. “Hello? Are you okay?”

  A moan greeted the response. The orange SLOW triangle dangled to one side on the rear of the buggy. He squatted and shoved it back. Abigail lay on her back, her right side under the buggy. Mud covered her face. Blood streaked her forehead.

  “There you are. Can you move?”

  “Help me out of here.” Abigail’s voice was soft, but determined. “I’m stuck.”

  “Are you sure you can move? Is anything broken?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He took the hand she held out and gently pulled. She groaned and jerked away. “My wrist. Something’s wrong with my wrist.”

  “Okay, we’ll do this a different way.” Rocky slid his hands under her arms. She stiffened but didn’t protest. “I’m going to lift you out now. If anything hurts, tell me and I’ll stop.”

  Seconds later he had her out from under the buggy. Mud, bits of dead grass, straw, and weeds covered her apron and dress. One of her shoes was missing. Her kapp, normally so perfectly situated, had slipped down her back. Her hair, now tousled and falling from its bun, was a deep blond highlighted with a few strands of silver. He wanted to push the kapp back into its rightful place, but he didn’t dare. “Where does it hurt?”

  “I’m fine. A little headache and some pain in this arm.” She clutched her wrist against her muddied apron. “It’s nothing. I need to get home, that’s all.”

  “Nee, you need a doctor.”

  “No doctor.”