Rebecca's Choice (The Adams County Trilogy 3) Page 20

“Letters from Emma. It’s not his fault,” Rebecca assured her mother.

  “Oh… Emma.” Mattie seemed satisfied. “It can’t be too bad then.”

  The question still hung in the air, so Rebecca answered it. “I’m afraid Bishop Martin will stop the wedding.”

  “And you’ll end up like Emma?”

  “Without John,” she said, another tear on her cheek.

  “My, this is a mess. And your father wants to talk with you tonight.”

  “I had forgotten. Is it something bad?”

  “I think he’d better talk with you and John together,” Mattie said, as if she had suddenly decided.

  “It’s something awful.” Rebecca gave up on all pretences, and the sobs came in great waves.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Reuben had to make a trip into town. He said so at the breakfast table, and Rachel watched him drive out the lane. The weather couldn’t have been better for her plans, and now the coast was clear. Not since the time she planted the ferns had there been a chance for a return visit.

  She considered the project to be her hope for the future. Rachel was aware it was a project of death but death for a reason, for a purpose. The thought lightened her days, comforted her nights, gave her an expectation of a brighter future when they would live in plenty.

  That Reuben supplied a little extra money already with his goat project, well above what they were used to, seemed a thing to reduce to nothing because it held her back from the vision she was determined to attain. Her father had left an inheritance, which was hers by right of birth, and no goats would impede its return.

  In failure Reuben would regain his senses, stop refusing the money, and acquire sanity again. Of this she was certain. That sanity was what she once hated in Reuben gave her no pause. His lack of motivation, his desire for the mundane, and his satisfaction with little now seemed a blessing to be sought out.

  By destroying his goat herd, she would find the answer. With the last rattle of Reuben’s buggy wheels, she went to the bedroom and removed the carefully hidden papers. She knew what they said but wanted to read them again to make sure but even more to enjoy the words.

  Her child moved within her, as she settled on the bed. Even with Reuben gone, she felt safer here. She read the papers in the shelter of her bedroom walls, hidden from imaginary eyes. She had hid them under her black funeral and communion dress.

  How right, she thought. The two went together. The death of Reuben’s goats and the death of her fellow man. She felt a kinship with both.

  The child moved again, and she felt anger at its presence, at the intrusion of its life inside her. She comforted herself with the thought the inheritance would dull the pain, soothe the inconvenience to come, and give this child’s life the worth it deserved.

  She read the page. “Bracken fern is common to most areas.”

  This is good she told herself again, easily explainable if found, especially after the goats ate it.

  “Can be consumed directly by animals.” Goats ate anything. She knew from observation. “Signs of toxicity may take some time to develop.” She smiled. This was good.

  “Hemorrhages resemble anthrax in cattle. In sheep symptoms can be confused with pregnancy toxemia, pinkeye, or cataracts. There is weakness and fever. Symptoms in goats are as yet undocumented.” She smiled. Then so much the better. The veterinarian would not know what to do.

  “Antibiotics and blood transfusions are rarely successful as a cure.” Rachel smiled again and replaced the papers carefully under the black dress. She made sure no white paper showed, even if one were to open the drawer abruptly. Not that Reuben would do such a thing, but all eventualities needed to be taken into consideration.

  Just to be sure, she checked. Sharply she shut the drawer. Wood snapped against wood. When she slid the drawer open again, no white showed under the black cloth. Satisfied she returned to the kitchen and finished the last of the breakfast dishes. There was no sense of haste. Time seemed to be plentiful.

  Luxurious thoughts flitted through her mind. They rose and fell with the swish of her washcloth in the soapy water. As she set each clean dish to dry on the metal rack, she saw the days ahead of her. They too were washed of unpleasantness, cleansed of Reuben’s foolish ideas and efforts.

  Their lives would be made new, prepared as fresh plates cleaned of raw usage from hungry mouths. Much of her existence now felt used, rough, and uncouth, but it was soon to change. Her hopes lay with the green plants in the swamp.

  With the dishes done, Rachel got her coat and set out. The walk would look normal enough if someone noticed. The goat farmer’s wife had gone to inspect the pastures. Her face grimaced, set in anger. It would not be long before this too would change.

  Before her the lower pasture lay, its grass green, brought on by the recent spring rains and now summer’s warmth. At present the goats had no access to these grounds, only the cattle, but Reuben would use them later for that purpose. He had said so.

  The fences looked well kept, the wires taut. Rachel glanced at them as she walked, anger rising again. Reuben had never kept such fences, not when there were only cattle to keep in. Cattle brought good prices at the meat market but obviously not good enough for Reuben. At least they never gave him inspiration, motivation, energy to repair his fences. Only goats—filthy, stinky goats were good enough for him.

  Back then cattle would regularly drift into the swamp, walking through fences in disrepair. From this had come the idea she now implemented. If cattle could break through fences, then goats could too—with or without her help. Reuben would think he had missed a line, a relapse to his old ways perhaps.

  The black cattle looked at her with interest, their heads raised. Once they determined she carried no food for their consumption, they ignored her. She studied them though. This was what she would replace the goats with. Cattle—hundreds of them, well fed and gracious—were objects for which one held no shame. They were signs of prosperity and affluence.

  Did not the Lord own the cattle on a thousand hills? Reuben had read the Scripture the other Sunday. The words rolled out of his mouth like he fully enjoyed the reading. Let Reuben then enjoy it when she owned perhaps not a thousand but a hundred cattle on her own farm.

  The green grass would bear them all. She would raise the best cattle. Buyers would gather around when Reuben took them to market. That they already did for his goats, she was unaware and would have been angry had she known.

  Ahead of her lay the swamp, just beyond the barbed wire of their property line but within easy reach of any wandering goat. A movement caught her attention, a body among the trees, and she wondered what wild animal might be abroad, perhaps even a threat, but decided there wasn’t any danger. This was Indiana, not the land of bears or cougars.

  Rachel stood by the fence, her gaze fixed on the swamp, when a hand waved, and then her neighbor walked out from the trees, a pump strapped to his back, a spray nozzle in his hand. He was an Englisha.

  “Howdy,” he hollered. “Out to inspect the fences?”

  “Reuben’s gone,” she said and smiled.

  He approached. “It didn’t spread toward your line. Can be thankful for that. It’s my third spraying. Been working on it for a while. Think I got all of them.”

  “What didn’t?” Rachel asked, fear gripping her heart, her knees weakening.

  “The bracken fern,” he said. “Haven’t seen any in these parts. Not in years. Could happen anywhere, though. Good thing I checked. Need to turn the cattle in here next week.”

  “What’s wrong with a fern?” she asked, despair in her soul.

  “Bracken fern?”

  “Yes.”

  “Poisonous to cattle,” he said chuckling. “Do them in good, if they find it. Seems like they always do. Had it happen to me once. Two cows years and years ago. I’ve always checked the swamp since that happened.”

  “Sounds bad,” she said and smiled.

  “It is. Reuben keeps his fences up good,” he
said grinning. “Likes those goats of his. I saw he got good prices last market day. Wouldn’t have believed it myself. Might have to consider goats.”

  “Don’t,” she told him.

  “You don’t like them?” he said laughing.

  “No,” she replied making a face.

  “Smells like money to me.”

  “So did you get all of them? The ferns?” She let the words lightly out of her mouth and looked hopeful.

  “Yep.” He was confident. “Checked twice today again. If I missed any, I’d be surprised. I’ll check again before I let cattle in next week.”

  “I better get back,” she said, feeling light-headed, her hand on her stomach.

  “Another one? Congratulations. You Amish are the salt of the earth. We could use more of you. Seems like us Protestants are determined to die out. We have children, one, maybe two, and then it’s over. Wife and I had three, but our children have none. God knows when they’ll start. All of them are over thirty and married, but nothing.”

  “That must be hard,” she said.

  “It is. Makes me wish I had a dozen children like you folks do. Chances of having grandchildren might be higher,” he said laughing heartily.

  “It’s only our second.”

  He shook his head. “Not by choice, I’m sure. I know you folks better than that.”

  “That’s true,” she agreed and echoed the right words. “By the Lord’s will.”

  He raised his cap at her words. “A right way to live. I must be going. The best to Reuben’s goats.”

  “He’ll be glad to hear that.” She forced herself to smile as he turned to go.

  On the long walk back to the house, she felt the agony of her plans destroyed. Not given to tears, which she considered a sign of weakness, she held back. The burden she carried inside became heavier with each step. The child was silent, as if it sensed her trouble and thought it best to be still.

  Once in the barnyard, the sight of the house, the goats, the used buggy in the driveway, the certain knowledge that this could go on for years, unchanged and unbroken, became too much. She stepped inside the barn, lest someone pass by on the road and see her. There, seated on a straw bale in the company of goats, whose noses stuck through the wood partitions of their pen, she wept great swelling sobs.

  Hope denied, her tears fell. Bitterness grew in her soul.

  A goat bleated, a right hopeful sound, as if it looked to her for good things. The child in her leaped, and she hated both it and the animal that called. She knew the end of the road had come. There were no more exits or bypasses. Da Hah’s hand was against her, apparently, and she was to be broken, condemned to a life she did not want.

  That Da Hah would do such a thing didn’t surprise her. She had always expected it, as if He delighted in such torment. With the knowledge her heart hardened and became like stone.

  When he arrived home, Reuben must have noticed that something was different about her. “The goats are doing real well,” he said, in the hope his news would bring cheer. “If prices stay as they are, we might even be able to paint the house this summer.”

  “It needs it,” she said, her face set. “And supper’s ready.”

  He turned away, pain on his face, but she didn’t care.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Why is Rebecca crying?” Matthew wanted to know. He was just in from his chores, seated at the breakfast table, his eyes on the food.

  “I’m not,” Rebecca told him.

  “You were.” He looked at her face again.

  “She had a hard night,” Mattie informed him. “Leave her alone.”

  He made a face, “That’s why I’m not dating. No girls. Just me, my farm, and the land. Happy as a lark.”

  Mattie chuckled. “You wish.”

  “I don’t,” he retorted. “This boy will get it done.”

  Rebecca laughed, distracted in spite of herself. “You are entertaining.”

  He snorted loudly. “Love is nothing but trouble. Look at you all teary-eyed.”

  “It could be something else,” she informed him.

  “Like what?” Matthew gave an evil chuckle. “Love, love, love, that’s all the trouble in the world.”

  “He’ll get used to it,” Mattie said. “Go get the girls up, Rebecca.”

  A soft call from the foot of the stairs got immediate results. If it hadn’t Rebecca would have climbed the stairs to rouse her sisters.

  They have always been decent about responding, she thought. It was a good thought on a dreary morning. At least her family was pleasant to be around, even if the world was rough at present.

  Lester let the screen door slam as he came in and went to the sink to wash up. The thought of what her father had to say gripped her. It must be horrible news if she was to need John’s presence. Did her father know news from Milroy, which perhaps spelled disaster? Her heart throbbed with fear.

  Yet, she brought her emotion under control, brushed her stray hairs back under her kapp, and composed her face. Whatever it was must be taken in stride, with the faith that God meant all things for good. Was that not their faith? Her faith? John’s faith? Would it not sustain her?

  That it would she didn’t doubt, even in this moment, and felt the knowledge bring strength and courage to her soul. Her father would be gentle, whatever the news. She smiled at him when he appeared, his face red from the scrub, water droplets still on his beard, the towel still in his hand.

  His eyes took in her face and searched her soul, she thought.

  “Druvvel,” he said, “did the Mennonite man bring trouble in his package?”

  “Letters from Emma,” she said. “The troubles are my own.”

  “That’s what we need to talk about. Tonight maybe?”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “We had best have some time.” He wiped the towel down the length of his beard. “With matters of the heart, one should not rush through them.”

  “Is the news awful?” she said, trying to press back the tears, but they ran down her face anyway, one right after the other.

  “Rebecca.” His hand touched her shoulder. “It’s not evil, and it’s not news. My heart hurts for you and John. I wished only to speak with you about how best to resolve the matter.”

  She nodded, but the tears wouldn’t stop.

  Apparently Mattie had heard because she appeared in the kitchen doorway. Behind them they heard the sound of footsteps of small feet coming down the stairs.

  “You need to talk with them together,” Mattie whispered. “Really, Lester, you must. It would be best. Now dry your tears, Rebecca. The girls can’t see you like this. They are not to ask questions about this.”

  Rebecca nodded and moved toward the washroom. The stair door opened behind her as Lester whispered, “That’s fine. I only wanted to talk with her. If John is there, that would be good.”

  Their voices faded out, as they moved into the kitchen and she stepped into the washroom. Rebecca knew her mother would have her younger sisters in tow, would distract them lest their lives become overloaded with burdens too heavy for young shoulders.

  They are too heavy for my shoulders, she thought, but apparently Da Hah had other ideas. She gently washed her face, dried it, hopeful no marks of her tears would stay behind.

  Lester led in the morning prayer. As heads bowed around the table, he praised the Almighty for His works, for the breath He gave to human bodies, for grace He gave souls. Lester asked for the aid and comfort of heaven, gave thanks for the food and the multitude of blessings they received each day, asked for forgiveness for their sins, and forgave those who sinned against them.

  Matthew wasted no time. Taking the egg plate, he helped himself before passing it on.

  “He’s hungry,” Mattie said.

  “I’m sorry,” Matthew muttered. He reached for the biscuit plate but gave it to his sister first. She took one, then passed it back to him.

  “That’s better,” Mattie told him.

 
Matthew only grunted but waited patiently for the gravy to reach him.

  Rebecca, relieved no one seemed to notice her red face, figured they were just being kind. Either way, breakfast proceeded without discomfort. The schoolchildren then scattered to prepare for school, and she helped Mattie with the kitchen.

  “Not much on the list today,” Mattie told her. “If we get the children off to school, we have the day to ourselves.”

  Rebecca nodded, thankful.

  “You still look like you could use it. Your father will talk with you and John Sunday afternoon. You think John can bring you here?”

  “We had planned on it.”

  “Good then.”

  “Is it something awful?”

  “He just cares,” Mattie said, her eyes soft with concern. “Missing communion is a serious matter. Now John’s in this too. He’s the preacher’s son.”

  “I know.”

  “It’ll be okay. Surely Da Hah will open up a way. You’re a good girl. We both know that.”

  Rebecca nodded and pressed back the tears. This time she succeeded.

  Mattie went upstairs to the girls’ bedroom to help urge them on in their school preparations. Rebecca laid the lunch pails out and had sandwiches made and food packed by the time Matthew brought the horse up.

  With lunches in hand, the girls climbed in, and Matthew took off. The old horse slowly picked up speed till it reached a tired trot.

  “They grow up so fast,” Mattie said. “I guess your leaving makes me aware of it.”

  “But . . . I’m still not married,” Rebecca ventured.

  “You will be. Something will work out. Now shouldn’t you get some sleep? Your eyes look swollen.”

  “What if someone catches me sleeping in the middle of the day?”

  “Are you afraid John will drive in?” Mattie said chuckling.

  “No, but what a shohnt that would be.”

  “He’d get over it.”

  Rebecca smiled. “I suppose so. The mailman just went. I’ll get the mail.”

  “You expecting something?”

  “No, just the mail. That reminds me I need to mail Emma’s letters back.”