Threads of Grace (12 page)
V
iolet set her chin as she stared at her sister. “I’m not up to anything.”
“So you want to take a quilt square over to the Kings’ for what reason?” Grace asked.
“I’m sure they could use it somehow. I heard at the wedding that they own one of the largest quilting frames around, and I am—”
“Not interested in quilting,” Grace finished dryly. “But go anyway.”
Violet beamed. “Great . . .
Danki
.”
Grace arched an eyebrow. “And say hello to Luke King for me. He cut quite a fine figure at the wedding.”
G
race balanced on her cast and washed up the morning dishes. Seth was courteous and took his dishes to the sink for her; Abel
did the same. And Violet barely ate, so anxious she was to get to the Kings’. She said a brief prayer that her sister might find a love worth keeping and one that would give her both
kinner
and a home richly full.
There was little for her to do in the big house except maintain its cleaning. Mary Wyse came over from the
daudi haus
to visit and wish Grace well, but Grace still could feel no true connection with her kind mother-in-law. She wondered if she would ever be able to trust completely, to accept the bishop’s charge, to keep the pledge she’d made at her wedding.
She hobbled into the living room where Seth had set up her quilt frame when he hauled it over from her small house. Maybe she’d start a new pattern, give herself something to do. She never began a quilt without prayer—prayer to keep her from the sin of vanity, prayer to give her stamina to finish when her neck and arms begged for release, prayer for the one who would use the quilt.
But first, she needed inspiration.
She made her way out to the kitchen garden where zucchini and yellow squash rambled across the path. Rich red tomatoes, ripe for picking, drooped along the wire fence. Runner beans sprouted up higher than her head, and deep purple eggplants shone in the morning sun.
On the far edge of the garden, she rubbed a hand over the roughness of an oak tree’s bark and thought about a quilt with dark browns in it; a quilt of strength, perhaps one for a man.
She bent to bury her nose in a pink hydrangea and saw the quilt softened by touches of mauve. She would start to piece it out tonight—the colors of the garden, the woods, the flowers.
Then she heard a strange zinging sound, and something heavy fell behind her on the garden path. She turned in time to see a large beehive, its angry occupants buzzing about in an awful horde.
And then she felt the first sting.
S
eth heard the shrieks as he crossed from the barn to the house. He followed the sound until he saw Grace among the flowers down by the gardens, her crutches flung aside, her arms flailing about her head. Then he realized what was happening and began to run.
He yanked his suspenders down and slid off his shirt as he moved through the garden. He reached her and flung the shirt over her head, lifting her off the ground as he ran the short distance to the house. Angry buzzing echoed in the quiet of the kitchen, and he swatted down the remaining bees that escaped from his shirt as he pulled it off Grace’s head. He listened carefully, brushing down her clothes, until the silence was broken only by her choked sobs.
“The cast,” she choked out. “I—I couldn’t run.”
He pulled three or four stingers out of the back of her neck, then dragged her closer to the light of a window. A particularly
nasty sting was too deep for his fingers, and he automatically put his mouth over the area and began to suck to remove the stinger. He felt her grow still as he caught the stinger on his tongue, and then he realized what he was doing.
She half turned, staring up at him with wide lavender eyes, and he froze. He pulled the stinger from his mouth and rubbed at a stray curl of black hair that brushed her cheek.
“Grace? I’m sorry—some of the stingers are deep. It’s best to get them out so the poison doesn’t spread.”
“I know.”
He pulled her close and she gave in for a moment, infinitesimally relaxing against him. His heart hit his rib cage so hard that he couldn’t breathe, and he eased his lips down toward her ear, murmuring in soothing tones.
Then he saw another red swelling beneath the edge of her
kapp
and reached for the stinger.
Suddenly she turned wild beneath his hands, twisting and turning away from him and catching at the sides of her prayer
kapp
.
“Grace, don’t be stubborn. You’ve a stinger under your
kapp
.”
“Seth, stop!”
“Grace, let me help you.” He pulled once and the
kapp
fell into his hands. He caught his breath at what he saw. In that instant he realized that in the days since they’d been married, he’d never seen her without her
kapp
.
“I told you.” She pushed past him and hurried as fast as she could out of the kitchen. He listened to the clatter of her footsteps up the stairs. He stared down at the prayer
kapp
in his fingers, then slowly sank to his knees on the floor.
“Ach, Gott,”
he breathed.
Her hair—the lustrous black that peeped from the front of her prayer covering and matched the raven’s wing of her brows—was shorn close to her head. Amish women normally grew their hair to heavy falls, a reminder that the Bible called a woman’s hair her crowning glory. But Grace’s hair had been mutilated and was now growing in tiny ringlets, like a boy’s. He couldn’t fathom why she would cut it—
And then it hit him with brutal force. Maybe she hadn’t cut it at all.
Maybe Silas Beiler had.
H
obbling up the stairs on the stub of her cast, Grace staggered blindly into the first room she came to. The cool interior and the mixed smells of paint and linseed oil filled her senses like a balm of something distant and foreign. She needed treatment for the stings, but something about this room tantalized her with a sense of intimacy, an almost sacred pull.
She let her fingers trail over a still-damp palette of colors and moved to lift the edge of cloth covering a canvas.
L
uke King threw another fork of the pungent fresh hay into the stacked feeder. He relished the feel of his muscles at work, the scent of horse and hay and manure. He loved growing things, taking care of the land, tending the stock.
Farming let a man know where he stood.
The squeak of the barn door behind him caused him to jump. He thought he was alone.
Instead, here was that girl. The odd one from the wedding, who hid in the bushes. He dropped the pitchfork and squinted at her.
“What do you want?” he asked, the words coming out rougher than he meant.
“You,” she said.
He blinked, then swiped his dirty hands on his loose white shirt. “Are you addled from the heat?”
She burst into merry laughter. “
Nee
. I mean what I say. I’m
nineteen and looking for a man to love. From what I’ve gathered about you, I think you might fit the bill of sale.”
He stared at her. Every other
Amisch
girl who’d gotten within ten yards of him had been demure, pleasant, and as distant as the
munn
. She took a step closer and he stepped back. She laughed again.
“Skittish, are you? Well, no matter. It’s actually rather endearing.”
“Look, Miss . . .”
“Violet,” she prompted.
“Violet. Whatever. I am sweaty and dirty and look like a healthy farmer should. If I fit any bill of sale, it would be for a hired man.” He lifted the pitchfork and held it in front of him. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss—er, Violet, I’ve got work that needs doing.”
She watched him with a calm, impassive gaze for a moment, then she nodded. “My intentions are clear, Luke King. I suggest you prepare for the onslaught.” And then she spun on her heel and vanished into the slant of sunlight coming through the barn door.
S
eth didn’t move when he heard the kitchen door creak. He knew Jacob’s footsteps. He stayed on his knees, feeling as if he’d run two miles and back. He shook his head.
“What’s wrong?” Jacob said. “Where’s Grace?”
Jacob put a hand on Seth’s bare shoulder. Seth tried to hang on to the warmth of his brother’s touch, but he felt lost, bereft for Grace’s sake. And, he admitted to himself, for his own sake as well.
“Jacob, I think she’s broken. Like a broken doll. I told you
there were problems, but I didn’t know how far—” He drew a sobbing breath, clutching the
kapp
, and looked up at his brother.
Jacob dropped to the floor in front of him. “
Was en
de
welt
is going on?”
“Her hair. I think he cut her hair.”
“Who?”
“Silas Beiler. It was all hacked off, just starting to grow back, like—” He felt himself shiver despite the warmth of the summer day.
“Put your shirt on and get up. Where is she?”
“Upstairs.”
Jacob got to his feet and handed Seth the white shirt. He slipped it over his head, then took Jacob’s outstretched hand and pulled himself up.
“Go talk to her,” Jacob said.
“She won’t.”
“If there’s one thing I know about you, Seth Wyse, it’s that you know how to get a woman talking. Now, go on.”
“I’ve got to mix some baking soda paste first.” He started to rummage around in the cupboards.
“What for?”
“Bee stings.”
“Of course. Why didn’t I guess?” Jacob shook his head and started for the door. “I’ll go see to the horses.”
G
race stared at the painting, mesmerized. It was a mountaintop scene that looked out onto a river valley. At the top of the
mountain, facing away, stood a petite Amish woman and a small black-haired boy. The strength of the woman in the painting seemed to rival the mountains themselves.
Grace drew in a deep breath. It was, without a doubt, a portrayal of Abel and herself.
“It’s not how I’d like to paint you.”
Grace spun around to face her husband. His suspenders hung about his waist and his shirt was loose. He held a bowl of something white against his lean hip.
“You’re not to paint me at all. It’s a graven image. You know that.”
Seth smiled at her. “Guilty as charged.”
“But why would you risk it? You know that young man from Elk Valley was shunned recently for doing drawings.”
“I’ve got some baking soda for the stings.”
“Are you listening?” she cried. “Do you even care?”
“
Jah
and
jah
. But right now I’m concerned with those stings. So will you let me treat them?”
He set the bowl on top of the dresser and caught her hands in his own. She felt the warmth of his long fingers and did not resist as he eased her hands down. Then he was touching her hair, gently strumming through the strands, massaging her scalp here and there. He bent his broad back to kiss the short pieces, running his mouth close to her ear and then away, as if he was trying to heal her. She trembled at his gentleness, completely unused to such attention.
“Did he do this to you, Grace?”
She nodded, feeling a blush of shame heat her cheeks.
“Why?” The word was a hoarse whisper.
“He said my hair—my hair was a vanity. He cut it every year.” She reached for the bowl. “Please—the stings. I’ll tend to them myself.”
He let her go abruptly and moved to the front of the painting. She watched him run his fingers over the damp palette, touching the colors, almost as if she had disappeared. She clutched the bowl and was edging past him when he looked at her.
He slid two fingers into his pocket and pulled out the squashed
kapp.
“Don’t forget this.”
“Danki,”
she whispered.
She glanced down at the
kapp
, now smudged by the paint from his fingertips. It seemed fitting, as if he were making a statement—branding her as his own, somehow.