“What?”
“Jacob came home the other day saying such words. He got his mouth washed out, I can tell you.”
Sarah was as appalled as if Jacob had been her own son and Isaac some stranger bent on disciplining the boy for imagined sins. She couldn't hold back her gasp of outrage or her defense. “Gross? Is that the word?” Isaac turned purple. “That's not bad language! It's just a word the English children say—”
“Reason enough to stop him using it. I have one child among the English already. I have no desire to see another go astray.”
Sarah drew back, her lips pressed together in a tight line against the pain. How dare he accuse her of going astray when she had tried so hard to stay among them, when every day she fought her own spirit to stay Amish.
She lifted her chin to a stubborn angle her father had seen too many times. “Yes, I've traded my horse for a fancy car, you know. A … a … Dagmar,” she said, not quite sure if that was the right name or not. It sounded impressive nevertheless.
Her sarcasm brought only another disapproving snort. She could feel her father's steel-blue eyes boring into her. “What is this I hear?”
“Hear?” She swallowed hard. “From who?”
“Micah Hochstetler asked you to go to the Beachys' auction with him and you wouldn't go. He says you're acting high and worldly more and more.”
“He goes around saying such things and you wonder why I wouldn't go with him?” She rolled her eyes.
“He is a fine young man, a member of the church with his own farm.”
“And you think that's reason enough for me to go around with him?”
“I'm thinking if you married and had children as you were meant to, we'd not live in fear of being visited by the deacon.”
“I've done nothing to warrant a visit from the deacon!” Sarah protested, her temper flaring as it always did when she exchanged more than five lines with her father.
He stared meaningfully at the magazine in her arms.
“I have committed no sin,” Sarah said stubbornly.
“Excuse me,” a third voice intruded with a sharp, sarcastic edge. “Is there a problem here?”
Isaac turned and looked at Matt, the old man's face set like a mask of granite. “None that concerns you,” he said stiffly in English and he walked away with his head up and his eyes on the hardware store.
Sarah watched him go, a sour mixture of love and hate rolling inside her.
“Friend of yours?” Matt asked sofdy.
“No,” she said, tears burning the backs of her eyes. “He's my father.”
As Sarah shopped for her groceries Matt sat in the buggy tied to the hitching rail at the end of the parking lot. Despite the fact that he felt a thousand percent better than he had the day before, he was still a ways from being back to fall strength, and the mornings activities had taken a toll on him. He leaned back against the seat as he watched toddlers play in the park across thfe street, his thoughts going over his visit with Jesse's resident physician.
The man was an insult to doctors in general and probably a menace to his patients. Phillip Coswell was fiftyish, best described as squat with oily, thinning dark hair, and a fine example of a chainsmoker. He'd asked Matt no less than five times what medication he was on, indicating that he either wasn't paying attention or he had a serious problem with concentration. His main topic of conversation had been the scandalous cost of malpractice insurance and how to milk the most out of the Medicare system. During his time in the waiting room, Matt had heard him insult one female patient and deride another for wasting his time. The poor woman had burst into tears. Matt still couldn't get over the fact that the waiting room had been full. People actually depended on that man for their medical care. It was a terrifying thought.
Sarah came out of the store then and Matt's attention shifted abruptly. She looked pale and tense. He wondered what she and her father had been arguing about, but he didn't feel right asking and she hadn't offered to tell him. He reached out to help her into the buggy and they drove up to the door to have the groceries loaded in. Then they were on their way out of Jesse, past the tourists congregating in front of the Viking Cafe, past the towering corrugated metal structures that comprised the Jesse Grain Elevator, and out once more into the country
Sarah made no pretense at small task. She kept her attention riveted to her driving and to her effort to keep from bursting into tears. For once she was glad for the concealing aspect of her bonnet. It effectively hid her face from Matt's scrutiny. She knew he was dying to ask her what the problem was, but she had no desire to tell him. She wasn't even sure she could have told him if she wanted to. Her feelings were all tangled up so that she didn't know if she would ever be able to sort them out. It had to do with love and need and duty and obligation and wanting and being afraid.
Complicating it all was Matt himself with his gentle hands and his come-hither grin. She didn't want to talk to him of all people about the issue of her Amishness, not when he made her want so much, not when she so desperately wanted him not to think of her as Amish, even though she knew that was wrong and stupid. Oh, heaven, what a mess!
Suddenly two big, masculine hands settled over hers on the reins and Otis was being guided off the road, onto the path to a field of soybeans. They were about halfway to Thorne-wood, precisely in the middle of nowhere, with no one else in sight. The buggy rolled to a stop. Otis hung his head and cocked one hind leg. For a moment the only sounds were the wind in the dried grass and the distant screech of a hunting hawk.
Matt plucked at the strings that tied Sarah's bonnet in place and carefully-lifted the hat away, setting it on the seat on the other side of her. “Come here, now,” he murmured gathering her against him. “Cry it out, whatever it is.”
That was all the encouragement Sarah needed. The last of her strength snapped like a twig and she clung to Matt Thorne and cried her heart out. She cried for what she was and what she could never be. She cried because she wanted her father to love her and she hated herself for it. She cried because her heart was set on Matt Thorne and she had to know she was nothing more than an amusement for him. She cried in sobs that wrenched her soul and twisted her heart.
Matt held her tight against him, ignoring the pain in his ribs. It was nothing compared to what the sound of Sarah crying did to his heart. He found himself wanting to track down her father and punch him in the nose. What could he, what could anyone want to say to sweet, innocent Sarah that would make her cry? Whatever it was, he wanted to somehow take it away. He wanted to soothe her hurt. He wanted to protect her.
He ran a hand over her hair and murmured words of comfort, letting his lips brush the top of her head. Pins fell loose and her hair tumbled freely down her back in glorious waves. Matt tangled his hands in it, lifting it, smoothing it, all the while whispering to her as her sobs faded to soft weeping, then sniffles and ragged breathing. Without letting go of her, he reached in his hip pocket for a handkerchief, he tipped her head back and dabbed at her tears and red nose.
“Better?” he asked.
Sarah nodded, feeling embarrassed and foolish and so very grateful to him. She dodged his steady gaze, staring instead at the big damp patches where her tears had stained his shirt. “Thank you,' she murmured, her voice sounding rusty and low. Tm very sorry—”
“No.” Matt pressed an index finger to her lips to silence her apology and tilted her head back again so she had no choice but to look at him. Her long lashes were damp and spiky. Her eyes seemed magnified by the sheen of moisture in them, and so blue they made the autumn sky pale in comparison. “Don't be sorry. You needed to cry. I'm a big advocate of people crying when they need to. I'm thinking about writing a paper on it for the
“Really?” she said, trying to give him a dry smile that trembled a little too much to work.
“Really. You know what else?”
She shook her head.
“I&m going to kiss you.”
Having made the announcement, he went ahead and fulfilled the promise, pressing his palms to her cheeks and bending his head down to hers. Their lips met slowly, softly, with the gentlest pressure. Matt sipped at her as if she were a rare fine wine, tasting and savoring. Her mouth was pliant beneath his, warm and salty with the taste of
