The Amish Heart of Ice Mountain

Page

Prologue

Ice Mountain, Coudersport, PA

Thirteen Years Ago

He was fascinated by the work his grossdaudi did deep in the woods, all of the mixing and heat and bubbling. But when he reached out to touch the copper tubing, his grandfather gave him a slap in the mouth that sent him reeling across the forest floor. He slowly got to his feet, looking up at his grossdaudi as he wiped the blood from his mouth. For a moment something wavered in the auld man’s eyes that he didn’t understand, but then his grandfather bent over the spout and poured a fair portion of clear liquid into a Mason jar and handed it to him.

Drink it, the old man commanded.

He drank. The stuff burned the back of his throat like fire and he choked and coughed. His grossdaudi laughed. "You’ll soon get used to it, buwe."

And he did. He found, at eight years of age, that the liquid calmed him after the burn, made him feel warm and tight in his belly, in the place in his heart where he missed his dead mamm the most. But it was his and grossdaudi’s secret—that clear liquid fire.... Not for any on Ice Mountain to know. And he drank . . .

Chapter One

Ice Mountain, Coudersport, PA

The Present Day

The late-day summer storm came up fast and furious, splattering twenty-one-year-old Amisch Edward King with leaves and small branches as he dragged his tall frame from the damp pine needle floor of the forest. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, gave up his hat for lost, and decided he’d better seek shelter as soon as possible.

Then he remembered . . . His aulder bruder, Joseph, had essentially kicked him out of the haus that afternoon for drinking and other things he’d prefer not to think on.

"Gott," he muttered, pushing through the whipping trees in the general direction of Grossmuder May’s cabin. The auld woman had been a healer to the Amisch community, and Edward had the idle thought that her recent passing was a sad loss, but right now all he wanted was the dryness of her temporarily empty cabin.

He staggered on, his white shirt and black pants clinging to him as he swiped the rain from his mouth and hitched up a suspender. It was rough going in the pelting storm, but he walked on, used to the feeling of getting through life half blind. He sighed to himself as lightning formed an angry zigzag in the distance, casting an almost greenish glow over everything that cowered beneath the rain.

Finally he gained the cabin and clambered up the front porch steps to open the unlocked door and collapsed in a heap on the hard wood kitchen floor.

I’ll find the bed later, he muttered aloud to himself, then gave in to the blissful pull of drunken sleep.

Sarah Mast, the new young healer of Ice Mountain, pushed the bedstead back against the wall of the cabin’s bedroom and heard a loud thump. She shivered a bit, still not used to living in Grossmuder May’s auld home even after two days, and decided that a limb had probably struck the front of the cabin. She dusted her hands on her white apron, then walked into the kitchen, only to stop dead still at the sight of the man lying in a growing puddle upon the floor.

He groaned and turned his face slightly and she drew in a sharp breath. She recognized the dark blond hair, handsome face, and lithe body only too well. Edward King . . . There was a time, not too long ago, when I would have done anything he asked of me, when I kissed his mouth with hot ease, when I let him . . . She drew her thoughts up sharply. Of course, she’d never let him trespass on her virtue . . . but maybe I wanted him to.... She banished the thought; that was all before he’d left the mountain to work on the Marcellus Shale gas rigs. He left to make money so we could wed sooner . . . well, that’s all turned out beautifully. She smiled wryly, then sat down at the table to eat a makeshift supper of fresh bread and apple butter. She eyed Edward’s inert figure impassively, then rose to wash her dishes, not bothering to be especially quiet in the process. Then she retook her seat at the table with a cup of licorice tea.

He stirred soon, as she’d expected he would, clutching his head, then raising himself up on his elbows. "Ach, my head," he moaned.

Fresh ginger root, lemon juice, honey, and a bit of potassium, Sarah recited from memory.

What? He frowned.

The cure for what ails you, she said succinctly. You look terrible.

"Danki, Sarah. . . . So are you gonna get that stuff for me or what?"

"Nee. She tapped a foot while she sipped a bit of tea. I think the headache will do you gut." She ignored the impulse of her fingers to bring him immediate relief and tried to remember how he’d been treating her lately.

He raised a soaked arm and she had to look away from the play of well-defined muscles beneath his plastered white shirt. Joseph threw me out.

As well he might.

Yeah, but this cabin was supposed to be deserted for a bit. He dragged himself to a sitting position and looked up at her, owl-eyed. Why are you here, sweet?

She ignored the endearment. I’m the new healer, remember?

He almost scowled. "How can I forget? I’m surprised your fater is actually going to let you live here alone. Gott knows he would have killed me had he figured out we were . . ."

She straightened her back. We were . . . past tense. Well, he’s finally kumme out and said it at least . . . even though I was the one who told him it was over. . . . Has it only been a day since that conversation?

She’d stood tense and trying to be resolute in one of her fater’s smaller barns while Edward had slipped inside their place of many meetings. She’d taken in his tall frame, lithe grace, and handsome half smile and told herself that she was being a fool. She knew that his drinking was probably more than occasional and he’d been avoiding her like the plague lately, not even so much as helping her down from a high step at Ben Kauffman’s store. I deserve better, she’d told herself as he sauntered close. But, unfortunately, there was none better than Edward King on the mountain, and the man knew it. She’d pursed her lips. Better to court some ugly man with a good heart than to be dragged about by my feelings . . . But when Edward reached out a hand to lazily run his finger down the length of her arm, she knew she’d never be content with anyone but him. She’d steeled her senses and swallowed.

I’ve been wanting to talk with you, he’d whispered huskily.

I find that hard to believe, she’d snapped, ignoring the fact that he’d circled behind her to press close against her skirts, his hands now on her shoulders.

She shivered, knowing it would be so easy to melt back against him and let him touch and feel and . . . I want to break our courtship.

She felt the sudden tension in his body as his hands slipped from her and he came back around to look down at her.

What did you say?

She wet her lips. You—you heard me.

Why?

She wanted to curse; he actually sounded curious.

Because you’ve wanted to break it, too, Edward King. You’ve barely looked at me since you got back from the rigs, and I know that you’ve been drinking and—I—I want it over, that’s all.

He smiled, a wolfish look that made her shiver with suppressed excitement, and bent closer to her.

I wrote a letter, he murmured.

What? she asked in confusion, knowing she had seen no missive from him nor was it his habit to write love letters; still, the idea intrigued her despite her assertion that she wanted to end their relationship. What letter?

A letter to someone higher up who works at the Marcellus Shale; you know, the gas find? Well, one of their drilling companies—I’ve invited them to Ice Mountain. He thumbed his way around her throat and she blinked, then parted her lips in surprised anger.

What are you talking about, Edward? Do you know what it would mean if geologists found gas here and then . . .

Sarah? Be you in there? Her fater’s voice penetrated the peg-and-groove wood of the door, and she stared at Edward in rising panic.

But he’d merely shrugged and slipped behind a high pile of hay, leaving her to face her father’s curiosity alone.

I’m sorry, he said roughly, and she jumped, coming back to the present. She couldn’t control the physical response she had to the deep timbre of his voice. It was as though someone had run a warm finger down her spine, and she shifted a bit on the hard-backed chair.

What for? she asked dryly. Us? Or the fact that you invited Marcellus Shale to Ice Mountain?

Edward’s frown deepened. I wasn’t thinking when I wrote to the gas company.

"Nee, and you were probably drinking," she pointed out, ignoring the inner voice that told her she was being truthful yet cruel.

Well, he sighed. You’re probably right at that. I’d better get going. He started to haul himself to his feet, then paused to cover his mouth as he sneezed.

She listened for a moment to the heavy rain on the cabin roof and drew a deep breath. You’ll catch pneumonia, Edward. Stay here and dry your shirt and go when the storm passes.

He stood up and met her eyes with his piercing blue gaze. You sure, Sarah?

She nodded. But I’m not sure at all, she thought wildly when he eased his suspenders down and began to pull pins from his shirtfront with long fingers.

She got up and turned to the refuge of the huge cupboard Grossmuder May had left behind, willing to Sarah a wealth of cures and comforts. She tried to focus on some of the bottles of rarer herbs, but he sneezed again. She grabbed a ginger root and had begun to grate it when a loud knock sounded on the front door.

Sarah! a voice boomed, louder than the thunder, and she turned to look at the barechested Edward in slow, dawning horror. It was her fater. . . .

Life and protocol for the Mountain Amisch was far behind modern times. There was a rigid code of honor that existed among his people and he knew that being in a state of undress with an unmarried girl was simply not acceptable. Edward shuddered, knowing that Mahlon Mast was enough of a bully to force a marriage out of such circumstances, and he longed for the auld pegged wooden floor to open up and swallow him whole. But no such thing happened, and the front door opened to reveal not only Mahlon Mast but Bishop Umble as well.

Edward muttered a curse under his breath as the two older men stared at him in mute fascination and dawning disapproval, while he stood, shivering, in the sudden influx of cool air from the rain outside. Great . . . This looks great . . .

He glanced at Sarah, who appeared frozen with a ginger root in her hand, her gray eyes wide and scared. Damn her fater anyway. The girl is our healer—it should be perfectly fine if I have my shirt off. She shouldn’t have to be frightened. . . .

He straightened his bare shoulders and turned to face the other men.

You! Mahlon Mast sputtered, lifting a meaty hand to point a finger as thick as a sausage at him.

Bishop Umble frowned, obviously catching the drift of Sarah’s fater’s thoughts. Now, Mahlon . . .

I got caught in the storm. Sarah was kind enough to offer me shelter and is preparing a warm drink for me while my shirt dries. That’s all. Edward kept his voice calm and level, though the back of his head was starting to pound.

"Nee, Mahlon growled. I’ve seen you before, sneakin’ about our haus, always makin’ some excuse.... You tell me, Edward King, that you’ve not been courtin’ my dochder."

Edward drew in a harsh breath and glanced again at Sarah. What am I supposed to say when it’s the absolute truth and Sarah’s not about to lie?

Well? Mahlon demanded.

Now, now, Bishop Umble murmured. "You know, Mahlon, that all of our young folks’ courting is done in secret at nacht. There’s nothing wrong with that."

"Jah, Mahlon retorted. But here he’s astandin’ in broad daylight, half naked, and I tell you that it’s my girl and it’s dishonor."

And is she going to marry every man she sees with his shirt off and still be the healer for Ice Mountain? Edward snapped.

Mahlon looked like his eyes were about to bug out of his head and he took an aggressive step closer. "She ain’t healin’ you, buwe. You got nuthin’ much wrong with you but your ways and your drinkin’ and lyin’ and—"

And that makes me the perfect husband for someone like Sarah, right?

Mahlon’s thick finger traced an invisible rifle scope up and down Edward’s bare chest. You’ll do right by her and you’ll learn to be the man she deserves, or else . . .

"Fater, sei se gut," Sarah began.

Enough, Mahlon gritted out. I ought to beat him senseless for this presuming on your honor. But there’s no help for it.... Bishop, marry them.

"Fater, I don’t want to marry him," Sarah said calmly, but Edward heard the desperation in her voice and he couldn’t deny that it hurt somewhere deep inside. She had told him that she never wanted to see him again only yesterday, and she’d probably kill him if she knew how much he drank and about the girls he’d seen while he was away and about his anger and hopelessness and . . .

I’m sorry, Sarah, Bishop Umble said finally, stroking his long gray beard. "I believe your fater is right and Edward will become the man you deserve and you a fitting wife for him. We must not allow dalliance among our young people, especially with you in such a position of service to the community. I will marry you, and I believe that Derr Herr will make things right between you both."

Then, as if from a long distance away, Edward heard the fall of the ginger root as it hit the hardwood floor—a dull thump, like the one in his head, like a single beat of his terrified heart.

Chapter Two

It was not the wedding any girl would have wanted. Sarah had absolutely no desire to marry Edward King, even though it had been what she’d been dreaming of for the past year.... But that had been when she’d thought he’d wanted her, when she believed in his schemes, and hadn’t seen him drunk. Now she could barely bring herself to change into the blue dress her fater insisted upon—blue for marrying. She paused in adjusting her kapp and listened in surreal fascination to the rain still beating mercilessly against the cabin. Getting married . . . while Mamm and Clara and Ernest and Samuel sit unsuspecting at home.... Perhaps Fater will relent and allow time for the rest of the family to come.... But no, he believed that a sin should be made right as soon as possible . . . no matter anyone’s feelings. Ach, how I miss Grossmuder May—she would have helped somehow, but there’s no sense longing for someone gone from here, like a red leaf in a fast-moving stream.... But at least I have her journal....

Sarah glanced at the old heavy book on her bedside table and on impulse went quickly to open it. So far, she’d savored each early entry, reading of May’s girlhood far from Ice Mountain. But now Sarah turned with furtive fingertips to the penciled page she’d only glanced at marked

MY WEDDING DAY

and began to read almost in desperation. She knew it might be wiser to seek counsel from Gott’s Word, but she needed the touch of a woman friend now. And, as she lifted the book to the rain-washed window, time stood still, then fell away in the gentle loops and lines of Grossmuder’s writing.

October 13, 1940

I saw to our three milch cows before dawn and I believe that Fater intends to give us Rosie, my favorite cow, as a wedding gift. I hope that Elias will be pleased—it is so hard to tell what his thoughts are at times. But perhaps I am nervous over being a wife after being the baby of my family for so long. And fifteen is a gut age for marrying, or so my mamm says.... Still, I will miss my room and sleeping with Esther, but I won’t miss her cold feet! There, my sisters kumme now to braid my hair up and I will not write again until I am Frau Stolfus. Gott bless our union!

May G. Miller

Sarah let the pages rifle closed between her fingers and put the book back on her table. Fifteen . . . If Grossmuder could marry at fifteen, then surely I can at nineteen.... She squared her shoulders and pushed aside the long curtain that separated the bedroom from the kitchen, prepared to face her future with as much confidence as her shaking hands would allow.

The three men stood in silence when she reentered the room. Edward had loosely pinned his soaking shirt on, but the strong cords of his throat were still visible and his suspenders still hung down about his lean waist. He was visibly shivering and she bit back a protest at making him put on his wet clothes again, knowing that would only condemn him further in her fater’s eyes. I might as well do what I can to see that they get along, considering this marriage is supposed to last forever. . . . She blinked. Forever . . .

Edward sneezed, and it seemed to galvanize Bishop Umble into action. It is unusual, I admit to you all, for me to both perform the marriage and stand as a witness at the same time. . . .

Her fater gave a low growl of acknowledgment and the bishop stroked his gray beard. Still, he cleared his throat, "I suppose we must proceed . . . though I’m beginning to think that this is the only way couples seem to get married anymore on Ice Mountain—irate faters and all."

Sarah knew that the bishop was referring to Edward’s own sister, Mary, who had been forced to wed after being caught in a passionate embrace with an Englischer. Yet Mary and Jude certainly seemed now to be deeply in love and made one of the most striking couples on the mountain.

She sighed, then came back to the moment with a heart thump as she heard Bishop Umble speak the High German words of the wedding ceremony. She was aware of Edward’s tall presence beside her and the faint smell of moonshine mixed with his own scent of pine and woods and sultry sun. She longed to close her eyes against memories of stolen kisses and fervent embraces and tried to remember that he wanted her like this no more than she wanted him.

Somehow, then, the ceremony was over. She saw her fater visibly relax, a bit of the angry redness leaving his face, and the bishop put his hands behind his back. Sarah knew Bishop Umble’s posture; it was a stance of exhortation or encouragement, as he often stood during church service. Here comes the lecture . . . I’m so tired all of a sudden. I don’t think I can stand it.... But she assumed a properly interested expression, ignoring for the moment the fact that Edward had begun to cough. She simply wanted everyone to be gone.

But Bishop Umble pursed his lips and spoke. I have one suggestion for your marriage. It’s an abbreviated statement from Sir Winston Churchill. . . .

Ach, buwe. Sarah flicked back one of her kapp strings and sensed Edward shift his weight on the auld floorboards.

‘Never give up,’ the bishop pronounced with singular solemnity, then clapped his hat back on his head. "Kumme, Mahlon, we’ll leave this husband and wife in peace."

Sarah watched her fater bluster, then grab Edward by his loose shirt collar. If you ever hurt her, I’ll . . .

Mahlon! Bishop Umble snapped. Remember yourself.

Her fater grunted and released Edward, and Sarah let out the