Amish Romance: The Promise (Hollybrook Amish Romance: Greta's Story Book 2) Page 3

  If he knew she was supposed to marry Isaac…

  “You marry Todd, and you could stay here in your home. He could just move in and help me with the land for gut.”

  So, that was it. If she married Todd, her father’s life wouldn’t be interrupted. It all made sense now.

  “I suppose so,” she muttered. “But maybe Todd’s single for a reason. Maybe he’s got no wish to marry.”

  “Nee. That ain’t it.”

  She stared at him, dread surging through her. “And how do you know?”

  “Done asked him.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Jah, I did. He ain’t met anyone he’s cared to marry yet. But that might be changing real quick-like.”

  Greta shook her head. “Please tell me you didn’t mention me.”

  Raymond glared at her. “And why shouldn’t I? You’re of age. Lord knows you’ve been of age for quite some time now. And you’re a fine Gott-fearing woman.” He took a slurping sip of his tea.

  She was beyond words. What had her father done? Such things weren’t to be spoken of out loud. They just weren’t. It was simply unacceptable.

  “Ach, don’t be getting yourself upset. I done you a favor. And Todd weren’t against the idea.”

  “He said that?”

  “Not in so many words, but I could tell.”

  “Oh, Dat!” she cried and ran into the house, slamming the screen door behind her.

  Greta paced a circle in her room. How dare her father speak such things. It was embarrassing. More than embarrassing. Poor Todd must have felt attacked. How would she ever look him in the face again?

  It was too much to be borne.

  She perched on the edge of her bed. There lay Isaac’s letter from earlier. She’d have to be more careful. If her father saw letters from Isaac, he would probably increase his interference with Todd.

  She pulled out her stationery and pen. Isaac expected a response, and she needed to give one. She stuck the end of the pen in her mouth and grew pensive. But instead of Isaac filling her thoughts, her mind went to Todd. He was a nice man. Responsible and kind. And from what she’d seen that evening, he had a good sense of humor. He definitely had a way with her father.

  Why wasn’t he married? He lived in the daadi haus behind Aaron Raber’s place. She knew little about his family, but then, she wasn’t one to join in with the gossip circles around the district. Still, she should know more than she did. Todd Fisher was a bit of an enigma.

  She chewed the end of her pen. How could her father embarrass her like that? She shuddered and focused her mind on the task at hand.

  Dear Isaac,

  Thank you for your letter. I was right glad to receive it and know that you and James are doing well.

  She paused. Did that sound too eager? Too forward? She grimaced. The events of the evening had thrown her off, and she didn’t know what to think.

  Was Todd wondering at this very moment whether she’d put her father up to his sticking his nose in? Was Todd thinking that she liked him? That she wanted him to court her? Her grip on the pen tightened. Should she set Todd straight? And just how was she going to do that? Hello Todd, I just want to make sure that you know I don’t like you. That I have no interest in you courting me…

  He would think her mad.

  Despite herself, the corner of her lip turned up in a smile. She could visualize Todd’s face if she did say something like that. Knowing him better now, she imagined he’d have some snappy comeback. He’d probably put on a serious face and say, That’s good because I wouldn’t dream of courting you. Why, this is a complete relief to me. I’ve been stewing about your blatant advances.

  Greta laughed.

  And then, he’d probably wink at her. Yes, wink. He had the nerve to do it. And her dad liked him. Would wonders never cease?

  She gave a start. She was to be writing a letter, not sitting there like a duck, daydreaming.

  I will be happy to go through your house now and again and check on it. I will also check on Betty’s garden. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before. She loved that garden, and I never saw plants thrive so under someone’s touch. She had a way with plants, no doubt about it.

  Greta paused and felt the familiar ache in her heart for her dear friend. Most days now, the ache only came when she awoke and remembered all that had happened. She was glad for that—it was a great improvement. Walking around all day, feeling the stinging loss of her friend was more than she could bear indefinitely. She thought of Isaac’s pain. She imagined he still carried it every minute of the day. She sucked in her bottom lip. What could she write that might give him a bit of release? A bit of happiness?

  She shook her head. The only thing of interest that had happened in her life lately was Todd coming to supper. And she could hardly write about that when she was … well, what was she? Engaged? Promised? Biding her time until Isaac returned to marry her?

  She hardly knew how to classify her situation. She had promised Betty to marry Isaac when there had really been no choice. Betty had been hours away from death, and she’d insisted. Isaac had promised under the same duress. But now, he was bringing it up again. She knew he felt obligated. Not only to Betty, but to her.

  She sighed.

  If he did marry her, then it would be purely out of obligation. He didn’t love her. He loved Betty.

  And he always would.

  Chapter Six

  Isaac raised the ax and swung it with all his might. It hit the chunk of wood with a piercing crack, splitting it straight down the middle.

  “Enough,” his brother Zeb said. His voice was low and intense. “Enough.”

  Isaac let the ax drop to his side. He looked down at his palms and saw the bloody blisters marking his skin. “I’m not finished,” he said tersely.

  “Jah, you are.” Zeb pried the ax from his hand. “Go inside. Wash up.”

  Isaac looked at him and didn’t move.

  “Isaac. Go inside. Wash up.” Zeb put his hand on Isaac’s shoulder and gave a not-so-gentle push.

  Isaac stumbled toward the house. He needed to calm down before his mother saw him. She was too intent on him lately, watching his every move, interpreting his every expression. It was too much, and he was growing more and more irritated by it. Oh, he knew she meant well, but it was annoying nevertheless.

  He paused before going in the side entrance to the wash room. He took a long slow breath and relaxed his face. He smoothed his brow and arranged his mouth into a half-smile. There. She couldn’t be upset with his expression now. He pulled open the screen door and stepped inside. He went to the basin and rinsed his damaged hands. The water stung, but he didn’t care. The pain felt good somehow. A change from the aching dullness inside. He lathered his hands with soap, and the burning increased until he wanted to cry out. But he didn’t. He rinsed and wiped them dry, noting the trail of blood he’d left on the soft muslin towel.

  He regretted that. Betty always fussed when she had to get blood out of the laundry. “It’s the worst thing in the world to get rid of,” she used to say.

  He clenched his jaw. Well, he wouldn’t have to hear about that today, would he now?

  He walked into the kitchen to see his son perched on Helen’s hip.

  “There you are,” Helen said. “Look, James. There’s your dada.”

  James pulled two slobbery fingers from his mouth and gave Isaac a wide grin. At that moment, he looked exactly like Betty. Isaac’s breath caught, and he blinked hard against the tears that sprang instantly to his eyes.

  “Go on,” Helen said, giving James an endearing look. “Go see your dada.”

  James stretched out his arms, and Isaac took him. James immediately started to pull on Isaac’s beard.

  “Ouch,” Isaac said, grateful for the distraction. “Quit that now. You’ll have your own beard soon enough.”

  “Ach! I should hope not,” exclaimed Helen. She poked her finger at James’s tummy. “You won’t be gettin’ married for decad
es now, will you?”

  The muscle near Isaac’s eye twitched. Why had he brought up his beard? He knew that would lead to a comment on marriage. Was he that intent on torturing himself?

  “Let’s go see your daadi,” he told James and left the room.

  “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” Helen called after him.

  Isaac didn’t care. Eating was just another chore to be gotten through each day. His mother’s food, which he had always loved, tasted like nothing more than sawdust. But he didn’t let on. He gave her compliments, probably even more than was completely acceptable in their world. No matter. What difference did it make?

  What difference did anything make?

  James clapped his hands and looked up at him with Betty’s wide blue eyes. Isaac gave him a forced smile. “Where do you think daadi is?” Isaac asked him as he went out on the front porch. “Out in the fields with your Onkel John no doubt.” But they would be coming in soon. His father had an innate sense of exactly when his wife put food on the table.

  “I should have brought Myrtle with us,” Isaac muttered to James. “That old goat is probably causing Stephen Lapp no end of grief.” He smiled in spite of himself. Myrtle had been Betty’s beloved goat. The critter never really took to Isaac until the day Betty died. Then the darn thing had followed him about like a forlorn puppy.

  Isaac had never been fond of the goat. But he had to admit that now, thinking about her ornery ways, he missed her. He’d given her to his neighbor, Stephen Lapp, to care for until his return.

  Until his return…

  He was ready to go back to Hollybrook that instant, but he couldn’t break his mother’s heart. Not yet, anyway. And James was doing well. Finally. He could hardly rip the child away from someone’s loving arms again. Not so soon. He ran his hand over James’s head, feeling his soft tuft of brown hair.

  He wondered how Greta was doing. He hadn’t heard back from her yet. He grimaced. She’d probably hardly gotten his letter—of course, he hadn’t heard back. When he thought of Greta, his stomach twisted. Part of him felt a heaviness of duty toward her. He had promised to marry her, after all. His promise hovered over him like a burden he was too tired to carry.

  It wasn’t Greta’s fault. She hadn’t asked for this anymore than he had. She probably hated it, too.

  His brow scrunched down over his eyes. He hadn’t really considered that before. What if she didn’t want to marry him? What if she was dreading it? Hadn’t she told him more than once that she didn’t hold him responsible for the promise? That she didn’t expect him to marry her? He hadn’t thought about her words much at the time. He was consumed with what was happening to Betty. He couldn’t think about anything else at the time.

  But she had told him repeatedly not to feel obligated. What if it was because she didn’t like him? Oh, he knew she liked James. Loved James, in fact.

  A sick feeling pushed its way up his throat. He hadn’t given Greta any real consideration. He hadn’t even thought about her feelings. Not really. And he’d just written her that letter, giving her all sorts of information about what was going on in his life. As if she was interested. And he’d brought up the promise again.

  His face burned with shame. She had probably cringed when she read his letter. He blew out his breath. He was a fool.

  A lonely fool.

  “Let’s go back inside,” he told James. “I’m sure your grossmammi has dinner on the table by now.”

  Chapter Seven

  Greta walked to Isaac’s house. It was a long walk, and she should have taken her pony and cart, but she simply couldn’t bear to have her father come out on the porch and question her, asking her where she was going and what she was doing. Ever since Todd had come to supper, her father had stepped up his watchdogging her every move. It was driving her to distraction. Soon, she expected him to monitor her bathroom use.

  She bit her lips. She was getting snarky, and it wouldn’t suit. She sent up a prayer for forgiveness and purposefully put her mind on the task ahead. She was grateful that she’d slipped away when her father had fallen asleep after the noon meal to work in Betty’s garden. To be honest, gardening wasn’t her favorite thing to do, but this would be to honor her dear friend.

  And to help Isaac.

  The day was moderate, and even though she was walking fairly slowly, Greta worked up a sweat. She’d be a right mess when she finished working in the soil.

  She arrived at Isaac’s land and immediately felt the emptiness of the place. She knew the neighbor men were watching over his fields for him, so it wasn’t deserted. But still, Isaac wasn’t there. James wasn’t there. Betty wasn’t there.

  Greta walked into the barn to find a hoe and trowel. On the wooden workbench lay one of Betty’s garden gloves, partially chewed up. She smiled. That goat of Betty’s—it had to be. She glanced around for Myrtle and then remembered, the goat wasn’t there anymore, either.

  Greta easily found the garden tools and walked around behind the house. She leaned on the hoe and sighed with resignation. The garden was indeed a mess. The men looking over the fields hadn’t given the garden a second thought. Nor had any of the women in the district, including her.

  “I’m sorry, Betty,” she whispered. “We should have done better for you.”

  She gritted her teeth and started in, the hoe slicing through the weeds and the dry dirt. She squatted down and pulled the loosened weeds from the soil, tossing them in a pile at the beginning of the row. She worked steadily, sweat dripping down the sides of her face. The temperature had warmed up considerably, and she wished she’d thought to bring a jar of lemonade.

  She walked to the spigot and turned it on. She lifted the connected hose and slurped water from the end of it. Better. She turned the water off and went back to the garden.

  For two hours, she worked. She glanced at her aching hands and noticed the blisters already rising on her palms. She should have put on gloves. That was foolish of her. She surveyed the garden. It didn’t look like it did when Betty cared for it, but after her labor, there was a huge improvement. Perhaps if she came over every few days and worked, it would regain some of its former glory.

  She gathered up the armful of weeds and strode to the chicken coop. With a heave, she tossed them over the fencing and laughed when the hens cackled and stampeded. She wondered who was feeding and watering them and gathering the eggs. Well, they didn’t look any worse for the wear, so someone was caring for them.

  She went back to the hose and washed her hands as best she could. Then she leaned the hoe against the house, slipped off her shoes, and entered the house through the side door. It wasn’t locked, nor had she thought it would be. No one around there locked their doors, even if they were going to be gone for a spell.

  Her footsteps echoed through the house, even in her bare feet. She felt a compulsion to tiptoe, as if she were walking on hallowed ground. But how silly. This was just Isaac’s and Betty’s house. She’d been there hundreds of times.

  But for some reason, this felt like an intrusion. Like she shouldn’t be there. She wanted to leave, but she’d told Isaac she’d check on the place. Swallowing the eerie feeling, she continued through the rooms. All seemed to be in order. She crept up the staircase, leaning heavily on the rail, as if forcing herself to keep going up.

  She laughed, and the sound seemed unnaturally loud. Grating, almost. She shuddered.

  “Ach, you’re being silly,” she said out loud, purposefully raising her voice. “See? There’s nothing untoward with you being here.”

  When she got upstairs, she peered into every room, but one. She simply couldn’t force herself to look into the room where Betty had died. When she stood outside the door, her breathing increased, and she felt light-headed. She softly put her hand on the door and said a prayer for Isaac and James.

  And then, nearly running, she left the house.

  On her walk home, Greta pondered her reaction to being in Isaac’s house. She’d felt almost spooked
when she’d stood outside Betty’s bedroom. If she and Isaac did follow through on their promise, that house would become her home. She could hardly live there if she was going to feel awkward about the place. It was silly, really, and more than a little troubling.

  The sun was hot on her head, its heat easily passing through her thin kapp. She brushed her arm over her forehead. She wished again for a nice jar of lemonade. She’d remember to bring one the next time she gardened.

  She heard a wagon approaching from behind and automatically stepped further to the side of the road. The wagon slowed, and she turned around.

  “Todd!”

  “Gut day, Greta. You heading back home?”

  “I am.”

  “Come on up. I’ll give you a ride.”

  She glanced around, hesitating.

  “I work for your dat. No one will think a thing.”

  Her cheeks went hot. How was it that this man always knew what she was thinking?

  He laughed and leaned over, holding out his hand. She shrugged and then smiling, she took his hand and climbed into the wagon.

  “I thought you were already at our house.”

  “Nee. I had some errands to run at the Feed & Supply. I’m just heading back there now.”

  “I see,” she murmured.

  “How’s your dat?”

  She looked at him. “Fine. His usual.” She bit her lip. That didn’t sound very nice. And she feared her tone betrayed her.

  He shook his head and gave her a wide smile. “You’re a gut daughter, Greta Glick.”

  She colored at his compliment.

  “Where were you this fine day?”

  “I was working in Betty Wagner’s garden. No one’s touched it since … since…”

  “Since she died,” he said quietly. His eyes were on her. “That was nice of you.”

  “Jah. I mean. Well, Isaac asked me to.”