Promise Lodge (6 page)

Chapter Five

Deborah awoke with a start to discover that the sunrise was already a bright pink blush on the horizon. The salty-sweet aroma of bacon mingling with the fragrances of coffee and cinnamon told her that breakfast preparations were well under way, so she splashed her face at the sink and dressed quickly. Her body felt heavy from lack of sleep and her eyes stung from crying, but she couldn't let her worries overwhelm her.

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made Heaven and Earth,
she reminded herself.
If God be for me, who can be against me?

Deborah arranged her
kapp
over her freshly wound bun and resolutely smoothed its long strings down the front of her lavender dress. She could do this. She could make herself so useful—could paint so carefully and efficiently—that Preacher Amos and the others would be glad she was here even if Noah wanted nothing more to do with her.

She swung open the cabin door and shrieked, nearly tripping over a body. And then she saw the
gun
. “Noah! I didn't know you were—”

Queenie sprang up from Noah's lap, barking loudly, as though to insist she had
not
fallen asleep on the job.

“Sorry,” Noah muttered as he rolled away from Deborah, into the grass.

When he stood up, with his hair sticking out in clumps and his shirt half untucked beneath his suspenders, Deborah realized he'd slept in the clothes he'd worn yesterday. But why did Noah have a rifle? Had he thought she might steal away in the night—or steal from the lodge? Had he lost all trust in her?

“Coyotes,” he rasped in a voice heavy with sleep. “Come on, Queenie, let's go. Enough of your racket.”

Noah hurried toward the lodge with his dog at his side, leaving Deborah at a loss. Of all the places where he could have positioned himself last night, why had he fallen asleep outside her door? Rosetta kept her chickens and goats in a shed on the other side of the lodge, so wouldn't coyotes have been prowling over there rather than near her cabin?

Deborah started toward the kitchen door at the back of the lodge, wondering if she would ever understand how Noah's mind worked. She used to think she knew him inside and out, but either he'd changed dramatically since moving to Promise or she had totally misunderstood him when they'd been courting.

Her unsettling thoughts disappeared as she entered the kitchen. Rosetta stood at the stove, turning strips of bacon that sizzled in a cast-iron skillet while Christine set a table in the dining room and Mattie pulled a large pan from the oven. Deborah didn't want to interrupt their snappy rendition of “Simple Gifts,” but she couldn't help exclaiming over the largest cinnamon rolls she'd ever seen.

“I'd intended to help you make breakfast,” she protested as she gazed at Mattie's rolls. They were baked to puffy perfection, spiraled around a filling of raisins, cinnamon, and nuts, and they smelled
so
good. “What's the occasion, that you've made such luscious rolls—surely you haven't been up since the wee hours to bake these for an everyday breakfast,” Deborah stammered.

Mattie chuckled as she set the pan on a rack. “
You
are the occasion, Deborah!”

“I was looking for a reason to try this new recipe—testing it for when we have new residents eating with us until their homes are built,” Rosetta explained. “And what better reason could I have than you? We made the dough last night and kept it in the refrigerator, which shortened the process this morning.”

“You can stir up the glaze, if you'd like,” Mattie said, gesturing toward a bowl of powdered sugar with a measuring cup of milk beside it. “We'd never think you were shirking, Deborah. You're not made that way.”

Deborah was so stunned that she could only gawk at them. “You—you baked these rolls for
me
?”

Rosetta grinned as she placed crisp strips of bacon on a platter. “I call it planning for happiness,” she said, her brown eyes sparkling. “We've been so busy, working to keep everyone clothed and fed while we're putting our new settlement together, that it's time to celebrate our progress—and your visit! All work and no play will make us dull girls.”

“And cranky,” Mattie added with a laugh. “We were all getting a little crisp around the edges, so it's time to ease up. To count our blessings.”

“
Jah,
God didn't create His world without taking a break, and neither should we,” Christine reasoned as she spooned coffee into the percolator basket. “And now we've got a head start on tomorrow's breakfast, too.”

“
If
you hide some of these rolls where the men won't find them,” Mattie added with a laugh.

As the three sisters gazed fondly at her, Deborah's heart swelled with gratitude. “It's so
gut
to see you all again,” she murmured. “Things haven't been the same at home without you and the girls.”

“We've missed you, too, dear,” Mattie said wistfully. “While we believe we've done the right thing by starting a new colony, it's been harder than we anticipated to leave our friends behind.”

Deborah nodded. It touched her deeply that these women were celebrating her arrival. She stirred the glaze and then drizzled it over the warm cinnamon rolls, watching it soak into the center coils of cinnamon and raisins. Her mother was a good cook, but she seldom created such lavish treats as these.
And what's Mamma doing this morning? Does she wonder where I've gone, or is she focused on the younger kids . . . keeping the peace with Dat by keeping my name out of their conversation?

As Laura, Phoebe, and the men came in for breakfast, Deborah set aside her gloomy thoughts. She was sharing fabulous food with good friends, and a day of painting and visiting awaited her.
Planning for happiness
seemed like a fine idea. If these folks could rise above unexpected setbacks and the heartaches in their past, she could, too.

* * *

Noah strode quickly toward the cabin he was to work on today, a container of putty in one hand and a scraper in the other. He'd wanted to indulge in a second cinnamon roll and another strip or two of bacon, but that would've meant spending more time across the table from Deborah and her wide green eyes. Did she have nothing better to do than gawk at him?

“Noah, hold your horses!”

Noah ignored Preacher Amos's call and walked faster. As he passed the cabin where Deborah had slept, he kicked himself again for dozing on its doorstep. What had he been thinking? After the coyotes had turned tail, spooked by the shots he'd fired into the dirt, Noah had decided to take in some refreshing night air before turning in. He'd been recalling their courtship days and must've gotten too comfortable, leaning against the cabin as he stroked Queenie's soft fur.

“You can't tell me you're
that
eager to work on windows!” Amos teased behind him.

Noah sighed, wishing the preacher had stayed at the table to gush over the cinnamon rolls a few more times. Amos Troyer seemed a lot more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed now that he'd left Coldstream. Noah felt haggard and unkempt in comparison—but maybe if he ignored his appearance for a few more days, Deborah would keep her inquisitive gazes to herself. Maybe she would see that he no longer cared about looking presentable for her.

Liar
.

Noah blinked at this telltale thought as the screen door of cabin number four banged shut behind him. He cared more about Deborah's opinion than he wanted to believe, or he wouldn't be hoping that the smell of her paint would camouflage the ripeness of the clothes he'd slept in. He really should've taken a quick shower and grabbed a fresh shirt.

Behind him, the cabin door opened. He turned to see Amos chuckling as he tossed Noah's forgotten straw hat at him. Deborah came through the door after the preacher, holding a plate with some more of those fresh, warm rolls on it. The aromas of cinnamon and sugar wafted around him.

“Thought you might enjoy a little more breakfast,” she said softly. “You're looking awfully thin.”

Noah swallowed hard. He didn't want Deborah's pity, but he knew better than to tell her so in front of Preacher Amos. His insides tightened at the sight of those rolls with their glossy glaze . . . at the strong yet feminine hands that placed the plate on the built-in shelves near the stone fireplace. “We've been working awfully hard. Burning off more food,” he remarked as he pulled the plastic tab on the new container of putty.

“I could tell it was you who puttied and painted the windows in the cabin where I'm staying,” Deborah replied with a smile. “Nobody else gets the edges of the putty and the paint so perfectly straight.”

Noah's jaw dropped. What would make Deborah notice such a detail—or care about it? He assumed her compliment was intended as a kiss-up—until he caught the flicker of sad regret in her eyes before she looked away from him.

“I've had a lot of practice,” Noah remarked. He kneaded a wad of putty between his fingers until it became as pliant as modeling clay.

Putty in her hands,
he thought as he pressed the off-white material along the edge of a windowpane where it met the wood.
That's what you used to be, but no more.

Deborah took the hint and poured pale beige paint into the tray Amos had given her. Even though she wore a faded old work dress he recognized as his cousin Phoebe's, with a kerchief tied over her hair, she looked clean and neat—eager to tackle the task Amos had assigned her. She positioned the old wooden ladder at the wall to his right, climbed it, and began spreading the paint with firm, even strokes of her roller, as far as she could reach in both directions.

Amos was replacing the corroded faucet on the bathroom sink, whistling under his breath as he worked. Noah had resigned himself to the preacher's tendency to hum or make some sort of
joyful noise,
as he called it. He was glad Amos didn't expect him to make small talk, even though it meant the hours could get awfully long as they worked. If he hadn't already joined the Old Order, he'd still have the CD player he'd enjoyed during his
rumspringa
—but that was just one of the gadgets he'd given up in preparation to marry Deborah Peterscheim and follow the rules of the church as a responsible adult.

Noah focused on drawing his scraper straight across the putty he'd applied, keenly aware of Deborah's presence. And why wouldn't he be? The creak of her ladder told him she was climbing down to paint the bottom section of the wall, and then the steady
swish swish
of her roller made him envision the stretch of her body as she covered the area in front of her with fresh paint, crouching to reach the baseboard.

No need to glance at her. You know exactly what she looks like,
he reminded himself. The old crank-out window he was working on had six small panes of glass, each of them with four sides. He would repeat his puttying procedure a total of twenty-three times before he needed to focus on anything other than the window.

Noah kept working, trying to pay more attention to Preacher Amos's whistled rendition of “The Old Gray Mare” than to Deborah's creaking ladder . . . her methodical repetitions of painting a section of the upper wall before climbing down to cover the area beneath it. He envied her constant movement, because she seemed to be making more progress than he was as he stood in one spot.

Noah worked faster, inspired by the thought of unrolling a sweet, frosted spiral of pastry and raisins.
Knead, press, scrape. Repeat.
By the time he snapped the lid on his container of putty, he could practically taste the cinnamon and feel the nuts crunching between his teeth. He pivoted, determined to pay no attention to Deborah as he fetched his snack—

“
Ach!
Oh, phooey!” she cried out.

Noah jumped back just as the roller fell from Deborah's raised hand, bounced wetly on the top of her head, and then tumbled down the back of her dress.

“Are you all right?” Amos asked as he hurried over to help her.

Noah watched helplessly as Deborah planted a hand on the wet wall to keep from falling. How had she come clear around the room so quickly? Why hadn't he been aware that she was reaching up to paint the top of the wall, only a few feet away? Had he spun in such a wide circle that he'd bumped the ladder—or had Deborah stretched too far on the wobbly old thing and lost her balance?

“I'm okay. I—I was stretched way out and wasn't expecting Noah to move,” she replied in a breathy voice. She descended the ladder on shaky legs. “Oh dear, I've splattered paint everywhere and made a mess of the floor.”

“If you're not hurt, there's no harm done. Latex wipes up with water,” Amos assured her as he shot a questioning glance at Noah.

When Noah saw how the beige paint had saturated Deborah's kerchief and was about to dribble onto her face, he grabbed his rag. He quickly pressed it against her head to catch the paint—and then realized he was standing close enough to feel her trembling. She was breathing shallowly, her eyes wide and her lips parted as she struggled to recover from her mishap.

Noah almost kissed her—almost hugged Deborah to comfort her—but he caught himself. Such gestures belonged to bygone days when Deborah had loved him as much as he'd adored her. The handprint on her neck was fading from purple to greenish-yellow, yet another reminder of why he shouldn't succumb to her. He thrust the paint-soaked rag into her hand. “Sorry,” he mumbled as he headed for the door.