in town.”
“Oh.” She shivered a bit, longing for him to pull her close, but he made no move. Again she reasoned that he must be as distressed as she over her mother’s death. And perhaps he did not know how to share his grief. She curled a tentative hand into his large palm and felt him stiffen. She drew away, hurt and confused.
He cleared his throat. “Lena . . . I must tell you something. I have been thinking of enlisting in the fight.”
The words spilled from him in a rush, and she struggled to make sense of what he’d said. Surely she had misheard.
“What do you mean?” she asked softly, looking up at his profile, chiseled hard in the moonlight.
“The Patriots have need of gut farriers and horsemen. I—I could make money, more than I do from Fater , and build a new life.”
She scrambled to keep up with the strange conversation. “A new life? But our life together has yet to begin, Adam.”
“I meant that I could build a new life for myself, Lena.” His tone was sober, deadly serious, and she put a hand to her heart.
“What are you saying? My mamm died today, and you . . . and you . . .” She broke off, unable to suppress the sob that came from her throat.
He turned to her then, catching her arms in a tight grip. “Lena, listen to me. Your father has never liked me, never trusted me. Maybe he is right—maybe there is something about me, about my life right now, that is not good for you.”
“ Nee , ’tis not true. You’ve never let Father’s opinions affect you before; why should you now? And you are a gut man, Adam . . . a gut and faithful man.”
“Stop!” he snapped, dropping her arms. “I came here to tell you that what we had between us is over.”
“But . . . I have loved you since I was a mere child,” she returned dully, trying to absorb the stabbing hollowness of what he said.
“I know that,” he whispered.
She faced him, stretching to see his expression in the pale light.
“You have . . . fallen in love with another, perhaps?”
He shook his head, his jaw tensing as if her question struck him with physical pain. “ Nee , Lena. ’Tis not that. I simply feel the call to build a life for myself that rings with freedom.”
“And what is more free than the air of the field? Or the turn of a leaf? Or the cry of a babe at dawn?”
He closed his eyes against her words, and for a moment she thought she had reached him through this strange fog. Then he stared down at her once more, the moonlight highlighting the gold intensity of his eyes, and what she saw there, she saw to be truth.
Adam was stricken with pain so deep, he knew he’d rather take a hundred beatings from his father’s hand than do this to Lena. Part of him questioned Mary Yoder. Could she have known that what she asked would hurt her daughter so? It would be so easy, even now, to stretch out his arms and gather Lena to him, to dampen her mouth with kisses and to whisper promises of hope in the shell-like softness of her ear. But he could not . . . not if he meant to keep his word.
He had not intended the break to be so soon nor so profound. He had told himself that he would put it off until Lena had time to recover from her mother’s death. But the reality of her need for someone to watch over her and protect her was a pressing issue, and he knew that marriage would be all too easy a way to dismiss what hope he had given to her mother.
Lena moved slightly, to rest against a nearby fence rail, as if for support. He wanted to tell her the truth, but he could not. Not when he’d discovered that enlisting might help him build a free life the fastest.
“And what of your faith?” she asked in ragged tones, surprising him as always with the way she understood the darkest of his thoughts.
“There are some things worth fighting for,” he said, wondering if it were really true.
“You would give up being Amish? Deny what others endured and were martyred for . . . our way of life?”
He couldn’t
“Oh.” She shivered a bit, longing for him to pull her close, but he made no move. Again she reasoned that he must be as distressed as she over her mother’s death. And perhaps he did not know how to share his grief. She curled a tentative hand into his large palm and felt him stiffen. She drew away, hurt and confused.
He cleared his throat. “Lena . . . I must tell you something. I have been thinking of enlisting in the fight.”
The words spilled from him in a rush, and she struggled to make sense of what he’d said. Surely she had misheard.
“What do you mean?” she asked softly, looking up at his profile, chiseled hard in the moonlight.
“The Patriots have need of gut farriers and horsemen. I—I could make money, more than I do from Fater , and build a new life.”
She scrambled to keep up with the strange conversation. “A new life? But our life together has yet to begin, Adam.”
“I meant that I could build a new life for myself, Lena.” His tone was sober, deadly serious, and she put a hand to her heart.
“What are you saying? My mamm died today, and you . . . and you . . .” She broke off, unable to suppress the sob that came from her throat.
He turned to her then, catching her arms in a tight grip. “Lena, listen to me. Your father has never liked me, never trusted me. Maybe he is right—maybe there is something about me, about my life right now, that is not good for you.”
“ Nee , ’tis not true. You’ve never let Father’s opinions affect you before; why should you now? And you are a gut man, Adam . . . a gut and faithful man.”
“Stop!” he snapped, dropping her arms. “I came here to tell you that what we had between us is over.”
“But . . . I have loved you since I was a mere child,” she returned dully, trying to absorb the stabbing hollowness of what he said.
“I know that,” he whispered.
She faced him, stretching to see his expression in the pale light.
“You have . . . fallen in love with another, perhaps?”
He shook his head, his jaw tensing as if her question struck him with physical pain. “ Nee , Lena. ’Tis not that. I simply feel the call to build a life for myself that rings with freedom.”
“And what is more free than the air of the field? Or the turn of a leaf? Or the cry of a babe at dawn?”
He closed his eyes against her words, and for a moment she thought she had reached him through this strange fog. Then he stared down at her once more, the moonlight highlighting the gold intensity of his eyes, and what she saw there, she saw to be truth.
Adam was stricken with pain so deep, he knew he’d rather take a hundred beatings from his father’s hand than do this to Lena. Part of him questioned Mary Yoder. Could she have known that what she asked would hurt her daughter so? It would be so easy, even now, to stretch out his arms and gather Lena to him, to dampen her mouth with kisses and to whisper promises of hope in the shell-like softness of her ear. But he could not . . . not if he meant to keep his word.
He had not intended the break to be so soon nor so profound. He had told himself that he would put it off until Lena had time to recover from her mother’s death. But the reality of her need for someone to watch over her and protect her was a pressing issue, and he knew that marriage would be all too easy a way to dismiss what hope he had given to her mother.
Lena moved slightly, to rest against a nearby fence rail, as if for support. He wanted to tell her the truth, but he could not. Not when he’d discovered that enlisting might help him build a free life the fastest.
“And what of your faith?” she asked in ragged tones, surprising him as always with the way she understood the darkest of his thoughts.
“There are some things worth fighting for,” he said, wondering if it were really true.
“You would give up being Amish? Deny what others endured and were martyred for . . . our way of life?”
He couldn’t
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