answer; he didn’t know the answer. And more than this, he realized that if he did enlist, did manage to build a new life, he would have to ask Lena to give up being Amish one day—if she would still have him.
And then her voice softened and she spoke in careful tones. “Adam . . . I will accept it if you say that you no longer want . . . want me. But you know I have seen you act—differently—before. Could— could this be one of those times . . . when you are not quite yourself?”
He flushed with embarrassment. He knew exactly what she spoke of—the flashbacks to something namelessly horrible, the nightmares . . .
“Do you remember the time we were together in the field, and you slept?” she asked.
He remembered all too well . . .
It was high summer, the fields dark green, and patches of violets lay thick upon the ground. They were seated beneath one of the old oaks on her father’s land, having walked far from the house. He had fallen asleep, lulled by the soft comfort of her shoulder, though he always worried about touching her, never wanting to trespass against propriety, even though he wished that he could. Then he began to dream, and the nightmare came in the daylight, and he’d awakened with a low moan. Lena was looking at him, gently wiping the damp hair from his forehead.
He had snapped fully awake then, rolling from her and knocking a stray elbow against her arm. He’d stared at her blankly until he shook himself. “Don’t ever let me do that again,” he’d ground out.
She smiled in confusion as she rubbed her arm. “Do what?”
“Fall asleep.” His eyes scanned the green fields as if searching for something.
“I can stand a few nightmares, Adam. Everybody has them at one time or another.”
He shook his head and stared at her hard. “I mean it, Lena.”
She blew out a breath in frustration. “Well, then, how exactly are we going to sleep togeth—”
She’d broken off, blushing, and he’d shivered, torn between fear and desire.
He looked at her fully, and a deep sadness drew over him. “Together?
As man and wife? I—I do not know.”
He’d crawled closer to her and bent with tenderness to stroke her arm where she rubbed it. “I know I cannot risk hurting you in my sleep, as I did just now.”
“It is nothing,” she choked, and he knew she feared the soberness of his attitude, the strangeness of his behavior.
Now he blinked away the confusing memories and stared at her in the moonlight. “ Nee , Lena. I am sound of mind. I mean what I say.”
She nodded, and he watched her delicate neck bend as if yoked to comprehension. Then she raised her chin and looked him in the eye, and he could not help but admire her spirit.
“I do not understand fully, Adam, but I will accept what you say. Gott is for me . . . and for you. I will pray for you, for I can’t turn off my feelings like damming a spring. But I will go on, and the kinner and I will be well.”
She pulled away from the fence post and brushed past him, her cloak touching his arm and sending tiny sensations of longing through his chest. He turned to watch her go and told himself that he was mad to have spoken to her as he did. But then Gott’s voice came to him, a heart echo of soothing over the tumult in his chest. Faithful servant . All will be well . . . but wait . . . wait .
He had no choice but to hope in the comforting words, though he felt far from anything faithful or good. He heard the farmhouse door snap closed and shut his eyes against the sound as tears pressed and fell at the foot of Mary Yoder’s fresh grave.
Chapter 8
I t grows late.” Ellen Wyse spoke from where she stood near the dining table. Her hand stroked Adam’s pewter plate with nervous fingers.
Joseph turned from his contemplation of the flames in the fireplace and looked at his wife. She was, in truth, a beauty still. He knew he had chosen well in marriage—not that he’d had any instruction in the matter of choosing. His
And then her voice softened and she spoke in careful tones. “Adam . . . I will accept it if you say that you no longer want . . . want me. But you know I have seen you act—differently—before. Could— could this be one of those times . . . when you are not quite yourself?”
He flushed with embarrassment. He knew exactly what she spoke of—the flashbacks to something namelessly horrible, the nightmares . . .
“Do you remember the time we were together in the field, and you slept?” she asked.
He remembered all too well . . .
It was high summer, the fields dark green, and patches of violets lay thick upon the ground. They were seated beneath one of the old oaks on her father’s land, having walked far from the house. He had fallen asleep, lulled by the soft comfort of her shoulder, though he always worried about touching her, never wanting to trespass against propriety, even though he wished that he could. Then he began to dream, and the nightmare came in the daylight, and he’d awakened with a low moan. Lena was looking at him, gently wiping the damp hair from his forehead.
He had snapped fully awake then, rolling from her and knocking a stray elbow against her arm. He’d stared at her blankly until he shook himself. “Don’t ever let me do that again,” he’d ground out.
She smiled in confusion as she rubbed her arm. “Do what?”
“Fall asleep.” His eyes scanned the green fields as if searching for something.
“I can stand a few nightmares, Adam. Everybody has them at one time or another.”
He shook his head and stared at her hard. “I mean it, Lena.”
She blew out a breath in frustration. “Well, then, how exactly are we going to sleep togeth—”
She’d broken off, blushing, and he’d shivered, torn between fear and desire.
He looked at her fully, and a deep sadness drew over him. “Together?
As man and wife? I—I do not know.”
He’d crawled closer to her and bent with tenderness to stroke her arm where she rubbed it. “I know I cannot risk hurting you in my sleep, as I did just now.”
“It is nothing,” she choked, and he knew she feared the soberness of his attitude, the strangeness of his behavior.
Now he blinked away the confusing memories and stared at her in the moonlight. “ Nee , Lena. I am sound of mind. I mean what I say.”
She nodded, and he watched her delicate neck bend as if yoked to comprehension. Then she raised her chin and looked him in the eye, and he could not help but admire her spirit.
“I do not understand fully, Adam, but I will accept what you say. Gott is for me . . . and for you. I will pray for you, for I can’t turn off my feelings like damming a spring. But I will go on, and the kinner and I will be well.”
She pulled away from the fence post and brushed past him, her cloak touching his arm and sending tiny sensations of longing through his chest. He turned to watch her go and told himself that he was mad to have spoken to her as he did. But then Gott’s voice came to him, a heart echo of soothing over the tumult in his chest. Faithful servant . All will be well . . . but wait . . . wait .
He had no choice but to hope in the comforting words, though he felt far from anything faithful or good. He heard the farmhouse door snap closed and shut his eyes against the sound as tears pressed and fell at the foot of Mary Yoder’s fresh grave.
Chapter 8
I t grows late.” Ellen Wyse spoke from where she stood near the dining table. Her hand stroked Adam’s pewter plate with nervous fingers.
Joseph turned from his contemplation of the flames in the fireplace and looked at his wife. She was, in truth, a beauty still. He knew he had chosen well in marriage—not that he’d had any instruction in the matter of choosing. His
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