The Amish Midwife's Courtship. Cheryl Williford

* *

      Isaac Graber’s head hurt. He wiped the sticky blood off his fingers with the damp cloth the petite blonde-haired housekeeper had left behind and found himself smiling, something he hadn’t done since the accident and his painful recovery.

      The tiny woman had put him through sheer misery trying to keep up with her rapid-fire conversation. She taxed his patience and his temper, but he couldn’t wait for her to come back into the room.

      With a tug, he threw back the tangled covers and slid out of bed. The same white-hot agony that kept him up most nights stabbed down his leg. Angry red lines of surgical stitching laced up the puckered skin near his left knee and calf, his leg pale where the cast had covered it for several months.

      He struggled to get into a pair of clean but well-worn trousers and a wrinkled long-sleeved cotton shirt he’d pulled from his suitcase, and then put on a fresh pair of socks and his scuffed boots, as he tried to forget the fresh ache in his head.

      He’d taken his last pain medicine in Missouri, weeks before, and now had nothing to dull the ache in his leg or his heart. Not that he deserved the mind-numbing pills that helped him forget what he’d done and the tragedy he had rained down on his best friend’s family.

      Isaac dropped his chin to his chest and forced himself to breath slowly. He shouldn’t have been driving that day, especially since the country road was slick after a sudden hard rain. He had no license. No insurance. Someone else could have taken Thomas home from the multi-church frolic when he’d wrenched his ankle. Why had he offered to drive? It wasn’t like him to break Amish laws, even if Thomas’s ankle was swollen after the rough game of volleyball.

      With his eyes squeezed shut, his mind went back to the horrific day. The memory of Thomas lying on the ground next to him was seared in his mind.

      The first police officer at the scene had assumed Thomas, who was Mennonite, had been driving. In shock and bleeding profusely, Isaac had been too confused to speak. He’d been rushed to the hospital and then into surgery.

      But days later, when his thoughts had cleared, he’d heard the police were blaming the dead-drunk man in the other vehicle for the accident. Isaac knew they were wrong. Surely he was the one at fault and needed to make it right.

      In the hospital, Isaac had confessed everything that day to his daed, but his father had railed at him, “We are Amish and will manage our own problems. You are to ask Gott for forgiveness and then be silent. I will not have the truth known to this community just to make you feel less guilty. Nothing can be gained by your confession. It was Gott’s will that Thomas die. You are to keep all this to yourself, do you hear, Isaac? You must tell no one. The shame you carry is yours, and yours alone. It is Gott’s punishment. You must learn to live with it. Your mamm and I will not be held up to ridicule because of your foolish choices. This kind of shame could kill your mamm. You know her heart is weak.”

      And like the coward he was, he’d run to Pinecraft, desperate to get away from his daed’s angry words, his mother’s looks of shame. Isaac would spend the rest of his life dealing with things he could not change.

      His hands braced against his legs, he looked down at his scuffed brown boots, at the crutch at his feet. He deserved to be crippled. If the police in Pinecraft ever found out the truth, he knew he’d be arrested, thrown into an Englischer jail for the rest of his life.

      He rubbed the taunt muscle cramping in his leg. Gott was right to punish him for his foolish choices.

      He smoothed down his trouser leg, covering the scar. Fatigue overwhelmed him. His guilt robbed him of sleep. He and Thomas had both died that day, but he knew he had to go on living.

      A ridge of stitched skin under the trouser leg sent pain burning into his calf. No more Englischer doctors for him. All they wanted was to make him whole again. He didn’t deserve to be free of pain. The doctors in Missouri should have let him die.

      He’d have to find a way to deal with the ache in his heart, his guilt and the odd way he was forced to walk. Let people stare. He didn’t care anymore. Nothing mattered. Thomas was dead.

      The housemaid came swinging back into the room with a tray of bandages, a bottle of aspirin and bowl of water. A steaming mug of black coffee sat in the middle of her clutter.

      “I thought you might want something for the pain in your head.” She set the tray on the nightstand, ruined his coffee with three packets of sugar and used a plastic spoon to stir it. With the twist of her delicate wrist, she unscrewed the aspirin bottle. “One or two?”

      “None, danke,” he said, and watched her count out two pills and place them on the table next to the coffee mug.

      “Let’s get this injury seen to and then you can have some hot breakfast. I put the biscuits back in the oven to warm. The last of the renters ate their meal at seven, but I’ll make an exception for you this morning.” She squeezed out the white washcloth floating in warm water and approached him, her pale eyebrows low with concentration.

      Their gaze met for seconds. Her whiskey-brown eyes caused the oddest sensation in the pit of his stomach, like butterflies flittering from flower to flower. He frowned and hardened his resolve. The last thing he needed was a woman trying to take care of him.

      “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” She smiled. Her brown eyes sparkled.

      He looked away, concentrating on the colorful braided rug on the floor. Her touch was gentle, the cream she spread with her fingertips cool and soothing. She unwrapped a small butterfly bandage and pressed it down, careful not to touch his cut.

      “There, all done.”

      Tray in hand, she backed toward the door. “Now take your pills and drink your coffee. I’ll see you in the kitchen in ten minutes.”

      “Wait!” He realized he didn’t want her to leave. It had been a long time since he’d had a conversation with anyone, much less a kindhearted woman who made him feel alive. “What’s your name?”

      “Margaret, but everyone calls me Molly,” she said, whirled round, and then was gone.

      The door shut behind her, and he stared at the spot where she’d stood. When she left, all the life seemed to have been sucked out of the tiny room.

      * * *

      Molly leaned against the closed bedroom door and allowed herself to take a deep breath. She exhaled with a whoosh, then hurried back toward the kitchen. No man had ever affected her the way Isaac Graber did. She lifted her hand and watched it tremble. He had flustered her, made her pulse race. She was as happy as a kinner on Christmas morning and had no idea why.

      Ridiculous! A man was already considering her for courtship, not that she was interested in him or ready for marriage to anyone. Still, her future had been mapped out by her mamm, and she really didn’t have any choice in the matter.

      No doubt she’d soon see the flaws in Isaac, like she did most men. She had to be practical. Mamm was counting on her to make a good marriage that would end all their financial problems.

      She hurried through the hall and into the warm, cozy kitchen fragrant with the aroma of hot biscuits and sliced honey ham. At the stove, she turned on the gas, lit a blaze under the old iron frying pan and then added a spoon of reserved bacon fat.

      Her hands still shook as she broke three eggs into a bowl and poured them into the hot oil. Crackling and popping, the eggs fried but were forgotten when the troublesome renter awkwardly maneuvered his way through the kitchen door, lost his balance and tripped over his own feet. He lay sprawled on the worn tile floor. Facedown. Not moving.

      “Herr Graber!” Molly stepped over his crutch and kneeled at his side. The morning headlines flashed through her mind. Man Killed by Abusive Landlady. “Please be all right.” She shook his shoulder.

      Nothing.

      She shook it again, harder this time.

      “If you’d stop trying to break my shoulder,