The Amish Midwife's Courtship. Cheryl Williford

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, I might be able to get up.”

      Molly stamped her foot, angrier than she’d been since he’d called her a thief earlier. Why did this man bring out the worst in her? “You scared me. Why didn’t you say something, let me know you weren’t dead? I thought...”

      He leaned up on one elbow. “Did you seriously think I was dead? It would take a lot more than a spill to kill me, Miss Ziegler.”

      She gathered her skirt around her and scooted away, not sure what kind of mood he was in, but stayed close enough, just in case he needed help getting back on his feet.

      His green eyes darted her way and then over to his fallen crutches. “Your mother seemed normal enough when I signed in last night. I wonder if she knows how you treat her guests when she’s not around.”

      “I take offense to that remark, Herr Graber. I in no way harmed you. Well...here in the kitchen I didn’t. I was busy cooking your breakfast, and you fell over your own big feet.” He wore scarred, laced-up boots, the kind bikers favored. Maybe that was how he’d hurt himself. A nasty bike spill, and now he was in pain and taking his misery out on her.

      “You’re right. I did fall over my own feet. That’s what cripples do.” He leaned heavily on a single crutch and pushed his way to his feet, his face contorting with pain.

      “Ach, you’re no cripple,” she said, standing.

      “What would you know about being crippled?”

      He’d crossed the line. Molly lifted her skirt an inch and showed him the built-up shoe on her right foot. “I think I know a lot about being crippled.”

      He flushed, his forehead creased in dismay. He moved to straighten, and groaned.

      A wave of sympathy washed over her. He had to be suffering. She’d almost been a teenager when she’d fallen out of a tree and broke her leg, damaging the growth plate. Her pain had been excruciating, but she got around fine now. He looked pale with pain. No wonder his mood was dark. “Can I help—”

      He lifted his hand to warn her off. “Nee. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself up. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

      He rose and towered over her. He had to be at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a slim waist.

      The smell of burning eggs reached Molly’s nose. She gasped as she turned and saw smoke rising from the overheated frying pan. “Your eggs! Now look what you’ve made me do.” She pulled the pan off the burner and then turned back, ready to do verbal battle with the wretched man.

      Unsteady on his feet, Isaac Graber hobbled across the kitchen floor and stepped out the back door, waving gray smoke out of his face as he shut it behind him with a slam.

       Chapter Two

      A gust of wind accompanied Ulla Ziegler through the back door. She hurried into the kitchen, the folds of her once-clean apron smeared with mud and brimming with a load of gritty brown potatoes and freshly pulled carrots. Fat rain drops spattered against the kitchen window.

      Finishing the last of the breakfast dishes, Molly stopped mid-swipe. To her amazement her stout little mother, who slipped and slid through the door, managed to make it across the room without dropping one potato.

      Molly’s brow rose in agitation. Her mamm’s plain black shoes had left a trail of gooey brown mud across the recently mopped linoleum floor. Naturally her mother made no apologies for the added work.

      Wiping her hands dry, Molly couldn’t help but smirk. The sudden morning shower had turned her mamm’s wooly gray hair into a wild riot of curls around her untidy, limp prayer kapp.

      A natural trader, the older woman was blessed with the gift of bartering and had bragged at breakfast about СКАЧАТЬ