An Amish Man of Ice Mountain

Book 2: Ice Mountain

by Kelly Long

Genres: Christian Historical Romance

Synopsis

A desperate woman finds sanctuary—and the possibility of love—in a little Amish community: “Engaging characters and sweet romance.” —Publishers Weekly
 
Joseph King has good reasons to work an oil rig far from his beloved Ice Mountain . . . and to mind his own business. He hopes to protect his younger brother Edward from worldly influences. And maybe he can finally forget how yielding to temptation forced him to leave home in disgrace. Still, no honorable Amish man would let Priscilla Allen and her four-year-old daughter remain homeless, living out of their car. And how can he not be drawn to the feisty waitress’s bravery and hidden strength?
 
Offering Priscilla a home on Ice Mountain as his wife-in-name-only gives her a place to start again. For Joseph, it’s also an unexpected chance to regain his reputation and standing in the community. But Priscilla’s warmth, caring, and determination to adjust to Amish society are renewing Joseph’s long-buried hope. Now as his guilt and her wrenching secrets threaten the fragile trust growing between them, they will need the riskiest of miracles to put the past to rest—and fulfill a promise only love and renewed faith can bring.
 
“Kelly understands the human heart and writes about it with beauty and resonance.” —Beth Wiseman

Release date: May 1, 2015

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

He worked from dark to dark; four weeks on, two weeks off. The job was exhausting—mentally, physically, and spiritually—but twenty-three-year-old Amisch Joseph King was used to hard living. And he told himself that he was driven by the need to keep his younger bruder, Edward, safe from the world’s influence. If that meant being a roughneck on a gas rig in the middle of nowhere, then so be it.

“I don’t see that you clocked out yet, Aim-ish! You still belong to me for the next three minutes unless you’d like to go back to mucking manure!” The resonating scream of the shift’s “push,” Edmunds, the man who was paid to keep the fellas moving, startled Joseph even though he was inured to the continual yelling. He tried to catch himself on the icy support bar of the metal walkway in the unseasonable sleet. But he lost his footing and his big body went down hard, slamming his right cheekbone into the muddy slush at his superior’s booted feet.

Edmunds and some of the crew nearby roared with echoing laughter as Joseph got up.

“You can add another minute onto my time, Mr. Edmunds,” Joseph said evenly, wiping at his face with the long sleeve of his coveralls and pushing his dark hair back beneath his hard hat. He resisted the urge to glance in Edward’s direction. His bruder would probably be looking as shamed as Joseph should feel, but he’d learned, since coming to the rigs, to let a lot roll off his back. This time it happens to be sleet . . . He edged past Edmunds and the few other men gathered and made his way down the catwalk, looking at gauges, until he reached his younger bruder, who was leaning near a steam heater with a dangerous look of apathy on his twenty-one-year-old face.

“What are you doing?” Joseph snapped. “Straighten up. You know how easy it is to get too comfortable around this equipment. Do you want to get burned?”

“At least I’m not falling on my face,” Edward drawled, half joking, the overhead lights playing on his blue eyes and strands of fair hair. We are complete opposites, Joseph thought with sudden insight. Edward as fair as he was dark, and his brother’s disposition one of carefree living while he . . .

The shift whistle blew, and Joseph frowned, staring out into the dark fields beyond the artificially lit rig. His brother’s insolence didn’t hurt half as much as the discord and loneliness he felt whenever their two weeks off came up. It was too long a drive to go home to Ice Mountain—not that he would ever drive, of course. But he also knew that getting a ride somehow would put him at odds with wanting to come back to the rigs. It was enough, he supposed, that Bishop Umble hadn’t suggested they be shunned for doing such work—yet.

He sighed aloud and couldn’t wait for the luxury of the hot bath and dry clothes that he knew he would get at the Bear Claw Inn, four miles from the work site. Joseph much preferred to spend his time off at the inn rather than the so-called “man camps” that were on the drilling site itself. Even though the man camps had catered food and a laundry, there was too much alcohol about for Joseph and his Amisch upbringing, though it didn’t seem to bother Edward—which was exactly why it bothered Joseph. His younger bruder fell too easily into drinking and playing cards during off time.

Now, they climbed down from the rig and Joseph clambered wearily into the cab of the company truck, pushing aside beer cans and potato chip bags from beneath his feet to make room for Edward beside him. Big Moe, a Texan roughneck, was driving.

“Whoo-ee! You boys stink to high heaven—sweat and wet dog got nuthin’ on you two.”

“Thanks, Moe,” Joseph muttered dryly. He was trying to control the shivering that was part and parcel of twelve hours of standing in the sleet.

“So, y’all been here for two months thereabouts—you ready to go home yet?”

Edward grunted. “I don’t quit.”

Joseph elbowed him, knowing Big Moe was trying to make conversation.

“Ahh, I used to feel like that myself some ’til my girls came along.” Moe smiled. “Now I’d do anything to be home with my wife and daughters, but there don’t seem a better way to make money. Those young’uns go through clothes faster than a weevil through wheat, and it’s my job to take care of them.”

“‘So Gott made a roughneck . . .’” Joseph murmured.

“What’s that, Joe?” the Texan asked, pausing to let another company truck ease out in front of him.

“Ach, nothing. Well, something I read actually—about how God made a roughneck.”

Edward sighed. “You read too much.”

“How’s it go?” Moe asked, interested.

“I can’t remember the whole thing, but it was something like . . . ‘God said, “I need somebody who understands work—work that isn’t pleasant or easy, but is rewarding, who takes pride in what they do, for they know that the work they do will . . . help others”—so God made a roughneck.’”

The truck bumped along and Joseph listened to the sudden silence in the cab until Moe cleared his throat. “That’s right pretty-like. Makes a man feel like he can hang on awhile if he knows God’s behind him. Thanks, Joe.”

Joseph nodded, glancing sideways at his bruder, who appeared to have fallen asleep. Maybe I do read too much . . . He sighed to himself and concentrated on the welcoming bright lights of the inn up ahead.

Mary “Mama” Malizza ran the Bear Claw Inn with a soft heart and an iron hand. She knew how to handle rough men and understood that most of the time, roughness was a necessary guard against homesickness, weariness, and loneliness.

But the beautiful red-haired slip of a girl who stood before her desk now proved as tenacious as the most moody of her male customers, and Mary was uncertain of exactly how to proceed.

“You say you’re twenty-four,” Mary asked again, buying time. The kid looks about seventeen . . . maybe I’m getting old.

“Yes.” The girl’s voice was melodic and soft, maybe too soft for her to be any kind of a waitress at the inn, but there was something about her blue eyes that made Mary think of a proud, starving cat. And besides, she liked gumption when she saw it.

“You got a man?”

There, that made Miss Redhead flinch . . . But Mary had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that she’d touched a painful nerve from the way the girl straightened her shoulders even more.

“No, no—man.”

There was something wry about the way the girl said it that made Mary decide to leave the subject alone.

“Well, I run a clean place, as far as can be, and I won’t harbor no runaways. I ran away when I was about your age and nearly killed my ma, and I won’t—”

“My mother’s already dead.”

“Oh,” Mary said, deflated. “Well . . . we’ll give it a week’s trial and no hard feelings if it don’t work. You can start tonight because I’m shorthanded. But those trays are heavy and the men are hungry, and some might be hungry for a pretty little thing like you. Most ain’t seen so much as a hair of a woman for a long month’s time.”

“I understand,” the girl said, visibly relieved now that the brief interview was over.

Mary thought of something as she looked down at the sketchily filled-out application in front of her. “Hey, you don’t list an address. I don’t have any rooms open for board.”

The girl flushed a bit but lifted her chin. “I wasn’t certain of the last digit of the zip code. I have an apartment down the road, but I moved only this week. I’ll get the information for you tomorrow. Do you mind if I run out to my car for a minute?”

“Sure, but I don’t hold with smoking—from the workers or the men on premises. I got asthma.”

The girl shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t smoke.”

Mary nodded, half-satisfied, then peered again at the application. “I can’t make it out. How’d you spell your name? I need it for your waitress tag.”

“Oh, it’s Priscilla.” The girl gave the appropriate spelling, then slipped out of the office.

Mary shook her head. The kid won’t last a week . . .

Priscilla Allen unlocked the door of the brown station wagon with shaking hands as she tried to hurry in the downpour of sleet.

She worked the finicky lock and gained the front seat, turning around anxiously to search the mounded blankets on the folded-down backseat.

A head popped up suddenly, followed by a gurgle of laughter; Priscilla couldn’t help catching her breath.

“Mommy, did we get it? Did we?”

“Yes, you silly. You scared me half to death.” Priscilla clambered over the seat to check that the blankets were still properly positioned over the back windows of the old car. Then she squirmed closer to the mound and caught her four-year-old daughter, Hollie, in a close hug.

“Are you warm enough?”

Hollie nodded. “Uh-huh. I’ve got three gloves on one hand and three other ones on the other and three pants and four shirts and two coats and two hats. I’m hot!”

“Well, you keep it all on. I’ve got this job and I have to start tonight. So, you settle down out of sight like usual. I’ll be out to check on you as soon as I can.”

“Can you bring me a hamburger? I smelled them and I’m awful hungry.”

Priscilla wet her lips and swallowed. “Yes, I’ll wake you up when it’s ready. I’m so sorry you’re hungry, Hollie.”

The child snuggled closer. “I’m not that hungry, Mommy. Not like that time when we ate frozen peas all by themselves.”

Priscilla tried to smile. “All right. Remember, only Mommy has the key and don’t—”

“Unlock the door! I know,” Hollie declared, the tassel on her topmost hat bouncing.

Priscilla clambered off the seat and carefully got out, looking around with sharp eyes before relocking the door and running back to the inn.

Joseph leaned his head back in the tub with a deep sigh of contentment. Then he frowned as his bruder barged into the bathroom and snatched the last dry towel from the rack.

“Gotta hurry, Joe. I’m going downstairs to play cards with some of the fellas.” Edward splashed water on his face, then dried himself with the towel, tossing it onto the floor.

“Hey!” Joseph yelled as Edward made to head out the door.

“Whaaat?”

“You get paid and then you go and gamble it all away. How exactly are you saving money for you and Sarah?”

Edward flashed him a faintly wicked grin. “I win, Joe.”

Joseph sighed and splashed the warm water against his chest. “Jah, well . . . bring me up some fresh towels. You know we don’t use the phone.”

“Ach, all right.”

“And Edward?”

“What now?”

“Remember your intended.” Joseph kept his voice level.

“Ice Mountain’s a world away, Joe. A world away.”

Joseph listened as the suite door closed with a slam, then started to wash his hair. His bruder’s words tore at his heart because he knew they held a ring of truth . . .

Priscilla hastily changed into the yellow dress Mary provided for her and decided that the garment was plain and suitable. She’d been a bit afraid that it might be something skimpy, but Mary must have meant it when she said that she ran a clean place. She looked in a mirror in the small staff bathroom and pinned on her name tag, then tried to ignore the grumbling of her stomach, which made her think with some weariness of Hollie’s hunger.

A tall man, obviously staff in his yellow shirt and black pants, approached her when she entered the hall. He had an armload of white towels.

“I’m Dan. You the new girl?”

Priscilla nodded, nervous, but knew she had to speak. She needed this job so badly.

“Yes, I am.”

“Look, run these towels up to room seven, will you? I’m supposed to be training you, but I can’t start until I’ve worked out a mess in the kitchen—one of the cooks wants to try some sort of pastry flan for dessert. Flan! For roughnecks!”

Priscilla smiled in spite of herself and took the towels he thrust at her, then she hurried off in the direction he pointed, looking for room seven.

She found the room at the end of a clean, carpeted hallway. A decorative pair of antlers hung on the door beneath the room number. She gave a tentative knock, and was wondering how quickly she might get something from the kitchen to take to Hollie when the door was thrust wide open.

“Edward! Where en der weldt have you . . .”

The tall, dark-haired man stopped abruptly, licking surreptitiously at a drop of water that ran down his chiseled cheek and past his mouth.

Priscilla took in the fact that he was nearly naked, clutching only a hand towel below his lean waist. A snapshot mental image of him seemed to burn behind her eyes. Then he muttered something in a hoarse voice and took a step toward her, snatching the towels from her arm and slamming the door in her face. She stood, stunned, for what felt like a full minute before she came back to the moment and turned to hurry off down the hall.

Still, even as she gained the kitchen floor, she had to blink to get the overwhelming vision of his dripping body out of her mind. Heath never looked like that . . . She shuddered in spite of herself. Like what? the practical part of her snapped back. And some reserved, hidden piece of her that she’d thought long defeated relaxed into the remembrance of the man: his eyes hazel green and deep set, his shoulders broad and strong, his abdomen well-defined, while dark hair ran in an arrow to where he held the towel. She felt herself color hotly. I have a job to do, a hungry child, and here I am—daydreaming. She swallowed and squared her shoulders, banishing the image of the man from her mind as she entered the dining room and scrambled to make herself useful.

Joseph leaned hard against the cold door, pressing his bare back into the wood and clasping and unclasping the towels he’d taken from the woman. He couldn’t stop the waves of shame that ran over him at the fact that he’d stood exposed. No woman has seen me that way since Amanda . . . The name filled his mind with a strange mixture of dread and excitement, and he let his head fall back against the wood, his throat working. I’m still not over it—seven years. Ach, Gott, seven years, and still I’m haunted. Will it never stop? Can it? He drew a deep breath and remembered the scripture promise that “All things are possible with Derr Herr.” And then, for some reason, his breathing leveled off as he recalled the cool purity of the girl’s blue eyes. He was able to relax his stance and move to the business of drying, his thoughts resonating with a strange peace.

“You hire a new waitress here, Dan?” Joseph asked his Englisch friend as his eyes searched the dining room. Joseph had decided that he owed the girl an apology for his abruptness, but he couldn’t seem to locate her.

“Sure did, Joe. But she stepped out to take her break a few seconds ago.”

“Great. Thanks.” Joseph ignored Dan’s quizzical look and made for a side door leading outside.

The sleet had slowed to a lazy, misting fog and Joseph had to search the parking lot carefully before he caught sight of her red hair as she moved through the packed cars under the arc lights.

“Miss?” he called.

She stopped so fast that he realized he’d scared her, which was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Miss, I’m sorry. I mean no harm. I wanted to apologize.”

Was it his imagination or did she seem to nearly wilt with relief? She turned to face him as he came closer, one of her small hands on the hood of a blue Pontiac, the other clutching a small brown bag.

He caught up with her, the car between them. “Miss? I’m Joseph King. You—uh—brought me towels earlier.” He felt his face color but he plunged on. “I wanted to apologize for being rude. I was expecting my bruder and then it was you and . . .” He trailed off when he sensed her anxiousness to be gone. Maybe I should have let well enough alone . . .

“It’s all right.” She spoke quickly, her voice high. “Please forget it.”

“Right,” he agreed. “Okay.” He turned to go because it was so obviously what she wanted him to do. Waves of anger, distaste, or something, practically radiated from her small frame.

He felt a wash of shame again, then forgot it when he couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder and saw the red-haired girl scurrying to a brown station wagon parked toward the back of the full lot. There were blankets covering the back windows of the car, he noticed, and she seemed to look around before unlocking the door. He turned back toward the inn with a shrug when the unmistakable high-pitched shriek of a happy child echoed across the damp lot and left him thinking seriously about what the girl with the towels had to hide in her own life.

Priscilla’s heart beat fast when she climbed into the relative safety of the car. She handed Hollie the bag with the hamburger and fries, thankful for the food, even while she couldn’t get the big man’s words out of her head.

He apologized even though it was my mistake. Heath never said sorry, not once, not for anything, but why should he? The world thinks he’s perfect . . . She shuddered—if only everyone knew the truth. She pushed aside her train of thought and took a single fry from Hollie’s mittened hand. It tasted so good, she knew the faintness of hunger before she rallied.

“I’ve got to go back now, love. Try and go to sleep.”

Hollie chewed with visible contentment. “All right, Mommy, but who was that man you were talking to?”

Priscilla froze. “What man?”

“I peeked out the back window, over the top of the blanket. The big man with the funny black hat and coat.”

“Nobody. And no more peeking.”

“Nobody must be somebody,” Hollie singsonged matter-of-factly.

“Well, he’s not. Now be good.”

Priscilla got out of the car and made her way back to the inn, but first she stopped at the garbage cans outside and lifted one of the lids. She knew the bag she had carried out was still on top because she’d crimped the tie far to the left. Hurriedly, she opened the bag and caught up the piece of toast and scrap of bacon and ate as fast as she could, forcing herself past the nausea that always accompanied such maneuvers. But tomorrow would be better. Three meals . . . She forgot all about the man and went back to her shift.

“You’ve got a fine black eye.” Edward’s voice sounded laconic from where he slouched in the bathroom doorway.

“Danki,” Joseph answered, peering closer into the steamy mirror. He did have some gut bruising around his cheek and eye from his fall on the slippery catwalk the day before, but it was nothing to worry about. “Want to come fishing with me today?”

Edward snorted. “And sit still in this cold? Nee, danki. Me and some of the fellas are going to take the four-wheelers out for a ride up in the mountains.”

Joseph caught his bruder’s eye in the mirror. “Don’t drink and ride those things. And you shouldn’t be riding them anyway.”

“There’s no bishop here.”

“But Gott is here,” Joseph retorted, feeling his temper rise.

“There’s nee distinct mention of four-wheelers in the Bible, Joe. Get with it.”

Joseph turned. “You know as well as I do why we keep to the Ordnung. Why it matters that we be Amisch even when there’s no one to see. Too many of our people were persecuted—tortured, so that we could live.”

Edward gave him a sour smile and adjusted the ball cap he’d taken to wearing. “And that’s what I’m doing, bruder. Living.”

“What about Sarah?” Joseph’s voice was quiet and he knew he’d struck home when Edward flushed.

“Not fair, Joseph. She’s not here. And besides, every day I work is to make money for her and me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m leaving.” Edward spun on his heel and Joseph sighed when the door of the suite slammed.

I’m tired of being the big bruder . . . the rule-keeper . . . the guard. But that’s why I’m here. He viciously pushed away the truth that echoed inside—that there was more to his being away from the community and the mountain than he was willing to admit. He closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke aloud into the silence of the room. “I’m here for Edward and I’m not doing a very gut job of it—and that is why I’m going fishing.”

“I don’t like fishin’.” Hollie’s voice was plaintive.

Priscilla sighed and adjusted the lines. She’d noticed the big, relatively secluded pond near the inn when she’d driven past for the interview and was glad for it today. Mama Malizza had told her not to come in until three, and even with the tips from the previous evening, she had nearly no money. The station wagon’s tank had to be filled. Hollie needed vitamins and milk and so . . . out came the fishing poles. Thankfully, the day was clear and not too cold.

“I don’t like it either,” Priscilla admitted. “But we’re good at it.” She held up the line of six trout and Hollie rolled her eyes.

Priscilla stilled when she heard a rustling in the woods near the pond. She glanced at the station wagon and wondered how fast she could get Hollie there. She was about to abandon the fish and pick up her daughter when a big man broke out from the treeline. He carried a fishing pole and wore a black hat and black coat along with black wool pants. Priscilla released a quick breath. It was the Amisch man from the inn.

H. . .