A Groom for Greta. Anna SchmidtЧитать онлайн книгу.
there’s that, of course, but what I mean to say, Greta, is that I can’t marry you—ever.”
“Oh, Josef, is this because you saw me talking to the Hadwells’ cousin last week?”
Josef snorted and transferred his gaze from the ground to the sky, still refusing to look directly at her. “You certainly seemed to be enjoying your time with him.”
“So, you’re jealous.” Relief mixed with irritation flooded her veins. This was not the first time that Josef had been upset with her for what he saw as flirting and she saw as simply being herself. “The Hadwells’ cousin has gone back home to Indiana,” she pointed out.
“There will be others,” Josef muttered.
Greta counted to ten. How many times had she reassured this man over the course of their lives together? How many more times would she have to apologize for being herself? She closed her eyes and prayed for guidance—and patience.
“Well,” she replied with a smile that felt as if it might actually make her face crack, “if that is your decision...” And with a toss of her head she had continued on across the street. She’d been so certain that Josef would come after her. He always did. He would apologize. She would accept his apology and reassure him that he was the one for her and that would be that.
She had almost reached the blacksmith shop before she realized that Josef was not coming after her. Indeed after a moment she heard the jingle of harness and the creak of buggy wheels headed out of town. He had left her. Her step faltered. Her mind had reeled with the possible options of where she might go. She could have gone to the school where Lydia would be preparing lessons for her students for the coming week. She could have gone to the bakery where her half sister, Pleasant, would also be preparing to close up shop for the day, or to Bishop Troyer’s house where his wife, Mildred, would undoubtedly offer her a sympathetic ear and a nice cold glass of lemonade.
That’s when she looked up and saw Luke Starns, the dark mysterious man who had shown up in Celery Fields just a few months earlier, standing at his window. He must have seen and heard everything. In an instant she had retraced her steps, determined to set Luke Starns straight about minding his own business.
But when she had reached the open doorway of Luke’s business, she had caught a glimpse of Josef’s buggy disappearing in a cloud of dust and the full force of what had just happened had hit her like a blow to her stomach. For one horrible instant she could not seem to breathe and her knees had turned to jam. She had grasped the rough door frame for support and barely noticed as a splinter pierced her thumb.
Now as the blacksmith loomed over her—all six feet and more of him—she sucked at her injured thumb and considered her options.
“Do you have a cut?” Luke asked, nodding toward her hand.
Greta instantly ripped her thumb from her mouth and curled her other fingers around it. “No. It’s a splinter—from your doorway,” she added as if he had purposefully left the offending object there to wound her.
“Let me look at it,” he said as he gently took hold of her hand and coaxed her fingers open. Then he held her hand closer to the light of the fire, examined the wound and frowned.
For her part Greta was taken aback at the contrast of her hand—small and very white—resting on his rougher, larger, burnished palm. He reached for a pail of clear water with a tin dipper resting in it and trickled a little of the cooling water over her thumb. Fascinated in spite of her determination to maintain her focus on the larger problems at hand, Greta watched as with surprising dexterity for one with such thick fingers he worked free the splinter.
“There,” he said, and the word came out as if he’d been holding his breath until the deed was done. He released her hand. Filling the dipper with fresh water, he offered it to her. “Drink this.”
She did as he asked, more to buy time than because she was thirsty. She found that the absence of his hand holding hers was troubling—as if she had been deprived of something precious. It was a ridiculous idea of course. She was simply missing the absence of Josef’s touch. This had nothing to do with Luke Starns, nothing at all.
“Denki,” she said, thanking him as she drank the water then handed back the dipper. She waited until he had turned to set the bucket back in its place before adding, “I want to set your mind at ease but first I must know how much you overheard?”
“Bitte?”
“Of the disagreement between Josef and me,” she reminded him. When he said nothing, she added, “We seem to have a lot of those these days.”
Luke remained silent.
“Nerves, I expect—for both of us,” Greta explained, warming to her tale. This earned her a flicker of curiosity from the blacksmith’s deep-set eyes.
“The wedding?” she reminded him. Men. How could they be so incredibly thickheaded about the important events of life?
She glanced toward the street and across the way she saw her half sister, Pleasant, locking up the bakery for the night. Her conversation with Josef had taken place right out in the open where anyone might have seen or heard—not just Luke Starns. Panicked anew at the thought of others witnessing the scene, Greta made a quick inventory of the businesses along the street. Yoder’s Dry Goods where Hilda Yoder was known to keep an eye on everything that might happen in town. But three local women had passed by Josef and Greta as they left the shop. So Hilda would have been busy serving her customers when Josef made his astounding announcement.
The hardware store next door to the blacksmith’s? Roger Hadwell and his wife, Gertrude, were known gossips but neither of them had been in evidence when Josef made his stunning pronouncement. Greta breathed a little easier and decided that she only had to worry about the blacksmith. She studied him for a long moment, trying to decide on her best strategy. Charm had always been her most potent weapon for getting herself out of any tight spot. But would charm work on this man?
Luke Starns was not someone she had had the opportunity to get to know. The truth was that she had kept her distance from him. There was something about him that stirred a shyness in her that simply was not there with anyone else. Perhaps it was his looks. Where most of the men in Celery Fields—as well as the women—were fair with white-blond hair and skin that freckled easily, Luke Starns was dark—his hair was as black as the leather apron he wore to do his work. His skin was deeply tanned as if he spent his days outdoors instead of hunched over a roaring fire hammering bridle bits and horseshoes into shape. And his eyes were set deep under a brow of thick black eyebrows and were the most unexpected shade of blue—like cornflowers, Greta had thought the first time she’d seen him at services.
Of course, from the minute he’d arrived in Celery Fields, every woman in town had begun planning a match for him. Theirs was a small community and that meant that the available number of eligible men for every single female in the town was limited. The preferred candidate for Luke Starns was Greta’s sister, Lydia. But Lydia had dismissed such idle speculation as she had all hints that this man or that might make a good match for her.
“Don’t you want to marry?” Greta had asked.
“Yes, that would be nice. But I will not settle, sister. I’d rather spend my days alone.”
Now Greta shuddered in spite of the oppressive heat of the August day. The very idea that in the face of Josef’s abandonment she might now spend her days alone was beyond her ability to comprehend. How would she survive? What would she do? Lydia had her students who adored her, but Greta—what did she have? Practically her entire life, everyone had simply assumed that one day she would marry Josef, keep house for him in the impressive farmhouse that set on the edge of town, and fill that house with babies.
That had been the plan—until twenty minutes ago.
She felt Luke watching her now. There was not a single reason to think he had any interest in what had happened between Josef and her. Oh, the sin of conceit, she thought as she stood up and pressed her hands over her green cotton skirt—the one