Joseph squatted next to Buttermilk and nodded. Cream, who had been munching her breakfast, rolled her big brown eyes back to see what he was doing. She let out a low moo.
“What a pretty girl,” he murmured.
Obviously sensing no threat, Cream turned her attention back to her pile of hay as Joseph examined the calf. “Looks like she will have a star.”
Happy to delay her project, Rebekah stuffed the needle and inconsistent pattern into her bag. “All I see is black hair.”
Joseph gestured to a little swirl on the calf’s forehead. Buttermilk kept her velvet eyes trained on him. She exuded innocence.
He rubbed the swirl with his thumb. The baby bovine closed her eyes. “That hair pattern right there.”
“Oh Joseph, it looks like she’s smiling.”
“She is.” His half-grin revealed one dimple. “What a good girl.”
He is in his own little world when he is around animals.
A rush of the tingles swept up Rebekah’s arms as she watched Joseph in his element. It seemed he and the calf communicated in their own wordless language, both supremely comfortable in the company of the other. Even Cream, who had been more than a little crabby since giving birth, stood idly by as Joseph fawned over her baby.
Joseph is special. For so many reasons—
Rebekah interrupted her own thought before they could continue. “What, um, were you saying about the mark?” Her voice cracked.
“Oh, yes. Well, you see here—this swirl?”
Rebekah fumbled with the knot on the end of one of her covering strings. She resisted the urge to stick it in her mouth like she did as a child.
“I’ve seen it once or twice before. Always on cows, never bulls.”
Rebekah smiled down at the calf. “So, she is special then.”
“Very much. The swirl turned white all the times I’ve seen it and looked like a star. Or a cross.”
“Maybe I should have named her Angel.” Rebekah’s voice was a whisper in the sudden serenity of the church-like atmosphere.
“Hallo, Rebekah. Hallo, Joseph.” Samuel strode into the barn with planks of newly shaved wood tucked under his arm. He carried the timber as easily as if he were toting a loaf of bread.
“Hallo, Pa.”
Joseph waved. “Mr. Stoll.”
“You’ve been cutting wood, Pa?”
“Ja, an Englishman is here, needing a wheel for his wagen.”
A sea of uneasiness rolled in Rebekah’s stomach at the mention of the English. Even Joseph stiffened. She rose, her eyes trained on her Pa.
“Pa, an Englishman is here? Now?” She kept her already meek voice at a whisper.
“Ja, the man from Montgomery sent him.”
A long shadow appeared on the ground outside the barn. “Lester at the livery claimed the only place to get quality woodwork done was by a feller out here by the name of Stoll. Samuel Stoll.”
With a jingle, the stranger stepped into the patch of sun framed by the barn’s door. “I’m Peter O’Leary.” His voice was deep and coarse. He towered over Samuel, who stood, grinning, next to him.
The sun glinted off the two tinkling silver stars that stuck off the backs of his boots.
“Hallo,” Rebekah and Joseph said in unison.
She let her eyes roam over the stranger and made no attempt at subtlety. Tufts of straw-colored hair stuck out from under his black hat, which was cocked over one eye in a decent attempt to cover a vertical scar that ran through his eyebrow. His stormy green eyes stared back at her from his stubbly face and revealed no emotion. He neither smiled nor frowned.
“Does your family await your return in Montgomery?” The sudden sound of Joseph’s voice made her jump.
Peter flipped back his duster. Two shining pistols, one held in place on each of his hips by a gleaming black belt, hung there.
“Family?” He spat on the dusty barn floor and shifted his weight, causing the silver stars to clink again. “Ain’t got none waitin’, least not in Montgomery.”
Rebekah cocked an eyebrow before she could help herself.
The manners of the English haven’t improved much since Rumspringa.
Samuel turned and studied his wood planks. “How far will you be going on this wheel?” He ran his hand over his thick, black beard. It looked to Rebekah as though he were doing mental calculations, a subject she hadn’t excelled in during her school years. She would puzzle over a problem six-days a week, only to come up with a supremely absurd answer. Penmanship had been her niche.
Peter brushed at his nose with one finger. “Well, sir, I’m hopin’ to go as far as Philadelphia.”
“Ah, ja. Quite a way, then. The wheel I will build you will carry you to Philadelphia.”
Peter stared at Rebekah as he spoke to Samuel. “When should I return for it?”
Buttermilk bleated from behind them. Joseph, who had hovered at her elbow since Peter’s arrival, turned his attention to the livestock.
“She’s hungry,” Joseph muttered, mostly to himself. He leaned and grasped Cream’s lead rope. “Come on, mama,” he urged the sleepy cow. “Let’s get you up so your baby can eat.”
Peter scratched his nose again. “Mr. Stoll?”
“Hm?” Her pa was already invested in his work on the wheel. Whenever he worked with wood, his mind was so focused that evening could turn to night without him realizing it. “Oh, yes, Peter. Please, make yourself at home. I will have your wheel this afternoon.”
“Much obliged.” He touched the tip of his hat. “Miss, might you be able to show me to the watering hole?”
The weight of his stare was heavy upon her shoulders, but Rebekah managed a slight nod. “Ja. Excuse me a moment.”
Rebekah knelt to gather her quilting supplies. Careful not to look around, she uttered the soft words she knew only Joseph would hear. “Please, komm mit mir.”
Joseph’s whispers, which were probably mistaken by Peter as simply the blowing of the Indiana breeze through the barn loft, answered her. “Of course. I will come with you.”
Rebekah brushed past Peter as she carried her quilting supplies in trembling hands toward the house. Something about the way the strange Englishman looked at her sent a cold drop of fear slivering down her backbone.
After she stowed her kit safely in her quilting room, she allowed herself a quick peek out the window overlooking the yard. There, Peter and Joseph stood without speaking or even looking at one another. The differences between the two men in her yard were like flour and salt. The moon and the sun. The English and the Amish.
