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“Wait—Jemima!”
Jemima King turned her head, but it was more out of habit than a real need to identify the voice. She would’ve known the sound of Mark Christner’s voice in her sleep. They had lived next door to each other in the same Lancaster County community for 17 years.
He came running up and then stopped dead in the road. He bent double, caught his breath and laughed.
Jemima turned her eyes down demurely. Mark was always at her elbow these days. There was nothing new about that – they were childhood playmates – but Mark’s reasons were different now.
She stole a glance at him through her lashes.
Mark was no longer the scruffy little boy of her childhood, and that was especially clear on a day like this one, when the sun gave his black hair a silky blue sheen, and made the curve of his cheek look as downy and smooth as a peach.
He was almost as tall as her father now. And his voice was nearly as deep. Jemima pinched in a smile. She would have to be made of stone not to notice that Mark had filled out nicely – especially when he flashed those beautiful white teeth in her direction.
She looked down at her feet. Their relationship was changing fast. The same Mark who had once irritated and teased her was – strangely—becoming more solicitous by the day.
Maybe that was because she had changed, too.
Mark used to tease her about her red hair and green eyes. He had said she looked like an orange cat, and had made her cry.
But just the other day Mark had compared her hair to a maple leaf in the fall, and her eyes to the color of sunshine through leaves.
“I’ll walk you home,” he volunteered, and put a big brown hand out for her books.
Jemima smiled and gave them to him.
“What are you going to do, now that we’ve finished school? What are you going to do on your rumspringa, Mark?” she teased him. “Are you going to dress in English clothes and turn all the girls’ heads?”
He grimaced wryly, and shook his head. “I’d just as soon dress up in a monkey suit,” he said bluntly, and Jemima laughed outright.
“I’m disappointed in you, Mark,” she said mischievously. “I was hoping you’d shock us all!”
Jemima enjoyed his chagrined expression out of her corner of her eye. She really shouldn’t tease him, but it was so tempting. Mark was so easy to tease. No one she knew was more staunchly Amish, or more conservative. Mark reminded her of something big and strong and immovable, like the face of a mountain.
Or, maybe, dormant volcano would be a better description.
Because underneath all that unyielding rock, there was definitely warmth on the inside. She glanced at him affectionately then tilted her head, considering.
Maybe there was even a little lava under that mountain. She had seen one or two things lately that...
“Jemima, slow down!”
Jemima came back to herself. She stopped walking and turned around. Her little sister Deborah had fallen behind again, and was trotting along the dirt road to catch up.
“You... never... wait for me,” Deborah complained, as she huffed along. She finally caught up with them and bent over double, gasping for breath.
Jemima looked at her little sister pityingly. Deborah’s sandy brown hair had worked its way out from under her cap and was flying all around her face like a swarm of gnats.
She couldn’t keep her hands from reaching out to smooth it back again. “Mind your hair, Deborah,” she said softly.
Deborah swatted her hands away irritably. “I know how I look!” she snapped. “Maybe it’s because I had to run! Next time just wait for me, and we can both look good!”
“That’s no way to talk to your sis, Debby,” Mark chided gently.
Deborah said nothing, but shot him a look that said, Oh, shut up as clearly as any words.
Jemima sighed and turned to him. “Never mind her, Mark, she has the temper of a wildcat. I know she doesn’t mean half the things she says.”
“I do, too – I mean every word!” Deborah countered, “Why shouldn’t I, when you leave me behind to flirt with your boyfriends?”
“Debby!” cried Jemima and Mark, together.
“Oh, just forget it,” Deborah fumed, “I’ll walk home by myself. That’s what you two want, anyway!” She hoisted her books up in her arms and stumped off, muttering under her breath.
Jemima shot Mark an apologetic look. “You’ll have to forgive her, Mark,” she explained, “Deborah’s at that awkward stage. I’m sure that once it’s over, she won’t be – mad all the time.”
Mark tilted his head and watched Deborah as she disappeared down the road. “I don’t remember you ever being that –” He cleared his throat and quickly amended, “I mean, I don’t remember that you ever had a... hard time.”
Jemima shook her head. “She’s driving poor Mamm to despair. It’s only a few years until Debby comes of age, and the way she’s treating all the boys she knows, not one of them is going to court with her!”
“Well, at least your Mamm will never have that problem with you.” Mark looked at her with transparent admiration, and she blushed.
They rounded a corner and the King homestead gradually moved into view. It was a large, white, two story house surrounded by several outbuildings, including the blacksmith shop where Jemima’s father worked. Even from that distance, the faint sound of a hammer rang out over the fields.
There was a buggy parked at the front of the house, and Mark’s dark eyebrows moved together. He shaded his eyes with one hand.
“Whose buggy is that?” he frowned.
Jemima looked at him uncomfortably. “It’s probably Samuel Kauffman’s,” she murmured. “He said he’d be coming by this afternoon. His mother is sending Mamm some canning supplies.”
Mark grunted suspiciously, and it was clear that he thought that Samuel Kauffman’s mission was not primarily about preserving fruits and vegetables.
“Well, that sounds about right,” he growled. “Samuel and your mamm are probably trading recipes.”
“Mark!”
