CHAPTER 11
Daniel was too deeply asleep, worn out with grief over Clara’s words, to try to wake from the dream he was having.
An angel with wings like ice stood near his bed, speaking to him. I’m crazy like Da, he heard himself say and the angel laughed, a crystalline sound that penetrated his soul and reverberated like the strike of an ax against a tree.
“No, you’re not crazy . . . merely in love. Deeply in love.”
“What can I do?” he cried out. “She won’t have me.”
“She won’t have herself—the truth of herself and what she really feels. You can’t give up. You cannot. . . .” The icy wings pulsed with rainbow-like colors and Daniel turned in his sleep, breaking the dream.
* * *
Clara settled between the comfortable pile of quilts and crisp sheets with a faint sigh. It was long after midnight, and she and Sarah had put the last touches on restoring the kitchen to order while Edward had gotten the kinner ready for bed.
“Oooh, this is like auld times, isn’t it?” Sarah yawned from her place in the big bed.
“Jah,” Clara said quietly, unable to truly think of much more than the shine of Daniel’s eyes.
“What happened with you and Daniel tonight on the ice?”
“Nothing, really. I told him that I wasn’t interested in—well, pursuing a relationship.”
Sarah gave a delicate groan of frustration. “But, Clara, why?”
Because of Seth and because I’m scared and because . . .
“Because what if there’s another tree?”
“Another tree?” Sarah asked, puzzled.
“Like the one that killed Seth. Another tree or an illness or an accident, then what?”
“Clara.” Her sister’s voice was gentle. “You can’t live and be afraid constantly. Loving someone is always a risk, and there’s the potential for pain, yes. But love is worth it.”
“I—I don’t know that.”
Sarah cuddled closer to give her a hug. “But you will, sweet sister. You will.”
* * *
“Gott says, ‘Behold, I make all things new.’ ”
Daniel tried to focus as Bishop Umble expounded upon the message the following morning. In truth, though, it was difficult to do anything more than think of Clara, who was sitting with the other widows somewhere behind him.
Bishop Umble’s voice carried across the expanse of the Troyers’ snug barn and Daniel felt himself caught by the wise auld man’s words.
“How does Gott make something new out of something old? Or unwanted? Or unloved?”
Unbidden, Daniel found himself having to blink back tears. How I wish I could take back that hasty proposal of two years ago and spend the time wooing her . . . . Why didn’t I think? But maybe, Gott can even make that time new again. . . . Give me a second chance. . . .
“Gott is the Gott of second chances,” Bishop Umble said. “He takes what we think is a mess in our lives and cleans it up—makes it new. Remember that today.”
Daniel closed his eyes and prayed, longing for the truth of Gott’s newness in both his and Clara’s lives.
* * *
She’d been married in the spring on Ice Mountain—surely one of the busiest and most beautiful times of the year. But Seth had persuaded the bishop, and Sarah had helped her to make up her dress—a vivid royal blue. A welter of pink apple blossoms had fallen on the ground as she’d walked to the Kauffmans’ barn. It was strange, how Daniel stood as Seth’s attendant, yet she couldn’t remember him at all—only Seth’s dear, sweet face and the new warmth of the day....
A blast of cold air broke into her thoughts as the barn doors were slid open, signaling that church was over. She rose and found Daniel staring at her across the expanse of backless benches and bustling people. She stared back, feeling mesmerized, then Sarah touched her arm.
“Clara, are you ready?” her sister asked.
“Jah, sure.”
“Edward will take you back up the mountain after dinner.”
“Excuse me, Sarah—I couldn’t help overhearing. If you don’t mind, I’ll see Clara home,” Daniel said in a brisk tone.
Clara turned ’round to stare up at him.
“Ach, that will be great.”
Clara felt her sister’s unladylike poke and frowned. “I suppose,” she muttered.
Daniel smiled. “It’ll be my pleasure.”
* * *
That afternoon, Daniel blinked in the snow glare and pulled the brim of his hat down a bit further. He had to glance over Blinks’s head to get a look at Clara, and her beautiful mouth appeared set as it usually was. Unless she’s kissing me, then her lips are soft and wet and . . . He drew himself up sharply; he needed to focus on talking with her.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he began.
“And . . . ?” she asked in a stiff little voice.
“It’s simple, really. If I win the cookie bake off, then you have to agree to court with me.”
She sniffed delicately. “But you won’t win.”
“Ach, but there are always miracles at Christmastime.” He grinned, admiring her pluck.
“And when I win?” she asked after a moment.
“Then I agree to leave you to your baking and goat and cabin and never bother your—uh—person again.”
“Done,” she snapped.
“You want to shake on that?”
“Nee.”
“All right,” he agreed. “A man, er, a woman’s word is her bond.”
They arrived at the little cabin, which somehow looked a bit forlorn, and his heart ached at leaving her there all alone except for a goat as company. But he knew that she’d push him away if he pressed to stay for a while. So, he merely offered his hand and helped her to the door. Then he unlatched the wood and peered around inside, satisfying himself that all was safe.
“Gut day then, Clara Loftus. I guess I’ll see you at the bake off. Would you care for a ride that evening?”
He was sure she’d refuse, but then she nodded slowly. “Jah, but only so you can know you’re riding with the winner.”
“I’ll take my chances on that. Until later, sweet Clara.”
He stepped out to the sled, feeling that things were pretty much all right with the world for once.
* * *
When he’d gone, Clara lit the woodstove and set about fiercely cleaning the little cabin, even though she knew she was breaking the Sabbath by working so heartily on a Sunday. But she didn’t want to have time to think. And, when all was in perfect neatness, she drew down her recipe box and began to study its contents with grim intensity, knowing she had a bake off to win—even if it would break her heart.