The Amish Bride of Ice Mountain Read Online Free PDF Page A

like . . . stew, stew, or stew?” He gave her a lopsided grin.
    “I’ve never had a man bring me food. It—seems wrong somehow.”
    “Mary, I’m afraid you’re going to find a lot of things ‘wrong’ or upside down in my world, but that doesn’t mean that they’re really wrong. It’s okay to try new things.”
    “Then I’ll have stew.”
    She was pleased at his answering smile and settled back in the bunk to watch him move about—a man, her husband, making supper for her. It was something worth watching.
     
     
    Jude tried not to remember that the beautiful girl in his bed was his wife. She’d been through a forced marriage, a near rape, and the looming possibility of leaving her home, all in one day. She certainly didn’t need to know that his mind felt pulled in a thousand directions where she was concerned. It wasn’t something he could truly understand himself.
    He supposed that if he were a praying man, today would have been the day for it. But no words would come from inside. He’d studied too much in college not to believe that organized religion was anything but a crutch . . . not that it wasn’t a commendable crutch and not that the Amisch didn’t handle it masterfully, but man would always be what he was with his baser nature at the forefront—like Isaac Mast. Like me.
    He clanged the cast-iron lid of the stew pot and turned over his shoulder to apologize to Mary for the noise, only to find her fast asleep. Against his will, he was drawn to the side of the bunk in the waning light of day. He lit the kerosene lamp on the small, carved bedside table, then sat down on the edge of the bed.
    There was no doubt his little friend of summer was truly a beautiful woman. She looked like a sleeping princess from a fairy tale and he smiled at the thought. He’d seen her shoot small game with a bow and deadly accuracy, making sure the animal did not suffer.
    He suppressed a sigh and thumbed his way across the half-closed fingers of her hand, then peered closer at her palm. He realized with a sudden tearing sensation in his heart that she held a handful of the now-dried herbs and flowers that Grossmuder May had used to bless the bed. It was as if she’d still hoped . . . wanted . . . He shook his head and drew a single rose petal from her palm, then got up from the bed.
    He went to his bookshelf and idly chose Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities . He opened to the first page: “It was the best of times . . .” Then he slid the rose petal carefully between the pages and closed the book. Who knew? It might make a great keepsake, a petal of memory long gone that he could share with his grandchildren. He glanced back to his bed . . . but not her grandchildren. Never hers.

Chapter Four
    She was dreaming .It was hot and her dress weighed heavy upon her. She was in the blueberry patch, seeking cool respite from the day. She recognized the professor coming toward her. He seemed shy but intent somehow. He reached out and caught her hand in his. Then he wet his lips; she bit hers. She’d wanted him to come to her like this for weeks, wanted his blue eyes to be intense and dark, wanted his body to rule where his mind did not. She knew it was sinful, jah , that he’d soon be gone, but then he dipped his head toward her. He placed her hand along his lean hip and rocked his weight forward. It seemed that her blood slowed between heartbeats as he inched closer and then his mouth was on hers, slow at first, then seeking. She put her hand up to the warmth of his throat and lifted her gaze to meet his eyes, only to stare into the sweating, distorted face of Isaac Mast. She screamed and tried to fight from his grasp, but he held her tight and she could not get away.
     
     
    Jude knocked his head on the bottom of the bunk when her scream woke him from a fitful sleep. It was dark in the cabin and he’d been sleeping on the floor. Now he hopped to his feet and felt in desperation for Mary as she struggled on the