Zane hid his smile at the title. That was one thing he had picked up in the short time he’d been with the Amish. They liked to use full names. What was it John Paul said about their names? That they used a lot of them over and over until it got so confusing that they used nicknames to differentiate? He’d lay money down that there wasn’t another Zane in all of the district.
“Zane Carson, it seems my boys have not forgotten their sense of humor, but this time it’s been aimed at you.”
A smile flashed across Gideon’s face before the man successfully hid it. “We’re sorry,” he said.
“It was all in fun,” the stern-faced Gabriel added.
Abram braced his hands on his hips. “Fun for who?” The brim of his hat shaded his eyes, but his posture was unmistakable.
John Paul stepped forward. “Don’t get mad at them. It was all my idea.”
Abram’s expression didn’t soften. He looked as stern as ever. “You treat our guest with the respect that he deserves. I’ll not have him goin’ ’round tell tales about unfair treatment in my household.”
John Paul’s shoulders slumped under the weight of his father’s scowl. “It wasn’t supposed to be for long. It’s just once we started our own plowin’ we plumb forgot that we’d—”
“Given him your grossdaadi’s plow?” Abram shook his head in apparent disbelief. “It’s a wonder Zane Carson still has arms for hangin’ at his sides workin’ with that old thing.”
That’s when Zane noticed that the plows pulled by the other men were bigger than the one he’d been behind all morning. A lot bigger. And newer.
“Now say what you’ve come to say.”
Each man in turn shook Zane’s hand and apologized for the part they’d played in the joke. Zane was uncomfortable accepting their words; it was all good-natured ribbing. He supposed he had it coming. He had invaded their world, and they wanted him to know that he didn’t belong. Zane had been through worse. Much worse. For now he’d accept their apologies and would bide his time for the right moment to return the favor.
“Now, Zane Carson, go on up to the house. John Paul here will finish this field with the plow he expected you to use while you drink lemonade with the womenfolk. These boys’ll finish the plowin’. Tomorrow, we plant.”
Zane thought about protesting, but something in the set of Abram’s jaw kept the words at bay. He nodded once toward the four men, then started for the house, a cold drink of something wet filling his thoughts.
The sun beat down on him as he made his way across the freshly turned earth. Zane felt a sense of accomplishment as he stepped over the soil that he had readied with nothing more than steel and the pull of horses. As a child at the cooperative, he’d been called to hoe the garden, pick small vegetables and fruits, like cucumbers and strawberries, and of course, milk the goats, but he’d been too young to realize how satisfying a day’s hard work could be. He’d been too interested in getting to the end of the chore so that he could go fishing or swimming, two of his favorite pastimes as a child.
Funny, but he hadn’t thought about those days in a long, long time. Maybe because so many of his formative years had been lived in Chicago with his uncle. And yet he’d thought about those first years in Oregon with every other breath since he’d arrived in Oklahoma’s Amish country.
With each step fueled by the need to sit, rest, and drink something cool, Zane crossed the bustling yard and bounded onto the porch. As he opened the door, he was immediately assaulted by the smell of vinegar. Zane pulled off his hat as he had seen the other men do, blinked a couple of times for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the rambling farmhouse, and resisted the urge to cover his nose. The stench burned his sinuses with each breath, yet he couldn’t imagine that he smelled much better.