The Beekeeper's Son (The Amish of Bee County Book 1) by Kelly Irvin Page B

patch of dark sweat on the back of his faded blue shirt, her aching hands cupped in front of her.
    “Come on, don’t be shy!” He opened the back screen door and went in, not bothering to hold it open for her. “You can pour us some water from the pitcher on the counter and I’ll find the ointment. I’ve got it in here somewhere.”
    Finding it might prove to be a challenge. Abigail stopped inside the door, her fingers over her mouth. She wanted to pinch her nose to keep the stench at bay. The kitchen smelled of old coffee grounds, rotting cantaloupe rinds, and rancid grease.
    Dirty dishes covered the counter. A skillet filled with dirty cooking oil sat on the stove. An overflowing bag of trash drooped by the prep table. “It’s in here somewhere.” Stephen rummaged in a cabinet, his back to her. He turned and held up a tube. “Found it!”
    His triumph faded after a second. His gaze roamed the room as if following hers. “I told you it needs a woman’s touch.”
    “You did.” Her voice sounded weak in her ears.
    “The sooner the better, I reckon.”
    Abigail managed a nod.
    The sooner the better, or the cockroaches would carry the place away.

SEVEN
    Dear Josie,
    I know this is my fourth letter in two weeks, but you said you wanted to know everything that happens to me. It’s like living in the wilderness. We picked grapes yesterday and I got stung by a bee. I know we had bees back home, but here they raise them and sell the honey. It was the first time I saw the beekeeper’s son again, and he was mad at me because we raised a ruckus with our singing. We were just trying to make the work lighter. Like you and I did when we washed laundry or did the dishes. Phineas King wouldn’t know fun if it bit him on the nose.
    Deborah lifted her pencil and sighed. That was mean. The accident had wrecked Phineas’s nose. Yesterday he had been minding his own business, working hard, and they’d stirred up the bees. She touched the swollen red spot on her finger. It hurt. Still, no need for Phineas to get so snippy with Frannie and her. They didn’t do it on purpose. Frannie was right. Phineas was a sourpuss.
    So why did she feel so funny about the way he’d looked at herbefore taking her hand? His touch had been delicate, his expression tentative. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her. She shoved away the thought. He had hurt her. With his snippy attitude. Wiggling on the hard wood of the step that led to Onkel John’s back door, she bit on the end of her stubby pencil, the taste of paint and wood and lead bitter on the tip of her tongue. Enough thinking about Phineas.
    It’s the same every day. Get up, help cook breakfast, clean the kitchen, work in the garden or do laundry, make the lunch, sew and mend, clean the house, fix supper, go to bed. I guess it’s not so different from back home in that respect, but it always seemed so much more fun when we did it as friends. And we had the singings and frolics and fishing and wading in the pond. Here there’re hardly enough of us to have a singing or a frolic, and they haven’t any creeks that have water in them. It’s dry as bone here. Drier. Dry as sawdust. Dry as ashes. The grass is brown and crispy like straw and the trees are dwarfs.
    I wish you could see what I see. I know what’s on the outside means nothing and we shouldn’t draw attention to ourselves by being fancy. But does that mean we leave junk lying on the ground and let the paint peel off our houses? I wish I could ask the bishop that question. Jonas knows about these things. Gott knew what He was doing when Jonas drew the lot. Maybe you can ask him for me.
    That sounds silly, doesn’t it, like Gott doesn’t always know what He’s doing?
    Deborah raised her pencil, her cheeks suddenly hot, even though she was alone with her words. She should erase that lastpart. She stuck the pencil out and studied it. Only a nub remained of the pink end. Not enough eraser to get rid of her words. Besides, she hadn’t