the farm.” He scowled and I suddenly felt sorry for him. He was too young to have to work all the time.
I was miffed and without thinking I blurted out, “Do you like being Amish?”
He sighed, scanning the trail ahead, brooding over my question for an amount of time that I was becoming uncomfortable with, when he finally answered, “Yes, I like being Amish—for the most part.” He glanced over at me with a slight tilt to his mouth and then continued, “I enjoy the simple way of life we have, the sense of community and the closeness of our families.”
After considering what he said for a minute, I asked with astonishment, “But don’t you want to be able to drive a car or watch TV?”
He laughed at that, shooting me a look of amusement. “Do you think those things are so important?” His grin spread into a full-blown smile. “I can get to most places I want to go in my buggy, and if I need to go farther away, I hire a driver. And you know…there are more enjoyable things to do at night besides watch TV.”
He eyed me speculatively. When comprehension dawned on me, my eyes widened and a blush heated my face, causing him to chuckle.
Okay, I wasn’t even going there, so instead I swallowed my embarrassment and asked him, “What’s your horse’s name.”
He laughed again, obviously entertained by my squirming discomfort at the last topic of conversation. While his tanned face attempted to be serious, he patted the horse’s neck and said, “This is Rumor.”
“That’s a cool name,” I said, looking closer at the gelding beside me, glad for the distraction.
“You’re probably right. I don’t think Rumor could have beaten your horse,” he said complacently, as if the fact didn’t bother him in the least.
“Yeah, but I bet Rumor’s got a lot more sense than Lady here,” I pointed out as I ran my fingers through her long mane.
“Why do you say that?” he asked with curious eyes.
“Well, she’s usually pretty spooky about things. You know, freaking out at mailboxes, the wind, even birds.”
After running his eyes over her again, he commented, “She’s doing fine now.”
“Probably because she has a big, strong gelding like Rumor to protect her,” I joked with a little laugh.
Noah just nodded his head, a whisper of a smile playing on his lips.
The path narrowed. Really more suited for single-file riding, but we continued side by side, with our knees now rubbing, and with each touch a jolt of hot energy coursed through me. I wondered if he was feeling it, too. I glanced over at him and he was looking straight ahead, focused on some imaginary object in the distance.
We were moving between two fields of corn, and the stalks were beginning to press in on us, being as tall as the horses. I became aware that we were very much alone, sheltered and hidden from the rest of the world. And that realization sent my heart thumping unnaturally hard. Loud enough that I feared he’d be able to hear it. He was definitely close enough to hear it, at a proximity that I was sure his parents wouldn’t have approved of. Close enough to kiss even—with a little stretching. I dismissed that thought quickly and twisted in the saddle to stare at the corn plants, feeling the still, warm air that was emitting from them.
After a few minutes of silence, the only sound coming from the horses’ breathing and hooves touching the ground, out of the blue he asked, “Do you really like to dance?” His voice was different, raspier than before. That was random. Turning back to him, I saw conflict on his face.
“I love to dance. I do both ballet and jazz, but it’s going to be difficult now.”
“Why?” he probed.
“Well, for one thing, my dance company is in Cincinnati, and that means I’ll have a two-hour-long drive each way if I continue, which would be near impossible with my dad’s schedule at the hospital. And there aren’t any studios of the caliber that I’m at around here,” I said, spreading my arms wide at the stalks around us.
Just saying the words out loud dampened my mood—how I’d miss dancing.
“What do you wear when you dance?” he asked with a scary intensity, his eyes never leaving my face.
With that question, I was starting to get the gist of his troubled look, but I decided to answer honestly anyway. “I wear leotards, stretch shorts and tights to practice in and dance costumes for the performances.” I looked right at him, daring him to say something bad about it.
“Are you comfortable being in front of all those people with so few clothes on?” He asked it in a guarded way, as if he was trying to be as polite as possible.
With a soft laugh, I said, “Everything important is covered up, and yes, I’m very comfortable with it. I’ve always been a bit of an extrovert, and dance is a form of artistry, Noah. People aren’t looking at my body. They’re watching me dance.”
“Yeah, I bet they are,” he said sarcastically.
I squeezed my lips together tightly, trying to control the anger that was rising in me. With a small breath and an attempt to keep the sound of my voice level, I said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did you know that the Amish don’t dance?” When I lifted my eyebrows at his interruption, he continued, “The elders believe dancing is very sensual and that it gives young people ideas about…things.” He waited for my reply with his eyes slightly narrowed, obviously expecting an argument.
I was going to control myself, though. I’d already decided hours ago that I wasn’t going to be too judgmental about his way of life. It would be hard, though.
“Well, that’s too bad for you all. Dancing is wonderful. It’s a way to express myself and be athletic. And the music…” After a pause, I added, “The music really is the heart of it all. Is it true you don’t listen to any music?”
“We’re not supposed to, but sometimes we do.” He shrugged. “Usually when we ride in a car, we listen to what the English driver has on the radio.”
Our legs were still rubbing as we walked down the lane, and the bothersome fluttering in my stomach and beating of my heart were causing my brain to turn to mush under the physical bombardment. But still I managed to find the brain function to know that I didn’t comprehend the last part of what he’d said.
Confused, I asked, “What do you mean English?”
With a quick glance back at me, as if he was disclosing an embarrassing secret, he said in an even tone, “Just not Amish.”
“You mean that I’m considered English to you?” I asked, incredulous.
“Yep—it doesn’t matter where you’re from or what color your skin is. If you’re not Amish, you’re English.” He said it with a surety that I found slightly disturbing.
Looking squarely back at him, I sighed. “Now, let me get this straight. You don’t dance and you aren’t allowed to listen to music, but sometimes you do, and the entire population on the earth is English to you?”
“That’s
