Free The Amish Heart of Ice Mountain by Kelly Long

written and the appearance of the helicopter and . . .
    â€œDo you know, I believe I saw some more mint up ahead and off to the left of the trail—right by the stand of laurel.” He gave her a benign smile and she stared after him for a moment as he moved past her and began to whistle once more. Then she shrugged and made her way to the mountain laurel, looking carefully for the additional mint.
    She searched for the plant but didn’t see a trace of it. “He must have been mistaken,” she muttered and started to back out of the bushes when the distinct sound of a man’s singing made her freeze to the spot.

    â€œAlas my love, you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously;
And I have loved you oh so long
Delighting in your company . . .”

    There was no mistaking the rich timbre of the voice, though she’d only heard him sing church hymns. But the choice of his song today had little to do with community meetings and the words irked her. She pushed through the laurel, not yet wanting to reveal herself.
    Then she saw the still and the Mason jar in his big hand. She stumbled over a root, nearly dropping her basket, but managed to keep on her feet as she walked into the small clearing. The singing stopped.
    He stared at her as if she was an apparition. She put a hand up to straighten her kapp , then jerked her fingers down again . How can he make me feel self-conscious, like I’m intruding on some intimacy in his life, when he’s the one who’s doing wrong?
    She bit her lip as he continued to stare at her and it hit her hard . . . because I am intruding. He loves to drink . . . alcohol is the thing he lets in the closest . . . not me. The thought filled her with anger and fury and she stamped a small foot in frustration. “Why are you doing this?” she demanded.
    He shrugged and gave her a surly half smile. “Since when has the location of my still become a public stopping point?”
    â€œThe bishop told me there was some mint here and . . .” She trailed off. Had Bishop Umble seen the still? Surely not, because Edward continued to drink.
    He raised the jar to his mouth and took a long swig. She advanced three steps closer to him, longing to knock the liquid from his hand. But there was something powerful and dangerous about him sitting there, something that made her want to both touch him and run away.
    He got to his feet with easy grace, and she noted that his white shirt had pulled loose from one side of his waistband. He looked like what he was—dissolute and rakish—and yet, Gott help her, she wanted him with her body and heart.
    She decided to back away when he lazily stepped toward her, but his laughter halted her steps and she felt herself press back against a giant tree. She clutched her gathering basket almost defensively in front of her and waited while loud heartbeats echoed in her ears to see what he’d do next.
    He moved across the forest floor until he stood before her, the jar in one hand while he reached out with his other to casually run his fingertips down the curve of her left breast. She caught her breath and pressed harder against the tree, thankful for its steadiness.
    â€œYou always wear gray,” he mused, continuing the slow exploration of her breast until she shivered as he brushed the tight centered bud. “Why?”
    She shook her head, her words feeling thick and caught at the back of her throat. “I—I don’t know.”
    â€œBecause you want to hide, to blend in, to be the perfect, unseen Amisch woman. . . .” He took another swallow from the jar and leaned near enough so that his breath brushed her cheek and she could almost taste the smell of the alcohol on him.
    She sucked in a staggered breath when he shifted the jar and transferred his attentions to her right breast. “I—I don’t want to be perfect.”
    Something changed in the lines of his handsome face at her words and he