Free An Amish Man of Ice Mountain (The Amish of Ice Mountain Series Book 2) by Kelly Long Page A

leaf, wondering who she was, and she could not help but think that the Amisch themselves would probably do the very same thing.
     
     
    “Who is she again?” Bishop Umble asked between large bites of thick oatmeal.
    Joseph sighed and glanced through the kitchen window out onto the porch where Frau Umble was serving cookies and lemonade to Priscilla and Hollie.
    Joseph turned back to the auld man who’d been the bishop on Ice Mountain since before Joseph was born. Maybe he’s getting hard of hearing . . .
    “Have you read ‘Rime of the Ancient Mariner,’ Joseph?”
    And losing his train of thought as well as the hearing . . . “ Jah . . . the sailor tells his tale over and over and the bird and—”
    Bishop Umble stopped him with a raised, gnarled hand. “Right. Right. But my point is that sometimes a person needs to tell his story more than once to find what he’s looking for in it. So tell me again, who she is . . . and what is it that you look for, young man?”
    Joseph’s head throbbed faintly and his ribs hurt. He wished he’d had the foresight to take one of his pain pills before this meeting with the bishop; the man wanted him to think, and he would rather have been sleeping at the moment. But he hung on to the thread of meaning and tried again.
    “I’m not looking for a wife.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop, and he wondered if the pain was making him strange.
    “Hmm. I asked what you looked for, buwe , not the opposite. Though sometimes it’s easier to start in the other direction.”
    Joseph leaned his head in his hand for a moment. An image came to him and he lifted his head to look into the wise blue eyes opposite him. “Once, when I was about five, I was outside alone in the dead of winter. I put out my tongue to touch the metal runner of my little sled and I was caught, mercilessly. I, by my own doing, had to rip my mouth away in order to free myself. I went in the haus bleeding all over . . .” Now why en der weldt did I think of that?
    “And?” the bishop prompted quietly.
    “And . . . it hurt. I think—I think that’s what Priscilla’s had to do in her own life—rip herself away from everything familiar because she had no choice; she had to free herself—was forced into it even. I’m looking for sanctuary for her, sir. A place to bleed and heal . . . and for the child too.”
    “Then it will be Derr Herr who brings her that healing. Not you, Joseph King.”
    “I know that.”
    The bishop scraped his oatmeal bowl while Joseph held his breath.
    “Well,” the older man said finally, “I must speak to the elders of course, but as for me . . . I give my permission for Priscilla and Hollie Allen to stay. At your sister’s haus . If she will have them . . . if her husband will have them.”
    “ Danki , sir.” Joseph felt a surge of relief, though he was disconcerted at the idea of Priscilla being so close, if Mary would have her. He’d thought maybe one of the widows would . . .
    “Joseph?”
    “Jah, sir?”
    “Pray for Priscilla as she discovers her healing. But I’d like you to keep your intentions in regard to her holy. Remember, a prayer partner. But who knows, Derr Herr might find her a fine Amisch suitor as well in the process. Now, let’s go and talk with her.”
    “Jah . . .” Joseph muttered, suddenly terrified at the idea of being a prayer partner in Priscilla’s life. A prayer partner—a man with a woman? What is wrong with the bishop’s head? And where did the idea of a suitor kumme from? But he had no time to consider further as Bishop Umble opened the front door and the sun caught the bright fall of Priscilla’s hair, making him forget all else.
     
     
    Priscilla gazed with pleasure around the simple living area with its pale blue paint and odd but beautiful drawing of a mermaid on the wall. Her hostess, Joseph’s younger sister, Mary Lyons, stepped lightly into the room despite the rounded curve of her abdomen. The girl was truly