Free A Plain Love Song by Kelly Irvin Page A

because he was mean. He loved her and wanted her to give up worldly ways for the one true God. She clutched the dust cloth and breathed. Time to turn away from this temptation. That was all it was. A temptation.
    “Sing with me.” Jackson’s voice tugged at her. She glanced back. His head was cocked, his gaze hopeful. “It’s just a song. Songs give people pleasure. And they give people like us a way to express stuff we can’t any other way. What’s the harm in that?”
    There was plenty of harm if it took her away from her family and her faith. A man like Jackson wouldn’t understand that. “I can’t.”
    “Come on, come on, you know you want to.”
    She did want to, in the worst way. She wanted to sing and play with Jackson so much it hurt. Her throat ached with the need.
    “I can’t. I have to work.” She edged toward the door, caught her knee on the coffee table, stumbled, and dropped the dust cloth. The tips of her ears hot with embarrassment, she snatched up the cloth and made a final dash to the door like wild hogs were chasing her. “Goodbye.”
    Wild hogs didn’t chase her. Jackson’s voice calling her name did.

Chapter 8
    A dah squeezed out the washcloth and hung it on a hook to dry. Mrs. Hart’s kitchen looked spotless. Finally. Her back ached from slapping the mop back and forth over the tile so hard it was a wonder the handle didn’t break. Better to put all that energy in something useful. The floor shone. Adah knew from experience this would last only a few hours—just until Mr. Hart traipsed into the kitchen looking for a diet Pepsi and tracked dirt and straw all over it. He didn’t seem to understand the concept of wiping his boots on the braided rug sprawled across the doorway that led to the back porch. He wouldn’t even notice the damage he’d done. Or care. She dried her hands, resigning herself to the inevitable annihilation of her work. She’d finished the bedrooms, vacuumed, and dusted the dining room and the study and scoured all three bathrooms. Everything. Time to go.
    Instead her feet carried her down the carpeted hallway, her footsteps silent, to the living room. The whole time she’d been cleaning, she’d expected Jackson to show up and ask for some lemonade or reiterate his offer to teach her to play or ask her what she thought of his song or ask her to sing with him. Nothing.
    Gut. That was gut.
    She paused near the door, listening. The song fluttered in the air around her, Jackson’s voice wandering up and down the low end of the scale in pursuit of the notes.
    I’ve met my match.
    No matter what I do, I can’t catch her.
    I get close, she rears up and lets me have it.
    She doesn’t give one bit.
    No matter what I do, even something completely new,
    she rears up and lets me have it.
    God knows, He sees how hard I try,
    but I guess He knows, I’ve met my match.
    Adah leaned against the wall, clutching the dishtowel to her chest, listening. He was trying to write a song about breaking the horse. Leastways, that was what it sounded like to her. She liked the rhyming and the rhythm of it. It was just a beginning, but he had a piece of something. She liked the chords he’d chosen.
    His voice drifted away and died out. A scratching sound told her he was marking on the paper. She wanted to see what he was writing. Hear what he was thinking. Did the words flow into his head the way they did hers?
    “Whatcha doing, Amish girl?”
    He peeked around the corner. To her chagrin, she jumped and the heat on her face advertised the fact that she was blushing. “I finished cleaning. I’m heading out.”
    “Sure. You were listening to my song.”
    “I…it’s nice. I like it.”
    “Good, ’cause it’s about you.”
    “Is not,” she sputtered. “It’s about the horse, the corral, and breaking the horse.”
    “Sure, it’s about that too.” His grin broadened. “It’s not finished yet. You’ll see.”
    “I have to go.”
    “Promise me one thing and you can