by Marta Perry
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Her Amish Child
by Lenora Worth
Chapter One
The gloaming sparkled in a brilliant gold-washed shimmer that covered the sloping valley and glistened through the trees.
Raesha Bawell took a moment to stare out at the end of the day, a sweet Friday in late summer, and sighed with contentment.
It had taken her a long time to reach such contentment.
Even now, with the soft breath of fall hinting in the wind, she still missed her husband, Aaron. Her heart twitched as if it had been pierced but the piercing was now dull and swift.
She’d had to watch him die. How could a woman ever get over that kind of torment? Cancer, the doctors at the big clinic had told them. Too late for surgery or treatments.
Too late for children and laughter, for growing old together, for taking long walks on nights such as this.
Too late.
But never too late to remember joy. She sometimes felt guilty when joy came to her, but tonight she studied the trees and the big creek that moved through the heart of this community. Tonight, she thanked the Lord that she had her mother-in-law, Naomi, to guide her and keep her grounded.
Naomi had been a widow for several years so she knew the pain of losing a dear loved one. Knew it well since she’d also lost two infants at birth. Aaron had been her pride and joy.
But now, Naomi and Raesha had each other.
They worked side by side each day, but Raesha spent a lot of time in the long rectangular building around back of the main house. The Bawell Hat Shop had become more than just hats. They quilted and sewed, canned and cooked, laughed and giggled, and held frolics for their friends almost every month. They had loyal customers, both Amish and Englisch. They’d taken to making not only men’s hats, both felt and straw, and bonnets for Amish women and girls, but Easter hats and frilly scarves and caps for tourists, too.
“You don’t need to stay here with me,” Naomi always said. “You are young and full of life. You should get married again.”
“I am content,” Raesha would always reply.
“You could go back and be with your family. I’m sure they miss you.”
“My family is two hours away and they have other children and grandchildren,” she always replied. “They know my place is here with you.”
Her siblings often came for visits and to see if she wanted to return two counties away and start over there. She did not.
Now as she watched the sunset and thought about the beautiful wedding bonnet she’d made for a young neighbor who was about to become a bride, she knew she was content.
And yet, she still longed for a husband and a family.
Raesha turned to go inside and start supper, prayers for comfort foremost in her mind. She had nothing to complain about. The Bawells had built a fine house that kept growing since her in-laws always welcomed nieces and nephews and friends. People had moved in and out of their lives, filling the void after they’d lost two children. The house and outbuildings were neat and symmetrical, steady and solid. From the red big barn that held livestock and equipment to the grossdaddi haus beyond the main structure to the big shop that covered the length of the western side of the house to allow for parking, the Bawell place was a showpiece but in a plain, simple way. She and Naomi had a lot of help keeping up this place. Raesha never wanted to live anywhere else.
Turning to go and assist Naomi with lighting the lamps and warming dinner, she heard something round on the other end of the long porch, near the front door. A sound like a kitten meowing.
Listening, Raesha moved across the wraparound porch and turned the corner toward the front of the huge house. Had a stray come looking for milk?
The cry came again. And again. Soon soft wails echoed out over the fields and trees.
Then she saw the basket.
And a little pink foot kicking out in frustration.
Raesha gasped and put a hand to her mouth.
A bobbeli?
Raesha fell down beside the big, worn basket and saw the pink blankets inside. Covered in those blankets and wearing a tiny pink hat stitched with darker pink roses lay a baby.
“Sis en Maedel.” A girl.
A very upset and wailing baby girl.
Grabbing up the basket, Raesha spoke softly to the baby. “Shh, now. Let’s get you inside and see what we have to feed you.”
What did they have? Goat’s milk. Cow’s milk, but no mother’s milk. What was she to do? Naomi would know.
Telling herself to stay calm, Raesha lifted up a prayer for help. Then she glanced around, searching for whoever might have left the babe at her door.
But the sunset had changed to dusk and all she saw was the last shifting shadows of the day as darkness settled over the field and valleys of Campton Creek.
Who had abandoned this child?
* * *
Please take care of my little girl. I’m sorry but I am not able to do so at this time. Her name is Dinah and I was once Amish.
Naomi squinted down at the kicking baby and then laid the note they’d found inside the basket on the kitchen counter. “I’m verhuddelt.”
“I’m confused, too,” Raesha replied as she changed the little girl’s soiled clothing, glad they had a few baby gowns and such stocked in the shop and some leftover clothing from the comings and goings of relatives. Thankfully, she had found a supply of commercial formula inside the basket, along with a few disposable diapers and some clothing.
They’d warmed a few ounces of the formula and fed it to her after sterilizing a glass baby bottle Naomi had found in the pantry, hoping that would quiet her until they could figure a proper diet.
“Who would abandon a baby?” Raesha asked in between cooing and talking to the tiny infant. “Such a poignant plea in that note.”
“And who would leave the babe with us?” Naomi replied, her once-blue eyes now blighted with old age, her face wrinkled but beautiful still. “Do you think she could belong to a relative? We have sheltered so many here.”
“I do not know,” Raesha replied, her heart already in love with the darling little girl. “She did say she was once Amish. Does that mean she is never coming back?”
Naomi did a thorough once-over of the kicking baby. “The note gave that indication. But this child doesn’t look like any of our relatives.”
The child had bright hazel eyes and chestnut curls. Raesha checked her over, too. “She looks to be around three or four months, ja?”
“’Spect so,” Naomi said, a soft smile on her face. “She is pretty. Seems healthy and she did come with a few supplies, but I still cannot understand.”
“God’s will,” Raesha said, thinking they could easily take care of this bobbeli.
“Or someone’s free will,” Naomi replied, her eyes full of concern. “We need to report this to the bishop.”
“First thing tomorrow,” Raesha said, her heart already breaking.
Of course, they’d keep the baby within the community if she’d truly come from an Amish mother. The Amish did not always bring in Englisch authorities for such things. Someone had left her here for a reason, though. It would be a shame to let this precious child go back out there to someone who didn’t want her or to strangers who might not treat her kindly.
“I think her mamm left her with us because she wants her to be raised Amish.”
&nb
sp; “We will pray on this and do what we must in the morning,” Naomi said, her tone calm and firm. “For now, little Dinah, you are safe.”
Raesha nodded. “Ja, you are right. I worry about the mother but we will pray for her, too.” She smiled down at the pretty little girl. “Your mamm might come back one day.”
Naomi patted her hand and then Raesha finished bathing and dressing the baby. Soon after she gave little Dinah the rest of the bottle of formula, the child calmed, her eyes drooping in a drowsy dance, the long lashes fluttering like tiny butterfly wings.
“I’ll sit with her,” Raesha said. “Once she’s asleep, I’ll take the basket into my room in case she wakes.”
“I’ll heat up the stew we had left from yesterday,” Naomi replied. “You’ll need nourishment.”
“What will we do if someone comes for her?” Raesha asked, her heart clenching, her mind whirling with images she couldn’t hold.
Naomi laughed. “We’ve had a lot of experience in dealing with children, ’member? Some would say we are akin to the foster parents who do the same in the Englisch world. Maybe that will work in our favor, ja?”
Raesha’s heart filled with a new hope. They did have experience and the Amish way was different from the Englisch way. Maybe they could keep this little one a few days longer. Or weeks even. But if the mother gained remorse and returned, they’d have no choice but to let her take the baby. If she would be capable, of course.
“We could have helped the woman if she’d only asked,” she said.
“We will do what we can for this one,” Naomi said, always relying on the Lord for her strength.
It would be hard to let this precious one go but Raesha knew it was out of her hands. God would give them the answers they needed.
And she’d have to accept that and stay content.
* * *
Two days later, Josiah Fisher stared into the early morning sun and wished he could turn back time. But time wasn’t his to hold or change. All things in God’s time.
He had work to do. He’d arrived in Campton Creek late last night and found a room at a nearby inn but he had checked out early to come here. Now he stood surveying the homestead his family still owned. It was his land now and he planned to fix it up to either stay here and work the land or sell it and go back to Ohio. Most likely the last choice.
Unless...he could find his missing sister. He hoped he’d hear soon from the private investigator he’d hired. He had told the man he was returning to Campton Creek.
Now he wondered if that decision had been wise, but Josie had been seen in this area. And it was time to face his past.
The neglected property looked sad and forlorn next to the big Bawell acreage just across the small shallow stream that trickled down from the big creek. He’d have to survey the burned-out barn and decide how to renovate it and the part of the main house that had also caught fire, but first he needed to alert the neighbors and introduce himself. Two women living alone would wonder who he was and what was going on.
Besides, he hoped to bargain with them about possibly renting some of their equipment. The Amish innkeepers had told him two widows lived on the big place and rented out equipment and such to bring in funding. Josiah counted that tidbit as a blessing.
Turning away from the memories of how his parents had perished in the barn fire that had jumped to the main house, he was glad the local volunteer fire department had managed to save most of the house.
But not the barn. His father had run in to save the animals and his mother had run inside to save her husband.
Or so that was the story he’d heard.
He walked the perimeters of the gutted, jagged building, amazed to see the pink running roses his mother had loved still growing against what was left of the barn.
Placing his hat firmly back on his shaggy hair, Josiah hurried toward the small wooden bridge someone had built over the meandering stream and crossed the pasture toward the Bawell house. Taking in deep breaths of the crisp early autumn air, he hoped coming back to Campton Creek had been the right thing to do. He wanted to start fresh, but he couldn’t do that in the place where he and his sister had been born and raised. Better to fix the place up and sell it so he could finally be free.
Soon he was on the big wraparound porch, the carpenter in him admiring this fine house. He knocked firmly on the solid oak door and waited.
And then he heard the sound of a baby crying.
Was one of the widows a mother?
The door opened and an older woman dressed in brown and wearing a white apron, her kapp pinned precisely over her gray hair, nodded to him. “Gut day. The shop isn’t open yet. If you’d like to wait around by the door—”
“Hello, ma’am,” he said, nodding back. “I’m your new neighbor over at the Fisher place. Josiah Fisher. I’m just letting you know I’ll be around doing some work and I also...”
He stopped when another woman appeared at the door, holding a baby.
Josiah took in the woman. Pretty and fresh-faced, she had gray eyes full of questions and hair that shined a rich golden brown. She wore a light blue dress with a crisp white apron. His gaze moved from her to the baby. The child’s eyes were open and she seemed to be smiling.
Josiah stepped back, shock and joy piercing his soul. “Is that your child?”
The young woman looked confused and frightened. Giving the older woman a long stare, she finally came back to him. “Neh, she is not my child.”
“Why do you ask?” the older woman said, her shrewd gaze moving over Josiah.
He didn’t want to scare the women but he had to know.
“Her bonnet,” he said, emotion welling in his throat. “My younger sister, Josie, had a bonnet like that one. Our mamm knitted it special for her but never let her wear it much—not plain enough for our daed.”
He gave the baby another glance that brought on an uncomfortable silence. “I don’t mean to stare, but she looks like my sister, same hair color and same eyes.”
The woman holding the baby took a step back, something akin to fear and dread in her eyes.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Josiah said. “It’s just that my sister...has been missing for a while now and I’d gotten information that she could be in this area. Seeing the bobbeli wearing that little bonnet brought back memories.”
The old woman opened the door wide, her eyes filling with recognition. “You’re that Josiah. Joe they called you sometimes. Your parents were Abram and Sarah Fisher? Used to live across the stream?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Josiah lowered his head. “They died in the barn fire ten years ago. Josie was nine and I had just turned eighteen.”
Glancing toward the old place, he went on. “I had left to help some relatives in Ohio when I got word of what had happened. I came home and took care of Josie. We moved to Ohio to be near kin but Josie left Ohio a couple years ago during her rumspringa.”
The women looked at each other and then back to him, sympathy in their eyes.
“Kumm,” the woman holding the door said. “We will talk about this.”
Josiah removed his hat and entered the sunny, warm house and inhaled the homey smells of coffee, bacon and biscuits, his heart bursting with an emotion he’d long ago buried and forgotten.
This house held hope.
Maybe God hadn’t sent him here to rebuild the homestead.
Maybe God had nudged him back to Lancaster County to find his missing sister.
Copyright © 2019 by Lenora H. Nazworth
ISBN-13: 9781488042621
The Promised Amish Bride
Copyright © 2019 by Martha P. Johnson
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