The animals were fine. Susanna knew that, and Adam knew that. As they stepped out the back door, Adam offered her his hand. This was his real reason for staying behind when his uncle left.
Under starlight they lit a lantern one more time before going in the front door of the barn. They went through the motions of checking on the cows bedded there, and the one mule Noah kept. The chickens were in their coop, and the horses in the stable that opened onto the same pastures where the cows spent their days.
Just before they emerged from the back end of the barn, the place where yesterday morning Noah was building shelves, Adam turned down the glow.
He was going to kiss her.
At least she wanted him to.
But as his face lowered toward hers, it looked far too stern for a kiss.
Susanna drew back, but Adam reached for her again.
Susanna swallowed hard, but still he saw the flush in her face. She was not going to say one way or another, and he did not blame her. Right until the last moment, he was unsure himself whether he would lean in for her waiting lips and the sensation he had ached for since—he had lost count of the days. Just as easily he might pull back to speak needful words.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I misled you. Forgive me.” He once again offered his hand, and she took it. When he began to walk again, she followed.
“’Tis your parents,” Adam said. “Should we not speak to them?”
“I do not know what to say,” Susanna whispered. “My mamm has her mind made up. Daed always sees both sides of an issue but in the end is unlikely to find a reason to make his wife unhappy on such a matter. Timothy is old enough to make his voice heard and his presence known even if it is not welcome.”
“You are older than Timothy. Have you no voice?”
“You are a son. ’Tis difficult to explain what it is like to be a daughter.”
“Then I hope that someday you will explain it to me. Perhaps when we have our own daughter.”
Her head snapped up and her gaze into focus at this suggestion. Adam turned, stood before her, and squeezed both hands. “If we are to have any future, we must have their consent, if not their blessing.”
“I know you are right,” Susanna said. “But ’tis a hard thing, like hauling ice on a winter’s morn. ’Tis right and necessary, but no one wants to do it.”
“I will be there,” Adam said. “If we have learned any lesson from what happened today—yesterday—’tis that no one can pretend that what they see right in front of their eyes is not happening.”
Susanna nodded.
“No one can pretend Noah does not preach,” Adam said, “or that Shem and Niklaus have not had a falling out, or that Charles Baxton wandered into waters whose depths he did not know. And I will not pretend that Shem did not try to separate me from my own onkel and you. I do not want to be part of anything that separates you from your parents—or an excuse to find an easy path out of our conundrum.”
“You would never be just an excuse,” Susanna said. “I would never … If I married you, it would be because I could not bear the thought of life without you, not just so I did not have to go to Indiana.”
Adam rubbed his chin between two fingers. “Maybe Indiana is not such a bad place.”
Susanna slapped his forearm, and he caught her hand once more.
And this time he did kiss her. With surety. With abandon. With relief. With delight.
“I should have thought as much,” Phoebe said, unable to make her voice stern even with the broom in her hand for stability.
Susanna scrambled up from the back porch, looking away from Adam. They had been sitting there for hours, sleeping on each other’s shoulders. “When did it get so light?”
Phoebe looked at her, befuddled. “The sun has been up nearly an hour.”
“The cows,” Susanna said. Milking was one of the chores she had offered to take on when she moved in with the Kauffmans, and if the last couple of days were any measure, they would find Crazy Amos reliable for the task of announcing the day. “I slept though the rooster?”
“I do concede that your day yesterday was long and tiresome,” Phoebe said, laughing. “Since in the end you did bring my husband home in one piece, I bear you no grudge.”
“I will milk,” Adam said, jogging toward the barn before Susanna could object.
Susanna’s shoulder, where his head had been piled against hers as they shared one buggy blanket, was still warm, and she was sorrowed by the knowledge that the heat would soon dissipate.
“He is going home with me this morning,” Susanna said.
Phoebe nodded. “It must be done, and I can think of no better man to go with you.”
Adam slipped inside the barn, and Susanna faced Phoebe. “Do you think so, truly?”
“Take one of our buggies,” Phoebe said. “And a decent horse. Do not turn up looking as if Adam cannot do better for you than that mare you are so enamored of. I will heat water so you can have a proper bath and a clean dress. After hearing about your escapade, your mamm will be especially anxious to know that no great harm has come to you after all.”
Susanna had a bath and Adam cleaned up at the well and put on a shirt borrowed from Noah. Despite the hearty midnight offering only a few hours earlier, Phoebe’s breakfast was robust, as was Adam’s appetite.
“Take your time,” Phoebe said as she saw them off.
Regardless of Adam’s confidence and Phoebe’s reassurance—and a fine horse and buggy, even if her mother would recognize it as Noah’s and not Adam’s—Susanna trembled across the miles, few as they were. With every step of the horse, she wanted to turn around and go back to the shelter the Kauffmans offered. She could help Phoebe and be with Noah. And when the time came, they could wed there. Would that be so distressful? Her parents would be in Indiana, too far away to attend anyway.
Timothy was the first to spy them coming. Of course. How did he do that? It was as if he had some device that sat on top of a weathervane, itself atop the barn, with eyes that scanned for motion coming toward the Hooley farm from any direction.
There he was, once again the first to shake the hand of a visitor.
“Philip,” Timothy said to one of his brothers, “go find Mamm and Daed. Tell them we have visitors.”
Visitors. Susanna winced at Timothy’s choice of words and her application of it to his own sister.
Veronica and Elias settled side by side on the settee, with Timothy comfortable in a side chair. Susanna and Adam had no choice but to sit across the room. The other boys draped themselves across the back of furniture. One pulled in a chair from the dining room.
“Boys,” Elias said, “you will leave us now. This is a conversation for the grown-ups.”
Daniel, Philip, and Stephen, after a stunned moment during which their father’s request sank in, complied. Timothy settled back in his chair.
Adam cleared his throat and leaned forward. “I thought we might do well to give you an account of last night. I am sure it will run the length of the valley before the sun sets today.”
Elias held up one hand to interrupt Adam. “Timothy, you will go with the boys.”
“But Daed—”
It took only a quarter inch shake of her father’s head for Susanna to know that Timothy would protest again. But wherever the other boys had gone, Timothy was likely to go no farther than the kitchen.
“Please begin again,” Elias said.
Susanna pushed air past the knot in her throat. “There is much to tell. I hope that in the telling we may find peace between us.”
Veronica’s dubious expression remained in place, but Elias leaned forward, hands on knees, in genuine interest.
Adam began again. This time he got through it all. The dangers. The rescue. The reconciliations no one dreamed possible. The forgiveness.
“I feel you must know,” Susanna said, “that Adam and I hope that our differences will be likewise healed as we understand each other better. And if we should marry
, it will be for all the right reasons, with no guile nor guise. I want to say aloud that I understand your decision to sell the farm and move.”
“But we have not decided anything,” Veronica said.
“You seemed quite set on the acceptability of the offer,” Susanna said.
“It is a more generous offer than we had imagined possible,” Veronica said, “but we can scarce expect your daed to make such a decision in a scant two days.
Two days? Is that all it had been since this all began?
Niklaus let himself sleep late—in theory. Slumbering past six was only for times of illness. Even that hour was an indulgence. After their late night, Deborah insisted on it, though she was aghast at his suggestion that she should do the same. Let Jonas do the early chores, she said on this morning. He was the only one who had a decent night’s sleep. Breakfast could be fried leftover yamasetti that would take only minutes to heat through.
But of course none of that was possible for either of them. It mattered not how long the night was. Their inner clocks woke them at the same time as always.
Adam had never come home. Niklaus would have a word with him about that, not because he harbored any distrust about how Adam spent those hours in the deepest darkness of the night but because he preferred not to have to dodge questions from his brother-in-law about whether Adam, who had been sent to his uncle’s care, was in fact behaving appropriately. When he heard footsteps behind him, Niklaus assumed Adam had finally come home. Instead, it was Shem.
“Long night,” Niklaus said.
“Very. For all of us,” Shem said. “But now we are back at it. I never properly inspected Adam’s work.”
“Remarkable, as always.” Niklaus gestured to the back of the house, now extended with enviable space. “But you knew that.”
Shem nodded. “Niklaus.”
Niklaus looked up. “Yes.”
“Last night.”
Niklaus waited. He knew what Shem wanted, but it would be best if Shem spoke it for himself.
“What Charles said,” Shem said, “about a third way. There could be a third way for us.”
“Could be.” Niklaus ran fingers through his beard. “A third way that lets us understand each other even if we cannot explain everything.”
“And Noah?”
Shem crossed his wrists behind his back. Niklaus waited.
“I am certain you can find your way with Noah as well,” Niklaus said.
“I pray so,” Shem said.
“And church?”
“Perhaps you may preach from time to time,” Shem said.
“As I am moved.” Niklaus’s fingers stilled under his chin.
“Of course.”
“And Noah? He will be welcome?”
Shem nodded once.
Niklaus matched the gesture. “We will find our way.”
Timothy burst into the room. “This is not at all what I expected.”
Veronica turned to her eldest son. “Timothy, what did you expect?”
Beside Susanna, Adam stiffened. She wanted to reach for his hand but did not dare.
“Indiana, of course,” Timothy said.
Elias stood. “This has never been your decision to make. Your mamm and I will decide.”
Awkward, Adam was on his feet.
“But, Daed—” Timothy said.
“Timothy, you will wait outside. In the garden.”
Timothy dragged his feet out of the room. Adam sat again and reached for Susanna’s hand, gripping it as he never had before.
“I wonder how your garden is.” Adam’s voice cracked.
“Our garden?” Veronica said. “It has yielded well.”
Adam’s mouth turned up one corner. Veronica understood well.
“Beans?” Adam said.
Veronica nodded.
“Squash?”
Another nod.
“Carrots?”
One nod after another as Adam named vegetables.
“And celery,” he said. “Perhaps more celery than usual?”
Finally, Susanna saw the path of this discourse. Celery was a common wedding decoration. All summer, uncertain whether Adam would propose, she had not let herself monitor the end of the garden where her mother grew celery.
“As a matter of fact,” Veronica said, “a great deal of celery.”
Elias slapped his knees. “Veronica, it looks like we have a wedding to plan.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I’m a church history fan. This book began when I was reading about the revivalism of the late eighteenth and nineteenth century, and I learned that the Amish lost a larger percentage of their members to the open-air revival preachers than other established traditional denominations. Part of the reason for this was because the preaching and the message were distinctly different from that of their own tradition. I began to think that might be interesting to write about.
Like any curious historical novelist, I did a Google search to see what I might find to spark a story. And I found the “sleeping preachers” phenomenon. One author described it as “widespread” in the nineteenth century, but it didn’t strike me as a very Amish experience. Yet several accounts are in circulation of Mennonite and Amish laymen falling unconscious, preaching for hours at a time, gaining audiences, and remembering nothing.
My character Noah Kauffmann is a blend of the names of two historical Amish sleeping preachers, Noah Troyer and John Kauffman. They were born into two different church districts, both in Ohio. During their lifetimes they both moved to other states, where their preaching became widely known. Some of the events and symptoms I used to create Noah Kauffman’s preaching are based on detailed descriptions of the real-life Noah Troyer and John Kauffman.
The other theme that caught my imagination is the question of what constitutes a genuine religious experience. None of us has a spiritual journey identical to anyone else’s, and the church history tree has diverse branches. None of us gets everything right. Nevertheless, we don’t always make room for each other. We don’t always look for what we have in common before jumping into what separates us.
As I wrote Gladden the Heart, I pondered this question—not just on a church or societal level, but on a personal level. May I know God’s grace in challenging relationships, even when I don’t deserve it, and may I also be a vessel of God’s grace to others.
Every new book is a reminder that I cannot do this alone. I’m grateful for Rachelle Gardner, my friend and agent, who has steadfast confidence in me. I’m grateful for Annie Tipton, the editor who helped brainstorm options for a next book and got intrigued with the sleeping preachers right along with me. I’m grateful for JoAnne Simmons, the editor who looks after the details when I can no longer see straight and inevitably straightens out a chronology glitch. They are a faithful, supportive team. And this time around, I’m also grateful for the help of Joanna Rendon, on duty at the research desk at the public library down the street, whose help filled my research binder.
And to everyone who has ever said, “I love your books,” thank you! You keep me going.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Olivia Newport’s novels twist through time to find where faith and passions meet. Her husband and twentysomething children provide welcome distraction from the people stomping through her head on their way into her books. She chases joy in stunning Colorado at the foot of the Rockies, where daylilies grow as tall as she is.
Gladden the Heart Page 30
