The Englisch Daughter

by Cindy Woodsmall

  Was that a horse snorting?

  Chris wiped a smudge of dirt on his face, which only made a bigger splotch. “But—”

  “Sh.” She rolled over and eased her head above the embankment. A man had Pippi by the reins and was taking small, slow steps as he searched the horizon. He had a hunting gun strapped to his back. “Kumm.” She patted Chris’s shoulder and stood. “Lester!”

  Chris climbed the embankment and offered his hand. Abigail accepted it, and with a quick hoist, her feet were back on solid ground.

  “What were—” Chris’s booming voice was aimed at Lester.

  She grabbed his arm. “Don’t.”

  He faced her. “I most certainly will.”

  She did her best to subdue her eye roll. Men. “He’s mentally challenged and a sweetheart. If you go off on him, he’ll cry for weeks, which will break my heart.” She lifted a brow. “I am asking nicely. Please.”

  He looked from her to Lester and nodded.

  “Lester.” Abigail hurried to him, but her ankle ached for some reason. “You broke the rules.” She tugged on her muddy coat. “Look.”

  “Are you h-h-hurt?”

  “A little, ya.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His eyes were wide. “Don’t tell. Please don’t tell.”

  “Give me the gun.”

  He pulled the strap off his shoulder and gave her the gun. “I was in my backyard when I saw a deer running.” He pointed a shaky hand along the creek line.

  She wouldn’t point out that it wasn’t deer-hunting season. The news of that would distract him from the truly important information.

  “But that’s due east, and you can’t shoot in that direction. Remember?”

  “But I saw a buck—a big one.”

  “Lester, there are homes with children, and you have friends, like me, who are due east from your property.” She unloaded the rifle and passed it to Chris. “Look at me.”

  He stopped fidgeting and gazed into her eyes.

  “It’s the law.”

  “No police! No police!” He looked at her dirt-smeared legs. “I coulda killed you.”

  Finally he understood.

  “Ya. Then who would make you caramel popcorn balls every fall?”

  “I sorry, Abigail. So sorry.” He started sobbing and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

  She held him until he calmed. “You need to go on home. I’ll come by later this evening, and we will talk to your Daed together.”

  “He’s gonna be mad.”

  “Ya. That can’t be helped. But I’ll stay until he calms down. What happened to the markers? Are they missing, or did you ignore them?”

  “I moved them so this way wouldn’t be east no more.”

  If the situation weren’t so serious, Abigail would’ve found his response humorous. Instead, she put her hands on her hips.

  His shoulders drooped. “It don’t work that way, do it?”

  “No.” She put her hands on his arms and turned him in the direction of his home. “Go on home. It’ll be okay.”

  “I won’t hunt no more, not ever. I don’t like killing no how. It’s just all so pretty, and I wanted to shoot it.”

  “What do you mean?” Abigail asked.

  “Shoot it. Bam. Bam.”

  Chris put the gun strap over his head and shoulder. “Like a picture?”

  Lester put his hands around his eyes and clicked his tongue. “Shoot it. Shoot it.”

  Abigail sighed. Most days, Lester understood about hunting and where the limits were, but today was not one of them. “We’ll talk about this later. Go on home.”

  “You come see me tonight. Bring caramel popcorn balls.” He hurried off across the field.

  Her legs seemed to turn to gelatin, and she longed to melt onto the wet brown February grass, but she stayed on her feet, patting Pippi. “His Daed needs to lock up his hunting rifles and ammunition.”

  “And buy Lester a good camera.”

  “You think?”

  “I do. The word shoot is connected in his head to a gun, but the fact that he finds it beautiful and wants to shoot it sounds to me like he needs a camera.”

  She closed her eyes, trying to center herself. Now that the danger was over, she felt woozy. If she had the strength to get on her horse and ride to the farm, she would. But her body trembled.

  “In the words of someone I met in these very woods earlier today, let’s walk.” Chris motioned.

  He was right. She needed to walk and breathe deeply and gather herself. They strolled in silence until she felt less shaky.

  “What a morning, huh?” he said.

  “Ya.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t let me yell at Lester.” He gestured south. His horse was grazing a few hundred feet ahead, and they quietly moved in that direction.

  “Trust me, I understand the temptation. But it would break his heart and make no difference in the long run.” She’d have to look for other solutions, like Lester’s Daed locking up the guns and maybe giving him a camera. “Where are you from?”

  “Scarsdale, a little town on the other side of the Cumberland Narrows.”

  “You’re about a hundred miles from home.”

  “Ya, and will be for at least a week, maybe a month.” He shrugged. “Any chance you know where the Graber Horse Farm is?”

  He sounded rather displeased to be here, and she wondered if he’d left a girl at home in order to come to the farm.

  “Ya, I—”

  He held up his hand for her to stop walking, a silent request to keep either of them from startling his horse. She didn’t budge, and he eased over until he had his horse by the reins.

  The idea of seeing Chris regularly held some appeal, which completely caught her by surprise. She often felt guilty that men so easily grated on her nerves, but most did. Her Daed said it was because from the time she was old enough to wash dishes and do laundry, she’d seen men at her uncle’s recovery home, mostly alcoholics and at-risk alcohol abusers. The men were emotional wrecks with guilt for all they’d put their loved ones through, and it spilled out in every conversation. If that wasn’t it, her time spent attending the meetings with the men’s spouses and listening to their painful stories as they cried was certainly enough to taint her attitude toward men.

  Chris took a canteen from its holder on his horse, opened it, and held it out to her. She took a long drink, grateful for the water.

  “I asked and then stopped you from answering,” he said. “Any idea where the Graber Horse Farm is?”

  “Ya.” She held out her hand to him. “Abigail Graber, sister of Roy Graber.”

  The nonchalant look in his eyes turned into interest. “Nice to meet you.” He shook her hand. “So I take it you have no idea where the horse farm is.”

  “Why would you say that? I’m confused.”

  He smiled, revealing perfectly white, straight teeth. Was every physical feature about him perfect? He leaned in. “This is where you deny knowing where the farm is.”

  “Ach, I see. Sorry.” She patted her horse. “No, I have no clue where Graber Horse Farm is.”

  “Gut. Then we shall ride together in search of it.” He gestured at her horse. “Do you need a hand?”

  Did she need help? Was he serious? The horse farm used to be her Daed’s. She’d spent half of her childhood on a horse. “I’m fine, denki. Do you need a hand?”

  His laughter stirred her. “Touché.”

  They mounted the horses.

  Abigail settled into the saddle. “How are you on a Graber horse, one kept on the Kurtz farm, and yet you have no idea where our farm is?”

  “Your brother filled me in concerning the Kurtz farm, and I knew each of those horses would have to be ridden sometime this week. Since I needed some qui
et time on a horse before I showed up at the Graber place, I had an Uber drop me off there. John Kurtz showed me around, and I saddled a Graber horse and went for a ride. Problem?”

  “No.” She liked how much he’d made himself at home. It said he was confident with horses and new situations. “I was just curious.”

  He looked toward the skyline, first east, then north, then west. “I’ve researched the area a little online. It says there is a ridge with a beautiful overlook of the valley, and there is supposed to be a cave with a pool somewhere. Is that true?”

  “It’s true.” Her sudden desire to show him the cave surprised her. “The cave you mentioned, or one similar to it, is only about two miles from here.” She pointed at the mountain in the distance.

  “Care to ride with me?”

  “Sort of, but I have chores I need to do.”

  “On the horse farm?”

  She nodded.

  “Your brother wasn’t expecting me to arrive today, so we can tackle them together in no time.” He propped his forearm on the horn of the saddle and leaned in. “You game?” he whispered.

  An odd feeling came over her. She knew nothing about this man except that he seemed comfortable in his own skin and with women. Was she being naive, taken in by his newness in a community where the few single men were as stale as last month’s homemade bread? What if she went off gallivanting with him and he had a girlfriend?

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Should I order pizza while you decide?”

  She laughed. He was entertaining.

  “Are we spelunking or not?”

  She wanted to go, but…

  He studied her. “I sense reluctance.”

  “You do.”

  “What is it you need to know? That I’m single? I assure you I am. That I’m trustworthy?” He held out his hand and tilted it back and forth, indicating so-so. “Eh.” He shrugged.

  She laughed.

  “But I did willingly become a shield for you against flying bullets.”

  “This is true.”

  He smiled. “Let’s go to the farm. The cave can wait.” He looked around. “We need to head east, right?”

  “Nee. Let’s go spelunking.” She tugged the reins and turned Pippi in the opposite direction. “This way.”

  Four

  Jemima hurried about the bedroom, changing into her best dress for the food-truck auction. Why was it so difficult to get out the door on time? A loud thud echoed down the hall, and she didn’t need to hunt for the source to know what had happened. Laura’s cane had fallen.

  Jemima slung the strap of the diaper bag across her shoulder and left the bedroom. Once in the open space of the kitchen and living room, she leaned over the rail of the playpen and picked up Simeon. “Okay, kumm mol, Liewi. Loss uns geh.” Although Laura understood English well, Carolyn knew only a few words. Jemima grabbed two folded quilts off the couch and motioned for her three older children—eight-year-old Laura, five-year-old Carolyn, and three-year-old Nevin—to follow her.

  As soon as she said, “Come on, dears. Let’s go,” they headed for the back door to put on their coats. On a normal day they might balk or dawdle, but today they’d been promised hot chocolate and a treat from the bakery. She set the quilts on the table, put on her coat, and put one on Simeon as the older girls helped Nevin get his on.

  Despite how alone she felt, hope and excitement stirred inside her at the prospect of getting a food truck. Maybe the emptiness between Roy and her would let up once she had the distraction of her own business. One of the three food trucks that would go on the block today had real promise, and if they bought it, today would be the start of a new chapter in her life.

  The cane thudded to the floor again, a constant reminder that Laura needed assistance to get around.

  Jemima scurried to the back door. “Ready?” She picked up Laura’s cane and handed it to her. When Jemima opened the door, February’s cold air rushed inside as her small brood went out.

  With Simeon on Jemima’s hip, Laura using a cane and Jemima verbally guiding Carolyn and Nevin, the Graber family moved like molasses as they left the house. Jemima locked the door while the three older children made their way down the ramp that led to the driveway. Thank goodness Laura no longer needed a wheelchair, but the ramp still made it easier for her to go in and out of the house.

  “Mamm, guck.” Carolyn pointed.

  Jemima looked, and relief washed over her as she saw their horse and carriage coming toward them. There wasn’t anyone in the driver’s seat, but soon she saw an unfamiliar man leading the horse with Abigail beside him. “I got a text from my brother, reminding me to hitch the horse to the rig for you and bring it to the house.”

  Every time Jemima’s patience with her husband wore too thin, he did something that renewed her faith in him. “Denki.”

  “Gern gschehne.” Abigail gestured at the man. “Jemima, this is Chris Fisher, the new farmhand. Chris, this is Jemima.” She pointed as she continued. “And Laura, Carolyn, Nevin, and Simeon.”

  Hope seemed to fill a big hole inside Jemima. Farm help had actually arrived, and his presence here could take a lot off her husband. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “Same to you. Abigail’s been showing me the ropes in your husband’s absence.”

  Jemima held his gaze while cradling her chin and stroking it as if she had a beard.

  Chris followed suit. “Just lazy, not married.”

  “Gut.” Jemima immediately regretted her enthusiasm. “I mean, it’s my understanding you’ll be staying with us on the nights you’ll be in Mirth, at least until you find a place, and your room only has a twin bed.”

  “A twin is just fine.”

  When he turned away to check something on the rigging, Jemima opened her eyes wide and nodded toward him, wanting to know if Abigail saw any possible dating potential in him.

  Abigail smiled and shrugged. That response seemed promising. She tended to size up men’s likability factor really fast, often without sharing so much as a cup of coffee with them.

  Abigail lifted Nevin and put him in the forward-facing car seat. Once all the children were strapped in properly, Abigail closed the passenger door and went around to Jemima’s side.

  Jemima closed her door and unsnapped the pliable plastic window. “Since there is help here today, any chance you can go with me? You’ve been saving dollar for dollar with us for nine years.”

  “I’d love to, but I actually forgot about the auction, so I got a late start on chores. With a new string of horses arriving Monday, I need to walk the fence line with Chris so we can mend as needed. Since tomorrow is the Sabbath, we really only have today to get ready.”

  “True,” Jemima said.

  The tasks of buying, tending, training, and selling racehorses to be workhorses were as endless as the piles of dishes from cooking three meals a day for her family.

  Abigail pushed against the carriage door, making sure it was properly shut. “I trust you to buy the right truck. You know that.”

  “Uh”—Chris looked baffled—“Amish women are buying a truck?”

  “Ya.” Abigail shrugged. “It’s a food truck, which is perfectly acceptable, because anything that couples women with kitchens is looked on with favor.”

  “Abigail,” Jemima chided, “that’s not a polite thing to say.”

  Abigail turned to Chris. “Take note that she didn’t deny it’s true.”

  If Chris’s expression meant anything, he found Abigail’s sense of humor entertaining.

  “Abigail Louise Graber, you tell him something honest, please.”

  Abigail tapped her forehead as if thinking deeply. “Oh. My uncle is the bishop, and I’m his favorite niece, possibly more favored than his own daughters, so when I asked if I could have a truck, he asked what kind and if he could c
hip in.”

  Jemima sighed. “I didn’t mean for you to tell him something that honest.”

  “You’re hard to please. You know that?”

  Jemima laughed. “I’m gone.” She snapped the supple thick plastic window back in place, and the horse trotted out of the driveway. Although town was only five miles away, going by horse and carriage, with the horse pulling a family and contending with hills, would make the journey about forty minutes. She shifted her thoughts from Abigail and Chris to other things.

  She and Abigail had been very patient about getting the right truck for what they wanted. Finally, after ten years of hoping and saving, she felt confident that she’d win the bid on the best truck: the Smiths’ truck. Jemima’s life would change a lot once they had a truck. Was Abigail ready for the changes to her own life?

  Abigail had loved teaching for almost a decade now. Would she discover that fixing food for tourists wasn’t as satisfying as investing in young people’s lives? It was important to Abigail to feel fulfilled in her day job, and she said it was fulfilling and fun to cook. Although they’d not done so together in the last week or so, Abigail and Jemima had a great time preparing meals together, whether for the family or neighbors or community functions. But in all these years, Abigail never considered working on the farm full time, although Roy had asked her twice if she’d like to. The endless hours spent outdoors in all kinds of weather didn’t appeal to her, nor did constantly mucking out stalls or sowing, harvesting, and hauling hay. Oh, and Abigail had no interest in her brother being her boss.

  Jemima chuckled. Abigail got points for knowing when too much of a good thing would be bad for her.

  The food truck would operate full time only during tourist season and on weekends in the spring and fall, but they would likely make more money during that time than Abigail made during a year of teaching. What did Abigail intend to do with her extra time once she wasn’t teaching nine months of the year? She said she wouldn’t stop her work with special-needs children outside the classroom, and Jemima knew she’d do a decent amount of volunteer work—at the school, at her uncle’s recovery home, and on the farm—but would that be enough for someone as energetic as Abigail?