Courting Cate

by Leslie Gould

  © 2012 by Leslie Gould

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6049-9

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  The Scripture passage in chapter 13 is from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  All other Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Jennifer Parker

  Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC

  Author represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc.

  For Hana,

  oldest daughter of mine,

  full of strength and style, hope and humor.

  My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.

  2 Corinthians 12:9, KJV

  But now I see our lances are but straws,

  Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,

  That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.

  Taming of the Shrew, V.11.173–75,

  William Shakespeare

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1 2 3 4 5

  6 7 8 9 10

  11 12 13 14 15

  16 17 18 19 20

  21 22 23 24 25

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ad

  Back Cover

  CHAPTER

  1

  When I was seven, Dat caught me under the covers reading by candlelight.

  I knew it could be dangerous, so I sat straight and tall, using my head as the center pole, being extra careful in my quilt-made tent. My left hand steadied the candle holder as my right clutched the book—Anne of Green Gables—checked out that afternoon from the Lancaster County bookmobile parked near Paradise, the closest village to our home.

  Perhaps Dat came to check on Betsy, my little Schwester, asleep in her crib across the room. Or perhaps, in his ongoing state of grief, he wandered the house. He must have, by the light of the moon, seen the odd shape on my bed and stepped closer to investigate.

  At the sound of his footsteps, I blew out the flame and remained statue-still, even as he pulled the heavy quilt from my head. Aghast, he held his hand out toward me. I extended the book. He thrust it back. I handed him the candle. He clasped it tightly.

  “Don’t you ever, ever do that again,” he said.

  The next evening a flashlight sat beside my bed.

  That was what I thought about as Dat, who was also now my boss, stood in the doorway of my office in our shop just down the hill from our house. I was twenty-three, not seven. I sat at my desk, not on my bed. But I did have a book in my hand.

  “Just taking my break,” I said, slipping it onto my lap and then wrapping both hands around my mug of coffee as the scent of maple sawdust from our cabinet shop tickled my nose.

  I sneezed. The clean-up crew hadn’t done a proper job.

  “I need those accounts.” Dat’s deep voice reverberated through the tiny room.

  “They’re on your desk.” I thought that would get him moving, but he didn’t budge. He filled the doorway with his height and broad shoulders. Others, both Amish and Englisch, knew him as Bob Miller, were awed by his business acumen, and considered him handsome, but of course I didn’t have an opinion on any of that. He was just my Dat.

  “Jah?” I met his eyes. “Is there something else you need?”

  He shook his head slowly, but then said, “Are you going to the singing? On Sunday?”

  It was only Thursday. “Oh, I don’t know,” I answered and then sneezed again.

  “I think you should.” He pushed up the sleeves of his white shirt.

  “Dat, I’m too old for—”

  “You need to stop reading your life away and start living it.” His face reddened up to his full head of dark hair as he spoke, and his blue eyes grew serious.

  It was so like him to think it had to be one or the other. I could do both . . . if I wanted to. But the truth was, I preferred reading over everything else.

  He continued, “I don’t know what I’ll do without you, but I can’t wait to find out.” He forced a smile and, placing his varnish-stained hands flat on my desk, leaned forward.

  “Ach, you’ll probably just start another business.” I opened the manila file on my desk. “Your latest is taking off like a bee in a bonnet.” I hoped to distract him from his favorite topic—getting me married.

  Instead he leaned closer. “What are you reading?”

  “Oh, just something I picked up from the bookmobile.”

  He put out his hand.

  My face warmed, but he was my Dat. I slid my chair back a little, raising the book, and then handed it to him.

  He read the title out loud. “Rural Country Medicine.” A puzzled look crossed his face. He held the book up. “Why this?”

  “I’m interested. That’s all.” I wasn’t going to tell him I hoped to write an article, or maybe even a book someday, on first aid for people who lived in rural areas.

  He put the book on the edge of my desk. “Cate . . .” His voice sounded desperate. “My businesses are gut, jah? They support our family, employ our people, and allow us to give to God’s work. But they mean nothing. . . .” He stopped, took his handkerchief out of his back pocket, and wiped his forehead, even though it was a cool spring day. “What I want most is a houseful of grandchildren.”

  I nodded. “Betsy will give you that, I’m sure.” Betsy, at age seventeen, had already joined the church, saying she had no desire to go on a Rumschpringe—a running-around time. “She’s eager to settle down.”

  He shook his head and leaned against my desk.

  “Oh, no, she is,” I said. Every Amish boy who had met her dreamed of courting her. No Amish boy had ever wanted to—genuinely—court me.

  “She may be wanting to have a home of her own,” he said. “But that’s not what I’m referring to. I want you to stop living your life through these books. I want you to marry and have children. Jah?”

  I tried to make a joke of it. “You’re that ready to get rid of me?” But my voice fell flat. I knew he had wanted me to marry for the last four years.

  “Your mother and I were parents by the time we were your age.” His voice wavered. “I want you to be happy.”

  “I am happy to be keeping your accounts”—for both his cabinet and his consulting businesses—“and seeing that Betsy’s raised.” Which wouldn’t be accomplished until her wedding day.

  “And after she marries, I’ll take over running the house.” Which I kept failing at, miserably. I much preferred reading and writing to cooking and cleaning.

  “Speaking
of . . .” He stood up straight. “Isn’t it your turn to cook supper?” He’d implemented a new edict to redomesticate me.

  “Ach, is it?” I’d totally forgotten.

  He nodded.

  We usually ate by five, only a half hour away. I had no idea what I would fix. I used to handle the household chores, although never with aplomb, but once Betsy was old enough, she eagerly took over. Over the years I’d forgotten everything I used to know.

  “Maybe you should start reading recipe books,” he said.

  “Maybe . . .” I stood and picked up Rural Country Medicine. I’d finish it when I went to bed.

  Dat stepped back to the doorway. “Could you at least go to the singing and”—he coughed a little—“try to be kind.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Betsy tells me you’re not very—”

  “None of those boys are nice to me, if you recall.” I stared up into his face. “None of them want to court me. The sooner you get used to it the better.”

  “Ach, Cate. Stop being dramatic. There’s a man out there who’s meant to be your husband. You’ll be a mother yet.”

  I’d given up all hope, but it seemed to be beyond my Dat’s comprehension, regardless of how many times I’d tried to explain it. Besides, it wasn’t as if I hadn’t already raised a child. I’d cared for Betsy since her second day of life. Sure, I’d only been six, but I’d been tall enough to be nine and responsible enough to be twelve. I’d had my grandmother’s assistance until Betsy was five, but after that it had been just me.

  “I’d better get the potatoes on to boil.” I slipped past him and into the hallway.

  Dat’s office, not any bigger than mine, sat to the left. The front of the building held the showroom and the back the shop, where the crew constructed the custom cabinets. They’d all gone home at four, or so I thought.

  As I stepped out the side door into the cloudy afternoon, twins Mervin and Martin Mosier tipped their straw hats toward me. Their older brother, Seth, had treated me badly while we were growing up—until two years ago, when I put an end to it. But M&M, as I called the twins, had continued his example.

  “Why haven’t you two gone home?” I smirked, knowing full well the reason. I asked it anyway. “Waiting for Betsy, jah?”

  “No. We just finished cleaning up.” Mervin had his thumbs hooked in his suspenders. The two were almost identical, with sandy hair and hazel eyes, although Martin carried a little more weight than his brother and had just lately taken to wearing a pair of ridiculous aviator sunglasses.

  “Well, you didn’t do a very good job. The dust is spreading all the way to my office.” I motioned for them to follow me and marched back into the building, down the hall, noting the clicks of their steel-toed boots on the concrete behind me.

  I flung open the shop door, expecting to see sawdust all over the floor. There wasn’t any. However, in the far corner sat a huge pile. “Why isn’t that in the Dumpster?” I spun around to face them.

  “Your Dat said to leave it.” Martin twirled his sunglasses between his thumb and index finger.

  I crossed my arms and scowled.

  “Honest, Cate,” Mervin said. “He said a landscaper is going to haul it off.”

  Dat hadn’t said a word to me. “Well, tidy it up a bit more.” My face warmed.

  They didn’t move.

  “Now!”

  Mervin grabbed the push broom from the corner, while his twin stared at me, saying something.

  “Pardon?” I took a step toward Martin.

  “Having a bad day?” He met my gaze.

  “How about a bad life,” Mervin muttered, his eyes on the floor as he pushed the broom toward the pile, stirring up more dust.

  I crossed my arms. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ll be blunt,” Martin said. “You’re acting like a shrew again.”

  My eyes narrowed. “How rude!” I spun around again, stumbling as I did. They both chuckled as I bolted toward the doorway.

  And Dat wondered why I didn’t bother going to the singings.

  Regaining my composure, I called out, “Go straight home after you’re done.”

  The last thing I wanted was to have them hanging around, looking for Betsy to make an appearance and readying themselves for another attack at me.

  “I have an announcement to make tonight, at supper,” Dat said at six thirty, as he washed in the utility basin just inside the back door.

  I stifled a groan.

  After Dat dried his hands and headed for the living room, Betsy said, “I don’t know how you can balance all those accounts, but not be able to get dinner done on time.” Her muscles flexed as she whipped the potatoes, but everything else about her exuded femininity. Her newly sewn lavender dress. Her starched Kapp and apron. Her blond hair perfectly wound into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her big doelike brown eyes.

  Nearly everything about us was opposite. I had Dat’s dark hair. She was fair like our mother. I was tall. Betsy was petite. I was serious. She was happy.

  She was the epitome of an Amish young woman. I clearly wasn’t.

  Fifteen minutes later, after Dat led us in a silent prayer and the food had been passed around, we were finally eating.

  “Delicious,” Dat said as he swallowed his first bite of potatoes. “These are your best yet, Cate.”

  I glanced at Betsy, sure she’d let him know I didn’t make them. She just smiled sweetly.

  I couldn’t stand to be deceitful, though. “Actually, Betsy made those,” I said. “She helped me out, a little.”

  Dat’s face fell. “Well, then,” he said and kept eating in silence.

  I’d made a casserole from the leftover chicken Betsy had roasted the night before, adding broccoli and cheddar cheese, but I’d overcooked it and it had hardened to the bottom of the pan.

  I’d also made baking powder biscuits, but keeping with the theme of the supper, I’d burned those too. I watched Betsy take a bite of hers and then follow it with a long gulp of milk.

  We sat at the oak table, made by Dat when he and Mamm first married. It was large enough for five times the size of our small family. A few years ago, he’d remodeled the kitchen. Surrounding us were high-quality cabinets made of cherry. The countertops were Formica, though, not the granite or other top-of-the-line material we sold from the shop. Dat said that was far too pretentious for our simple life.

  We did have a propane refrigerator and stove, although both were smaller than what the Englisch put in their houses. A woodstove, located in the corner of the kitchen, heated the house’s main floor during the long winter months and on cold spring days too.

  The coziness of our home usually comforted me, but at that moment I was flustered by my failed supper. I usually avoided doing what I wasn’t good at, but it seemed with his cooking edict that Dat was catching on to me. I couldn’t help but dread his next announcement.

  The clock chimed seven o’clock. On a normal evening, we’d have been finished with the dishes by then.

  “Dat,” Betsy said extra sweetly, reminding me of just how sour I was feeling. “Are you hiring? Either in the showroom or the shop.”

  “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Levi Rupp,” she said. “I saw him at the store today.” She’d also been seeing him a couple of evenings a week, after Dat had gone to sleep. Before that it had been Martin and before him Mervin. . . .

  “Levi Rupp,” Dat said. “Which family does he belong to?”

  “A few miles out of Paradise, the other way.”

  Dat closed one eye, which meant he was thinking. “Is his youngest brother Ben?”

  Betsy nodded. “That’s the family.”

  “Hard workers, jah?” Dat dished up another helping of mashed potatoes. “Good attitudes?”

  “That’s what I hear.” She smiled.

  “I might be hiring in the shop. Tell him to stop by.”

  Technically, he wasn’t hiring, at least not in the shop. He ne
eded someone in the showroom—but it had to be the right someone.

  Dat, like everyone else, just couldn’t say no to Betsy.

  “So is Levi looking to court you too?” I did my best to keep my expression neutral. It was a regular pattern, as predictable as an Amish quilt. Most of the young men who wanted to work for Dat also wanted to court Betsy.

  She blushed, making her blond hair and fair skin appear even lighter. “Of course not. He likes to garden. He said he’d give me some tips.”

  Dat took another bite of potatoes, as if he hadn’t heard our exchange.

  I didn’t believe a word Betsy said, but that wasn’t why I pushed my plate away. How could I expect others to eat what I cooked when I couldn’t even get it down? I supposed, with Betsy most likely marrying soon, I really would have to do something about my culinary skills.

  “Cate’s going to the singing with you on Sunday,” Dat said to Betsy.

  “No,” I sputtered. “I didn’t agree to that.”

  “We’re going to get Cate married.” Dat smiled broadly at her. “It’s going to be a family effort.”

  Betsy’s fork clattered to the table.

  “Dat.” I handed him the bowl of potatoes again, hoping he’d take thirds. “If marriage is so wonderful . . .” I paused, not wanting to overstep.

  “Go on,” he said, dishing up another serving of Betsy’s fluffy clouds.

  “Well, why didn’t you remarry?” I swallowed hard after I’d said it.

  A pained expression passed over his face. “Well, I had you girls and the business. Then the businesses.” He wasn’t making sense. That was exactly why an Amish man would remarry after his wife died, although because Dat wasn’t a farmer, he wasn’t as desperate for a helpmate as some would be. “I guess I was just too busy.” He shrugged. “And now I’m too old.”

  Which wasn’t true either. I hated to think it, but I knew there were single women just a little older than I who would marry him in a second, let alone the widows in their thirties and forties. I’d heard the gossip. “Tell us why, Dat. The real reason.”