by Mary Ellis
“True,” agreed John. “But we must pick the choice in keeping with Scripture.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Jah, it is.” He shook her hand as though trying to wake a child from a bad dream.
Amy faced him in the darkness. “Are you judging her?”
“Nein. I’m only cautioning you to let this sleeping dog lie.”
“My aunt is a human being, John, not a dog.” She pulled her hand back. “I want to let my family know she’s still alive and well. I see no harm…or sin…in a letter like that.” She rose to her feet and strode toward the door. “Gut nacht.” The screen door slammed behind her as though punctuation for her parting comments.
John was only too glad to climb into Thomas’s buggy and leave the farm for the day. His meager breakfast had consisted of toast, coffee, and sliced peaches. By the time the men left the room, the women had turned the kitchen and porch into a tomato processing plant. Every pot, kettle, and cauldron had been appropriated for cooking down the garden bounty.
“This will be a good day to be gone,” said Thomas, as though reading John’s thoughts. “What do you suppose supper will be? BLTs with tomato soup?”
John laughed heartily until he noticed that the little flag had been raised on the Detweiler mailbox. Amy had written to her family after all and set the letter out for pickup. He ground down on his molars to rein in his temper. “We’ll be hungry enough for anything by the time we get home,” he said from between gritted teeth. “I want to buy a buggy, harness, and my own horse today. I can’t keep borrowing yours, Thomas. Besides, Amy likes to run errands whenever the notion strikes her.” He grasped the window opening as they rolled over a pothole. “How far away is this carriage maker?”
“A good fifteen miles on the road to Waterville. The man sells quality buggies at a fair price. And he usually has horseflesh available for sale too. His brother is a breeder and trainer, so if you see something you like, the beast will already be trained to the harness.”
Another pothole jarred John’s kidneys. “I’m not picky with horses. I’m obliged to you for taking me there.”
Thomas squinted from sun glare. “My alfalfa could use more time to dry before we rake and bail. Anyway, I was ready to get away from rocks and clay for the day.”
“Clay soil?” asked John. “I thought land this close to the sea would be sandy.”
“We’re thirty miles from the nearest inlet to the ocean. The land you’ll buy will probably be hard clay that will need plenty of building up. Better to buy fallow farmland so most rocks and boulders will have already been removed.”
“Did you buy fertilizer to enrich the soil when you started out?”
Thomas shook his head. “No, I compost horse, cow, and goat manure and then till it under in the fall. Most Englischers around here grow organic produce. Their harvests fetch good prices. Folks in Boston will pay dearly for no pesticides or chemical fertilizer residue on their vegetables. You should look into organic farming for yourself.”
John scratched his clean jawline. “Right now I just want to grow enough to feed my family. I’m not interested in a cash crop.”
“For the three of you?” Something seemed to lurk beneath the surface of Thomas’s question.
“Jah, the three of us until Nora makes up her mind. I’m hoping by then that we’ll have a little one on the way to give Amy plenty to do.”
His brother made an odd clucking sound that didn’t seem intended for the horse. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, no?”
“I hope to wed and be living in our own place by first snow.” John braced as the buggy took a tight curve in the road faster than he’d expected. “On the way back from Waterville, let’s stop at any farms for sale.”
Thomas tugged his hat brim lower. “I can think of one or two places that might warrant a look-see. Depends on how long you take to negotiate a price on your new buggy and horse.”
“I’ll pay whatever’s fair. I’m not much of a haggler. Tell me what the English organic farmers grow up here.”
“You name it—potatoes, squash, onions, peppers, broccoli, cabbage, spinach, and several kinds of lettuce. And tomatoes, of course. Cukes too, but beetles infested ours this year. I had to till the plants under.”
“Have any Amish farmers obtained organic certification?”
“Jah, two so far. Lots of paperwork to fill out, but our bishop stands behind the idea. Too many chemicals are dumped on the land and end up in our water supply these days.”
“What about wheat? I haven’t seen any yet.”
“Wheat doesn’t grow here, nor rye or spelt. No sorghum or soybeans, either.”
“No grains of any kind?” John cocked his head with surprise. “Then where do you get your straw?”
“We don’t use it. Only wood shavings for animal bedding. Barns stay cleaner and smell better with pine shavings.”
“Lots for me to learn,” John murmured.
“Plenty of time to learn it.” Thomas slapped him on the back.
“What about dairy herds? Any Amish selling milk to cheese producers?”
“Most district cows or steers are for family use. Englischers supply the milk in the area to bottlers and cheese houses. So if you have a hankering for a dairy farm, you won’t have much competition. I recommend goats, though. They are less troublesome with our hills and long winters. Goats will put up with just about anything.”
John remembered the nasty varmint that tried to make him his supper and shook his head. “No, goats and I don’t see eye to eye.”
“That’s because you’re never supposed to stare one down.” Thomas chuckled. “Just sit quietly and tell him your life story over a bucket of wormy apples. You’ll both gain new perspective.”
John’s mind swam with new information and ideas. Later that afternoon he bought a fine Morgan-Standardbred gelding and a well-made two-seater buggy with plenty of room behind the backseat. Thomas and the carriage maker chitchatted so long that they had no time for house-hunting on the way back, but John didn’t mind. He enjoyed getting to know another member of his new district. And the more he admired the undeveloped acres of land waiting to be farmed, the more certain he became. God had brought him to the right place. He and Amy had found a home.
FIVE
Not the labors of my hands
Can fulfill Thy law’s commands
Nora took one look at her hands and sighed. Every one of her nails had broken during the past few days of canning, while her skin had taken on a pinkish hue that would probably last for weeks. She had never seen so many tomatoes in her life. Grossmammi and mamm always put up many quarts of each variation, but Sally’s harvest exceeded that. What would her small family do with so many jars of stewed tomatoes? At least with Amy, John, and herself living here, they might be able to reduce the inventory.
Two days of nonstop canning had forced her to rush through cutting out and stitching up her new Sunday black dress. But at least the garment was finished, giving her a much-needed Saturday afternoon of relaxation. Nora tucked her wide-brimmed bonnet into an apron pocket in case she decided to walk on the road and set off through the mowed portion of the backyard. A craggy tree stood sentinel at the pasture gate, one that demanded a closer look. As she neared the droopy-leafed tree with cigar-shaped seed-pods, the sound of a squalling baby grabbed her attention. Nora ran in the direction of the cries and frantically searched the thick weeds and wild sumac. Had one of Sally’s sons wandered off and become entangled in barbed wire? Sally might not be the world’s best housekeeper or baker, but her children were never out of view or earshot. The woman fed, changed, bathed, and coddled the boys all day long.
Pushing back the brambles of overgrown wild roses, Nora found the source of distress—a baby goat caught in the fence. The kid’s bawling sounded almost human. A nanny goat stood a few paces off, watching Nora suspiciously. “Easy there, Nelly. Let me see if I can help your little one.” But when she bent down to lift the animal fr
ee, the nanny charged with an evil glint in her eye.
For a moment Nora contemplated continuing on her stroll through Thomas’s farm—the first leisure time since her arrival—and not get dirty, cut by barbed wire, or bit by a protective goat. But the kid’s plaintive cries melted her heart. She reached between the barbs to pat the furry head and the nanny lunged again. “Stay right there,” she ordered, withdrawing her fingers just in time. “I’ll come back with help.”
Seeing no one in the fields, she hurried to the barn. Inside the cavernous interior, which smelled of fresh-sawn wood, sweet timothy hay, and not-so-sweet horse droppings, Nora found only animal occupants. “John?” she called. She cocked her head to listen, yet heard nothing but the usual huffs and snorts of livestock confined to stalls. She hurried down the main aisle to the attached workshop, where Thomas built birdfeeders and carved wooden weather vanes during the winter months. “Thomas?” she called, despite a seemingly empty shop. Again she waited, listening. Through the doorway to the corral, Nora heard the distinctive whinny of a horse. With no other options, she entered the outdoor paddock, calling the name of her future brother-in-law once more. “John, are you out here?”
Nora peered around. With a start she spotted someone bent over a black horse. The man appeared to be digging something out of the animal’s hoof. She marched to the outdoor stall, careful as to where she was stepping. “Why didn’t you answer me?” she demanded, making no effort to hide her annoyance.
“Because my name isn’t John.” The man gazed up with mild interest, but he didn’t release his grip on the horse’s hoof. His eyes, dark and intense, seemed to bore holes through her as they traveled from her feet to her kapp.
“Who are you?” she asked, suddenly nervous and self-conscious.
“Elam Detweiler.” After digging another piece of gravel from beneath the horseshoe, he lowered the animal’s hoof to the ground. “Your turn. Who are you?”
She wiped her palms down her skirt. “Nora.”
His expression didn’t alter with the slightest sign of recognition. “Is that right.” His reply was a statement, not a question
Finally, her common sense returned. “I’m Nora King, sister of Amy King, who is engaged to be married to John Detweiler, who is your brother.”
His smile started out small but soon filled his face. “That last part I already knew, but at least now we’re getting somewhere.” He walked around the horse and pulled up the other hind leg. It was actually more of a smirk than a smile.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, I’m sure. They didn’t get hitched yet?”
“No, not yet. Thomas wants them to get to know the district first, and for your bishop to know them.”
He grunted and rolled his eyes. “Jah, that’s sounds like my brother.”
“Anyway, I’m sure you would have been invited to the wedding, had there already been one.”
Elam laughed as though he’d heard a good joke, but he didn’t glance up from his hoof trimming. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Nora King from Lancaster County, if I were you.”
Suddenly, she remembered the reason for her barn visit. “Could you stop for a minute? I need your help. A baby goat is tangled in a fence, and I couldn’t free him by myself.”
“Thomas and his goats. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.” He sounded angry but backed away from the horse and tossed his tool into a bucket by the stall wall. “Show me the way, Nora King.” Elam dusted off his palms, grabbed a garden rake and a pair of snippers from the bucket, and followed her around the barn.
Nora walked as fast as her not-very-long legs would carry her. “They are over this way.” She pointed toward the fence.
“I’d venture a guess they are in the goat pasture, no?”
She bit down on her lip, deciding to wait until they had freed the poor creature to give the man a dressing-down. Surely houseguests warranted more gracious treatment.
His stride was so long she had to jog to keep up. If there were two things Nora didn’t like, sweating and running topped the list. “Here, behind this bush,” she gasped breathlessly as they reached the barbed wire. Nora pulled back the branches to reveal the trapped kid. He peered up with moist black eyes and released a plaintive wail.
“Hold those branches away with your backside and be ready with this.” Elam handed her the rake.
“What am I to do with a garden tool? Clean out last fall’s dead leaves?” Nora positioned herself in between the bush and the fence, trying not to think about his embarrassing reference to her backside.
Elam snickered, revealing straight teeth and two dimples. “Use it to keep that nanny from biting or head-butting me while I free her baby.”
Nora had barely raised the rake in place when he reached into the tangled wires, grabbed hold of the goat’s face, and snipped the wires snared in his fur. Snip, snip, snip—three cuts and the kid was loose. Elam lifted up the little goat to inspect him for injury.
“Could you hurry?” Nora shook the rake menacingly as the fifty-pound mother advanced toward her offspring. “Shoo! Get back! Stop!” Her commands did little good as the nanny grabbed the rake handle with her teeth and pulled it from Nora’s grasp.
“He looks fine to me. Just a few minor scratches,” announced Elam. When he set the kid down in the grass, he quickly scampered to rejoin his mother.
The nanny dropped the garden tool, nuzzled her young, and then the two headed up the slope without a backward glance at their rescuers.
“Stay back from the fence, you pair of dummies!” Elam hollered before bending to repair the cut fence as best as he could. “That should hold until I can restring this section.” He straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and gazed down his nose at Nora. “Danki. You were quite helpful until she took your rake away. How will you finish cleaning up the yard now?”
She tried unsuccessfully not to laugh. “A rake in a goat’s hands can be dangerous. We’re just lucky she dropped it.” Suddenly, Nora spotted blood running down his fingers and dripping into the grass. “You’re bleeding. Let’s go to the house.”
“No, I’ll wash at the pump instead. It’ll clot soon enough on its own.”
“Don’t be a mule. I’ll meet you at the pump with paper towels, antiseptic cream, and bandages.” She headed for the house without further argument.
Five minutes later, she found Elam with both hands under a stream of cold water. Blood dotted his pants and shirt and tinted the drain water. “Didn’t clot as well as expected,” he mumbled as though angry about all the blood.
“I didn’t think it would. But it was noble of you to sacrifice your skin for Thomas’s goats.” She dried his hands with a clean towel and applied some salve.
“Don’t be impressed. It was a rare, weak moment. I’m usually callous and insensitive.” He focused only on his hand being bandaged.
“How come I haven’t met you yet, Elam Detweiler of Harmony, Maine? Have you been hiding?” Two could play his game.
One dimple deepened. “I work on a logging crew, so I’m not home much. Thomas prefers it that way, if you catch my drift.”
As soon as she applied the last strip of bandage, he picked up his tools and headed toward the barn. He was already ten paces away when he called, “Thanks, Nora.” His words floated over his shoulder, appearing to be more of an afterthought than anything else.
Amy loved this time of day when she could sit and rock, sip tea, and think about her life—past, present, and future. The supper dishes had been washed and put away. Sally was tending her children, while Nora worked on her second dress of navy blue. John sat in the living room, hunched over the classified ads of the local paper, searching for farms or land for sale. The heat of the past several days had broken, leaving far more hospitable temperatures for sleeping in upstairs bedrooms.
“Mind if I join you for a spell?”
Amy jumped, spilling tea down her skirt. Dabbing at the stain with her handkerchief
, she looked into the piercing blue eyes of not John Detweiler, but his older brother. “Of course,” she said, lifting her Bible off of the other rocker. It had been her mother’s and she treasured it, despite its smoky odor. The Bible had been plucked from the debris and returned to her by the county fire chief.
“I wanted to talk to you about your Aunt Prudence.” Thomas lowered himself stiffly onto the chair. “I didn’t tell you everything the other day, and I’m not sure why, but I want you to know all that I know.” He paused, letting an uncomfortable silence grow between them.
Amy felt oddly frightened by his admission. She didn’t know if she should prod him to continue or run upstairs to her room and hide.
“We welcomed Prudence into our district. She confessed her sins on her knees to God in front of the entire district. Our Lord forgives sins, and after that day no one ever brought the matter up again. But it wasn’t long after that Prudence visited the bishop again.” Thomas rocked slowly in the chair, stroking his beard like an elderly sage sitting atop a mountain rather than a thirty-year-old farmer and preacher from rural Maine.
“What did she talk to him about?” Amy felt beads of sweat form on her brow, as though she were the one who had approached the preacher with some grave misdeed.
“Prudence had connected in a special way with someone new to our district, an Amish man from Michigan. He was a widower with grown children, and he knew about her divorce.” Thomas leaned his head back and closed his eyes, while Amy sat very still. “Prudence told the bishop they were en lieb and wished to marry. In love—as though that emotion changed something.” He stopped rocking and faced her. “It changed nothing, Amy. They could not marry. Prudence was still wed to Leon in the eyes of the Lord. The Good Book has no fine print that says if you’re married to a mean-spirited drunk, biblical laws are suspended.”
Amy was shocked by both his sarcasm and her aunt’s behavior.
“There are clear instructions in First Corinthians, chapter seven, verses ten and eleven.” He began to recite Scripture from memory. “ ‘For those who are married, I have a command that comes not from me, but from the Lord. A wife must not leave her husband. But if she does leave him, let her remain single or else be reconciled to him. And the husband must not leave his wife.’ And in verse thirty-nine: ‘A wife is bound to her husband as long as he lives. If her husband dies, she is free to marry anyone she wishes, but only if he loves the Lord.’ ” Thomas shook his head. “As long as the husband lives, a wife may not remarry. Our hands were tied. God’s Word is law. Soon afterward, Prudence packed up and left…with him.”
