Two large, booted feet carried the man out of the shadows and into the lantern light. “You’re a woman!”
Under the circumstances, his observation was so ludicrous she didn’t know whether to laugh or throw the lantern at him.
He reached for the lantern and drew it up where it illumined both their faces. His disheveled sandy hair flopped in his eye. If this was Mr. Richter, he was a lot younger than she expected.
“What are you doing?” His tone lost a bit of its gruff edge, but his dark brown eyes still held an air of suspicion.
She was getting ready to climb through the window. What did it look like she was doing? “Are you Mr. Richter?”
Skepticism flitted across his face. “No. I’m Hank Zimmermann.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “My family’s Sunday house is next door.” He narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing outside the Richter’s’ Sunday house in the middle of the night?”
Indignation pulled her chin up. She resented Mr. Zimmermann’s accusing tone.
“Mr. Richter’s letter said I would be staying in the Sunday house belonging to his family. The stage arrived late and nobody was at the depot to greet me. I had to find this house by myself in the dark, and the door is locked.” The tears that threatened earlier returned to taunt her, but she refused to give in to them.
“Locked?” His frown pulled his eyebrows into a V. “Folks around here don’t lock their doors.”
Her voice cracked with emotion, but she latched on to the frayed edges of her composure and hung on. “Well, it wouldn’t open and I have no way of getting in. I can show you Mr. Richter’s letter if you don’t believe me.”
Chapter 2
No, no, I believe you.”
Hank had never called a lady a liar before, especially not one this beautiful.
“I know Mr. Richter and the school board have been looking for a new teacher since Miss Klein left. But I didn’t know … that is, I didn’t expect—” He couldn’t very well say he didn’t expect someone as pretty as her to be a schoolteacher. The teacher he’d had as a boy was as homely as a mud fence.
“Let me check the front door for you.” He stepped back and allowed her to precede him. Before she took three steps, he blurted, “Hey, you’re limping. Did you—” He clamped his hand over his mouth while heat filled his face. She might have some physical impairment that caused her to limp.
She lifted her shoulders. “I stubbed my toe on the woodpile when that silly cat startled me.”
“Oh, good. I mean, it’s not good that you stubbed your toe, but … I thought, that is, I was afraid I’d insulted you.”
A befuddled look marred her features. Perhaps he could smooth over his clumsy remark by offering her his arm. To his surprise, she laid her gloved hand on the crook of his elbow while he held the lantern. They picked their way around the house and when he sneaked a peek at her from the corner of his eye, he caught her looking up at him.
“So you speak both English and German?”
He grunted. “Everyone around here speaks German. Most speak English, too. You’ll encounter both in the classroom.” He handed her the lantern and stepped up on the front porch, certain the door was not locked. He twisted the doorknob and pushed, but the door didn’t budge.
“Hmm. The wood is probably swollen.” He angled his shoulder and pushed hard against the stubborn door. It popped open. “It was just stuck. I can fix it if you like.” He bent to pick up her satchel. “Would you like me to carry this upstairs?” He tilted his head to the side of the house opposite of the way they’d come.
Confusion flickered over her face as she moved the lantern inside the door and perused the small space. “There are no stairs.”
He pointed to the end of the porch. “The stairs leading to the sleeping loft are on the side of the house.”
She blinked and raised her eyebrows. “Oh.”
Even in the dim lantern light, he saw a rosy blush steal into her cheeks and the impact of his statement struck him. “I’ll—I’ll just put the bag at the top of the stairs for you. If you have any trouble with the door to the sleeping quarters—”
Embarrassment cut off his words and they stuck in his throat. He plowed up the steps two at a time and plunked the satchel on the landing. When he descended the stairs, she finished the sentence for him.
“I’ll push it open with my shoulder. Thank you, Mr. Zimmermann.”
“Hank.”
“Uh, yes, well, good night.” She picked up her skirt and scurried up the steps as quickly as one could with a painful toe.
He stood in the shadows and watched until she was safely inside and had closed the door. Wisps of light drifted past the small upper window.
“What are you doing, Zimmermann?” Hank muttered, shaking himself back to consciousness. Sweat prickled out on his upper lip like it was a sultry July night instead of a frigid February eve. He prayed Miss Bachman didn’t get the wrong impression of his offer to help with the door.
The front door of the house still stood open. He tried to pull it closed as quietly as possible, but the place where it stuck previously hit with a thud. He cringed and strode off the porch before the pretty schoolmarm hollered down, wanting to know what he was doing.
Dawn’s first rays had barely broken through the slate sky when Hank’s feet hit the floor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tossed and turned all night, but when he’d climbed into his cot after the encounter with Miss Bachman, he couldn’t quiet his thoughts.
Her wide, hazel eyes lingered in his mind. How could a woman with whom he’d spent less than ten minutes drive away sleep and confound his thinking? She wasn’t the first pretty woman he’d ever met, but there was something distinctly distracting about her.
He pulled on thick woolen socks and padded to the tiny kitchen. Coals still glowed in the small stove. A few sticks of kindling coaxed them to life. While he waited for the coffeepot to boil, he ran his hand over the cabinet he’d spent the past few days working on, the satiny smooth grain of the wood submitting to the will of his fingers. The result of his labor pleased him. He only hoped the customers of Horst Braun’s general store agreed. If the samples of Hank’s work generated enough interest, perhaps his father wouldn’t look on him with disappointment.
Needles of guilt jabbed him. Tradition dictated that the eldest son worked side by side with his father and eventually took over the family business—in this case, their farm. But Hank’s heart didn’t find contentment in working the soil or growing crops. Instead, his hands itched to create fine pieces of furniture. His brother, George, on the other hand, loved planting and harvesting, and longed for their father’s approval. George should be the one to partner with Vater on the farm.
He ran one finger along the curved edge of the intricate carving he’d done last night. The pattern mimicked the one on the cabinet in his parents’ home, crafted by his mother’s grandfather. His father had always admired the piece. Hank prayed for God to help him prove his skill so Vater would be more accepting of his chosen occupation. Would his father ever subscribe to the belief that a son could pursue a different vocation and still adhere to the fifth commandment?
“Must I be a farmer in order to honor my father? Lord God, please guide my hands and help me to show Vater that I can still honor him without following in his footsteps.”
The coffee boiled over and hissed as the liquid hit the hot metal plate of the stove. Hank grabbed a towel and moved the pot to the dry sink. What a mess.
After a breakfast of dark bread, cold sausage, and strong coffee, Hank set to work on the cabinet. Thoughts of the pretty, new schoolteacher next door continually distracted his focus and had him peering out the window at the Richter’s Sunday house.
He poured another cup of coffee and blew on the steaming liquid before taking a noisy sip. As he set the cup down on the windowsill, he saw her.
Miss Amelia Bachman stepped onto the porch and pulled her shawl around her. When
she hesitated a moment, it gave Hank the opportunity to stare at her without her knowledge. Fascination arrested his attention. Even her name sang in his subconscious—Miss Amelia Bachman.
She set off resolutely down the street and Hank followed her with his eyes. As he watched, he realized she was headed toward the depot. Consternation filled him. What if she’d decided not to stay? What if she was going to buy a one-way ticket back to where she came from? He hoped she wasn’t judging Fredericksburg by the awkward late-night meeting with her neighbor. Admittedly, he hadn’t made a very a good impression last night, but Fredericksburg needed a teacher. He couldn’t let her leave.
He grabbed his leather jacket and hat and ran out the door after her. By the time he caught up to her, she was knocking on the depot door.
“Mr. Schmidt?”
“Ja, gut morgen, Fraulein Bachman.”
“Good morning. I’ve come to—”
“Miss Bachman.”
She turned and the moment she made eye contact with him, her cheeks turned bright pink. “Mr. Zimmermann.”
“Miss Bachman, please don’t leave. The town needs you. I apologize for surprising you last night and I hope you don’t think—”
“Mr. Zimmermann, what are you talking about? I’m not leaving.” She cast a dubious look at him. “I’m returning Mr. Schmidt’s lantern.”
Hank’s tongue tangled around his teeth. “Oh.” He took a step backward. “I, uh, suppose I should just mind my own business.”
The tiniest of smiles twitched across her lips. “That’s quite all right. It’s nice to know I’m needed.” She glanced past him and scanned up and down the street. “I was hoping to meet Mr. Richter this morning.”
“Nien,” Humbert Schmidt spoke up. “Richter don’t come …” He cast a glance at Hank. “Stadt?”
“Town.” Hank supplied the English word. “What Mr. Schmidt is trying to tell you is the Richters don’t ever come into town except on the weekends.”
“But I don’t understand.” Lines of puzzlement deepened across Miss Bachman’s brow. “I sent him my itinerary. He knew I was arriving yesterday.” She turned to the depot agent. “You mean Mr. Richter wasn’t here waiting for my stage to arrive yesterday?”
The elderly man scratched his head and looked at Hank.
“Wartete Richter hier gestern?” Hank translated her question, but he already knew the answer. Richter wouldn’t rearrange his weekly routine for anyone.
“Nien.” Mr. Schmidt shook his head. “He work at farm. He come …” He scowled as if trying hard to think of the word he needed, then brightened. “Tomorrow. Richter come tomorrow. Samstag.”
“Saturday?” The schoolmarm aimed her inquiry at Hank. “He wasn’t planning on coming to town until Saturday?”
Hank shrugged. “Probably.” Clearly, she didn’t understand the life of a farmer in this area of Texas. “Most of the farmers live a ways out of town. For some, it’s a two-or three-hour journey. So they only come to town on Saturday to do their trading, stay overnight at their Sunday house, attend worship and socialize, and then go back to their farm Sunday afternoon.”
Mr. Schmidt nodded even though Hank knew the man only understood about half of what he’d said.
Miss Bachman appeared as if trying to hide her embarrassment. “I see. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have made such a fool of myself.”
Hank opened his mouth to assure her she had no need to be embarrassed, but Schmidt beat him to it. The older man shook his head so vehemently, his unkempt gray hair flopped over one eye.
“Nien, nien, I know das word, fool. You ain’t fool.” He patted her hand. “You is … klug.”
“Smart,” Hank supplied.
Schmidt nodded. “Ja, you smart. You teach”—he bounced his hand, palm down, indicating several young ones—“kinder.” He poked his thumb into his chest. “Schmidt dummkoff.”
He rapped his forehead with his knuckles. “Fraulein Bachman, you sehr hubscher … teacher.”
“Mm.” Hank murmured in agreement despite the expression on Miss Bachman’s face that indicated she didn’t understand the full meaning of Schmidt’s statement. He ducked his head to hide the smile he couldn’t suppress.
“Mr. Zimmermann, since you’re here—”
Hank jerked his head up and met her enchanting hazel eyes.
“Could you give me a hand with my trunk?” She pointed to the battered piece of luggage that sat just inside the depot door.
“Sure.” He grabbed one leather handgrip and hoisted the load, clamping his lips on the grunt that tried to escape. The thing must be filled with rocks.
She thanked Mr. Schmidt and led the way back to the Sunday house. Hank followed with the rock-laden trunk.
“I hope it’s not too heavy.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I packed quite a few books.”
That explained why it was pulling his shoulder out of joint.
She tipped her head and looked sideways at him. “May I ask you a question?”
He nodded and hiked the trunk up a tad higher.
“What does sehr hubscher mean, and why did you find it amusing?”
Heat raced up Hank’s neck. Sehr hubscher meant very pretty.
Chapter 3
Saturday morning, Amelia sat at the small table with her books. The clip-clop of hooves and jingling harness announced the arrival of a wagon, and moments later the door crashed open. A husky woman with ruddy cheeks nearly fell into the room. Amelia leaped to her feet.
“Was ist dies?” The woman’s eyes widened. “The door is not stuck?”
“Hank Zimmermann fixed it.”
The woman eyed her with suspicion. “You are the new schoolteacher?”
“Y–yes.” Amelia didn’t know whether to extend her hand or stand there like a statue. “I’m Amelia Bachman. May I help you carry anything?”
“I am Olga Richter.” The woman eyes snapped and she pointed to the small table. “You may carry those books upstairs. There is no room for them.”
Before Amelia could collect her things, another woman, as wide as she was tall, waddled into the room, fussing over the cluttered table and scolding Amelia in German.
A burly man stepped in behind her. “Mutter, stoppen sie sich zu beschweren—stop complaining. Pardon my mama, she speaks no English. I am Lamar Richter. This is meine mutter, my mother, Winnie. You are Miss Bachman, ja? So—you are here.” The man didn’t appear bothered in the least that Amelia had arrived with no one to meet her or escort her to the Sunday house, for he said little else.
Amelia spent the remainder of the day dodging out of the way as Olga and Winnie bustled around, her attempts at conversation rejected. Evening brought the uncomfortable realization that she was expected to share the tiny sleeping loft with the two women, while Mr. Richter slept downstairs on a pallet.
Sunday afternoon as Amelia helped Olga carry things to the wagon, agitated voices carried on the air. Next door, Hank Zimmermann stood beside his family’s wagon while his father berated him.
“The Zimmermanns are famers. When will you stop with your playing and come back to the farm where you belong?”
Hank ran his hand through his hair. “Vater, building furniture is not playing. It’s my hope that one day you’ll respect my choice to be a carpenter.”
“Respect! It is you who should respect your father and work the land as you were born to do.”
Mr. Zimmermann’s harsh tone made Amelia flinch with the memory of her own father’s disapproval of her chosen vocation. Empathy trickled through her. Sometime after the Richters left, the Zimmermann wagon pulled out, but Hank wasn’t on it.
The first two days of classes required some adjustments. Most of the children were sweet, but some of the older boys attempted to play a prank or two, taking advantage of Amelia’s unfamiliarity with the German language and culture. The class snickered when Bernard Braun tried to convince her that Mr. Richter went by the name alte ziege. Between the laughter and the devilish smirk in Bernard’s eye
s, it wasn’t hard to figure out the reference wasn’t flattering. She knew alte meant “old” and she was fairly certain ziege was some kind of animal. Bernard and his best friend, Paeter Lange, appeared panic-stricken when she replied that she’d make sure Mr. Richter knew the boys were kind enough to tell her his nickname. She ducked her head to hide her smile.
As she prepared to leave the little house on Wednesday morning, she heard the ring of Hank’s hammer. Sending a furtive glance toward the Zimmermanns’ Sunday house, she caught a glimpse of Hank perched on a ladder, hammering a board into place at the back of the house. She paused and watched for a moment, fascinated by the way Hank’s tools seemed an extension of himself. Pieces of wood conformed to the mastery with which he used his skill.
What a wonderful lesson to teach her students—that their hopes and dreams could grow and develop when surrendered to the hands of the Master. She tucked the thought away, but before she stepped off the porch, Hank straightened and looked her way. He tugged the brim of his hat then raised his fingers in a slight wave.
Her heart hiccupped. There was no point in pretending she hadn’t been staring at him. She returned a polite nod and scurried down the street.
She’d barely gotten the fire started in the potbellied stove in the middle of the classroom when a wagon rolled into the yard. She cracked open the door to see who was arriving early. To her surprise, Hank’s father sat on the wagon seat and three blond heads peeked just above the sides of the wagon bed. The gruff farmer pulled the team to a halt in front of the schoolhouse and barked at the youngsters to get out while he climbed down.
Amelia met him at the door, glancing past his shoulder to watch a little girl with golden pigtails help the two younger ones slide off the end of the tailgate. The oldest child couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years of age, yet Mr. Zimmermann left them to fend for themselves. They were undoubtedly siblings, their resemblance being too uncanny to miss.
Amelia disciplined her features to not show disapproval of the man’s inconsideration. “Good morning, Mr. Zimmermann.”
Love Is Patient Romance Collection Page 51
