Never Far From Home (The Miller Family 2)

by Mary Ellis

  Emma loved to pause in this secret, quiet place with a book or to simply dwell in her own thoughts. Surrounded by birds and butterflies, crickets and tadpoles, squirrels and the elusive red fox, Emma felt close to God. He dwelled not only among His people, but here within His earthly creation. Daed liked winter, which offered a break from hard chores; mamm favored summer so she might rock in the porch swing; Aunt Hannah preferred autumn with its glorious hues of crimson and gold and the bounteous garden harvest. But regardless of the mud, drifts of dirty snow, and a chilly breeze that could still bite through a cloak, Emma loved spring. It was a time of renewal and rebirth—new beginnings. And with the strange stirring deep beneath her ribs, Emma eagerly awaited each change headed her way.

  She glanced toward the beaver dam with a sigh, hoping to finally catch sight of the industrious critter. Probably still hibernating, the lazy bones, she thought as she started for home. Once back in her own yard, Emma went straight to the barn loft. She still had an hour or two before mamm needed help with supper. Plenty of time to spin the remaining wool from the last shearing or grind up the purple cornflowers that had been drying for several weeks.

  But it was the half-finished wreath that captured her attention the moment she stepped into her whitewashed domain. Natural illumination flooded the room thanks to Simon’s insistence on a window cut between the support rafters. Settling herself on a tall stool, she admired her progress thus far. Braiding long strands of grapevine into intricate patterns provided a sense of purpose. She had just enough vines soaking in rainwater to finish the large wreath that could decorate someone’s home no matter what the season.

  “Emma! Where have you been? I’ve been looking high and low for you.” Her heart skipped a beat at the sound of Simon’s booming voice. The box of dried mulberries she’d been digging through slipped from her fingers to the floor.

  “Daed, you startled me. Must you sneak up on a person?” she asked in a tiny voice.

  Simon Miller lifted his dark brows quizzically. “Sneak up? I came up the steps with my normal commotion. If a madchen wasn’t always deep in her own thoughts, she might have heard me.” He put a hand to the small of his back and rubbed gingerly.

  “You’re probably right,” she giggled. “A girl does tend to lose track once she gets up here.” She bent to sweep the spilled decorative berries into the box. “Is your back bad today? You shouldn’t climb these high loft steps when the pain flares up.”

  Simon stopped massaging his spasmodic muscles and stared at his daughter. “I’ll keep off stairs when you stop hiding from the family. Where have you been all afternoon? I came in from plowing to find your mamm on a stepladder washing windows. You and Leah were nowhere to be found.”

  A pang of guilt pierced Emma’s heart. “Oh, my. I thought we were finished spring-cleaning for the day. She did mention the windows at lunch, but they completely slipped my mind. I’ve been at Aunt Hannah’s…giving her a hand…with something.”

  There I go, not really telling a lie, but certainly not offering a truthful account by any means. She set the wreath down and watched her father from the corner of her eye, feeling heat rise up her neck.

  But Simon’s attention had been diverted elsewhere. He was staring around the room, silently counting her handiwork that hung from nails on the walls. “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…Emma, there are fifteen fancy grapevine wreaths up here. Where did they come from? And who are they for?” He sounded completely baffled.

  Joy from her accomplishment spread across Emma’s face. “I made them, daed. I made all of them. I hiked into the woods this past winter after my chores were done and cut down wild vines. They would just choke off the tree’s sunlight anyway. I dragged them home in bundles and soaked a few at a time in that old water trough to make them pliable. Then I wove them into wreaths. I’ve made three different sizes.” She pulled out her basket of ribbons, fabric trim, and dried acorns from under the table.

  Simon’s expression of mystification did not fade, however, even after he peered inside the basket.

  “I decorate them with notions, pine cones, dried berries—whatever I have handy. I think they look quite nice, and they’re made with free materials around the farm, except for the ribbons,” she said, unable to keep pride from her voice.

  Simon scratched his chin. “What are they for?”

  “Why, to sell in Mrs. Dunn’s store, A Stitch in Time. Tourists coming down from Cleveland or up from Columbus will pay forty dollars for a large wreath to hang on a front door.” Emma covered the basket with plastic to keep out dust and pushed it under the table.

  “You’ve been working on these things besides tending your sheep?” He walked around the loft, inspecting every nook and cranny.

  “Pa, I hardly have sheep to tend until Aunt Hannah’s spring lambs are weaned and she brings them over. I’ve already carded and spun my share of wool from the last shearing.” She crossed her arms over her apron, confused as to why her father seemed displeased with her diligence. Didn’t he always say hard work makes for a strong body and soul?

  “You sound as if you can’t find enough to do around the farm. It’s spring, Emma. Your mamm can find plenty for you to do, I’m sure. If not, I can. What do you plan to do with the profits you stand to earn?”

  Spontaneously, Emma ran to him and delivered a quick hug. “Oh, daed, I’m saving up for my very own loom so I can weave wool up here next winter.” She added quickly, “After my household tasks are done, of course.”

  Simon grasped her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “All right, daughter, but don’t let this money making keep you from your chores. And don’t develop an overfondness for money. That is how the devil gains an inroad.”

  “The devil will have no chance at my soul,” she said without thinking.

  Simon looked shocked as his brow furrowed with worry at the bold statement. Amish folk usually refrained from speaking with such assuredness. “Get inside, Emma, and help with dinner.” His tone brooked no further discussion on the matter.

  “I’ll put away my things up here and go right in,” she said, regretting her impetuousness. She didn’t want to rile her father on this perfect spring day, further improved by the visit from James Davis.

  Warmth curled in her belly remembering his gallant presentation of the bouquet of wildflowers. Others might call them weeds, but if a person found value, they were weeds no longer. Emma allowed herself a minute to mull over everything he had said and done during the tour. She knew few English boys since the school she’d attended in Winesburg had been all Amish. But James seemed much nicer than the loud, rowdy boys she’d observed in town with their baggy pants sagging to near indecency. He was polite, hardworking, gentle with animals, respectful of both his parents and his mammi and dawdi in Mount Eaton. James seemed like a person her parents might like—if not for one tiny little detail.

  Hannah had watched the pair return from the sheep paddock from the side window. Emma had waved and headed down the path as the young man drove off in his truck. The unsettled feeling in Hannah’s stomach had not gone away, but she sent her concerns up in a prayer and let the matter go. I do have the habit of making mountains out of molehills, as has been pointed out to me more than once.

  “Umm. What smells so good, fraa?” Seth asked his bride from the doorway.

  “You know full well what it is—the same thing we had yesterday,” Hannah replied, unable to suppress a smile. With oven mitts she moved the pot from the stove to the table trivet.

  Seth pulled off his boots in the hallway, hung his felt hat on a peg, and then wrapped his wife in a bear hug. “I missed you.”

  “You went as far as Mount Eaton and were only gone a few hours,” she said, halfheartedly resisting his embrace.

  “Daed!” shouted Phoebe. Her doll momentarily forgotten, she darted across the kitchen like a hornet.

  Seth swept her up into a three-way hug. “Can I help it if I missed my two girls?”

  “I missed you
too, Pa,” Phoebe said with her kapp askew.

  Seth kissed her forehead before setting her down.

  Hannah pulled away from them. “Go wash your hands and face, Phoebe. I’ll set the table so we can eat. I’ll bet both of you are hungry.”

  “How ’bout we scrub down together?” Seth asked the child. “I’ve got a bucket of road dust on me from all the plowing goin’ on.”

  As the two marched off, Hannah sampled a piece of the grocery store tomato she was slicing for their salad. Almost tasteless! Having been harvested green so it wouldn’t bruise in transit, the tomato had turned red but hadn’t ripened since the moment it had been picked. How she yearned for sweet garden vegetables after eating pickled-this and pickled-that all winter long. She topped the salad with a heap of chow chow for color just as Seth carried his daughter back to the table.

  “Something wrong with her legs?” Hannah asked, grinning.

  “They’re mighty tired from all the running at recess, Ma,” Phoebe said, pulling over the basket of bread. Her daed swatted her hand when she reached for a biscuit and then they bowed their heads in silent prayer.

  Ma. What music to Hannah’s ears. It had been six months since she’d married Seth Miller and gained a precious daughter, but hearing the word still brought a lump to her throat.

  “I hit the ball with the wooden stick today and ran to the first sandbag,” Phoebe announced, pushing a tomato slice to the edge of her plate.

  Seth and Hannah burst out laughing. “The ball is a baseball and the sandbag is called a base. Baseball,” Seth concluded, adding ranch dressing to his greens.

  “Jah, I forgot. At first the boys wouldn’t let us girls play until the teacher made them. She said the other opp-shin was sittin’ on the long benches twiddlin’ their thumbs. So they decided to let us play.”

  “Boys can be troublesome at times,” Hannah murmured, winking at her husband.

  “I would say they made the smart choice.” Seth took a roll from the basket.

  “Jah, the girls hit the baseball with the wooden stick more times than the boys.” Phoebe looked up with confusion. “How come that made some boys mad?” She pushed the other tomatoes to the edge of her plate and began to eat the lettuce.

  Seth looked to Hannah, but Hannah shook her head, stifling laughter. “The wooden stick is called a bat,” he said. “And the boys got mad because they were jealous. Apparently, they’re not as smart as I gave them credit for.” He leaned over and brushed a kiss across Phoebe’s silky dark hair.

  “A perfect explanation,” Hannah added. “Now who wants stew?” Two bowls were immediately thrust in her direction. She filled them and handed them back, and the two began to eat heartily.

  Suppertime was Hannah’s favorite part of the day, when her little family gathered to give thanks, eat something warm and sustaining, and enjoy the company of loved ones. What a blessing to have your family close at hand. She had once read in a newspaper that English families had grown too busy to eat meals together. What a shame! Before they knew it, their kinner would be grown and gone while they busily rushed here and there.

  “Owen Beckley is coming by tomorrow at first light,” Seth said, breaking the silence.

  Hannah’s head snapped up from her meal. Owen Beckley sheared sheep, Angora goats, and alpacas for a living. “Whatever for?” she asked.

  “To shear the spring lambs, of course. Doesn’t lambswool fetch a better price than regular wool?”

  “Jah, it does, but it’s too soon.” Hannah set down her spoon on the side of her plate.

  “It’s not too soon. It’s the middle of April.” Seth scraped the last of the stew into his bowl.

  “Nights still get chilly,” Hannah reasoned. “I think we should wait.” She sipped some water to soothe her dry throat.

  Seth turned toward his daughter. “Stop playing with your food and eat.” The child popped a spoonful into her mouth. To his wife he said, “There’s no more frost at night, Hannah. I want to get this done before everybody gets involved with spring planting.” His voice took on an intensity Hannah hadn’t heard in a while—if ever.

  “They’re not even weaned yet, Seth. I don’t see what the big hurry is.” Hannah’s own tone sounded a tad clipped.

  “Phoebe, take your milk into the front room while your ma and me talk about this.”

  The child, who’d been glancing from one adult to the other, slid off her chair and scampered out, leaving her milk behind.

  Seth leaned back in his chair and inhaled, filling out his broad chest. “The big hurry is Owen Beckley has time to shear them tomorrow before he starts setting his soybeans. Now is the best time for me too. Maybe I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I just ran into Owen today in Mount Eaton.” Seth rose from the table and threw down his napkin. “Don’t make a big deal out of this, fraa, when it’s really no matter a’tal.”

  Seth walked into the living room without another word. Hannah was left with a table full of dirty dishes and with her temper flaring in a most un-newlywed way.

  Emma thought Tuesday would never come. For the past week she’d been the perfect daughter—finishing the spring-cleaning, doing the mending and baking, and yesterday she’d washed clothes almost single-handedly while Leah had been at school. Mamm had stood nearby to offer suggestions. Emma’s reddened and chapped hands offered proof of her hard work.

  But finally mamm had given her a day to herself, and she was on her way to Sugar Creek.

  She’d bathed and dressed carefully, rubbing in as much hand cream as her skin would absorb. Because the day turned out sunny and mild, her fourteen-year-old brother, Matthew, had hitched the team of smaller Belgians to the open wagon. She would be able to deliver the sixteen grapevine wreaths, all the finished packets of dye, and the last of her wool—spun, carded, free of debris, and ready to be woven into cloth.

  After a quick tally in her head, she estimated she would earn enough for half the portable loom she’d admired in Mrs. Dunn’s shop. It was perfect for her. It could do everything Aunt Hannah’s could, and yet it weighed far less and could be easily moved when she had a home of her own someday.

  After all, she wasn’t a child anymore.

  As Matthew tightly held the lead horse’s bridle, Emma stepped into the wagon, smoothing out a lap blanket to sit on. “Danki, bruder,” she said when he handed her the reins.

  “Wait up there, daughter,” Simon hollered from the kitchen window.

  Matthew snickered. “If you had been a bit quicker, you might have made a clean getaway.” He grabbed hold of the bridle to steady the horses.

  Emma frowned. As much as she adored her father, she had no time for a dozen questions. Sugar Creek was more than two hours away with this slow team, plus she still had to pick up her aunt.

  Simon hurried down the back steps with his napkin, dotted with maple syrup, still tucked into his collar. “Your mamm says you’re delivering the wreaths to Mrs. Dunn.”

  “Jah,” she answered, “my wreaths, dyes, and wool. I should earn a tidy sum when she pays me for this.” Her hand flourished over the wagon bed, where Matthew had covered the contents with a canvas tarp.

  “I need your help today, son, to set soybeans. In fact, I could use both of you.” Simon grabbed the other horse’s leather lead.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Pa,” Matthew said, tightening the ropes on the tarp.

  Simon looked at Emma with eyes rounding like an owl’s. “You’re not going all that way by yourself. Not driving a wagon team.”

  Emma smiled patiently at her father. “Of course not. Aunt Hannah is coming with me. She needs to deliver wool too. And I’ll be happy to help you plant beans tomorrow. This nice weather is supposed to hold.”

  Simon’s brows knitted together, but he released the horses. “All right, but get your business done and come home. No dillydallying.”

  Matthew walked the team in a half circle so that the wagon was pointed down the driveway. After Simon had returned to the porch, Matthew said
with a grin, “Remember, absolutely no dillydallying.” He slapped the horse’s rump and the wagon lurched down the lane.

  Excitement began to build in Emma’s blood. They had a glorious spring day for the outing, and who knew whom they might run into in town?

  Aunt Hannah stood waiting in the yard with her bags lined up next to the driveway. Within ten minutes they had loaded her wool and were trotting down Highway 62, each woman lost in her own thoughts.

  “How’s the weaning coming, Aunt?” Emma asked after a while, hoping not to sound too pushy. Although the lambs had been promised in return for farm-sitting, they weren’t hers until the payment was made.

  “Good,” Hannah said. “Most are grazing a little, beside nursing from their mothers. Only a few have yet to acquire a taste for grass.” Hannah held the reins since she had more experience keeping the wagon on the side of the road. Emma was allowed to control the lead horse only when the road widened with a designated buggy lane.

  “Wunderbaar. I’m ever so grateful for them. I’m eager to increase my flock. Maybe next year I’ll sell some of the male babies. I wonder what price they’re fetching this year.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know, child.” Her aunt slanted her an odd look and slapped the reins against the horses’ backs.

  Emma then remembered that Hannah never sold her spring lambs to the meat processor. Once Emma had overheard Uncle Seth say, “If my wife had her way, each lamb would be named, groomed with a pink or blue ribbon round its neck, and live to a ripe old age in our pasture.”

  Emma changed the subject to her recent attempts at dye extraction. She described boiling down various combinations of roots, bark, and berries to create some interesting shades of color. Before they knew it, their wagon had reached Sugar Creek and was rumbling down the alley behind the shop known as A Stitch in Time.