A Season for Tending: Book One in the Amish Vines and Orchards Series

by Cindy Woodsmall

  Rhoda left, and Leah called her cousin. She got an earful about how Dorothy suddenly felt sick during the party and had someone take her home. Leah had serious doubts about Dorothy’s explanation. She’d probably gone off with one of the guys from the party, but Leah had no proof, so she didn’t challenge her.

  “Anyway,” Dorothy said, “I woke up worried about you, so I called your place. Samuel answered.”

  “What?” Her cousin hadn’t cared enough last night to let Leah know she was leaving, and then once the alcohol wore off, Dorothy had sobered up and realized she’d abandoned Leah. “Good grief, Dorothy. I hope you used your brain and didn’t say anything stupid.”

  “I had no idea where you were.”

  Leah’s stomach rolled, and she wished she hadn’t eaten. “I can tell you exactly where I am—in trouble, thanks to you. Now Samuel knows we didn’t camp out together, and he’ll ask where I was.”

  “Well, forgive me for being worried about you.”

  “If you’d held off calling my place, we could be talking cover stories right now.” Leah needed smarter friends, hopefully ones who had at least a few ounces of loyalty. “I gotta go.” She had the phone halfway to its cradle when Dorothy said something else. Leah put the phone back to her ear. “What now?”

  “Samuel thinks you’re missing. He’s calling every number he can think of to find you. If he doesn’t locate you soon, he may call the police.”

  Leah hung up, mumbling to herself, “Do yourself a favor and never make plans with Dorothy again.” She rubbed her aching stomach and then dialed the number for her family’s barn office. Before the first ring finished, someone picked it up.

  “Leah?” Samuel barked.

  “Ya. And I’m fine.”

  Her brother spewed angry questions mingled with half lectures for a full minute before he drew a breath. She hadn’t wanted to tell him that she woke up in someone’s garden, but during his rant he insisted she tell him where she’d slept last night.

  He sighed. “So where are you?”

  That was a good question. She looked through the papers on the homemade counter where the phone sat.

  “Leah?”

  “I’m, uh …” She moved a thick phone book and flipped through it, finding nothing useful.

  “You don’t actually know where you are, do you?” Her brother’s disgust was clear. What she wouldn’t give to leave home and never return.

  “Of course I do.” She found a sheet of paper with a header and Rhoda’s name and address on it. “You got a pencil and paper ready?”

  She shared the address, and he growled his way through telling her his plan. It was never simple to get their uncle’s driver to lend a hand in carting them around. Craig always managed to help, but it took him time to finagle it around his workday. “It could be hours, Leah. And when I arrive at this address, you’d better still be there.” He hung up.

  Leah wanted to punch out his lights, beg him to hold her, and curl into a ball and cry—all at the same time. Who had that many emotions colliding at once? Why was she such a mess? Fresh heartache pounded as she remembered Michael taking up with someone else last night.

  She left the phone shanty and spotted Rhoda picking blackberries in her garden.

  The clippety-clop of a horse and rig passing by grated on her nerves. If she could, she’d own a car and would never get into a carriage again.

  She went to the white picket fence. “My eldest brother will come get me later on.” Leah hated that her voice trembled, making her sound like a frightened child. Beyond Samuel’s anger, he sounded disappointed in her.

  Rhoda left her basket and came to the fence, her stark blue eyes studying Leah. “Are you afraid of him?”

  “He’s furious.”

  She nodded, but Leah detected genuine concern for her.

  “Why don’t you come into the garden?” Rhoda gestured toward the gate. “I’ll show you around. It’d do you good to get some exercise helping me and then to rest for a bit.”

  Leah hoped to make herself at least sound appreciative. “Sure. What all do you grow?”

  She went into the garden, and by the time the dew had dried off the ground, Leah had learned how to cut ripe strawberries from their stems and had managed to almost fill a bucket. Rhoda told her that strawberry season was supposed to be over several weeks earlier. Leah wished they were already gone for the season, but she pushed against the desire to move slowly. She needed Rhoda to give Samuel a good report. Her hands trembled as she wiped sweat from her forehead.

  Rhoda glanced at her and straightened. She’d picked several buckets of blackberries and didn’t seem bothered by the scorching heat. “Why don’t you take your container of strawberries to the cellar and set it near the sink? Then go inside and lie down.”

  Although Leah wanted nothing more than to get out of the sun and lie down, she said, “But Samuel should be here soon—”

  “It could be a while yet, and you need some rest. Besides, I’d like to talk to him for a bit before you go. My room is the second on the left at the top of the stairs.”

  Relief on both counts flooded her—to stop working and to have someone else face Samuel first when he arrived. “Denki, Rhoda.” She carried the berries to the cellar and then walked to the door of the house. The moment she went inside, she appreciated being out of the sun.

  What was Michael thinking about now? Leah went up the stairs and sprawled across Rhoda’s bed. Maybe he regretted what he’d done last night.

  Maybe he still loved her.

  Rhoda continued working the berry patch. Leah’s despair worried her. A great deal. But what could she do about her concerns—meddle in someone else’s life? A rig pulled into her driveway. She wiped her brow and headed for the buggy.

  A beardless man about her age was tying his horse to the hitching post as she approached. He turned toward her with a harsh look on his handsome face, but it faded. “You must be the woman Leah told me about on the phone.”

  “Rhoda Byler.” She extended her hand. “And you must be Samuel.”

  He removed his hat, revealing silky, straight blond hair. “I apologize for my sister’s behavior, Mrs. Byler.”

  Her heart jolted a bit. Amish men didn’t use titles like Mr. or Mrs. when talking to other Amish, but she figured he was aiming to be especially polite. His assumption that she was married annoyed her a lot more than finding a rogue teenager in her berry patch. At twenty-two years old, she was starting to be considered an old maid by the Amish community. It was so absurd she could launch into an hour’s sermon on the topic. The Amish who didn’t know her assumed she was married; those who did know her speculated that her strange ways drove off suitors or that God was so angry with her He’d taken away the blessing of marriage.

  “Please, call me Rhoda.”

  “I hope my sister hasn’t caused you too much trouble.” He spoke through gritted teeth, and she felt sorry for Leah.

  “Not at all. I’ve enjoyed her company.”

  “Really?” The disbelief on his face said more than his lone word had.

  “And she helped me with my work.”

  “My sister? Leah?” His effort to be polite didn’t hide his agitation or his skepticism that his sister was a good worker.

  “Ya.”

  He crumpled the brim of the hat in his hand. “Well, I’m glad you made her pay for her irresponsible behavior. I assure you, she’ll receive the proper consequences at home as well.”

  Rhoda cringed. “I wasn’t trying to punish her.” She wasn’t a parent—and probably never would be. Being the eighth of nine children, she’d seldom been in a position to instruct a sibling, but his viewpoint of chores and punishment going hand in hand was ridiculous.

  “It doesn’t matter. If she worked, she took it as discipline.”

  It didn’t matter? His tone concerned her, and she didn’t like the idea of Leah facing his anger once they were alone in the rig. Rhoda had to soften his irritation toward his sister. “We
all do stupid things sometimes. Especially when we’re young.” She stepped under the shade of a nearby oak tree. “Whatever she did to land here will fade with time, but your reaction as her older sibling will remain with her forever.” Rhoda turned on the spigot at the side of the house and rinsed her hands, hoping he didn’t realize that she was speaking from personal experience.

  “Good. I hope it does.”

  She turned off the water and stood up straight. “Do you? Even if that means it’ll haunt you as well as her?”

  “The only thing that will ever haunt me is my sister’s ridiculous behavior. She knows better than to follow her wants and feelings.”

  “If everyone who knew better always made the right decisions, we’d all be saints, wouldn’t we? And I’m not. Are you?”

  Samuel frowned, looking less patient by the moment. “I’d like to take my sister home now.”

  “She’s resting in my bedroom.” An idea came to her, but it’d require inviting him to stay longer. She didn’t want to spend more time with this gruff man, but if she could convince him not to be rough on Leah, she’d at least feel as if she’d done what she could for the girl. “Do you have any interest in horticulture?”

  “Excuse me?” Samuel clearly bristled.

  “Horticulture. Plant cultivation.”

  “I know what it is, but your question came out of nowhere.”

  “Sorry, I tend to do that. I thought if you had any interest in the topic, you might like to see my berry patch before you leave.”

  She thought she detected a little curiosity, so she went across the driveway, expecting him to follow her, which he did. She went to the white picket fence and opened the gate.

  “How large a tract of land do you have?”

  It was his first question void of frustration.

  “A little over an acre. I take care of most everything myself, from planting all the way to canning and selling. I have a hired helper who comes a couple of evenings a week and on Saturdays. His specialty is getting the canned goods packaged and to the stores.”

  “When do you find time to tend to your family?” His brown eyes studied her, full of inquisitiveness. And honesty. He didn’t have enough information yet to form a complete opinion, but that was his goal—to know, to decide who she was or wasn’t. She could feel that and see it in his eyes.

  “They take care of me. Not that I require much other than food on the table at mealtime.”

  He angled his head, looking confused. If her goal hadn’t been to relieve the tension in him so he’d feel kinder toward Leah, she wouldn’t answer his question. What right did he have to determine if she lined up with his ideals of being righteous?

  “I live with my parents.”

  “Oh.” He seemed relieved that her husband wasn’t cooking while she spent her days working the berry patch. “My family has an apple orchard. We—”

  “Really?” Finally neutral ground, a topic they could chat about. “My great-great-Mammi used to have ten or so apple trees about where the barn sits now, from what I can tell by her diaries. It wasn’t an orchard, mind you, but she created some of the best recipes for apple goods you can imagine. She baked while her little ones slept, and she set up a roadside stand on her property to sell her goods while the children played outside.”

  “So it’s in your blood.”

  “It is. Yours too, I imagine.”

  “Feels like it drives me rather than the other way around. But I love it.”

  She soaked in the sense of comradeship on this topic, surprised at how pleasant it was to speak to another fruit grower. “I’m sure your family has some great apple recipes.”

  “Ya.” He looked a little unsure. “They’re good, but it’d be interesting to see the ones your great-great-Mammi left behind.” Without any doubt he meant what he said, and she realized that’s who he was. He said too much at times, but when he spoke, it came from his heart. He had a lot less pretense than most, and she could see the value in it. She imagined his honest ways butted strongly against Leah’s sneaking around.

  “I’d show you the recipes now if I knew where to find them.” Her brothers had boxed up a ton of things while trying to make room for Steven and his family to move in with them a few years ago. They’d stored all the items somewhere, and she’d yet to find Mammi Byler’s recipes. She’d have to start looking again.

  Samuel walked the rows, studying her plants. “Our orchard has had some good years and some not so good, but your plants are hanging thick with fruit.”

  “Denki. God’s blessed this patch of ground so much that it almost keeps me too busy. Fourteen-hour days, six days a week.”

  “Every year?”

  “Ya.”

  “What’s your secret?”

  Rhoda never discussed her methods with strangers. No one ever asked, and she didn’t want to raise additional speculations if people found the idea of putting fish guts in the soil weird. Before she answered him, she wanted to know something. “Does Leah help with the work in the orchard?”

  “No. We don’t need that kind of help.”

  “What kind? A girl’s?”

  His eyes searched hers before he started down the row of raspberry trellises, gingerly touching the ripe fruit. Behind his bristly exterior she saw someone who enjoyed working the land and bringing things to life as much as she did, and her heart murmured with excitement. Leah seemed fragmented and confused about life, but Samuel appeared whole and focused. Maybe a little misguided when it came to his sister, and he probably saw life as distinctly black and white, right and wrong, but she suspected he was dedicated and loyal. And painfully honest, the one trait she admired above all others.

  “If you’ll help me pick some berries, I’ll let you in on some of my secrets.”

  His half grin told her she had his attention. “You’ve got a deal.”

  “Have you ever picked blueberries?”

  “My fruit-picking experience is limited to apples.”

  She led him to the patch and handed him a small metal bucket. “Hold this under a bush with one hand, and with the other hand cup a ripe bunch and gently rub them with your fingers. The ripe berries will drop into your bucket, and the unripe ones will remain attached to the bush.”

  He tackled the task with the eagerness of a little boy learning to play catch.

  She grabbed another bucket and worked alongside him. “I put some rather unusual things in my compost.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, fish for one thing.”

  “Real fish, not fertilizer with fish in it?”

  “The real thing.”

  “Makes sense, I guess. Native Americans were doing that generations ago. Where do you get the fish?”

  “I tried catching them in the local lakes, but I couldn’t stand the thought of killing them myself. So I struck a deal with the local market that sells my canned goods. They give me fish that are past their sell date, and I bring them the first canned goods of the harvest. That has provided me a greater variety of fish, and with a little trial and error, I’ve figured out which fish work best.”

  He set down his bucket and stretched. “Interesting.” His relaxed expression put her at ease. “What else?”

  He was business minded for sure, but he talked to her as an equal. She hadn’t expected that. “Herbs.”

  He frowned. “Herbs?”

  “I used to grow beds of them for seasoning food and for their medicinal qualities. One year I had more than I needed for everyday uses, so rather than letting them go to waste, I put them in the mulch. The next year my crops did a lot better. So I began experimenting by adding other things.”

  “What other things?”

  She nodded at his bucket, and he returned to picking blueberries. “I get hair clippings from the local barber shop. But animal hair works better.”

  “Seriously?”

  “And bee droppings have proven quite effective.”

  He laughed. “How in the world do you get that
?”

  “By placing a mesh net below my uncle’s beehives.”

  He scratched his jaw. “I bring at least twenty hives onto my property every pollination season, but I’ve never thought about using their droppings for anything.”

  Rhoda watched him work as he mulled this over. She’d not had the privilege of knowing how fun it was to discuss her horticultural ideas with someone who understood and appreciated them—and didn’t consider them proof that she was off her rocker. “Animal urine does wonders as well.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I want to ask how you get that.”

  She tossed a shriveled blueberry at him. “Strapping a bucket under a horse for a few hours provides a lot.”

  He laughed, and she joined in. “So, animal urine, human hair, bee droppings … What, no eye of a lizard? Bat wings? Whiskers from a black cat?”

  Her laughter stuck in her throat. How foolish she was to think that someone would see her as innovative rather than as simply odd. She dumped her half-full bucket into the basket and started to pick it up.

  He stepped forward. “I’ll get that. Where to?”

  His eyes indicated that he hadn’t meant to suggest she was doing anything unnatural, nor did he realize he had. She motioned toward her workshop. “The cellar.”

  They left the berry patch and were soon going down the steps to her underground room.

  He set the basket on the counter. “Interesting place.” He looked around. “Tight quarters, though.”

  “This is where I do most of my cleaning, packaging, and canning.”

  “I think it’s admirable that you care so much about your harvest you’re willing to try new things. If I don’t have a better harvest this year than I did last year, I’ll be looking for horses to strap buckets to.”

  His humor caught her off guard, and she broke into laughter while plucking stray stems off the berries. “Two springs ago it rained nearly every day during pollination season. I remember. My blackberries suffered the most.”

  “Kept the bees from being able to pollinate, and then the ground was sopping wet for nearly two months. But we have a lot of tiny apples hanging on the trees this year.”