The Tinderbox

by Beverly Lewis

  Books by Beverly Lewis

  The Tinderbox

  The First Love • The Road Home

  The Proving • The Ebb Tide

  The Wish • The Atonement

  The Photograph • The Love Letters

  The River

  HOME TO HICKORY HOLLOW

  The Fiddler • The Bridesmaid

  The Guardian • The Secret Keeper

  The Last Bride

  THE ROSE TRILOGY

  The Thorn • The Judgment

  The Mercy

  ABRAM’S DAUGHTERS

  The Covenant • The Betrayal

  The Sacrifice • The Prodigal

  The Revelation

  THE HERITAGE OF LANCASTER COUNTY

  The Shunning • The Confession

  The Reckoning

  ANNIE’S PEOPLE

  The Preacher’s Daughter

  The Englisher • The Brethren

  THE COURTSHIP OF NELLIE FISHER

  The Parting • The Forbidden

  The Longing

  SEASONS OF GRACE

  The Secret • The Missing

  The Telling

  The Postcard • The Crossroad

  The Redemption of Sarah Cain

  Sanctuary (with David Lewis)

  Child of Mine (with David Lewis)

  The Sunroom • October Song

  Beverly Lewis Amish Romance Collection

  Amish Prayers

  The Beverly Lewis Amish Heritage Cookbook

  The Beverly Lewis Amish Coloring Book

  www.beverlylewis.com

  © 2019 by Beverly M. Lewis, Inc.

  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 2019

  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.

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

  ISBN 978-1-4934-1755-1

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

  This story 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 any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

  Art direction by Paul Higdon

  To

  Claudia Ferrin Muniz,

  sweet friend and partner

  in prayer.

  Contents

  Cover

  Half Title Page

  Books by Beverly Lewis

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  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

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  Epilogue

  The Millers’ Story Continues . . .

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  That Time could turn up his swift sandy glass,

  To untell the days, and to redeem these hours.

  —Thomas Heywood

  Prologue

  My earliest recollection of Dat was of going with him to Root’s Country Market when I was no taller than a buggy wheel and surprised to see so many fancy folk there. It was the first time I’d asked about his other life as an Englischer, before he came to Hickory Hollow. He was mum for a while, then hemmed and hawed a bit, seemingly reluctant to say much.

  We wandered from one produce stand to another as I finally got up the courage to ask, “Do ya ever miss bein’ fancy, Dat?”

  “Miss living out in the world?” He glanced down at me, grinning. “Well, one thing’s for sure, I can’t imagine missing out on you, Sylvie.”

  I giggled as we proceeded through the crowded marketplace. Ach, I couldn’t have been happier to be his little girl—the firstborn and the apple of Dat’s eye. Most Amish families I knew had oodles of girls, but in our family, there was only me.

  ———

  Now, at eighteen, I sometimes contemplated that long-ago conversation, wondering why my father still seemed reluctant to discuss his past. I’ve marveled at his ability to accept the Old Ways so readily, considering his modern upbringing. Hadn’t it been hard for him to leave it behind? Mamma says it’s like he was born to be Amish. Maybe so, but all the same, I wished I knew something more about his family.

  Just now, finishing my kitchen chores, I stepped barefoot out the back door, waving to my father coming across the newly planted field of sweet corn. Walking quickly, he waved back and headed toward his clockmaker’s shop, the House of Time, a structure separate from the main house. There, he made timepieces large and small, not only for our Plain folk but for Englischers, too. Some customers traveled from as far as Philly and Pittsburgh after word spread through the years that Dat was a fine workman and his integrity second to none.

  Moving toward the porch steps, I called, “Busy day?”

  “Jah, but never too fleissich for my Sylvie-girl,” he said, blending his English and Deitsch as he sometimes did. Grinning, he removed his corn silk–colored straw hat, revealing that his dark brown bowl cut was in need of Mamma’s scissors.

  Following him over to what had always been his work haven, as well as a small showroom, I found myself in the area where old and new clocks lined the walls and where clock parts filled shelves; an array of tools for the exacting work he was so well-known for were on his work desk and organized in cupboards nearby. In this cozy yet cluttered room, complete with its own small fireplace, Dat had worked from early morning to suppertime, and occasionally into the evening, for as long as I remembered. Sometimes, when the work was especially intricate, he hummed unfamiliar melodies while leaning close to the clock in hand, his black-rimmed magnifying loupe pressed to his right eye, his left eye squeezed shut. And all the while, the pendulums swung, and the clocks ticked their familiar pulse in this magical place.

  Dat took his seat on the wooden swivel chair and gave me an appraising look. “Itching to tell me something, Dochder?”

  Nodding, I said, “Susie Zook stopped by earlier while I was shaking out rugs.” I hoped that what I was about to disclose wasn’t news to him. “Preacher Zook’s taken a turn for the worse.”

  My father lowered his head briefly and sighed. “I just returned from seeing Mahlon.” Raising his head, Dat gave me a thoughtful, sad look. “The poor man is suffering.”

  The potential loss of Preacher Mahlon Zook seemed to trouble Dat more than I would have expected, given the minister’s seventy-seven years on earth.

  Even s
o, one of the many things I loved about my father was his attentiveness . . . and his patience. For instance, when I was very little, he would sweep me into his lap and listen while I made up a story for him, not yet able to read the picture book in his hand—the one he was waiting to read to me. “Tell me more,” he would say again and again, smiling encouragingly and raising his eyebrows at my tales. Oh, I could have sat there forever while Dat listened patiently.

  But I wasn’t the only one who clamored for his attention. Dat was also highly sought after amongst the People; there were many who came for his assistance. Generous beyond belief, he was always so eager to help anyone in need. Why, according to my beau, Titus Kauffman, even some of the ministers looked up to Dat. To think Dat had come as a seeker when he first set foot on fertile Amish soil more than twenty years ago, and now he was known as one of the most upstanding church members in all of Hickory Hollow! For several years now, he had even assisted Deacon Luke Peachey with the alms fund.

  Leaning against the work desk, where I’d stood so often as a little girl watching his nimble fingers at work, I glanced at the shelves above. Once, when I was just seven, I had stood barefoot on this very surface, stretching high on tiptoes to reach the old brass tinderbox on the top shelf. Like a hen warming eggs, Dat’s family heirloom always nested in the same spot. And it was always locked.

  While I remember asking about the beautiful tinderbox that day when I was so young, I had often wondered why it was kept locked. If fire-starting material was needed, shouldn’t it be at the ready?

  My father had once warned me never to snoop, and Mamma had cautioned my childish curiosity. “Ain’t your business, Sylvie. Besides,”—and here she’d looked me straight in the eye—“how do ya know it’s locked?”

  I kept mum about my efforts to pry it open; I’d even shaken the scuffed-brass treasure that had so tempted me. Nee, I just scrunched up my little face at Mamma like I couldn’t remember, hoping she wouldn’t ask more.

  And in spite of my silence, Mamma leaned down and kissed my forehead. “You’ve never been a Duppmeiser, Sylvia,” she said. “Now’s not the time to start.”

  Eleven years had come and gone since that embarrassing day. And I had been mindful to heed Dat’s warning.

  Presently, Dat reached for a mantel clock and studied the back of its case. “Is there something more on your mind, Sylvie?” he asked as he reached for a specific tool. “Dirk Jameson’s dropping by soon, so I should prob’ly make sure his clock’s keeping perfect time.” Dat glanced at me.

  I quickly told him that Titus Kauffman and I had been courting for nearly a year now. After all, Dat had likely put it together already, and he was often the first person I wanted to share with, even before Mamma at times.

  “Des gut . . . Titus is a fine young man,” Dat said approvingly.

  I glowed inwardly, happy with his response.

  “I’ll be over for supper right on the dot,” he said, still tinkering with the clock. “Be sure to tell your Mamma.”

  “Okay.” Moving toward the open door, I slipped out to the side porch just in time to see Bishop John Beiler, the blacksmith, pull up in his enclosed carriage.

  The man of God climbed out and immediately tied his mare to the hitching post. Waving at me, he smiled and hurried up the walkway lined with pink tulips toward Dat’s shop. “Wie geht’s, Sylvia?”

  I replied in Deitsch that I was fine and glad to see him. He’ll likely tie the knot for Titus and me come November, I thought, my face warming at the possibility.

  “How’s your hardworkin’ Dat?” Bishop Beiler inquired.

  “Keepin’ real busy.” I smiled and motioned toward the shop, guessing he was here to pay Dat a visit. “By the way, there’s a fresh pitcher of root beer in the fridge. Care for some?”

  “You’re as thoughtful as your father.” Bishop nodded, his blue-gray eyes twinkling. “And bring a tall glass for your Dat, too.”

  Agreeing, I went over to the back door of the utility room, then through the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen. There, Mamma was wiping her face with her white work apron, smiling-happy to see me.

  “Bishop’s come to see Dat,” I said, also mentioning the offered root beer.

  Mamma turned back to the counter, where she was grating cabbage for slaw. “I hope he’s not bringin’ worse news ’bout Preacher Zook.”

  “Well, he didn’t look glum, if that’s what ya mean.” I poured the root beer and told Mamma I’d be right back to help. “Oh, and Dat says he’ll be on time for supper.”

  Mamma laughed softly. “We’ll see ’bout that.”

  As I carried the two tumblers of root beer out the door, I smiled fondly, thinking how caught up in his work my father often was—able to repair any clock to perfect running order. But now I wished I’d also revealed how much Titus reminded me of him—the most wonderful man I knew.

  When the time’s right, I’ll tell him.

  CHAPTER

  One

  It was the first day of May in Hickory Hollow, and the sky was so bright Rhoda Miller wished she owned a pair of sunglasses. Thanks to the warmest spring in years, farmers had already planted both their sweet corn and their field corn.

  Rhoda was not only delighted with the gorgeous weather, she was also excited about celebrating the twentieth anniversary of her engagement to dearest Earnest. Just two weeks away, on Ascension Day, she thought, trying to imagine what her husband might have in store to surprise her, not sure how he could top what he’d gotten last year—an antique Dutch cupboard made in 1742. And then there was the year before, when he had custom made a lovely cherrywood grandfather clock. It was almost as if their engagement anniversary was somehow more important than their actual wedding date in mid-November. But she knew better. Unlike folk who were born and raised Plain, Earnest just had his own unique way of doing certain things.

  Smiling at the memory of the whirlwind Earnest Miller had caused in her life more than two decades ago, Rhoda finished her preparations for supper while Sylvia took the ice-cold root beer to Earnest’s shop. Rhoda let herself daydream about their very special relationship, feeling blessed beyond her fondest hopes by her wonderful man.

  From their first meeting, brown-eyed Earnest had had such a winning way, quickly gaining her trust, as well as that of every church member, including the ministerial brethren. He had even gotten approval from Preacher Zook and Bishop John to join church after only a single year of Proving, during which he’d learned the Ordnung, as well as such necessary skills as how to hitch a road horse to a carriage and carpentry skills to help with barn raisings and whatnot.

  Who would’ve thought an Englischer would make such a fine Amish husband? she thought.

  With Ernie Jr. and Adam over helping the neighbor bring in the cows for the late-afternoon milking, and Calvin and Tommy out in their own barn, Tommy milking Flossie, the kitchen was too quiet. Has it ever been this still? Oddly, Rhoda could almost hear the silence, and she moved toward the screen door to stand there for a moment.

  Just then, she heard Earnest talking with the bishop out on the porch. Doubtless both men were concerned about Preacher Zook’s fragile state. She prayed silently, asking God to carry the faithful minister safely over Jordan when the time came. And to help his wife and family cope with the great loss. Bring comfort and peace to the People, she thought, not adding anything for herself. After all, she had much to be thankful for in a close-knit family, five healthy children, an attentive and loving spouse, and plenty of customers for his clock-making business. Rhoda’s prayers were for others’ needs—body, mind, and spirit. She believed the Lord God and heavenly Father expected nothing less of her.

  While the pork chops topped with mounds of stuffing baked in the middle of the gas oven, she washed her hands at the sink and set the table, still counting her numerous blessings . . . this hand-crafted table, for one. As a teenager, she had secretly coveted the table made years before by her great-uncle. Then, lo and behold, when he passed away, th
e table was bestowed on Rhoda’s Mamm, who later offered it to Rhoda after Mamm became a widow and pared down to move into the Dawdi Haus at Rhoda’s eldest sister’s.

  It’ll belong to Sylvia someday, Rhoda thought, wondering if the spring in her daughter’s step meant there was a special fellow. If so, Earnest might have to surprise Rhoda with a different table. Either that or have a new one made for Sylvia’s wedding present.

  Who might be courting her? Rhoda mused as she poured cold water into a large pitcher, since most of the root beer had gone to her husband and the bishop just now. Goodness, she’d felt downright jumpy off and on all day, thinking of Preacher Zook so near death’s door. She was glad Earnest had gone to see him, close as the two friends had been all these years. Even longer than Earnest and I have been together. . . .

  “Mahlon wants you to come alongside his family when he passes,” John Beiler told Earnest in the privacy of the clock showroom. After drinking their fill of root beer, they had moved inside from the porch for this private conversation.

  Earnest pushed his hand through his dark beard, feeling awkward hearing this while his friend still drew breath.

  Bishop John looked toward the only window in the room, then returned his gaze to Earnest, a solemn smile crossing his wrinkled face. “Mahlon trusts ya like a Bruder.”

  “I’d say the same about him,” Earnest admitted. From their first encounter, his friendship with Mahlon had come about effortlessly. Mahlon had been the one to usher Earnest into the community of the People so long ago. The two men had never argued that Earnest recalled—never even spoken a cross word. Rare for any friendship, let alone for two men brought up in such vastly different cultures. And now Mahlon lay dying. My closest friend, Earnest thought with a great sigh.

  Bishop John stayed around a few more minutes, then mentioned the batch of horseshoes he must finish making before day’s end. Without saying more about Mahlon, he turned to leave.

  He’s already missing his other preacher, thought Earnest, returning his focus to Dirk Jameson’s contrary clock. Dirk would be arriving in ten short minutes, and once the transaction was complete, Earnest would head over to supper with his wife and their children.