Willow: Bride of Pennsylvania (American Mail-Order Brides 2)

by Merry Farmer

  Amos’s eyes went wide at the sight of her. His mouth dropped open and his already ruddy cheeks reddened more. It was the tender spark in his eyes that sent Willow’s heart beating to her throat, though.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said before he recovered himself. “I was cleaning, and I thought this room could use a good airing.”

  He dragged his eyes away from her to the bed. Sparks of surprise and pain and longing flashed through his eyes, and he stepped forward, walking to the bed and picking up a worn, wooden horse.

  “These are my things,” he said, voice rough. He turned the horse over in his hands, running his palm along the smooth wood of the animal’s side. His brow tilted up for a moment before coming crashing down. “These are my things,” he repeated, harsher, his voice rough. “You had no right to touch them.”

  “I—” Willow had no idea what to say. She backed against the bureau, reaching out a hand to steady herself. There she was, on the verge of ruining things yet again, but her heart was full to bursting. She had to say something. “They’re so beautiful. They should be out, not put away where no one can see them.”

  To her shock, Amos leaned over the bed, scooping the quilt and everything in it into a bundle in his arms. He plopped it all in the chest—which Willow had left open—then shut the lid. Its resounding thunk made Willow flinch.

  “I don’t want to see any of these things. I put them away for a reason. They’re the past and deserve to be forgotten.”

  Willow blinked rapidly, waiting for her breath to return. The way Amos looked at her—or rather looked at the clothes she was wearing—made her wonder if he would bundle her up and stuff her in a chest now too. Underneath her fear, something far more solid and determined pushed to get out.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She stepped away from the bureau. “These things are a part of who you are, whether it’s the past or not, and they belong in this house, where everyone can see them. Can’t you feel it?”

  “No,” he answered without hesitation. He marched past her toward the hall. “Take that dress off and put it away.”

  “But I like these clothes,” she insisted, following him to the hall, then down the stairs to the main room, its fireplace snapping merrily.

  “They were my sister Susan’s clothes,” he said without looking at her as he paced into the main room. “She put them away for a reason. She didn’t want to be reminded either.”

  “Reminded of what? That she was raised a certain way?”

  Amos turned on her. “The past is the past and should stay there.”

  He was angry, intimidating. His shoulders bunched and his eyes flashed with emotion. But Willow wasn’t afraid. She knew she was right, for a change.

  “I want to go over to the Lapp’s this afternoon to apologize to Beth,” she said, sounding more determined than she ever had in her life.

  “There’s no need.” Amos shook his head.

  “I think there is.”

  “For one thing, it wasn’t your fault,” he pushed on. “When someone else behaves spitefully toward you, you’re not the one who needs to apologize.”

  “But—”

  “For another thing, Mark was already over here this morning. So there’s no need for you to go there.”

  Willow frowned. A piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Mark had upset Amos somehow. That’s why he was angry, not because of her. “What did Mark have to say?”

  “He said—” Amos stopped. He ran a hand over his face, then through his hair. If ever there was a man with a troubled soul, it was her husband. “It doesn’t really matter. The whole incident last night was a mistake. We never should have gone over there.”

  She shook her head. “Beth and Mark were trying to be nice, to include someone they see as an old friend who just started a new chapter of his life.”

  “What they saw was someone who needed a reminder of everything they’re not,” Amos contradicted her.

  “Do you really believe that?” She planted her hands on her hips. The fabric of her Amish dress stretched across her shoulders and arms.

  Amos stared at her. He didn’t answer. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, like a caged animal that wanted to be let out. His hair stood up in spikes where he’d run his hands through it, and a dusting of dirt from his farm made him look worn and older than he was.

  He took a few deep breaths, then said, “I would appreciate it if you would put my family’s things back where they belong,” in deep, patient tones. “I don’t want to think about the past. I want to think about the future, our future.”

  Willow pressed her lips shut over the reply she wanted to make. What kind of a future did they have if the past lurked in every corner, unresolved?

  Still, he was her husband, and she owed him at least some sort of respect.

  Even if he was wrong.

  “I’m sorry to have upset you,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her, wondering if he would notice that she didn’t address his request or make any promises.

  “It’s not your fault,” he mumbled, lowering his head, clearly still tied in knots. “I need to get back to work.”

  He walked past her, heading for the kitchen. She turned when their shoulders brushed.

  “Perhaps when you’ve finished what you’re working on now, you should think about mending fences,” she said, shocked by her own boldness.

  He froze, then turned to stare at her. For a change, she couldn’t read the emotion in his eyes, as bright as it shone.

  “I’ve been married to you long enough now to have seen that you have some fences in dire need of being mended.”

  She held her breath. Would he be angry with her? Would he shout at her or scold her? Would he figure out some way to undo their marriage and send her back—back to a life where she would always wonder if the disaster that had affected so many was her fault?

  “I have work to do,” he repeated, quieter, and marched out of the room.

  When she heard the kitchen door bang shut, Willow let out a breath. She pressed her hand to her stomach. Her eyes drifted up—up to the room that held Amos’s family things, his Amish things. She had a choice to make. Did she do as he’d asked and pack everything away as though that part of him had never existed, or did she defy his wishes to do what she knew in her heart was best for him?

  Chapter Seven

  Dear Gillian, Emma, and Rose,

  Well, I should have figured. In trying to make things better, I’m afraid I’ve made them so much worse. Amos has been stewing for days. But at the same time I can’t help but feel as though we’ve taken a step forward, small though it is. And I certainly can’t give up. In my heart, I know what’s right….

  A few days passed, and Willow still hadn’t decided the best course of action. As much as she knew that things couldn’t go on the way they’d been, Amos seemed so exhausted at the end of each day, so somber in the mornings, that she couldn’t bring herself to defy him.

  At least, not yet.

  “Maybe we should give Amos a little more time,” she said to Dusty as he devoured scraps of meat from the stew Willow was cooking for supper. “After all, in a way, he took my advice.”

  She glanced out the kitchen window. On the far side of the property, close to the road, she could just barely make out Amos and one of his hired hands nailing replacement rails into the fence that marked the far end of the pasture where the cows were kept. He was mending fences after all, though she hadn’t intended for her words to be taken so literally.

  “I suppose it needs to be done as much as any of the other farm work.” She sent Dusty a doubtful look. The cat glanced briefly up at her before sitting back on her haunches to wash her face. “Hmm, I think so too.” She nodded at her companion’s air of misgiving.

  From her apron pocket, Willow took out the card with a recipe for apple cobbler that Beth had picked out of the box in the pantry more than a week ago. She hadn’t had the chance to attempt it yet, but since her cooking skills
were getting better every day—and since Amos had brought in a large basket of apples when he’d returned home, tired and grubby, the day before—it seemed like a good time to give it a go. Besides, if she had something to sweeten Amos’s plate, maybe she’d be able to sweeten his disposition too.

  But as she peeled and sliced the apples and laid them out in a sturdy baking dish, her mind grew restless. Attempting new recipes had been much more fun last week with Beth there by her side. Furthermore, her dear friend Rose would have been much better at finding the best way to layer the apple slices to make sure that every bite of cobbler was as juicy as possible. Working alone sent an impatient itch down her back.

  That thought only served to tug her mind back to the letters her friends in Lawrence had sent to her. She bit her lip as she mixed flour, eggs, butter, and sugar in a bowl to make the cobbler topping. Rose and Emma and Gillian were getting along well enough. Rose and Emma had been scanning The Grooms’ Gazette, insisting it was only an amusement and that they were not looking for husbands of their own. Gillian was more serious about love, and had found a man who seemed like a good match, a lighthouse-keeper in Maine. If Willow was there with them, she could offer advice, though whether it would help or not, she had no idea. At least they’d be proud of the fact that she could keep the fire in her stove lit without having heart palpitations as she remembered the fire in the factory now.

  That thought led her to check to be sure the fire was hot enough for the cobbler. She checked the fire box, opened the oven door, and when she was certain everything was as it should be, she said, “I’ll be certain to use the thickest cloth in the kitchen to handle hot dishes from now on and not to let it stray too close to the flames. We wouldn’t want a repeat of Wednesday night, would we?”

  She straightened and glanced around, half expecting a friendly face to be there to answer her. But no, not even Dusty was with her in the kitchen. The only thing that greeted her was the whooshing of a gust of wind against the window.

  Willow sighed. The gray sky outside the house was threatening, like rain would beat down any minute. At least that would be something to listen to. She laughed and shook her head at herself as she picked up her mixing spoon and returned to making the cobbler. When she’d first arrived at Amos’s house, she’d been so happy to have peace and quiet. Now she would have done anything to hear a little chatter, to have a friend to talk to. Letters were one thing, but nothing was quiet like the fellowship that came from friendly neighbors and—

  “Oh!” She stopped mixing the cobbler and peeked at the recipe card. “Cinnamon. I don’t think I saw any cinnamon in the pantry.”

  She sent a long, mischievous glance to the half-opened pantry door, but stayed right where she was.

  “Well then, I suppose I’ll just have to walk over the hill and borrow some from Beth.”

  She knew she was silly to speak her thoughts aloud to an empty house. On the other hand, no one could accuse her of not telling anyone where she was going. The house knew.

  Without waiting to have second thoughts, Willow skipped to the kitchen door and plucked the cloak Amos had found for her in the attic from its peg. She threw it around her shoulders and rushed out into the blustery afternoon. The Lapp’s farm was only a fifteen minute walk if she took the path that cut through the woods instead of going over the hill or around by the road. Amos wasn’t due to come in from work for hours yet. The house was snug and secure, and cobbler couldn’t possibly be made without cinnamon.

  But most of all, whether she was willing to admit it outright or not, Willow just wanted to see her friend again. She’d ask Beth for a bit of cinnamon, but then she’d linger, asking how the family was doing, apologizing for the trouble of Wednesday, then oh-so subtly seeking out Beth’s opinion about what to do with Amos’s family things that were packed away in the spare room. Yes, it was going against Amos’s expressed wishes, but when those wishes were wrong and unhelpful….

  The wind was stronger than Willow had judged it to be. As she scurried along the narrow path through the woods—a path that was so grown over in some places that she had to pick her way through thick undergrowth and around the bubbling creek to find it again—it pulled at her cloak and hair. The air smelled damp too, as though it would rain any moment. The whole picture sent Willow’s heart thumping.

  It was a relief to step out on the other side of the woods and to hurry up a gentle slope toward the Lapp’s house. The clouds were growing darker overhead, enough to make Willow wonder if this was a good idea after all.

  She was halfway to deciding to turn back and look for cinnamon in the pantry after all, when a call of, “Mrs. Stoltzfus” caught her attention from the top of the hill.

  Willow looked up to find Sarah Lapp skipping down the hillside toward her. She wore a dark green dress and black apron—not unlike the one Willow had found in Amos’s bureau—and a bright smile in contrast to the stormy day.

  “Sarah, what are you doing out here? It looks like it’s about to rain.” Willow rushed the rest of the way up the hill to meet her young friend.

  Sarah wrapped her arms around Willow in an enthusiastic hug as they met. “Mamm said I was getting under foot and trying her patience, so she sent me to see if there were any blackberries on the bush. See?” She held up a small container with a few, overripe berries. “Do you want to come find the rest with me?”

  Willow glanced up at the sky, all of the certainty in her mission to find some company and seek some advice gone. “I’m not sure this is the best time for berry picking,” she said, squeezing Sarah’s shoulder.

  “I know. That’s why Mamm said I should stay in the back yard and zip inside when I felt the first raindrops.” She smiled, tilted her head to the side, and said. “You’re just like my mamm. You know what’s right and wrong too.”

  Willow laughed, but a part of her pinched with guilt. Would a good mother rush off in the middle of making cobbler just because she wanted some company? Would a good wife stubbornly disobey her husband’s orders not to interact with the neighbors or tell them his business?

  “I hope that someday soon I’ll be a mamm too,” she said, not knowing how else to sort through the sudden jumble of her thoughts. It was just like the times when the bobbin would tangle on her sewing machine in the middle of working on a complex order at the factory. No, maybe this was the wrong time for a visit after all.

  A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, underscoring her thought.

  “I think it’s time we both head home,” she told Sarah. “I shouldn’t have come this far on a stormy day anyhow.”

  “Why did you come?” Sarah asked, all innocence and curiosity. “To see me? I miss seeing you.”

  “I miss you too, sweetheart.” Willow relaxed into a smile, kissing Sarah’s forehead. “But no, I was hoping to talk to your mamm for a few minutes about something.”

  “About what?” Sarah asked on.

  Willow hesitated. “About doing the right thing, I guess. But it’s a little late for that.”

  “Mamm keeps telling Dat that it’s never too late to do the right thing,” Sarah announced proudly. “I hear her say that all the time. She says it’s never too late to come home either.”

  “She said that?” Willow’s heart filled with hope.

  “Mmm hmm,” Sarah hummed. “She said that she hopes you and Mr. Stoltzfus will come home. I thought you were already home, though.”

  A smile spread across Willow’s face for half a dozen reasons at once. She had friends who would support her, even if they weren’t right there in her kitchen at every moment. More than that, Amos had true friends that would help her to help him put aside the sadness of his past to find the happiness he deserved. It wasn’t cinnamon, but Willow had gotten exactly the thing she needed from her neighbors.

  “Oh, I think I feel the first raindrops. Time to go inside,” she told Sarah, giving her shoulder one final squeeze.

  “Can I come over to your house?” Sarah asked, voice high and hop
eful. “I want to see Dusty.”

  Thunder rumbled, still in the distance, but louder.

  “Today isn’t a good day, sweetheart,” Willow told her. Not only was the weather about to turn, she had a feeling her life was about to turn with it. She knew what she needed to do, and now she had the courage of conviction to go ahead and do it.

  “But I want to come visit you,” Sarah pouted. “It’s been days and days and days.”

  “I know it has,” Willow apologized. “And we’ll visit again soon. For now, I bet your mamm is looking for you.”

  Willow kissed Sarah one more time, then turned and skipped off down the hill and into the woods. Her body and soul filled with confidence. Amos was putting too much stock in things that had happened over a decade ago. He was just a young boy then, and even though he was a man now, his hurt was as sharp and fresh as that boy’s. But she could show him. She could help him to see that the way home was ready for him if he was ready for it.

  She pushed her way through the woods, focused more on getting home than on the wilderness around her. The stream bubbled, and as she passed, she slipped on a stretch of loose dirt. Flailing, she let out a yelp, but caught her balance in the nick of time and prevented herself from taking a spill. There were so many gnarled branches and hidden roots that she was surprised she didn’t fall two or three times more as she dashed through the other half of the forest and out into Amos’s fields.

  By the time she made it back to the house, a light rain was falling. The kitchen was warm and smelled of apples and welcome. She hung her cloak on a peg, then did what she should have done all along and checked in the pantry for cinnamon. Sure enough, a small jar was tucked away on the back of one of the shelves. She added it to the cobbler mixture, spread the topping in place, then transferred the dish to the oven. Then she rushed upstairs to do what she now had the courage to do.