“Perfect,” she said. “Now, you wait out here for a couple minutes. Please don’t leave.”
He was genuinely surprised that it mattered to her if he stayed. “Okay.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He waited on the bench for a few minutes before she came out.
“You’ll like what I’ve done with your roses,” she said. “We were missing something important for our grand opening. Come and see.”
Against his better judgment, he followed her inside where all the music and laughter was. Where there was warmth and good friends enjoying themselves. Where he did not belong and never had.
As they came inside, someone turned off the music. Rachel stood on top of a bench and called for everyone’s attention.
“Everyone in town knows what happened in the bank across the street twenty years ago. A drifter by the name of Carl Bateman shot and killed my father. Six weeks ago, that same man put his own life in danger to save my life and the lives of my son and his friend, Ezra. I want everyone to know that, regardless of what might have happened in the past, this is Carl Bateman. He is a good man…and he is my friend!”
Carl was stunned. He had never imagined anything like this.
He felt a small tug at his shirtsleeve and glanced down to see Bobby standing beside him.
In as loud of a voice as Bobby could muster, he said, “And he’s my friend too!”
The room burst into applause. And as the applause swelled around him, Carl’s eyes sought Peggy’s. She was smiling, with tears streaming down her face, and he knew at that moment he would never be on the outside looking in again.
“We wondered when you’d finally get around to showing up!” George shouted as the applause died down. Everyone laughed and resettled.
Rachel pointed around at the tables—all twelve of which were decorated with a single red rose. “I forgot to order flowers. Thanks for helping out. Now let’s get you something to eat. Joe makes a really good burger.”
As Rachel led him to the table where a place had been laid beside Peggy, Bertha reached out to Carl. He paused and grabbed her hand, and they looked into each other’s eyes with so many words unspoken. Words that did not need to be said. She knew, and he knew, that the forgiveness she had fought so hard to achieve over the years had been the key that ultimately led to this great healing.
The End
Author’s Note
Sugarcreek, Ohio is a very real town. I go there often and I try to portray it as accurately as possible because some of my readers enjoy traveling and exploring the settings of my books. Therefore, I need to let you know that one of the eating establishment I write about, Joe’s Home Plate, does not exist. It is, however, based upon Bags Sports Pub situated right on Sugarcreek’s Main Street, not far from the enormous outdoor Cuckoo Clock.
Bags Sports Pub is locally owned and they do have great burgers. I once asked the owner where he had studied his craft. His answer was, “In my mom’s kitchen.” (Gotta love a guy who admits to learning how to cook from his mom.) Bags Sports Pub does not have a bar that displays gourmet soda pop, but if you walk a few blocks over to Sugarcreek Village Bulk Foods, you might find the locally-made sarsaparilla that Bobby loves.
Right behind Sugarcreek Village Bulk Foods is Sugarcreek Village Inn, which is one of my favorite places to stay in Amish country, and an excellent value. I especially enjoy sitting outside on the huge veranda watching the Amish buggies trot by. If you like the idea of sleeping in a remodeled train car, they have those, too.
The sign in Joe’s Home Plate that says, “If you are hungry but don’t have any money, you can still eat,” came from a sign I saw at a locally owned BBQ place named Rowdy’s in Jackson, Ohio—which is near my home—and is not far from a relatively new settlement of Amish.
The bakery I mention in the story is also situated on Main Street. The owner, Esther, is an Amish woman who definitely knows her way around pastries. I think even Lydia would approve—if Rachel could ever talk her into trying one of Esther’s doughnuts.
-Serena
Love’s Journey in Sugarcreek: Love Rekindled (Book 3)- Sample
Keturah Hochstetler struggled to keep her eyes open as her buggy swayed down the unpaved township road. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning and she was bone tired. The dark December sky drizzled rain against the buggy’s thin roof and she shivered inside her coat.
It would be nice to have a warm blanket right now, or heated bricks to put at her feet, but even though she was cold on the outside, she felt the warmth of contentment in her heart. The birth had gone well. That’s all that mattered. At sixty-seven she had less stamina than in her twenties, but bringing babies safely into the world was her greatest joy—a holy profession.
The buggy gave a lurch as the buggy wheels hit a bump and jarred her wide awake again. The uneven tracks carved into the road by hundreds of iron-shod buggy wheels made for a bumpy ride. Because of that, the Englisch vehicles tended to avoid these back dirt roads and she was grateful.
The birthing she had attended tonight was especially gratifying. It had been a long labor. First babies were often reluctant to come out into the world, but the young mother had done well. The baby, a healthy little boy, had such strong lungs that his cries set the porch dogs to howling in sympathy. She and the grandmother laughed together at his indignation over having to leave his cozy spot beneath his mother’s heart. Had he waited a few hours longer to make his appearance, he would have been a Christmas baby.
The older women in the extended family, wise in the ways of babies and new mothers, would take over now. She was free to think about her own family and the Christmas celebration they would have today.
She had prepared as much of the food ahead as possible. Her daughters-in-law would bring the rest. Soon their home would be filled with love and laughter. Unlike the Englisch, they did not spoil their grandchildren with gifts—only one small wooden toy each for the little ones. Her husband, Ivan, had made the toys in his shop and he was as eager as a child himself, waiting to see the grandchildren unwrap their presents. It had been a mild winter so far, but snow was finally predicted and Ivan was still holding onto the hope that by evening he could take the whole family for a sleigh ride.
She could hardly wait to give her husband the gift she had bought for him. The handle of his old straight razor had broken recently. Instead of buying a new one, he had taped it back together and continued to use it to trim the beard away from his mouth. It worked fine, he said. Then last week when they had visited Lehman’s store, she noticed him lingering over the new straight razors in the display case, but he had walked away. No wonder. They were shockingly expensive, but she didn’t care. Ivan had few wants. It wasn’t often that she had the pleasure of finding the perfect gift for him.
While Ivan was engaged in conversation with a clerk in the hardware department, she managed to slip away to the razor display. With her midwife money, she quickly purchased the best straight razor they had. It was made in France and had a lovely cow bone handle. It cost over two hundred dollars, but it was worth it for something he would use so often. It was now hidden away in the bottom of her birthing bag, the one place she knew Ivan would never look. He was going to be so surprised.
The light from the lantern on the back of her buggy swung back and forth, and the sound of the rain and the rhythmic beat of Brownie’s hoofs flinging dirt against the undercarriage combined to create a sort of hypnotic lullaby. Only two more miles to go before she could climb into her warm, cozy bed.
Her head nodded and the reins grew slack in her hands. It was not the first time her good horse had taken her home while she dozed.
The sound of a vehicle startled her wide-awake again. Somewhere up ahead a car was coming and it was very loud. She didn’t know much about cars, but she knew the sound of a bad muffler.
Careful not to slip into the ditch, she guided Brownie to the far right side of the road, making certain to leave enough
room for the car to get past them. Also, up ahead was a dangerously steep curve. She slowed Brownie down so they could stay back, far out of the way until the car got safely around it.
It sounded like the driver was going too fast for these rain-slicked roads, but what did she know? She was used to driving at the top speed of ten miles per hour.
The sound of a crash startled her.
“Whoa.” She pulled back on the reins, bringing Brownie to a complete stop so she could listen. A car horn was blaring on and on, but the sound of a bad muffler had stopped.
She was neither a doctor nor a nurse, but during her years as a midwife and as the mother of sons who were not always careful, she had learned a great deal about the human body and what to do to stop bleeding or deal with broken bones. She even knew CPR. The fire department in Sugarcreek had sponsored a free class she had attended.
She hesitated only long enough to draw a deep breath before yelling “Giddyup!” and slapping the reins on Brownie’s rump. The old horse was so startled, he broke into a gallop.
As they turned the curve, she saw that an old, blue sedan had collided head on with a large oak tree that stood in the elbow of the bend. The windshield was partially knocked out and the car’s front end was crumbled. The car horn continued to blare.
Brownie pranced nervously as she tried to calm him. As soon as he was steady, she grabbed her flashlight, stepped out of the buggy, and carefully approached the wreck.
Blood was splattered all over the windshield. Her knees grew weak at the sight, but she mustered her courage and walked closer.
There appeared to be no one in the car except the driver who was slumped against the door. Keturah played her flashlight over the side of the driver’s face which was pressed against the window. It was a young woman, possibly a teenager, with short, blonde hair, wearing multiple earrings that sparkled against the light.
She wondered why this girl had chosen to disobey the Englisch law. If she had been wearing a seatbelt, she would not have hit the windshield.
“Are you okay?” Keturah knocked on the side window.
The girl stirred, opened her eyes, and looked around blankly.
Keturah tried the door, but it was locked.
“Can you get out?”
The girl fumbled with the door, managed to open it, and nearly fell out sideways. Keturah caught her and helped her to the ground. Her heart dropped when she saw the girl’s hugely rounded belly. Unless she missed her guess, and she rarely did, the girl was about eight months pregnant. The seat belt had probably grown uncomfortable against her swollen stomach.
There appeared to be a large gash in the right side of her head. It was hard to tell because of all the blood. Keturah knew that even minor head wounds bled profusely, so she was hoping it wasn’t as bad as it appeared.
The girl was agitated and grappled at Keturah’s coat. “Don’t let him take my baby,” she said. “Please…”
She lost consciousness and fell back against the ground.
Keturah hunted for a pulse. There was none.
She had never had to use her firehouse CPR training, but she laid the flashlight on the ground, placed the palms of her shaking hands on the girl’s sternum and began to push rhythmically.
Two minutes later, she still could not find a pulse. A surge of panic hit as she made calculations. A baby could only survive for about seven minutes in the womb once a mother had died.
“Come on, come on.” Keturah said, as she resumed chest compressions. “Please breathe.”
If nothing else, she knew she was forcing the mother’s blood to carry residual oxygen still in her lungs to the baby which might keep it alive a little longer.
The cold drizzle that had accompanied her here began to turn nastier. A wind blew up, showering her and the girl with wet, dead leaves. She prayed for strength and endurance in her fight to keep the mother and baby alive. Her coat and clothing became soaked with rain. The car horn blared on and on—nerve wracking but perhaps the only hope of help. The sound might cause someone close by to investigate.
There was a strong smell that clung to the girl’s clothes—a food smell. It reminded her of a niece who had once been employed frying doughnuts at a bakery. Eventually, the niece quit the job because the family objected to the constant scent of vegetable grease that clung to her hair and clothing.
The rain had washed much of the blood away from the girl’s face and hair. Keturah could see the wound clearer now and she nearly recoiled from the severity of it. Unless God sent a miracle, this girl was never going to breathe on her own again.
Now the burning question became—what about the baby?
Although she possessed much knowledge about the herbs and tinctures midwifes had passed down over the centuries, it did not keep her from embracing newer technologies. A small Doppler fetal monitoring device was back in the buggy. It was the only way to find out if the baby still lived.
She had fervently prayed for God to send help—but as each second ticked away, it had become apparent that the only help He had seen fit to send to this pregnant girl and her child was herself, a tired Amish midwife. Her aging knees cried out in pain as she rose and ran to the buggy where she kept her bag filled with supplies.
The rain increased as she slipped on the wet leaves and fell in her hurry to get the birthing bag. As her knee hit the ground, she cried out from the sharp pain, but immediately scrambled back up and limped to the buggy where she unhooked the battery-operated lantern hanging on the back. It would give her better light than the small flashlight. Then she grabbed her birthing bag and rushed back to the mother.
Squatting, she sat the lantern down near the girl. Then she reached into her bag for the tube of ultrasound gel, shoved the denim jacket aside, pushed the girl’s black t-shirt up and smeared some gel on her belly. Then she fumbled for her Doppler monitor and began to search for the baby’s heartbeat.
There. She could hear it. The baby lived, and the heart beat was relatively strong. The irony was not lost on her that she was allowed to own such a technically advanced instrument, but not allowed to carry a cell phone.
If there was one thing the Amish leadership took seriously—and they took many things seriously—it was trying to be a good example for the young. She understood their church leaders’ fear that owning cell phones would be too much of a temptation to their young people. She had heard that many evil things could be accessed on those picture phones—unspeakable things. But oh, what she wouldn’t give for a way to call an ambulance right now.
The thought struck that this Englisch girl might have one. Practically all the young ones she had seen walking down the streets of Sugarcreek had such devices in their hand. Quickly, she searched the girl’s pockets. Nothing there. She checked inside the car. There was nothing there either, not even a purse.
She quickly began the compressions again, regretting the few seconds she had taken to search. Those precious seconds had been wasted. Had she even found a phone, she wasn’t certain she could figure out how to use it.
The CPR instructor had taught them how to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation but warned them that it was no longer advised. Especially if one was working on a stranger. It had to do with the possibility of contracting life-threatening diseases.
With the seven minute clock ticking down in her head, Keturah decided to ignore the instructor’s warnings. She bent over the girl, pinched her nose shut, and began to force her own breath into the girl’s lungs while she prayed that someone would hear that car horn and come to their rescue.
Once again, she stopped and listened for the baby’s heartbeat. It was there, but it was growing fainter.
“Du nett schtauva, bobli,” she said. “Please don’t die, baby.”
Sick to her stomach with fear and worry, Keturah made one of the hardest decisions of her life.
With tears of grief streaming down her face, she held her hands out palms up, and allowed the rain to cleanse them of blood and gel before she reached i
nto her birthing bag for the sturdy surgical scissors she always used to cut umbilical cords. They were such a clumsy tool to use for a C-section but it was all she had.
Then she remembered Ivan’s gift. She dug deep into the bottom of the bag and pulled out the slim box that held the bone-handled blade. The well-honed straight razor was as sharp as any doctor’s scalpel.
“I am so sorry,” Keturah said to the dead girl. “But I have to do this.”
Biting her lip with concentration, she tried to shield the girl’s body the best she could with her own as she opened the razor and drew it across the girl’s abdomen.
“Lord help me,” she said, as she exposed the thin membrane in which the baby lay.
Also by Serena B. Miller
The Doreen Sizemore Adventures
Murder On The Texas Eagle (Book 1)
Murder At The Buckstaff Bathhouse (Book 2)
Murder At Slippery Slop Youth Camp (Book 3)
Murder On The Mississippi Queen (Book 4)
Murder On The Mystery Mansion (Book 5)
The Accidental Adventures of Doreen Sizemore (5 Book Collection)
Love’s Journey Series
Love’s Journey in Sugarcreek: The Sugar Haus Inn (Book 1)
Love’s Journey in Sugarcreek: Rachel’s Rescue (Book 2)
Love’s Journey in Sugarcreek: Love Rekindled (Book 3)
Michigan Northwoods Historical Romance
The Measure of Katie Calloway (Book 1)
Under a Blackberry Moon (Book 2)
A Promise to Love (Book 3)
Uncommon Grace Series
An Uncommon Grace (Book 1)
Hidden Mercies (Book 2)
Fearless Hope (Book 3)
Uncategorized
A Way of Escape
More Than Happy: The Wisdom of Amish Parenting
Rachel's Rescue Page 29
