When Hope Blossoms

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  © 2012 by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  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 2012

  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.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-7102-0

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

  This 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 actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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

  The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.

  Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.

  Cover photography by Aimee Christensen

  For Connie, Lisbeth, and Sheila,

  who had to say good-bye

  but know they’ll see their children

  again someday.

  “For there is hope of a tree,

  if it be cut down,

  that it will sprout again,

  and that the tender branch thereof

  will not cease.”

  Job 14:7 KJV

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  1

  Momma . . . is this home?”

  Amy Knackstedt looked up from the box of linens at her feet. The uncertainty in her daughter’s blue eyes pierced Amy. There’d been so much upheaval in Adrianna’s short life—how would it affect her view of the world? Amy held her arms wide, and the little girl dashed over for a hug. “Yes, sweetheart, this is home.” Amy emphasized the last word, savoring its meaning. She planted a kiss on Adrianna’s tousled brown hair, then set her aside. “Go ask Bekah to brush and braid your hair.”

  With a dimpled grin, Adrianna skipped around the corner and up the stairs to where Amy had put her eldest child to work cleaning and organizing the farmhouse’s single bathroom. Bekah had scowled—an expression that appeared more and more often since she’d passed her thirteenth birthday—when given the task, but she hadn’t argued. Amy sighed, remembering her daughter’s reaction. She supposed she should be stricter concerning Bekah’s sour moods. Dad had even called Bekah disrespectful, which was grounds for severe punishment in their Old Order Mennonite sect. But Amy couldn’t find it in her heart to scold. Bekah carried more responsibility than most girls her age. She deserved a little leniency.

  Balancing the stack of folded sheets and pillowcases in her arms, Amy headed for the enclosed stairway in the kitchen that led to the three bedrooms. When she’d learned she and the children would occupy a century-old farmhouse, she’d hoped for four bedrooms so each of the children could have their own room. But three bedrooms was one more than they’d had in her father’s house. Adrianna and Bekah would have to pair up, but at least Parker no longer had to share with his sisters. Could he be eleven already? As big as the children were getting, they needed their own spaces. And this house and property offered them room to grow.

  Thank You, Lord, for Your provision. The prayer formed automatically—the result of years of talking to God. But the emotion behind the simple statement was far from rote. The Lord had nearly moved mountains to bring Amy and her children to this place, and she sensed in the deepest part of her soul they would find healing here.

  As Amy passed the smallest bedroom, she peeked inside to see how Parker was coming along in putting away his clothes. Her son stood in front of the four-drawer chest, a puzzled expression on his face. All four drawers hung open, and he rested his fingertips on the edge of the highest drawer. Affection rose within Amy’s breast, followed by the persistent silent question of what-might-have-been, as she gazed at her only son.

  “Doing okay, Parker?” She kept her voice low to avoid startling him.

  Slowly, as if his neck joint was rusty, he shifted his head to peer at her. “Huh?”

  Amy didn’t respond to the single-word query. He’d heard her—he needed time to form a reply. After a few seconds, he gave a jerky nod that made his thick brown hair bounce on his high forehead. He looked so much like his father. “I’m okay. My socks and underwear go in the top drawer . . . right?”

  Amy offered a reassuring smile. “That’s right. Top drawer for socks and underwear. Then shirts in the middle ones. And pants in the bottom.” She paused between sentences to give Parker time to absorb her instructions.

  Parker scrunched his face. “It’s all backwards.”

  “Backwards?”

  He nodded rapidly, clinging to the drawer to hold his balance. “You wear your shirt on your middle, your pants under that, and socks clear at the bottom on your feet. So socks should go in the bottom drawer.”

  Amy stifled a chuckle at his reasoning. “That makes a lot of sense, but look at the drawers. See how the very top drawer is the smallest one?”

  Parker examined the drawers with one eye squinted shut.

  “Would your shirts fit in that drawer?”

  The boy heaved a sigh, his skinny shoulders rising and falling. “Not all of them.”

  “But your socks and underwear will fit, right?”

  He peeked inside the drawer, as if measuring it. “Uh-huh.”

  “So that’s where they go.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  Amy waited long enough to watch him pull out a cluster of socks from the box on the end of his bare mattress and drop them in the top drawer before she turned toward her own bedroom. She entered the room, paused, and drew in a deep breath, testing the air. She’d opened all of the windows in the house upon her arrival yesterday evening, and now a dew-laden new-day scent wafted in. After sitting unoccupied for over a year, the house had acquired a musty odor. But the stout Kansas breeze, combined with open boxes of baking soda that Adrianna had cheerfully planted in a corner of each room, was creating the desired effect. The house smelled fresher already.

  She used her elbow to bump open the closet door and then stepped inside. She wrinkled her nose. The small space smelled like a dead mouse. She hoped she had another box of baking soda. Or two. Ducking her head, she moved to the shelves that lined the short back wall of the wedge-shaped closet. Earlier, she’d washed the shelves with soap and water, then covered them with plain paper. She was grateful for the shelves, even if they were tucked under the eaves. They provided a nice storage space for extra sheets, towels, and blankets—going-away gifts from the fellowship members in Arborville, Kansas.

  Handling the fresh items brought a rush of memories, faces of people she’d known her entire life flashing through her mind. If Gabe hadn’t died, she’d still be with t
hem. But he had died, taking away her security. She needed a new security. How she prayed Weaverly, Kansas, would become her and the children’s promised land.

  Amy finished arranging the items neatly—even if they were tucked out of sight in a closet, she wouldn’t do a slipshod job—then stepped back into the bedroom. The sun pouring through the uncovered windows highlighted the faded flowered wallpaper and scuffed wood floor. The room held a tired, worn appearance, but once she’d hung curtains and spread a pretty quilt on the bed, it would feel more homey. Before she started decorating, though, she needed to finish giving the house a thorough scrubbing from top to bottom and get all of their belongings put away.

  There’d only been time for a cursory dusting and sweeping yesterday evening before they moved the furnishings into the rooms because the Mennonite men from the fellowship in Ohio needed to return the rented U-Haul trucks first thing this morning. So they’d dragged everything into the house and departed, leaving Amy and the children to organize things on their own. Although she might have appreciated some extra helping hands, she liked being able to choose how to arrange the furniture in the rooms of her house. She hoped God didn’t see her delight as selfish, but she couldn’t deny a sense of freedom in being the one making decisions rather than following Dad’s or Gabe’s directions. Thirty-three years old and marching into a future of her own making. Her heart skipped a beat. What kind of future would it be?

  Fear tried to wiggle its way from the depths of her soul, but she pushed the unwelcome emotion aside. This was not a time of fear, but of celebration. Of gratitude for open doors and new beginnings. Dropping to her knees, Amy spent a few moments in prayer, placing the niggle of doubt into her Father’s hands and requesting discernment to do what was best for herself, Bekah, Parker, and little Adrianna.

  “Amen,” she finished and pushed to her feet just as clattering footsteps pounded across the floor. She turned toward the door, and Bekah rushed in, her face flushed and the trailing ribbons of her white head covering bouncing on her shoulders. Panic shone in Bekah’s brown eyes. She must have encountered another mouse. With a light chuckle, Amy said, “Honey, I know Grandpa packed some mousetraps, but I still haven’t found them. As soon as I do, I’ll—”

  Bekah gasped out, “Mom, Adri and Parker . . . I—I can’t find them anywhere. They’re gone.”

  Tim Roper turned off the riding mower’s engine. The machine bucked a couple of times, spluttered, and finally died. His ears rang in the sudden silence, and he tipped his head, waiting for the buzz to clear. Slowly the sounds of the orchard filled his ears. He smiled. He’d never tired of the wind’s whisper in the trees.

  He climbed off the mower, his muscles stiff from holding his balance in the backless seat, and reached to pinch a plump pale-pink bud on a Golden Delicious apple tree. His gaze roved to the nearest tree, then shifted down the row. Buds—some as small and round as peas, others as fat as hazelnuts—peppered the slender branches. Over the past days of mowing, he’d noted the Red Delicious, Gala, and Jonagolds were equally laden with buds. If all went well—no late frosts, no insect infestations, no hailstorms to rob the branches of blossoms—he’d have a bumper crop this year. He needed one after last year’s dismal harvest. Yet, despite the uncertainties of his profession, he wouldn’t trade operating his apple orchard for any other job in the world.

  His boots flattened the mounds of cut grass as he wandered between the rows, checking for broken branches, signs of decay, or troublesome insects. While he walked, his mind tripped over other pressing springtime tasks. He still needed to trim the grass beneath the trees—the grass near the trunks stood at least twelve inches tall, creating a good hiding place for critters. He also needed to make arrangements for the delivery of the rented bee colonies to ensure adequate pollination. If the harvest was good this year, maybe he’d purchase his own hives at the end of the season so he wouldn’t have to bother the beekeepers in Osage County again. There’d be costs involved in setting up the hives and getting started, but he could bottle and sell the honey, so in the long run he’d be money ahead. He liked that idea.

  He ducked between trees and made a loop toward the waiting mower. He preferred mowing in the morning hours, before the May sun got so high and hot, but once the bees arrived, he’d have to mow later in the day.

  The bees were busiest in the morning, and they didn’t like the mower’s noise. They wouldn’t do their job if he disturbed them. But until they arrived, he’d continue to take advantage of the cooler morning hours.

  Tim squinted upward, noting the sun high in the cloudless blue sky. Morning was close to gone already—he needed to get a move on. He’d ride to the house, load his little trailer with the push mower and weed-eaters, then come back out. His stomach growled. Or maybe he’d eat lunch first. With late spring’s longer days, he could afford to take a half hour of rest—still plenty of work hours remaining. And plenty of work to fill the hours.

  Whistling, he plopped into the mower’s seat and reached for the ignition. But as his fingers connected with the silver key, a sound reached his ears. An out-of-place sound. Laughter—high-pitched and carefree. He froze, his body breaking out in a cold sweat. Without warning, time rolled backward half a dozen years. In his mind’s eye, he pictured Charlie galloping in his unique, awkward gait between the dwarf trees, his face alight with joy, laughter pouring from his lips.

  Tim shook his head hard and the image faded, but the tinkling laughter rang again. Not from his imagination, but in reality. Frowning, he searched the area. Was a family picnicking nearby? It wasn’t uncommon for Weaverly families to drive out and picnic under the trees—the orchard’s former owners had allowed it, and he hadn’t brought an end to the practice.

  Another burst of laughter, followed by a childish demand: “I want a big, big, gigantic bouquet.”

  Scowling, Tim leaped off the mower and trotted in the direction of the voice. At the far edge of the band of Golden Delicious trees, he spotted a little girl. He slowed his pace, taking in her twin brown braids and simple knee-length dress with its attached modesty cape. Mennonite. His heart lurched, his feet stumbling to a halt. But she couldn’t be. There weren’t any Old Order Mennonites in Weaverly.

  The child’s arms overflowed with bud-heavy twigs, and she looked into the thick branches of a tree. “A big stick this time.”

  A big stick? She wouldn’t be able to remove a large branch from the tree, and she could do some serious damage if she tried. Tim jolted into motion once more, waving one hand over his head. “You there! What do you think you’re doing?”

  The child spun, a few sprigs falling from her arms. Her gaze fell on Tim, and a smile lit her pixie face. “Hi, mister. Look! I’m getting flowers for my mama.”

  Up close, Tim realized just how many branches had been stripped of their buds. Buds that wouldn’t become blossoms. Blossoms that wouldn’t become apples. He balled his hands into fists. “These flowers aren’t meant for picking.” He barked the comment more harshly than he’d intended.

  The child blinked up at him, her mouth forming an O of alarm.

  Tim drew in a deep breath. He glanced around. “How did you get here?”

  She tapped one tennis-shoe-covered foot on the grass. “I walked.”

  Tim frowned. Walked? How much distance could a little kid like her cover? Not much, he’d wager. “Where is your mother?”

  The girl rocked gently to and fro, her skinny braids swinging with the motion. “At my house.”

  The reply was less than satisfactory. “Where is your house?”

  Twisting her head, the child squinted over her shoulder toward the west. “Over there. Somewhere.”

  Tim looked in the same direction, pondering possibilities. The only house close enough for a child to manage the distance was the old Sanford farm. He’d heard some scuttlebutt in Weaverly about people from Ohio purchasing the Sanford acreage as well as three or four houses in town, but he hadn’t paid much attention. His focus was always on his or
chard. Now he wished he’d listened more carefully to the town gossips. If he’d had any idea the newcomers from Ohio were Mennonites, he might have—

  He shook his head. Would he have sold the orchard and moved? Not likely. He loved this place too much to leave it, even to avoid contact with Mennonites.

  He turned to the girl, who stared into the tree again. She was a cute little thing—innocent-looking with those big blue eyes and shabby braids. But she didn’t belong on his land, picking the buds from his trees. “I want you to go home. And from now on—”

  A startled yelp sounded from behind Tim’s shoulder, followed by a scrambling noise. A second child—a boy, older than the girl—fell from the branches with a wild flailing of arms and legs and landed flat on his bottom in the thick grass beneath the tree.

  2

  A loud cry escaped the boy’s mouth, followed by an intense intake of air that indicated the wind had been knocked out of him. The little girl squealed, “Parker!” She dropped her armload of twigs and scampered forward.

  Tim got to him first. The boy had curled up like a giant roly-poly bug, holding his stomach and gasping as desperately as a fish on a creekbank. Tim dropped to his knees next to the boy and pressed him flat, advising in a sharp tone, “Calm down. Breathe through your nose.” The boy stared at Tim with wide brown eyes, his mouth flapping open and closed. Tim gave him a little shake. “I said breathe through your nose!”

  The boy’s shoulders jerked spasmodically, but he clamped his jaw closed and took short, uneven breaths. Slowly, his red face faded to a muted pink that closely matched the tree buds. When he appeared to be breathing normally, Tim took hold of his shoulders and helped him shift to a seated position. The boy grimaced, planting both palms on his lower back. He groaned.

  The little girl folded her arms over her chest and clicked her tongue on her teeth. “Parker, you were s’posed to climb down from the tree, not jump.”