The boy—Parker—hung his head. “I’m sorry.” His voice, low and soft, held shame. “I didn’t mean to do it wrong.” His face lifted, his repentant brown eyes meeting Tim’s. Something in Parker’s expression tugged at Tim’s heart. He swallowed hard, unable to tear his gaze away from the boy’s pleading face.
The girl stomped her foot. “An’ you made me lose my buttons. Now we gotta pick more.” Her dirty hands lifted to the drooping branches above her head.
“No!” Tim jolted to his feet and swept the branches out of the girl’s reach. “You can’t pick those.”
The child tilted her head, her brow all puckered. “But why? The little buttons are so pretty. Like pink marbles.” Her infectious giggle rang. “Momma’s most favorite color is pink. I wanna take them to Momma.”
Tim wanted to take the children to their mama. He turned to Parker, who had rolled to his hip and was struggling to stand. Concern tickled the back of Tim’s mind. Considering the short fall—the lowest branches were barely as high as Tim’s chin—and the cushioning grass beneath the tree, he hadn’t expected the boy to be hurt. But his slow movements indicated pain.
Tim caught the boy’s upper arm and lifted him to his feet. Upright, he stood as high as Tim’s armpit. Tim judged him to be between ten and twelve years old, but his mannerisms made him seem younger. “Are you okay?”
“Huh?” Parker stared at Tim for a moment, openmouthed.
Had the fall knocked the kid senseless? Tim repeated, “Are—you—hurt?”
Parker bobbed his head. “My rear end hurts.”
Tim held back a snort of amusement. Served him right, climbing up in the trees and picking the branches clean of buds. “Can you walk?”
The boy shuffled forward with his back shaped like an apostrophe and his face pinched into a frown. “Ow. Ow.”
He’d intended to put the children on the other side of the fence and send them on their way, but it would be cruel to make the boy walk the quarter-mile distance to the Sanford farm with a sore back. Besides, maybe he really had jarred something. Tim might be held accountable if the kid suffered some kind of long-term effect. Not that Mennonites would sue, but . . . Tim sighed. It meant losing work time, but he could transport the children to the Sanford place in the rusty golf cart he used to get around the orchard.
“Stay here.” He pointed at the little girl and scowled. “And don’t pick any flowers . . . er, buttons. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Like an obedient puppy, the little girl plopped down on the grass and crisscrossed her legs. Parker hovered over her like an old man with osteoporosis. Tim doubted Parker would sit. He trotted to his mower, climbed aboard, and rode the thing as quickly as he dared to the house. From there, he unlocked the shed, hopped into the golf cart’s seat, and muttered a warning—“You better start, you crotchety old thing.” It started, and he grinned.
Less than ten minutes after leaving the two kids sitting beneath the Golden Delicious apple trees, he returned. They hadn’t budged. He shifted to the edge of the cracked vinyl seat and patted the empty spot beside him. “C’mon. Get on.”
The little girl bounced up, grabbed the boy’s hand, and pulled him to the cart. She clambered in, but the boy hesitated. The girl hunched her shoulders and giggled. “Get in, Parker. It’ll be fun.” She shot Tim a bright smile.
Tim rolled his eyes. “Parker, you can walk or ride. It’s your choice.”
Finally, Parker grabbed the iron armrest on the seat and heaved himself into the cart. He fell into the narrow space next to the girl, releasing a yelp when his backside connected with the seat. Tim sucked in a sharp breath. Not that he held any fondness for these two little urchins who’d robbed his tree of the potential for a good three dozen apples, but he still didn’t want the boy to be seriously hurt. He’d try to avoid bumps on the way to the Sanford place.
The little girl chattered as they drove slowly along the dirt road, but Tim didn’t reply. No sense in encouraging the kid to think of him as a friend. In fact, he intended to inform their mother to keep them home where they belonged. Most Old Order moms were diligent when it came to supervision. Unless things had changed a lot since he was a boy. His own mother had never let him venture far from her sight. He ground his teeth. Now these kids had him thinking about Mom.
They reached the lane leading to the Sanford farm, and Tim slowed the cart to make the turn. As he aimed the nose of the cart for the house, he spotted another child wandering between the house and the barn. Her white cap and trailing ribbons as well as the simple dress let Tim know without a doubt the family who’d claimed the farmstead was definitely Old Order Mennonite. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached.
The girl held her cupped hands beside her mouth. He assumed she was hollering, but he couldn’t hear her over the cart’s rumble. She came to a halt and turned to look in his direction. Her eyes flew wide. Then she took off at a run, disappearing behind the house.
Tim pulled up the cart next to the house and shifted it into park. “Hop out,” he ordered the pair on the seat, “and go get your mom or dad for me.” He’d have a firm talk with the new owners, and then he’d leave them be. For good.
“Mom! Mom! Some man is here! He has Parker and Adri with him!”
Bekah’s shrill voice reached Amy’s ears, and she nearly collapsed with relief. Having been warned about an abandoned well in the pasture behind the house, she’d left Bekah searching the outbuildings around the house and headed out to the pasture herself. She’d found the well and its wood cover, but there was no sign of the children. She was planning where she should look next when Bekah’s call came.
Amy waved both hands over her head. “I’m coming!” She broke into a run, the uneven ground and her wind-tossed skirts slowing her pace despite the sturdy tennis shoes on her feet. The stout breeze loosened the pins holding her cap, and she clamped one hand over her head as she ran. She rounded the house, her heart leaping for joy when she spotted all three children standing next to a rusty, open-sided cart. A tall man wearing a baseball-style cap similar to those worn by the Mennonite men sat in the cart’s seat with one leg extended to the ground. Apparently he’d been the one to bring the children home. Gratitude swelled in her chest, and she ran directly to the little group.
Throwing her arms around both Parker and Adrianna, she kissed their sweaty heads and then aimed a smile at the stranger. “Thank you so much, sir. I’ve been so worried!” She shifted her gaze to her son and youngest daughter, searching their dear, dirty faces. The fearful worry that had held her captive for the past half hour abruptly switched to aggravation now that she knew they were safe. She frowned at the pair. “Shame on you for wandering off that way. From now on you stay right here on our property, do you hear me?”
They both nodded, their expressions contrite, and her irritation melted. She hugged them again. Parker let out a yelp. Amy pulled back. “Parker, honey, what’s wrong?”
“He jumped out of a tree and fell on his bottom,” Adrianna said, her bright voice devoid of concern.
Amy gawked at the boy. “You were climbing trees?”
“We were getting you flowers.” Adrianna answered for her brother again. “But that man”—she pointed a dirt-smudged finger to the man who remained half-in, half-out of the sorry-looking cart—“wouldn’t let us bring ’em to you.”
The man slowly straightened, rising to his full height, which was intimidating up close. His frowning countenance added to his unapproachable appearance. “I caught these two on my land, snipping branches from one of my apple trees.”
Amy turned toward the children. “That was very, very dangerous. Parker, I want you to promise me you won’t climb any more trees.”
Parker gave his customary “Huh?” Then he blinked twice and nodded. “Okay, Mom.”
Amy took hold of Adrianna’s shoulder. “And you should never pick flowers without asking permission first. Tell Mr.—Mr.—” She blew out a huff, turning again to the man. “Your name, pleas
e?”
“Roper. Tim Roper.”
Amy turned Adrianna to face the man. “Tell Mr. Roper you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Roper.” Very little repentance colored Adrianna’s tone, but Amy decided to address the issue more fully later—after he had departed. Adrianna pulled on Amy’s skirt. “I’m thirsty. Can I have a drink?”
Bekah stepped forward. “I’ll take them in and help them wash up.”
The trio headed for the house. Amy watched them go, noting Parker’s stiff gait. Maybe she should make a doctor’s appointment for him, just in case. Falls could be dangerous, as she knew far too well.
Eager to return to her children, she gave Mr. Roper a smile. “Thank you again for bringing them home. We’re new here, and I’m sure their curiosity carried them away. It won’t happen again.” She started for the house.
“It better not.”
The man’s disparaging tone halted Amy. She slowly turned to face him.
He scowled, folding his arms over his chest. “Those trees are my livelihood. I can’t have your kids over there, picking the branches bare. All my other neighbors respect the boundary. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your kids on your own side of the fence.”
Mr. Roper’s blunt, condescending manner of speaking raised Amy’s hackles, but a biblical admonition winged through her conscience: “A soft answer turneth away wrath.” She drew in a slow breath, giving herself a moment to pray for patience before replying. “I apologize, Mr. Roper. If there’s anything I can do to make up for the damage to your tree, I—”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “No need. Just keep them home from now on. It isn’t safe to let kids run wild that way.”
His words cut Amy to the core. How many times had she berated herself for the long-ago day when she’d let Parker run after Gabe rather than keeping him close to home? If she’d made a different choice, maybe he’d be whole. Maybe Gabe would still be with them. Her chest constricted, hindering her breathing as tentacles of guilt wrapped around her heart.
“Now that we’re clear, I need to get back to work.” Mr. Roper whirled on his bootheel and slid onto the seat of his cart. He gave the key a twist, and the engine coughed. With a scowl, he twisted the key again. A stuttering click-click-click came in response. He slapped the steering wheel, then let his head drop back, releasing an aggravated grunt.
Although Amy preferred to escape to the house, she couldn’t leave the man sitting in her driveway in a dead cart without offering assistance. She took a hesitant step forward. “Can I—”
“Does your husband have an extra can of gasoline sitting around?” His gaze whisked across her cap and the black dangling strings. “Or maybe a vehicle—a truck or tractor—he could use to tow this thing to my place?”
Amy gulped, taken aback by the brusque question. “I . . . I’m a widow, Mr. Roper.”
His face flooded red. He grabbed off his hat, leaving his short-cropped brown hair standing in sweat-stiffened spikes. “I beg your pardon. I just assumed, since you purchased a farm, that . . .”
Amy understood his confusion. Dad had questioned the wisdom of her choosing the farmhouse rather than one of the houses in town, but she’d grown up on a farm. She’d loved the open space and feeling of freedom in living away from town.
She explained, “The land will be used to grow corn, wheat, and soybeans. But I won’t be the one planting and harvesting. Some families who’ve also moved into the area will make use of the land. With help from my fellowship near Arborville, I purchased the house; a brother Mennonite fellowship in Ohio owns the acreage.”
Had he grimaced at the words Mennonite fellowship, or had she only imagined it? Trepidation sped her pulse.
He pulled his lips to the side, as if chewing the inside of his cheek. “I . . . see.”
“I don’t have a tractor or truck, but I do have a car.” Amy gestured toward the small ramshackle garage at the rear of the house. “It has a hitchball for towing. I’d be glad to pull your cart to your property if you’ll give me a few minutes to check on my children.”
He nodded—one abrupt bob of his head—then returned the hat to his head. He stared across the ground, his expression grim.
Amy trotted to the house. All three children were in the kitchen, seated around the table in the middle of the room. Parker wore a milk mustache and Adrianna’s cheeks were smeared with peanut butter. Amy glanced at the half-eaten sandwiches, crumpled napkins, crumbs, and empty glasses on the table’s Formica top.
“They were hungry.” Bekah sent her mother a sidelong look. “I guess I should have asked first before fixing sandwiches.”
Amy gave Bekah a one-armed hug. “I’m glad you took care of lunch.” She moved to the sink and washed her hands. Her time in the pasture, hunting for Adrianna and Parker, had left her sweaty and dusty. “I’m going to use our car to tow Mr. Roper’s cart to his house. Girls, make the beds while I’m gone. The sheets are in my closet. Parker, I want you to put the books on the shelf in your room.” She wiped her hands on her apron skirt, satisfied the tasks would keep the children occupied for the length of time she’d be gone.
Adrianna wriggled down from her chair. “Can I come with you, Momma?”
“No.” Amy ignored her daughter’s crestfallen expression. “All of you stay in the house until I get back. If someone knocks on the door, don’t answer.” She grabbed the car keys from a nail pounded into the back doorjamb and charged out the screen door, letting it slam into its frame behind her. She backed the car from the garage and pulled it close to Mr. Roper’s cart.
Leaving it idling, she hopped out. “Mr. Roper, would you position it correctly? I’m not adept enough at backing to do it right.” Gabe had always done the driving. Amy had been forced to learn to drive following his death, but she’d often deferred to her father. Better a stranger drive her car than risk backing into his cart.
Wordlessly, he strode forward and slid behind the wheel. With a few whirls of the steering wheel and some short jaunts forward and back, he angled the car so the rear bumper of the car and the cart’s nose rested a mere eighteen inches apart. Then he turned off the ignition and got out. “Got a rope?”
“Um . . . I’m not sure.”
“Mind if I check in the barn?”
Amy nodded, and he headed in that direction, his stride long and his arms swinging. Amy fidgeted, waiting for his return. She’d lost an entire week between packing and moving, and she still needed to set up her sewing room so she could get busy on the quilts she’d been hired to create prior to moving to Weaverly. How she hoped her quilting business would flourish. Without Dad’s financial assistance, she needed the income desperately.
Mr. Roper returned, a length of chain dangling from his hand. “This’ll do.” She stayed out of the way while he looped the chain through the cart’s frame and connected it to the hitchball. Brushing his hands, he rose, his knees cracking. “That’s it. Let’s go.”
Amy stifled an amused snort. Apparently all men were short on words and long on action. She’d surmised it was a Mennonite trait, but this man was clearly not Mennonite. He climbed into his cart, and she slid behind the steering wheel. Sticking her head out the open window, she called, “Are you ready?”
He waved his hand in reply.
Gritting her teeth, Amy started the engine and put the car in gear. She’d never towed anything before. What if she hit a bump and bounced Mr. Roper right out of the open cart? Sweat broke out across her back and trickled between her shoulder blades. Her hands tightened on the wheel, her knuckles white. Lord, be with me. . . .
3
Bekah swept a damp rag across the tabletop, sending the crumbs onto the linoleum floor. “All right, you guys, you heard Mom. No more running off.” She’d never admit how scared she’d been when she realized her brother and sister were missing. But now that they were back, safe and sound, she was just plain mad. Shouldn’t she feel relieved rather than angry? She wished she could make sense of her up-and-down e
motions. “Parker, go get busy on those books. And, Adri, get sheets for our beds from Mom’s closet.”
Parker looked at the floor, where bread crumbs lay scattered next to his tennis-shoe-covered foot. “Mom puts the crumbs in her hand and then puts them in the trash. She doesn’t throw them on the floor.”
Bekah flopped the rag over the edge of the sink. As many mice as seemed to live in this old house, they’d eat the crumbs in no time. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Crumbs belong in the trash,” Parker insisted, his scowl deep. He stared at the crumbs as if he expected them to jump from the floor into the waste can on their own.
Bekah huffed. Unless she swept up the crumbs, Parker wouldn’t be able to think about anything else. She stomped to the corner and retrieved the broom. “All right, all right, I’ll get rid of the crumbs.” She gave the broom a vicious swipe. Crumbs flew in every direction.
Parker sucked in a huge breath, the gasp almost comical with his wide-open mouth and disbelieving stare.
Adri squealed and leaped out of her chair. “Bekah, you’re making a mess! Momma never sweeps like that!”
“Well, I’m not Momma.” Bekah slapped the bristles at the floor again. The crumbs scooted around the floor like a nest of disturbed ants.
Adri grabbed the broom and tried to wrestle it away. “Stop it, Bekah.”
“You stop it!” Bekah yanked hard, gaining ownership of the broom.
Adri fell backward and landed on her bottom. She set up a wail. Parker stood beside the table, wringing his hands. His dark eyes reflected fear more than worry. He muttered to himself—the words indistinguishable. Bekah wanted to scream at both of them to shut up and go do their chores. Hugging the broom to her chest, she wished her anger could be swept away as easily as those crumbs.
God, what’s wrong with me? Am I going crazy, like Daddy did? The thought scared her so much, tears spurted into her eyes. She threw the broom aside and reached to help Adri to her feet. Adri pulled away, refusing her help. Blinking away her tears, she decided to let her sister sit there and cry if that’s what she wanted to do.
When Hope Blossoms Page 2
