The Harvest of Grace

by Cindy Woodsmall

  When the barn and farmhouse came into sight, tears pricked her eyes. The buildings stood firm against the dark morning, looking like a dream—one she longed to protect.

  The Amish who’d come to America hundreds of years ago wanted two things—religious freedom and land to farm. She felt a kinship with her ancestors but understood that farming was a continuous battle that would never be truly won. Was Michael so weary of the fight that Aaron could talk him into selling?

  She went into the barn and lit several kerosene lanterns before climbing into the haymow. She counted out ten bales of straw and began tossing them to the ground. Michael would arrive in a few minutes, bringing her a cup of coffee and a kind word before he helped milk the herd.

  She dropped another bale to the ground.

  “Whoa!” a male voice hollered.

  She looked through the hay chute. “Michael?”

  A man stepped into view through the rectangular hole. In the dim light she saw Aaron dusting straw off himself.

  She grabbed the strings to another bale. “Why would anyone stand under a hay chute while someone is lobbing bales?”

  “I wasn’t under it. I was getting close enough for you to hear me. The bale broke in midair and scattered.” He held up a travel mug. “Truce?” He glanced down. “I’m afraid the lid has straw and dust particles all over it now.”

  “Please step back so I can finish this task.”

  He did so without argument, which surprised her. She tossed the last few bales, then climbed down the ladder.

  Her cup of coffee sat on a ledge. Aaron was using a pitchfork to spread the straw in the stalls. Apparently he hadn’t taken seriously her command to stay out of the barn.

  “Daed hurt his back last night,” he said.

  “Ach, no!”

  Aaron shrugged as if there were nothing else to say on the topic. He’d explained his presence with a brief sentence, without even making eye contact. She liked that. But she was worried about Michael.

  “Is he in a lot of pain?”

  Aaron paused. “I didn’t ask.”

  “How badly did he hurt it?”

  He went back to spreading straw. “Hard to tell, and I doubt he’s got the money to see a doctor.”

  “What caused it this time?”

  “Just bending over to take off his socks.”

  She cleaned straw off the lid of the mug and took a swig of her coffee. “I can milk the herd by myself.”

  “Ya, I know. But I can’t cut the fields without someone following the mower to keep it free of buildup. If I have to get off the mower every ten minutes to clean it myself, the crops will ruin in the field before I’m finished mowing it.”

  “So you figured you’d help me in exchange for me helping you?”

  “Trust me, I tried to work something else out.”

  She giggled. “I bet you did.”

  “Then let’s get to work.” He forked a mound of straw and tossed it into a stall, then spread it around.

  She’d never seen anyone move as quickly as he did. But they both knew if the hay wasn’t cut, dried, baled, and put away before rain moved in, they wouldn’t get a good price for it.

  “You’re sure now is the best time to start cutting?” she asked. “I mean, you checked the forecast?”

  “Ya. They’re predicting seven days of hot, dry weather.”

  He seemed as determined as she was to get full price for those acres of hay. But he wanted it for a different reason—so his parents could pay off their debts and sell the farm.

  She grabbed a pitchfork. “Once we get out from under some of these bills, we’ll be fine. You can go run your appliance store, and we’ll handle the farm.”

  Aaron moved from one stall to the next. “You are definitely underestimating the issues here. My Daed has health problems, and the two of you cannot make this farm profitable.” He paused, looking sorry about something. “Why is it so important to you?”

  “Lots of reasons.”

  “Like?”

  She considered whether to answer or not, but he understood making mistakes, didn’t he? “My Daadi Fisher planted the desire in me to be a good dairy farmer. If he were alive, he’d be disappointed in how I handled his farm—slowly giving up and letting someone less qualified take it over. He’d be even more disappointed in how I handled some decisions. The Blank farm is my second chance.”

  “Well, maybe the answer is in looking elsewhere for a third chance.”

  “This is your Daed’s dream. And I seem to be his second chance.”

  “Daed has to find a dream that fits his limited mobility. And you can find another farm to work.”

  “No. You could. I can only go where my Daed allows. He’s not thrilled I’m here, and he’s made that really clear, but if I went somewhere without his permission, I’d have to be willing to walk away from my whole family and never see them again.” She began dumping feed into the line of troughs. “The biggest reason we’re not doing better is because all I know is the herd, breeding, and milk production. I’ve never planted or harvested crops or dealt with bills or filled silos or handled dozens of other things that are part of running a farm.”

  “Sylvia, come on. The problems here couldn’t be fixed even if you had superpowers in all those areas.”

  “But, given time, I can make this farm earn a profit.”

  He moved to a straw bale, jerked the strings off, and jabbed another load with the pitchfork. “No, you can’t. I’m sorry you’re caught in this. But you and Daed have to face reality.”

  Grey had come to work early, hoping to talk to Ephraim. But it was almost lunchtime, and Ephraim had yet to arrive. Grey had worked at this cabinetry shop for more than ten years, and he’d never seen a day when Ephraim wasn’t here before anyone else—except during his rumschpringe when he moved to New York, and then when he was shunned and not allowed to work at all.

  It had been the worst shunning Grey had ever heard of, and Ephraim had kept Cara unaware of it for quite some time. Normally, a man was allowed to keep his job, but the leaders wanted Ephraim to understand what it’d be like to lose everything. Ephraim never budged about helping Cara. And in time the church leaders came to see Ephraim’s point of view.

  Hearing a horse’s hoofs against the gravel driveway, Grey glanced out the shop’s office window. Ephraim had finally arrived.

  Every time Ephraim did something out of character, Cara was at the root of the reason—whether she knew it or not. Grey never would have guessed Ephraim to be the kind of man to turn his life upside down for any woman. But Grey knew one true thing: no one could predict what love would do to the heart, mind, and soul of a man. It might register as mildly and pleasantly distracting. Or it might level a man, like a blazing fire destroying everything in its path.

  He figured both Ephraim and Cara fit into the latter category, although he didn’t know Cara well. He certainly hoped she felt as strongly about Ephraim as Ephraim did about her.

  That was what Lennie had done to Grey—leveled him. But seeing her holding that baby on Sunday had really rattled him. With her having umpteen nieces and nephews, he’d seen her with babies plenty of times. But this was different, and he hadn’t slept decently in the three nights since.

  Ephraim walked into the office, yawning. “Everything going smoothly?”

  “Ya. We’re on schedule. I received two calls from people wanting us to come do measurements and talk to them about wood types and estimates.”

  Ephraim took a seat and yawned again. “I should’ve called you from Ada’s.”

  “Not a problem. Is everything okay?”

  Ephraim massaged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Cara called me last night, and we were up most of the night talking.” He suppressed another yawn. “I stopped by the house before coming here. Daed said you opened the shop really early this morning.”

  “Ya. And it’s been a smooth day.” Unwilling to put more burdens on Ephraim, Grey turned back to his desk and finished filling out
the paperwork for the calls he’d taken earlier.

  “Good.” Ephraim opened and shut a few desk drawers, then stopped suddenly. “Why’d you come in early?”

  Grey swiveled his office chair to face him. “It can wait.”

  “But it doesn’t have to, so tell me now.”

  Grey stared at the floor, battling with himself. “I … I told you that Elsie and I spent years in separate bedrooms.”

  “Ya.”

  “Well,”—Grey slouched in the chair—“I eventually found out why. Because of Ivan’s missing arm and our stillborn child, she thought we had bad genes, and she didn’t want to chance our having more babies.”

  Ephraim’s face wrinkled.

  “Ya.” Grey sat upright. “She was wrong not to tell me sooner, and it destroyed years of our marriage. After I finally learned what the problem was, I insisted we have tests run. The results didn’t come back until after she died, so I burned them. I didn’t want to know.”

  “Why?”

  “If I discovered Elsie had been wrong all those years, I’d have wrestled with anger, maybe even bitterness.”

  “So by burning the test results, you were protecting your feelings toward Elsie.”

  “Ya. But I never thought I would remarry. I couldn’t imagine being willing to.” He broke into a smile whenever he thought of Lennie. “Then Lena happened. But when I saw her holding Elizabeth a few days ago, I realized what I’ve always known—babies mean everything to her. I knew then that I had to tell her. But how?” Grey shook his head. “And what will happen to us when I do?”

  Ephraim leaned forward. “Last night I learned that Cara is struggling with some issues that could keep us from being able to marry this fall. Even though I hate the idea of having to wait a year or two—because it may take that long before she can stand in front of the church leaders and honestly say she has no malice against anyone—I’d still choose going through this now, before we’re married. What she’s dealing with is disappointing and frustrating, but it’s also real and honest. I’m not sure I even realized that myself until now.”

  “Well, it’s nice that all my gabbing while on the clock is of some benefit to you too. Thanks, Ephraim. I needed to talk.”

  “Anytime. I’m glad all those years of you keeping everything bottled up are over. They are over, aren’t they?”

  “They are.”

  He just had to find a way to be alone with Lennie so they could talk.

  Eleven

  The sun bore down on Aaron’s aching neck and shoulders as he kept an eye on Sylvia. If she lost her balance and fell forward or if her clothing got caught in the blades, she’d be the victim of a bad accident.

  He stood in the mower cart, almost as harnessed as the horses. Sylvia followed behind with a pitchfork in hand.

  The ground mower snagged on something, making it jump and jerk. “Watch out!”

  Until he yelled, she hadn’t noticed what was happening. She took a step back just as the blades jumped upward.

  “For Pete’s sake, Sylvia! Pay attention!”

  She gestured that she was fine and he should keep moving. They’d covered maybe two hundred feet when she yelled for him to stop.

  Not again! He ground his teeth and tried to pull the team to a halt, but the horses refused to obey him. He kept a firm but gentle tug on them until they yielded. Then he looked at the wad of hay caught in the mower.

  He waited while Sylvia jabbed the pitchfork between the blades and dug out the fresh hay, dislodging the clump. Left in the blades of the ground mower, the mounds of hay would damage the machine, and it would merely run over the hay rather than cut it.

  “You know,” he said, “we wouldn’t be having this much trouble if you hadn’t put so much fertilizer on the field.”

  She peered at him from under his Daed’s straw hat, but she didn’t respond. He shouldn’t have said that. She was doing him a huge favor by helping like this, but exhaustion was getting the best of him.

  As she resumed her work, he remembered how she’d started the morning: wearing a dress and apron with a straw hat. They’d begun cutting near the main road, where carriages passed, and she hadn’t wanted to stir up controversy if it could be avoided. She was like him in that respect. When they’d moved away from the main road, she’d returned to her cabin and changed into his old work clothes. She had looked awfully cute in a man’s straw hat and a dress.

  He was miserably hot, tired, and hungry. Who in their right mind would want to own a farm?

  She motioned for him to get moving again, and he slapped the reins against the horses’ backs. As always, they didn’t want to start up. That he understood.

  Sylvia moved to the front of the rig, grabbed the harness, and tugged. She patted the lead horse, cooing to it in Pennsylvania Dutch. “Kumm.” The two-thousand-pound creature took a step.

  They’d barely finished that row when his mother came into sight, carrying a basket.

  “Mamm’s here,” he bellowed, gesturing toward the road.

  Sylvia nodded, jabbed her pitchfork into the ground, and headed for her. The moment his mother spotted Sylvia, she smiled and waved. If he could get past his own surliness, he’d admit what a comfort and asset Sylvia had been to his parents in his absence.

  While he unhitched the team, Mamm and Sylvia spread a blanket under a shade tree and unloaded the basket. Aaron led the horses to the two five-gallon buckets of water he’d set up for them. After tying them to ground brush, he walked over to the blanket.

  The women had bowls of food spread out on the blanket. Plates. Two cups of icy water. Flatware. Bread. Butter. Cloth napkins. Steaming vegetables. And green-bean-and-ham casserole—one of his favorites. In Mamm’s eyes anyone working a farm needed the noon meal to be the largest of the day, whether they could make it to the table or not.

  “This looks wunderbaar, Mamm. Denki.”

  Sylvia patted the blanket. “Dora, why don’t you stay and eat with us?”

  Mamm finished loading a plate of food and passed it to Aaron. “I told Michael I’d take the horses back to the barn and bring a fresh pair while you two ate.”

  Sylvia rubbed Mamm’s shoulder. “How’s he feeling?”

  Embarrassment and guilt churned inside Aaron. She really did care about his parents. No wonder his Daed had reinvented himself. It was easy to respond positively because Sylvia was gracious to them.

  “I can’t tell which is worse, the pain or his anger over the injury.”

  “Well, he’d better rest up,” Sylvia said with a grin. “If he thinks I’m letting him win the checker championship just because of a little back pain, he’s wrong.”

  Mamm smiled. “I’ll tell him.”

  After Mamm left, Aaron and Sylvia ate in silence, and the edginess he’d felt while working faded.

  “I shouldn’t have yelled at you about the amount of hay to cut or paying attention,” he said. “I … I’m sorry.”

  She blinked, her brown eyes showing amusement as she cupped her hand behind one ear. “You’re what?”

  “Have hearing issues, do you?” He stifled his laugh but not his smile.

  “No, not at all.” She took a sip of her water. “It’s just that those words from a man’s mouth are like a foreign language.”

  “I apologize, and you turn it into an insult of all men?”

  “One must make the most of every opportunity on that topic.”

  He chuckled, and her lips formed a charming smile. She was probably easy to get along with when someone wasn’t trying to goad her all the time. Once again he wondered what had happened to make her leave her farm and come here.

  “It’s so miserably hot.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist. “Enough days of this could make a person black out. Have you ever passed out?”

  “You mean while sober?” he scoffed.

  She didn’t frown or laugh at his wisecrack but just dug into the basket and pulled out two bowls covered with plastic wrap. “Banana pudding.” Sh
e removed the plastic from one.

  He leaned against the tree. “You know, I’ve been thinking about our conversations since we met, and it seems to me that you have a problem with guys. So tell me, Sylvia, what makes you dislike the male gender?”

  “Are you going to pick a fight with me at every meal or just when I say something that’s a little personal—like asking about your health?”

  “You didn’t say anything that bothered me.” That was a lie. He didn’t like her acting as if they were friends.

  She took a few bites of her pudding before setting it aside, then removed her hat, lay down on the blanket with her back to him, and propped her arm under her head. Within two minutes her shoulders moved up and down in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

  Who are you, Sylvia Fisher?

  Twelve

  Sylvia hobbled into the barn, her muscles screaming. The dark morning sky held no charm for her today. She found the kerosene lanterns lit, the bales of straw down from the loft, and Aaron spreading it on the stalls.

  He looked up for a moment, then returned to his work. “Coffee’s on the ledge.”

  She tried to walk normally as she went to the mug. Gingerly she picked it up with her aching, blistered hands and took a drink. “Denki.”

  “You should thank Daed. He won’t let me leave the house without it.”

  She wasn’t the only one who was sore. Aaron grimaced as he moved at half the speed he had yesterday. She dreaded the work ahead, but they had at least two days of stirring the cut hay and letting it dry before it could be baled.

  “We have four teens coming to do the evening milking until we get the hay out of the field,” Aaron said, “and Daed’s able to supervise them, so we can keep mowing while they tend to the cows.”

  “There’s no money for that.”