by Mia Ross
She nodded. “You must be Luke,” she said in Deitsch and then switched to English. “Jump in before we cause a traffic jam.”
He glanced up and down the street. Not a single vehicle was coming in either direction. He looked back at Sara as he swung up onto the bench seat. The interior of the buggy was plain black, neat and well maintained, pretty much what he’d expected of the woman he only knew from correspondence. “Dover hasn’t grown all that much in the time I’ve been gone,” he said.
“Atch. According to my neighbors, it has grown. They say the traffic has increased,” she replied. “I moved here from a rural area of Wisconsin a few years back, so Kent County still seems busy to me. You’re certain you want to trade the wide-open spaces of the Midwest for our little state?”
He nodded. “Ya, I do.”
“You said in your first letter that you grew up here.”
“I did, and I’ve always thought of Kent County as home,” he answered. “Kansas can be pretty dry. I miss the green and the rain.”
A line of cars slowed behind them, but Sara didn’t seem to notice. “Rain we have aplenty,” she said after a bit.
“And a strong church community.” He stretched out his long legs and rubbed absently at his aching shoulder. When the collision happened, he’d been thrown violently against the corner of the seat frame across the aisle. Nothing seemed broken, but he guessed he was going to have quite a bruise. “At least, that’s the way I remember it,” he finished.
“It is. And everyone will welcome you. We’re always glad to add to our family. You say you’re a master carpenter?”
“More of a cabinetmaker, but I can do any type of construction.”
Sara looked at him with frank curiosity. “I’m curious as to why you’d need my services. A nice-looking man like you with a good trade? Back in Kansas, mothers must have been parading their daughters in front of you. Girls must have been lining up hoping you’d take them home from a singing.”
But not the woman I want, he thought. To Sara, he said, “I’m ready to marry and start a family, but I thought the whole process would be easier if I used a matchmaker.”
“Mmm.” Sara’s brow arched. “I’ve checked up on you. Wrote a couple of letters. Your bishop tells me that you’re baptized and a solid member of your church.” She pursed her lips. “A matchmaker can certainly make it easier finding the right wife, but why me? Why not someone in Kansas?”
“The nearest Amish matchmaker to where I lived just celebrated her eighty-second birthday, and she doesn’t hear or see well. Besides, I want to move back to Delaware and marry a woman from here.” He glanced at her. “You have a good reputation. People speak of you as one of the best, and you specialize in hard-to-place cases.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you a difficult case, Luke Weaver?” She gave him an appraising look. “I’ll admit you do look a little worse for wear.”
“Ya.” He ran a hand over the three-cornered tear in the knee of his go-to-church trousers. There was a stain on the other leg he suspected might be blood and his wide-brimmed black wool hat had taken a beating. The brim was sagging and it was shrinking as it dried; it wasn’t meant to be submerged in water.
“I suppose I do,” he admitted. He considered whether or not to explain his condition to Sara. His first impressions of her were good, but he didn’t know that he was ready to tell anyone what had happened on the highway the previous night. The idea of talking about it made him uncomfortable; he’d done what any man would have done. End of story.
Sara turned off State Street onto Division. Traffic was still light for the center of town. A few pedestrians stopped and watched as the mule and buggy passed. A little boy in a fire-engine red rain slicker and yellow boots waved from the sidewalk, and Sara waved back.
“A lot of new construction in Dover,” he commented as the grand Victorian houses gave way to commercial buildings and smaller frame homes. “I’m hoping I’ll be able to find steady employment.”
“There’s always work for a carpenter,” she replied. “A good friend of mine has a construction crew. You’ll meet him at church tomorrow.” Her shrewd gaze raked him again. “If you’re planning on joining us for worship. It’s being held at Samuel Mast’s, not far from my place. You know Samuel?”
“I do. Good man. And ya, I do want to attend service. If you can find me something decent to wear. We, um...had some trouble... The bus.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid my duffle bag with all my clothes is lost. I don’t want to impose. I know I’ve picked an awkward time to arrive, two days after Christmas, but...it was time I came.”
“Not a problem. I can find clothes, and I’ve got a warm bed for you. All my prospective brides have either married or gone back to their families for the holidays. It’s much too quiet in my house. Even our little schoolteacher has gone visiting relatives. As I told you in my letter, I have a bunkhouse for my hired hand and male clients from out of state. Some stay for the weekend, others a few weeks or longer. It’s far enough from the house for propriety, but close enough so that your meals won’t be cold before you get to the table. Prospective brides stay in the house with me.”
“The bunkhouse sounds great. I appreciate it,” he said. “And I appreciate you coming to get me. It’s a miserable day for you to be on the road.”
Sara reined the mule to a stop as the light ahead turned from yellow to red. “I could have sent Hiram for you. He’s my hired man. But his judgment’s not the best. He might have decided to take the buggy down the DuPont Highway to stop at the mall. And the madhouse of a highway is no place for a mule, even a sensible one.” She glanced at Luke. “And the truth is, I was looking for an excuse to get out of the house.”
They rode in comfortable silence for a few minutes and then Luke spoke up again. He wasn’t one to keep quiet on things. Sometimes he was criticized for speaking too easily from his heart, with his feelings. It wasn’t something necessarily encouraged in Amish men, but he was who he was. “I hope you’re going to be able to help me make a match,” he said. If she couldn’t, he didn’t know what he’d do.
“No reason why I shouldn’t, is there?” She glanced at him again. “I’ll admit, Luke, you are something of a mystery to me. You do make me curious.”
He winced at the word mystery but said nothing.
“You know, young women seeking husbands are plentiful, but eligible bachelors with a solid trade seeking brides aren’t as easy to find. From what I see with my eyes, and from what I’ve learned from your letters and my own inquiries, you’re almost too good to be true.”
“I don’t know about that. I’m as flawed as any man. But I assure you, I’ve not told you any untruths.”
“I didn’t say you had,” Sara said. “My first thought would be that I can think of a good dozen young women who would jump at the opportunity to meet you. But something tells me that there’s more to you, that you’ve not told me everything I need to know if I’m going to make the right match for you.”
He grimaced. “There is something I haven’t said.”
“And that is?”
“There’s a particular someone I’ve set my mind on, someone special I used to know.” He stopped and started again. “Someone I haven’t been able to forget.”
Sara reined the mule off the street and into a parking place in a car dealership lot. She looped the leathers over a hook on the dash, folded her arms and turned to face him. “I take it that this someone is of legal age, Amish and free to marry?”
“She is.”
“But you didn’t think that I should have that information before you arrived?”
He tugged on the sagging brim of his hat. It was a shame it was ruined because he’d bought it new before he left Kansas. “I thought it would be easier if I could explain in person.” He looked away and then back at the matchmaker. “Her name is Honor. Honor King.”
Sara didn’t hide her surprise. “I know Honor. A widow. She doesn’t belong to our church community, but I have introduced her to several prospects. Honor’s husband passed a year and a half ago.”
“Nineteen months.”
Sara frowned. “And you know that Honor has children. Four of them.”
“Ya, I do. That doesn’t matter to me.”
“Well, it should,” she harrumphed. “It takes a special kind of a man to be a father to another man’s children. Especially as they get up in age.”
He felt himself flush. “I know that. What I said about the children, that didn’t come out right. Her children are part of her. I want to be a good father to them. And a good husband to her.”
Sara raised a dark eyebrow. “You’re familiar with Honor’s children? You’ve met them?”
There was something in her tone that made him hesitate. “Ne...but I hope to have many children.”
She sniffed. “Easily said by a man who has none. As the preachers tell us, children are blessings from God. That said, they can be a handful. Some more than others.” She pursed her lips. “Any other revelations you’d like to share with me?”
He hesitated. “Well...”
“Like this, perhaps?” She reached under the seat and came up with a copy of the Delaware State News. The photo snapped by one of the bus passengers stared back at him. It was clearly his face, with a fire truck and a Pennsylvania State Police car in the background. In his arms was a screaming child. Under the photo, a bold headline proclaimed Mystery Cowboy Rides to the Rescue!
“You saw it,” he said.
“Ya, saw it and read it. What I didn’t know was that I would be welcoming the mystery cowboy into my home. You know our community takes a dim view of photographs. They are forbidden.”
“In my church, as well,” he agreed. “But I didn’t give anyone permission to take a picture. And I didn’t ask for people to talk about what happened. There was an accident. I did what seemed right.”
“But it will make talk.” She allowed herself the hint of a smile. “A lot of talk.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“That the hat you were wearing?” She frowned, looking up at him. “Doesn’t look much like a gunslinger’s hat. Or a rodeo rider’s.”
“Ne.”
She had a sense of humor, this perky little matchmaker. He liked her. Better yet, he had the strongest feeling that he could trust her in what might be the biggest step of his life.
Sara chuckled. “Englishers. Mistook your church hat for a cowboy hat, I suppose, and thought you were a cowboy.”
“Ya. Someone who isn’t familiar with our people.”
She nodded. “I can see that. Better for you that it doesn’t say Amish. Better for us.”
“Maybe so,” he said.
“I know so.” Her eyes lit with mischief. “But good of you to save the Englishers from the accident. They are God’s children, too.”
“I didn’t want the fuss. Anybody would have done what I did.”
“But according to the newspaper, you’re the one who took charge. Who kept his head, did what needed to be done and kept the unconscious bus driver from drowning. Not everyone would have the courage to do that.” She paused and then went on. “There’ll be questions we’ll have to answer from our neighbors, but if you don’t wear snakeskin boots, rope cows or sign autographs, the talk will pass and people will find something else to gossip about.”
“I hope so.”
She reached over and patted his arm reassuringly. “If you didn’t want your photograph taken, there’s no reason to feel guilty about it. Any of our people with sense will come to realize it.” She gathered the reins again and clicked to the mule. And as they pulled out onto the street again, she said, “One question for you. The widow, Honor King, will she look favorably on your suit?”
“I doubt it,” he admitted, gazing out at the road ahead. “She returns my letters unopened.”
* * *
Two days later, Luke and Sara drove west from her house in Seven Poplars. Eventually, they passed a millpond and mill, and then went another two miles down a winding country road to a farm that sat far back off the blacktop.
“I don’t know what her husband, Silas, was thinking to buy so far from other Amish families,” Sara mused. “I haven’t been here to Honor’s home, because she lives out of our church district, but Freeman and Katie at the mill are her nearest Amish neighbors. It must be difficult for Honor since her husband passed away, being so isolated.” She turned her mule into the driveway. “Atch,” she muttered. “Look at this mud. I hope we don’t get stuck in the ruts.” The lane, lined on either side by sagging fence rails and overgrown barbed wire, was filled with puddles.
“If we do, I’ll dig us out,” Luke promised, adjusting the shrunken hat that barely fitted on his head anymore. Now that they were almost to Honor’s home, he was nervous. What if she refused to let him walk through her doorway? What if he’d sold everything he owned, turned his life upside down and moved to Delaware just to find that she’d have nothing to do with him?
Honor’s farmhouse was a rambling, two-story frame structure with tall brick chimneys at either end. Behind and to the sides, loomed several barns, sheds and outbuildings. A derelict windmill, missing more than half its blades, leaned precariously over the narrow entrance to the farmyard.
“I’d have to agree with what you told me yesterday, Sara. She needs a handyman,” Luke said, sliding his door open so he could get a better look. He’d heard that Honor’s husband had purchased a big farm in western Kent County, near the Maryland state line. But no one had told him that the property was in such bad shape.
How could a woman alone with four children possibly manage such a farm? How could she care for her family? Why had Silas brought his young bride here? Fixing up this place would have been a huge undertaking for a healthy man, not to mention one who’d suffered from a chronic disease since he was born.
The wind shifted and the intermittent rain dampened Luke’s trousers and wet his face. He pulled the brim of his hat low to shield his eyes as the mule plodded on up the drive, laying her ears back against the rain and splashing through the puddles. As the buggy neared the farmhouse, Luke noticed missing shingles on the roof and a broken window on the second floor. His chest tightened and he felt an overwhelming need to do whatever he could to help Honor, regardless of how she received him.
As they passed between the gateposts that marked the entrance to the farmyard, Luke could hear the rusty mechanism of the windmill creak and grind. The gate, or what remained of it, sagged, one end on the ground and overgrown with weeds and what looked like poison ivy.
“If I’d known things were this bad here, I would have asked Caleb to organize a work frolic to clean this place up,” Sara observed. “Caleb’s our young preacher, married one of the Yoder girls. You know Hannah Yoder? Her daughters are all married now, have families of their own.”
“Knew Jonas Yoder well. He was good to me when I was growing up.”
“Jonas was like that,” Sara mused. “Hannah and I are cousins.”
Luke continued to study the farm. “You’ve never been here before?”
“Ne, I haven’t. She’s been to my place, though. I’d heard Honor doesn’t have church services here, but I always assumed it was due to Silas’s illness and then her struggle to carry on without him.”
Luke didn’t know how long Honor’s husband had been sick before he’d been carried off by a bout of pneumonia, but either he’d been sick a long time or he hadn’t attended to his duties. The state of things on this farm was a disgrace.
A child’s shriek caught his attention, and he glanced at the barn where a hayloft door hung open. Suddenly, a squirming bundle of energy cannonballed out of the loft, landed on a hay wagon heaped with wet straw and then vaulted off to land with a squeal
of laughter in a mud puddle. Water splashed, ducks and chickens flew, squawking and quacking, in every direction, and a miniature donkey shied away from the building and added a shrill braying to the uproar.
The small figure climbed out of the puddle and shouted to someone in the loft. Luke thought the muddy creature must be a boy, because he was wearing trousers and a shirt, but couldn’t make out his face or the color of his hair because it was covered in mud.
“What are you doing?” Sara called to the child. “Does your mother know—”
She didn’t get to finish her sentence because a second squealing child leaped from the loft opening. He hit the heap of straw in the wagon and landed in the puddle with a satisfying splash and an even louder protest from the donkey. This child was shirtless and wearing only one shoe. When a third child appeared in the loft, this one the smallest of the three, Luke managed to leap out of the buggy and get to the wagon in time to catch him in midair.
This little one, in a baby’s gown, was bareheaded, with clumps of bright red-orange hair standing up like the bristles on a horse’s mane and oversize boots on the wrong feet. The rescued toddler began to wail. With a yell, the shirtless boy launched himself at Luke, fists and feet flying, and bit his knee.
“Let go of him!” the leader of the pack screamed in Deitsch. “Mam! A man is taking Elijah!”
Luke deposited Elijah safely on the ground. “Stop that!” he ordered in Deitsch, lifting his attacker into the air and tucking him under one arm.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Luke turned toward the back porch. A young woman appeared, a crying baby in her arms, wet hair hanging loose around her shoulders. “Let go of my son this minute!”
For a moment Luke stood there, stunned, the boy still flailing against his arm. Luke had been expecting to see a changed Honor, one weighed down by the grief of widowhood and aged by the birth of four children in six years, but he hadn’t been prepared for this bold beauty. He opened his mouth to answer, but as he did, a handful of mud struck him in the cheek.
