The Amish Widower

by Virginia Smith

  The Men of Lancaster County

  (by Mindy Starns Clark and Susan Meissner)

  The Amish Groom

  The Amish Blacksmith

  The Amish Clockmaker

  The Amish Widower

  (by Virginia Smith)

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Scripture verses are taken from

  The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Die Bibel, Die heilige Schrift, nacht der Ubersetzung Martin Luthers, in der revidierten Fassung von 1912. (The Bible: The Holy Scriptures, as translated by Martin Luther in the revised edition of 1912.)

  The King James Version of the Bible.

  Cover by Garborg Design Works

  Cover Images © Chris Garborg; Andrea Izzotti, captured by carol / Bigstock

  Published in association with the Books & Such Management, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE AMISH WIDOWER

  Copyright © 2017 by Virginia Smith

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6865-2 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6866-9 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Smith, Virginia, author.

  Title: The Amish widower / Virginia Smith.

  Description: Eugene, Oregon: Harvest House Publishers, [2017]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016039333 (print) | LCCN 2016047410 (ebook) | ISBN 9780736968652 (softcover) | ISBN 9780736968669 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Amish—Fiction. | Widowers—Fiction. | Amish Country (Pa.)—Fiction. | GSAFD: Christian fiction. | Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3619.M5956 A84 2017 (print) | LCC PS3619.M5956 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016039333

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  DEDICATION

  To Ted,

  the inspiration for every hero I write.

  I love you.

  CONTENTS

  The Men of Lancaster County

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Meet the other Amish men in The Men of Lancaster County series

  free sample: The Amish Groom

  The Amish Blacksmith

  The Amish Clockmaker

  Ready to Discover More?

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  The rumble from someone’s stomach on the bench behind me stirred up an answer in my own empty belly. As was often the case in the winter, this church meeting had lasted longer than normal. I forced myself not to shift my weight on the hard wooden bench and tried to ignore the numbness that had overtaken my backside a good hour ago. Instead, I focused on Bishop Beiler’s message. Or attempted to. The bishop had made his point multiple times, but he had yet to run out of different ways to say the same thing. Ya, we understood that true peace came only from God, and we knew that complete commitment, patience, and constant prayer were the keys to living in that peace. How many times did he have to repeat the point?

  A sudden rush of guilt washed over me, and I did fidget then. My thoughts had just proved the bishop’s point. Patience was a virtue I struggled to attain, and more often than not I lost the skirmish with my restive nature. And what was the result? Irritation with others and with myself, which demolished the very divine peace Bishop Beiler spoke of at such length.

  Gott, forgive me. Teach me patience, beginning now.

  With a renewed awareness of my own shortcomings, I spared a glance across the room, where the women’s dresses formed a harmonious rainbow of quiet color. The Schrocks’ house possessed a room large enough for the community to attend the twice-monthly church services, though we all sat shoulder-touching-shoulder. No one minded. This arrangement was far better than a cold barn, which was where some of us hosted the service when our turn came around. My gaze settled on Hannah, my wife of just four months. Proof that the Lord I served was, indeed, a merciful God. Her lovely face was turned upward as she focused her attention forward, her brow slightly furrowed as though in deep concentration on the bishop’s words. No doubt she was compiling a list of questions to ask me on the way home. She always did, insisting that we discuss the details of the sermon, asking my opinion on various points. Some of which, to be honest, I hadn’t heard.

  That the good Lord had given me a woman as intelligent as she was lovely was further proof of His mercy for me. The fact that He’d refilled my tormented heart and empty bed…

  Swallowing, I forced my thoughts away from the lingering pain that would forever accompany reminders of the loss three years ago that shook my world to the very foundations. Instead, I made myself focus on the words of the man standing at the front of the room.

  Thankfully, he chose that moment to wind up the lengthy sermon with one final admonition—a quote from the Confession of Faith.

  “May the Lord through His grace make us all fit and worthy, that no such calamity may befall any of us; but that we may be diligent, and so take heed to ourselves, that we may be found of Him in peace, without spot, and blameless. Amen.”

  The last word served as benediction as well as permission for a moment of fidgeting, and the men all around me shifted on their benches to relieve the stiffness of muscles denied the luxury of movement for nearly three hours. Bishop Beiler took his seat, and a communal breath was drawn and held. Would any of the other ministers feel led to add to the main sermon? A long silence stretched on as we waited. Breaths were expelled cautiously as we realized none of the other men gathered in the front of the room intended to speak on the subject. I formed a grateful prayer in my mind, further proof that my struggle to attain the patience of which the bishop spoke was not yet won.

  Apparently, I wasn’t the only one whose patience with the overly long sermon had expired. We hurried through the remainder of the service
with unusual haste, and were then dismissed.

  Jacob Schrock, the host of today’s church service, addressed us as we rose. “We welcome you to share our lunch of meat and cheese, along with some of Abigail’s gut bread and apple butter.”

  Indeed, the yeasty aroma of recently baked bread lingered in the air. The smell had plagued my empty stomach during the entire service. I glanced across the room at Hannah, who had stood and was brushing at a wrinkle in the lilac fabric of her skirt. She met my gaze, and I raised an eyebrow in an unspoken question. At the quick shake of her head, I smiled. The communal meal following a worship service was an enjoyable part of church Sundays during the summer, when the children could be let loose to run in the grass and burn off their energy, while the adults visited and the young people flirted. In the cold months of winter I was just as happy to miss the meal and hurry home to a lunch of sandwiches and chunky applesauce. Even more so because Hannah’s parents and younger schweschders, with whom we lived, would probably take advantage of Abigail Schrock’s hospitality. Rare were the times Hannah and I had the house to ourselves.

  A small number of the community filed outside with us, our breath forming clouds of steam in the frigid air. While I waited for Hannah, I stamped my feet on the frozen ground and clasped the edges of my coat together against the cold.

  “Guder mariye, Seth.” Josiah Graber approached and stood beside me. “A gut main sermon today, ya?”

  His lips twisted into a teasing smile that told me he, too, thought the bishop’s sermon had lasted far longer than his message. We were of an age, Josiah and I, and because his family’s farm bordered my father’s, we had spent much of our childhood together. We’d enjoyed many a riotous outing during our rumspringas and had shared our deepest thoughts with one another, our reserves lowered and our words fueled by large quantities of the beer we both eschewed when we joined the church. Sometimes I knew the way Josiah’s thoughts ran simply by the expression on his face. No doubt he knew the same about mine.

  “Ya,” I answered with a nod, my own lips curved into an answering grin. “The bishop has much wisdom, and is generous to share it with us fully.”

  The glint in his eyes told me he understood my comment, and we both broke into laughter. We were still laughing when Hannah and Ella, Josiah’s wife, exited the house and joined us.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting in the cold,” Hannah said, coming to my side. “I wanted to hold the Yoders’ new boppli.”

  “She’s a precious little baby, isn’t she?” Ella shifted her two-year-old from one hip to the other and pinned a teasing look on Hannah. “I thought for a while you weren’t going to give her back to her mamm. You had that baby hungry look in your eyes.”

  Hannah and I exchanged a quick glance, and then she lowered her gaze. About her lips hovered a secretive smile that sent a tingle of fear through the base of my skull. I pushed the emotion away as the five of us headed for the pasture, where forty or so buggies waited in more-or-less straight lines.

  When we approached Josiah’s buggy, he took his son from Ella and I helped her climb up.

  “How is that new Saddlebred working out for you?” he asked.

  I glanced at our rig, where my new horse, hitched to the buggy, stamped his hooves on the frozen ground much as I had moments before.

  “He’s a bit skittish,” I admitted. “The Englisch man I bought him from said he’d been trained to pull, but I don’t think he’s spent much time in the harness.”

  Ella reached down to take the toddler from Josiah, a scowl carving creases at the sides of her mouth. “You can’t trust the Englisch.”

  “Oh, that’s not true.” My softhearted Hannah shook her head. “Most of them are as honest as Amish men. And besides, Lars is a fine horse.” She smiled toward our rig. “He’s just young, that’s all. He needs time to become accustomed to his new job.”

  The confidence in her gaze as she looked at the horse she’d named Lars soothed the nagging doubt that I’d been hoodwinked by the Englisch horse salesman. Hannah had accompanied me to select the animal, and she had taken a shine to Lars immediately. I had my eye on a different animal, several years older with a sturdier build, but she argued that Lars—she’d named him on the spot—would fill out as he grew. The good news she’d shared with me only the night before had created a tender spot in me for my beautiful wife, part excitement and part fearful anxiety, so that I could deny her nothing that day. Lars had come home with us, hitched to the back of the buggy pulled by her daed’s horse.

  “Besides,” Hannah went on, “we’ve only hitched him to our courting buggy, which is pretty light. When he’s used to that, we’ll let him try Daed’s family wagon. The heavier load will settle him.”

  We bid Josiah and Ella goodbye, and made our way toward our own rig. Hannah gave Lars a gentle rub on the muzzle as we passed, and he responded with an equine nod and a welcoming nicker. I couldn’t help but laugh. The animal was obviously as fond of Hannah as she was of him.

  I placed my hands on her waist, still slender beneath her thick black coat, and lifted her onto the bench. As Hannah had mentioned, we owned only a small courting buggy that seated two. Because of its open carriage it was a pretty cold ride in the winter, but it did provide the option of riding alone with my wife.

  Someday soon I’d need to look into an enclosed buggy, suitable for a family.

  While I rounded the front, my gaze swept over the fittings, and I gave a tug to the leather pocket to make sure the shaft was settled securely. When I climbed up beside Hannah, she scooted close and covered my lap with the thick quilts she’d already spread across herself. I clucked my tongue and gently shook the reins, and Lars lurched forward.

  The buggy jerked, and Hannah gave a startled laugh. “Looks like Lars was eager for the service to end too.”

  I looked sideways at her. “Too? Did you think the bishop’s sermon was a little long?”

  “Not me, silly. You. I saw you fidgeting.”

  She shifted nearer, whether for warmth or simply to be closer to me, I didn’t know or care. The feel of our sides pressed together the length of our bodies, even with several thick layers of clothing between us, settled a comfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach that generated a warmth all its own.

  “I didn’t fidget. I made a point of not fidgeting.”

  “Maybe, but your eyes were fixed more often on me than on the bishop.” She tilted her head and displayed a charming dimple. “I always notice when you’re watching me.”

  “And who could blame me? You’re much prettier to look at than Bishop Beiler.” I grinned as I applied the reins to steer Lars from the Schrocks’ property onto the road just behind Josiah’s rig. Soon the clip-clop of a dozen horses’ hooves on the pavement filled the chilly air as the line of buggies carrying people who had opted not to stay for Abigail’s bread and apple butter made their way home.

  Hannah broke the silence. “I think Ella guessed our secret. She watched me with such a knowing expression while I was cuddling the baby.”

  Again, the familiar shaft of fear shot down my spine. As though she sensed my reaction, my wife slipped a hand onto my thigh beneath the cover of the quilt and gave my leg a comforting squeeze.

  “There’s nothing to fear, Seth. Doesn’t the Bible say, Fear not?” With a final squeeze, she withdrew her hand. “I will be fine. You’ll see.”

  How I longed to share her confidence. But though she had developed an uncanny knack for guessing my thoughts, she could not see the vivid memories that haunted me, nor feel the depth of my horror at the sight of my first wife lying in bed, white faced and weary, the coverings around her stained with the evidence of yet another miscarriage. Sweet Rachel, whom I’d loved since childhood, had not survived the night. A few days later, another grave was dug in the community’s cemetery, and Rachel was buried holding our tiny but perfectly formed son.

  But that was three years ago, and God had been gracious to me. I’d never thought it possible to love another woma
n until Hannah’s family moved to Lancaster County and bought a farm in our small district. What she saw in me, a grief-stricken widower, the second son of his father with few prospects besides working as a hired hand on the family farm, I could not imagine. But I thanked God for her, for my second chance at happiness, every day of my life.

  Still, when Hannah revealed to me that we would welcome a child of our own in the summer, I couldn’t stop the fearful thoughts that coursed through my mind. What if she miscarried? Rachel’s gut-wrenching sobs in the night after the first two losses haunted my dreams. And my own inaction, which caused her death. Why hadn’t I overruled her and insisted on taking her to the hospital when the bleeding started in the third pregnancy? Why had I allowed her to continue with the household chores?

  That’s why I insisted that Hannah not share our good news with anyone, even family, until the evidence became obvious in her thickening waist. And I had already determined, though I had not yet told her, that at the first sign of distress I would hire a car and take her to the hospital. No dallying around, waiting for spotting to stop, drinking herbal concoctions that the midwife brought. I would take no chances with my Hannah.

  The road climbed a slight incline, and Lars responded with a surge of energy and an increase in pace. Josiah’s buggy was several lengths ahead of us, and I preferred to maintain a safe distance.

  I reached for the brake lever. “Whoa, there,” I called in a low voice, at the same time applying the gentlest force. Lars responded with a toss of his head, and his hooves clapped loudly against the pavement as he pranced against the restraint.

  Hannah laughed. “Maybe he was trained to be a racehorse before he learned to pull. He wants to be in the front, not following tamely behind.”

  “He needs to learn who’s in control.” I pulled a bit more firmly on the brake lever.

  The roar of an engine behind us heralded the approach of a car. A loud rattle gave evidence of a damaged muffler, and as the automobile approached the line of buggies, the driver revved the engine, filling the air with a thunderous clatter. I glanced back. A rusty green vehicle with two occupants zoomed toward us, close enough that, when it passed the rearmost buggy, less than a yard’s space separated the side window from the buggy’s wheel. The horn began to honk, and the passenger window lowered.