by Tricia Goyer
“I’m serious, Lydia. Amish books are selling like crazy. I’ve had three distributors ask me if we had any Amish in our lineup.”
“You didn’t tell them we did…did you?”
Bonnie offered a nervous chuckle. “I said there was something we were considering. How hard would it be to just become Amish again and write about it? You grew up that way.”
Lydia moaned. “You don’t know what you’re asking—what that would entail.”
“Yes, but it’s a part of you. Your heritage, your cooking. The way you only pay with cash. Gee, just look at your apartment. I’m certain I could go in there with one small box and pack up all your personal items and your five houseplants and rent it to a college student who’d feel quite at home in its dormlike setting.”
“Bonnie—”
“Which I totally could do if you decided to stay longer—”
“Listen, I’m not going to ‘just become Amish again’ to get a book contract. It’s not just a lifestyle; there’s spiritual meaning too.” Lydia shrugged, watching the movement of her shadow. “And even if I wanted to go back, I’m not even sure God would take me.”
Lydia expected a lecture. Instead Bonnie released a low sigh.
“Well, then talk to Him about it, won’t you? I never guarantee anything until it’s in writing, but by the eagerness of our distributors I’m as close to making a guarantee as I can be.”
“I’ll think about it…but don’t get your hopes up.” Yet even as she said the words, Lydia’s heart galloped, just like the horse in the field. She glanced through the windshield at the manuscripts in the passenger’s seat and imagined a cover with her name on it. She pictured choosing a random city, flying there, and walking into a bookstore to find her book—her book—on the shelf. Mem had told her that her life was a gift, that God didn’t make mistakes. Lydia bit her lip, warmth filling her chest. Maybe following her dream and listening to Bonnie’s advice would prove Mem to be right.
“I don’t know what happened to you—what made you run. I’m not sure I’ll ever know. But any given moment you have the chance to redeem your story, Lydia. There’s something God’s going to do with you in Montana. I can feel it.”
Lydia sighed. She’d gotten used to Bonnie talking about God. While Lydia believed in Him, she had a hard time believing God was concerned about her life, her problems.
A small group of sparrows fluttered through the pasture’s grass. Out of nowhere a thought—a Scripture verse she’d learned in school—filtered through her mind: “Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.”
She was about to tell Bonnie to drop the idea when a stirring fluttered in her heart as soft and light as her curls bouncing on the breeze.
Do I care for you?
I care for the sparrows, don’t I?
The words weren’t audible, but they pierced Lydia’s heart.
She looked around at the pasture, the trees, and the small Amish homestead in the distance. The warmth expanding in her chest was her first draw to “home” since leaving. Finding Home. It was the first twinge that a book—a real book—resonated inside her.
Lowering the camera with her right hand, Lydia took the phone from the crook of her neck with her left and pressed it more tightly to her ear. Her fingers trembled. The breeze picked up, carrying the scent of wild roses on its tail feathers.
“Maybe I will write down what returning home means to me, but don’t count on me seeking publication. There are just too—” She blew out a breath. “There are some things I can write only for myself.”
A car sped up the road, then jerked to the side and parked unexpectedly. Blue reared up. Gideon jumped back and raised his arms up as protection from Blue’s hooves in case the horse turned. He didn’t. Instead Blue took off across the field, galloping at full stride.
Gideon grabbed his hat and tossed it to the ground. “Lecherich! Ridiculous!” He eyed the yellow car, knowing it had to be a tourist. Sure enough, a ball of red hair with a heart-shaped face and slim figure climbed out of the car. He watched as with one smooth motion she took out her camera and snapped photos, first of the mountains and then of one of the Amish homesteads.
Tourist.
No one in the area drove as such. No one would intrude by taking photos of a place without asking. Angry tension tightened his shoulders. First, that he’d have to start over with Blue, warming the horse up to him again. Second, that he’d have to educate another Englisch woman about what respect meant. What privacy meant.
Growing up in Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania, he’d seen tour buses of folks armed with cameras. He’d been followed by cars, with passengers taking photos. His buggy had been hit before because a driver veered too close to get a good shot.
Gideon took two steps forward and swooped up his hat from the ground, brushing it off. Good thing he was around to talk to the woman—young children walked these roads during the long summer days. He’d hate to see anything happen because she was trying to get a good photo of “primitive” people to take back and show her friends.
Gideon shook his head as he strode her direction. Frustration dammed up in his throat, and his heartbeat quickened. Some folks didn’t have a lick of sense.
Lydia looked through the viewfinder of her camera. Her throat grew raw. Laundry fluttered on the clothesline behind her parents’ place, evidence of her mother’s work. She guessed it had been hanging a couple of days. Dat most likely hadn’t even noticed it in his grief.
She turned away. Bonnie was relating a story about her mother’s funeral. How come people always did that? As soon as you lost someone, friends were compelled to describe their own family member’s passing. It didn’t help, except to make Lydia realize even more that no one walked this earth without loss, without pain.
“Ma’am.” A male voice.
Lydia jumped. She spun around and watched the man who strode toward her. Dark hair peeked out from under a brimmed hat, along with the deepest brown eyes she’d ever seen.
The lump in her throat grew larger as the wind rustled his dark hair. A hero walking toward her in long strides. Had she wandered onto a movie set?
She shook her head. She was grieving, not blind.
“Listen, Bonnie, I’ll call you right back.” Without waiting for a response, she hung up her cell phone and stepped forward, blowing out a breath. A red curl brushed against her cheek, and she ran her fingers through her hair, trying to tame it.
The man hopped the fence and stood before her. Lydia tilted her head and offered a smile, willing her beating heart to calm. He was handsome, yes, but most likely taken. All great guys were. Besides, she hadn’t come to West Kootenai for romance.
“Ma’am. You should put that camera away.” His voice was firm.
Her smile fell. “Excuse me?”
“I saw you taking photographs of that Amish home over there, and I think you should put your camera away.”
Her mouth dropped open.
He took another step forward, eyes fixed on hers.
“Sir, I don’t know who you think you are…” She took a step back and gritted her teeth. “Maybe you should introduce yourself, and maybe you should have asked me about who I am. Perhaps I have every right to take a photograph of that Amish home. Did you ever consider that?”
She took another step backward toward the driver’s side door.
He stilled, his narrowed gaze widening. “Ma’am…wait.” His voice softened and he stretched a hand toward her.
She’d heard about men like this. Switching from dominance to passivity as a way to get one’s guard down. Was this really about the camera, or something else? She glanced to her right, then her left. Not another soul in sight. No one to hear her scream…
Her lips tightened and she raised a flattened palm toward him. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll be on my way.” She took another step back.
“Ma’am—” He lunged toward her. “—you’re gonna�
�”
Her foot sank into the forgotten puddle. As her ankle twisted, Lydia’s body fell sideways, no longer under her control. She released the camera as she reached back to catch herself. The bite of gravel dug into her hand, stinging, but it slowed her fall as she tumbled sideways almost as if in slow motion. Her arm, side, and hip sank into the gravel of the road. A splash, and cold water from the puddle chilled her foot and lower leg.
The man was instantly beside her, kneeling. His mouth downturned, he placed a hand on the top of his head. “Ma’am, are you okay?”
He reached for her ankle, unhindered by the water and mud. His touch was warm. She jerked her foot away.
“I was going to say ‘Other than my bruised pride’ I’m fine, but it’s awfully cliché.” She straightened. “But I suppose that’s where clichés come from—they’re used because they work.”
The rumble of a chuckle started deep in his throat. “Then I suppose I shouldn’t tell you to ‘look on the bright side.’”
“‘The bright side’ meaning all I have is a wet foot and damp clothes? And you think that’s funny?”
He grinned.
Lydia wiped the splattering of mud from the bridge of her nose and eyelid and shot him a glare.
“Is this how your mother taught you to treat a lady?”
“Mem taught me many things, and respecting all God’s people is one thing fer sure.” Another chuckle bubbled up. “But I’m certain if she was standing here, even my mem would have a hard time not laughing. Or should I say, she’d ‘back me up.’”
“Funny or not, you should be ashamed of yourself for just standing there—worse than tossing around overworked and uninspiring clichés and not helping me up.”
“Ja, of course.” He reached a hand to her, his grip warm, strong. With a soft tug he pulled her gently to her feet, allowing Lydia to catch her balance so she wouldn’t have to scramble or fall into him, thus protecting her insult from further injury.
As soon as she was able, she pulled her hand away. Surely the fluttering of her heart was due to the fall. The last thing she needed was to be attracted to a Montana mountain man. “You should have just said there was a puddle.” She narrowed her gaze and raised her voice. “You should have known better.”
He dropped her hand like it was a poisonous snake, and when she focused on his eyes the humor was gone. They’d darkened under lowered lashes. Sadness? Shame?
The man stepped back. He held her camera in his other hand.
“You saved it.” Her words were no more than a whisper.
“I figured you could clean up, but I didn’t want your camera busted.” He looked down at it with curiosity.
In amazement, Lydia looked around her. The man’s hat sat at the edge of the mud puddle. He must have dropped it lunging for her camera. Her gut tightened.
It was an Amish hat.
She studied him more closely, not knowing how she could have missed the clues—the simple pants and handmade shirt, the suspenders and the long hair over his ears. If the wind stopped rustling it up, she guessed his hair was cut straight across his forehead too. It was those deep, dark eyes and the striking features that had caused her to miss the fact he was one of the Amish bachelors.
The humor in his eyes was long gone. Her heart sank and grew cold as if it too had been dunked in the muddy puddle. It was obvious something she’d said had cut deep. But what?
Lydia shook her leg. Mud dripped off the hem of her slacks. “It weren’t—” She stopped, surprised at how quickly she’d slipped into Amish speech. “I mean, it wasn’t your fault. Uh…”
“Gideon. My name is Gideon.”
A strong name. A hero’s name.
She offered a small smile. “My name is Lydia.”
He handed the camera back, and she opened the door and placed it inside her car. “It wasn’t your fault, Gideon. Thank you for saving my camera. I’m headed to the, uh, Wyse place. Can you remind me which way to go?”
His eyes moved over her and lingered on her hair as if imagining a kapp, then he cleared his throat.
“Ja, I know the place. It’s…” He fumbled his words.
What had gotten into him? But he turned away and pointed to the house across the pasture before she had a chance to read the story his eyes revealed.
Gideon’s mem had told him that someday there’d be a woman who looked so good in the face it would give him a bauch ache and cause his heart to beat double. Gideon placed a hand over his stomach, noticing it did ache. But he was certain this Lydia was just opposite the type of woman Mem had in mind.
She brushed her thick, red hair back from her face with her free hand. Her cell phone was still in her grip.
“Do you mind telling me how to get there?” she said again.
A truck drove by, its wheels bouncing in the mud puddles on the road, sending sprays of mud in all directions. The woman stepped closer to him so as not to get splattered. Within arm’s reach. She smelled of vanilla and cinnamon—like his favorite cinnamon roll.
“The Wyse place? That’s the one you were jest taking photos of.” He pointed. “Can’t you see it’s right there?”
“I can see it, but I’m trying to remember which turnoff to take. I know there are several up that way. I don’t want to go knocking on doors and be a bodderation to find the right one.”
“Wait…you speak Pennsylvania Dutch?”
“Ja. Yes. Does it matter? It’s my dat, you see. Mr. Wyse is my father.”
Lydia. Lydie. He should have known. This woman’s reputation proceeded her. He’d only been in West Kootenai a day or so when one of the Amish women in town shared the fate of the older Amish couple. “Poor Mr. and Mrs. Wyse. Only one kinder and she’s gone to the ways of the world.”
Then, just yesterday, he’d heard from his cousin that Mrs. Wyse had passed. Wanting to offer his help, Gideon had stopped by and found Mr. Wyse cutting out wood for the coffin. Even though they hadn’t shared more than small talk before then, Gideon couldn’t leave the man to do the task alone. And even though Mr. Wyse had refused the help of a few other men who offered, he allowed Gideon to stay. Maybe because Gideon hadn’t asked if he could…he’d just walked to the sawhorses and set to work. No one should be alone at a time like that.
As they worked, instead of speaking of the deceased, the older man had spoken of a daughter who liked to read, who baked the best apple pies, and who had eyes as green as the pasture grass. Gideon had pictured an old maid back in Ohio—nothing like this.
He studied the woman’s eyes—just as pretty as her dat had mentioned—then cleared his throat. “I am so sorry about yer mem. I saw her around the Kraft and Grocery often. She was a gut woman.”
“She is with the gut… good Lord now.” Lydia lowered her head and kicked at a pinecone at her feet.
He wanted to ask where she lived—ask more about her—but now was not the time. Heat rose up Gideon’s neck as he considered how he’d treated her. “You go past the Sommer place. It’s the large house over there.” He pointed to the log house with a passel of Sommer boys running around the front. “A ways down yet, the road will T at the Carash place. If you keep going you’ll hit the lake—Lake Koocanusa—so you’ll want to turn right.”
“Turn right at the Sommer place? Is there a road there?”
“Ne, at the T, at the Carashes.”
“You really don’t need to tell me the names. I don’t know these people, and that doesn’t help.”
“Ja.” His gaze narrowed. He knew many women like this. Impatient and quick tempered. Mem had told him that hard work and humility shaped a woman’s character, and that’s why soft, pretty girls were hard to live with. His sympathy lessened, and he wished his attraction would do the same. “I wouldn’t expect it to matter to you.”
The woman jutted out her chin, ignoring his comment.
He tried again. “Go past the first house. Turn right at the T at the second house. You should see yer parents’—yer dat’s—house on down there
in a small clearing.”
“Great. That’s all I needed to know.” She lowered her head and slipped into her car without another word.
Gideon shook his head. Not so much as a thank you. He should have figured as much.
He stepped back from the road, and she started the car again and pulled away. He watched the yellow car speed up, its tires bouncing and splashing through the potholes. He hadn’t met anyone like her—so independent, yet so in need. He could see that in her gaze. So beautiful, yet frustrating.
Remember Mem’s advice, Gideon told himself. Stay away from a woman like that—far away.
No matter how she made his stomach ache.
CHAPTER
3
The place looked different than it had last year. The front porch needed a fresh coat of paint, and wild grasses and wildflowers had intruded, taking over where a manicured lawn had been before. Yearling pine trees crowded, and just north of the house sat the fenced-in pasture that that Amish man had been in—doing what, she had no idea. What did he say his name was? Gideon, yes. Living in Seattle she’d gotten used to incognizant people, but he didn’t have to be rude.
She parked the car, but her hand paused on the door handle. Fatigue invaded her bones. She was almost too weary to walk up the steps to the porch. Partly because she’d driven all the way from Seattle—the most she’d ever driven in all her Englisch days at one time. But more than that, because of the realization that Mem’s smile would not be waiting. No matter what choices Lydia had made, or how poorly she’d acted, the love in Mem’s eyes had always been the same.
Tension and frustration of a moment before was replaced by a stab of longing. She thought of Mem rolling out a pie crust at the table and showing her how to transfer it to the pie pan. She considered Mem’s laughter, ringing like the church bells down the road from their home when they lived back in Sugarcreek. Many people had said over the years they never knew a happier woman.
