A business arrangement...or a Christmas proposal?
Anything’s possible with Amish Country Courtships
On the brink of losing her bakery, the last thing Faith Yoder’s interested in is courting—until Hunter Schwartz returns to Willow Creek. After hiring him to deliver her treats to a Christmas festival, Faith’s determined their relationship will stay strictly professional. But despite a secret that’s kept her single, Faith can’t help but wish she and Hunter could become husband and wife.
“Ant Faith doesn’t want to get married.
She told Mamm she’s not ’mantically interested in—”
“Look!” Faith interrupted, taking her nephew by the hand and distracting Hunter. “Here comes your daed. He’s been searching for you.”
When his father walked through the throng of wedding guests, he didn’t scold the boy. “One of the challenges of being a daed is knowing when to show grace and when to stand firm,” he explained.
“Being a daed is a weighty responsibility, for sure,” Hunter said. “But I’m told it’s one of life’s greatest blessings.”
The words stung Faith. Until then she hadn’t realized her affection for him. Hadn’t realized she secretly imagined walking out with him. Imagined they would grow from business partners and friends to much more.
But they were just silly daydreams. Hunter had made it clear he wouldn’t court anyone he didn’t intend to marry. And now she knew he could never marry her.
So why did she still wish this was their wedding celebration?
Carrie Lighte lives in Massachusetts, where her neighbors include several Mennonite farming families. She loves traveling and first learned about Amish culture when she visited Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, as a young girl. When she isn’t writing or reading, she enjoys baking bread, playing word games and hiking, but her all-time favorite activity is bodyboarding with her loved ones when the surf’s up at Coast Guard Beach on Cape Cod.
Books by Carrie Lighte
Love Inspired
Amish Country Courtships
Amish Triplets for Christmas
Anna’s Forgotten Fiancé
An Amish Holiday Wedding
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AN AMISH
HOLIDAY WEDDING
Carrie Lighte
And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.
—2 Corinthians 12:9
For those who are strong enough to share their vulnerabilities.
With continued thanks to my agent, Pam Hopkins, and my editor, Shana Asaro.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Excerpt from The Rancher's Answered Prayer by Arlene James
Chapter One
Faith Yoder secured her shawl tightly around her shoulders, climbed onto the front seat of the bicycle built for two and began pedaling toward Main Street. It wasn’t quite five o’clock in the morning and her brothers hadn’t yet risen to do the milking. Her headlight cast a weak glow, barely illuminating the empty lane in front of her. The rest of Willow Creek, Pennsylvania, was still asleep and the November moon was her only companion.
Or almost her only companion. As she made a wide turn onto the primary stretch of road leading into town, she spied a lone figure lumbering beneath the streetlamp a few yards ahead of her.
“Watch out!” she warned as her downhill momentum propelled her closer.
The man lifted his head but didn’t move from her path, so she quickly swerved onto the shoulder to avoid hitting him. Her front wheel wobbled off the road and into the shallow ditch, causing her to lose her balance.
“My oier!” she shouted and jumped clear of the heavy bicycle, which clattered on its side. The cargo she’d been carrying in a crate strapped onto the backseat—two dozen eggs—smashed against the pavement. “My oier are ruined and now my cupcakes will be, too!”
“You ought to be as concerned about hitting pedestrians as you are about making cupcakes,” the man replied in Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch as he hobbled to where she was searching the ground for any unbroken eggs.
“I didn’t hit you, so you can quit that limping,” she contended and peered at him under the dim circle of light cast by the streetlamp.
Although the young man’s hair was mostly hidden by his hat, a few dark brown curls sprang from beneath the brim. He wore no beard, which meant he’d never been married. He was average height, but his shoulders seemed unusually broad beneath his wool coat. She didn’t recognize him as being from Willow Creek. Most Amish women in their district wouldn’t have argued with a stranger on a deserted road in the wee hours of the morning, but Faith Yoder wasn’t most Amish women. Having grown up with six brothers, she knew how to hold her own.
“If you’re so worried about getting hit,” she continued, “you could exercise common sense and walk on the side of the road, not in the middle of the lane.”
The man seemed at a temporary loss for words. He gave her a once-over before replying, “It seems strange you’re lecturing me on common sense, when you’re the one riding a tandem bicycle pell-mell through the pitch-dark with a basket of oier strapped to the backseat. You might consider getting a headlamp.”
“For one thing, it’s not pitch-dark—there’s a full moon out. And for another, I have a headlamp,” Faith retorted, setting her bike upright and extending the kickstand.
But noting the sickly glow waning from the light on her handlebars, she recognized she probably bore the responsibility for their near-collision. Chagrinned, she added, “It does seem I need to replace my battery. I hadn’t noticed. I travel this road so often I probably could make the trip blindfolded. My name is Faith Yoder. What’s yours?”
She couldn’t tell whether it was a smile or a grimace that flickered across the man’s face. “I’m Hunter Schwartz, Ruth Graber’s great-nephew.”
Hunter Schwartz, of course. Faith had heard Hunter was bringing his mother from their home in Parkersville, Indiana, to care for Ruth. The elderly woman had broken her ankle and severely sprained her wrist after falling from a stepladder in the little cannery she owned across the street from Faith’s bakery.
Faith should have recognized Hunter from his childhood visits. If it hadn’t been so dark, she undoubtedly would have spotted the cleft in his chin and remembered his earnest brown eyes. Coupled with a valiant personality, his boyish brawniness had caused many of the young meed to dream of being courted by him the autumn he was sixteen.
“I’m sorry,” Faith apologized. “I didn’t recognize you. It’s been a long time.”
If Faith remembered correctly, the last time he’d been in Willow Creek was the year his great-uncle died. After the funeral, Hunter stayed for several months to fix Ruth’s roof and help with other household repairs. It was during harvest season, when many of the leit, or Amish people in the district, were tending their crops, and Hunter frequently helped ou
t on the Yoders’ farm, as well as attended singings and other social events with Faith’s brothers. The following year, he’d gotten a full-time job in Indiana working for the Englisch, who limited his holiday breaks. From then on, Ruth said it made more sense for her to visit Hunter’s family in Indiana than for them to travel to Willow Creek, and he hadn’t been back since.
“Jah, about eight years,” he answered. “I didn’t recognize you either. You’ve, er, you’ve really grown.”
She’d really grown? Faith knew what that meant, and she smoothed her skirt over her stomach. There was no denying she’d put on weight since she was a scrawny, flat-as-a-washboard tomboy, but she rather appreciated the womanly curves she once wondered if she’d ever develop. Well, she mostly appreciated them, anyway. She’d lost all but fifteen of the pounds she’d gained after Lawrence Miller broke off their courtship. Now she was down to the weight she was while she and Lawrence were courting. She didn’t consider herself fat, but she wasn’t thin by any standard. Still, she thought it was impolite for Hunter to draw attention to her size; he used to be so well mannered. But, reminding herself vanity was a sin, she shrugged off his observation.
“I suppose it was my fault I nearly ran into you. I’m grateful it’s only my oier and not your legs that are cracked,” she conceded amicably.
Hunter again looked taken aback, almost as if she’d insulted him instead of apologized. He paused before saying, “I’m sorry about your oier, too, but at least they were only intended for dessert instead of for breakfast. Most people can do without cupcakes, but not without a meal.”
Now Faith couldn’t deny feeling insulted. Who did Hunter think he was, assuming she was making the cupcakes as a mere indulgence for herself, just because she was a bit...a bit round?
“For your information, I own a bakery in town and the oier were for cupcakes I need to make for an Englisch customer,” she sputtered as she mounted her bike. “The customer’s daed is turning seventy-five and this special birthday treat is as important to their family as your breakfast apparently is to you, so I’d better be on my way to remedy the situation. Mach’s gut, Hunter. Enjoy your morning meal.”
Without another word, she sped away as quickly as she could pedal.
* * *
Hunter rubbed his jaw, watching Faith disappear into the dark. His bewilderment about her hasty departure temporarily distracted him from the pain coursing through his lower back and legs. Had his jest about her bike riding offended her? Or was it that she expected him to have known she was a business owner? If anything, he figured he should have been insulted by her remarks. Was she trying to be funny, chastising him not to limp? And what about her remark about being grateful his legs weren’t cracked? Considering his physical condition, that was nothing short of cruel.
But as he trudged back toward his aunt’s home, Hunter realized that however unnerving Faith’s comments were, she must have made them in complete ignorance. His aunt undoubtedly told the leit in Willow Creek about the accident that took his father’s life, but she wouldn’t have necessarily told them about Hunter’s ongoing recovery from his own injuries, especially since he concealed his pain from everyone, even his family members. Besides, from what Hunter recalled, Faith Yoder simply didn’t have a cruel bone in her body. She was tough, yes. Outspoken, definitely. But Hunter remembered that as a young girl, she went out of her way to demonstrate compassion and generosity, especially toward anyone who was mistreated, ill or otherwise suffering.
Granted, Faith was no longer a young girl. It had been too dark to get more than a glimpse of her, but he’d noticed the sharp angles of her girlish face had been replaced with a becoming, feminine softness. Gone was the rash of freckles splashed across her nose; her skin appeared as lustrous and unblemished as the moon. Hunter wouldn’t have believed the same scrappy girl he’d known from his youth had blossomed into the stately young woman he encountered on the road that morning if she hadn’t told him her name: Faith Yoder. Yoder—that meant she was still unmarried, although Hunter assumed she was being courted, perhaps was even betrothed.
Imagining Faith’s suitors reminded him of Justine, the woman he’d walked out with in Indiana. She was devastated when Hunter ended their relationship after his accident a little more than a year ago. It pained him to cause her heartache, but breaking up was in her best interest: Hunter wouldn’t seriously court a woman he didn’t intend to marry, and he wouldn’t marry a woman if he couldn’t be a good provider for their family. After all, the accident cost him his job at the Englisch RV factory and it had severely limited his mobility. At the time Hunter broke up with Justine, there was no telling whether he’d even be able to walk again.
Eventually, Justine accepted another man’s offer of courtship, and now she’d be getting married in two weeks. It was exactly what Hunter prayed would happen for her, but he was still relieved he wouldn’t be in Indiana to attend her wedding. While he no longer cared for Justine the way he once did, witnessing her getting married would have emphasized how much his life had changed since they were courting. Shivering, he forced thoughts of the past from his mind.
The frosty air intensified the ache clenching his lower spine. He stopped and waited for it to pass. The long van ride from Parkersville had wreaked havoc on his body. Walking into town didn’t help much, but it was better than lying in bed, waiting for the minutes to pass and the pain to subside.
“Guder mariye,” he greeted his mother when he returned, startled to see her out of bed. For years, her rheumatoid arthritis manifested itself in periods of extreme fatigue and sore, swollen joints, and ever since Hunter’s father died, her flare-ups were more frequent and intense. “You’re up early.”
“Jah, and your Ant Ruth is awake, too,” his mother replied. “I’m fixing her something to eat. She was asking after you, since she was asleep when we arrived last night. Would you keep her company while I make breakfast?”
Hunter tentatively approached the parlor where his aunt was reclining on the sofa with her leg propped on a stool. Her skin was pale and she wore a white cast on her foot, as well as a sling on her arm, but her eyes were lively.
“There he is, my favorite nephew!” she squealed.
Despite his pain, Hunter chuckled at their old joke; he was Ruth’s only nephew. After giving her a careful embrace, he asked, “How are you feeling, Ant Ruth?”
“I’m madder than a wet hen!” she exclaimed. “You probably know better than anyone how frustrating it is to be confined to bed when you’re used to being out and about.”
Hunter clenched his jaw. “That I do.”
“But it’s worth it if it means I get to see you and your mamm’s faces again,” Ruth said, her voice softening. “I wish I could see your daed’s face again, too.”
Hunter shared the same wish. The last time he’d seen his father’s face was the evening of the accident, some fifteen months ago. They were returning home from work when a truck driver lost his brakes, sideswiped their buggy and rammed into the wall of an overpass, where he perished in the fiery crash. Hunter and his father were trapped beneath their mangled, overturned buggy, unable to help him or themselves.
“Hunter, if Gott spares your life, promise you’ll take gut care of your mamm,” his father pleaded while he lay dying. After Hunter agreed, his father whispered, “Two of my greatest blessings in this lifetime were being a husband to your mamm and a daed to you. I couldn’t have asked the Lord for a better wife or suh.”
“Nor I for a better daed,” Hunter echoed before passing out. By the time he was cognizant enough to speak again, Hunter learned he was in the hospital and his father had already been buried for three days.
Remembering, Hunter shuddered and shifted in his chair. To his relief, his aunt changed the subject.
“Mmm, that smells good. What is your mamm making for breakfast?”
“Oier, I think,” Hunter guessed. Then he launched in
to a narrative of his roadside encounter with Faith.
“Ach!” Ruth exclaimed. “What a fiasco! You must collect oier from the henhouse and deliver them to Faith after breakfast. She’ll need them to fill her customers’ orders.”
“I’m the last person she wants to see again today,” Hunter protested.
More to the point, he didn’t want to see her again today. In fact, he didn’t wish to see—or to be seen—by anyone in Willow Creek just yet. The questions about his circumstances would come soon enough; he’d rather field them after he recovered from the tiresome journey.
“Nonsense! Take the buggy if you’d like, but it’s the right thing to do, even if Faith was at fault. She’ll be so glad to see you coming she might even treat you to one of her appenditlich cream-filled doughnuts. The trip will be worth your while.”
“Okay,” Hunter agreed. He knew better than to argue with his aunt once she’d made up her mind, but he’d made up his mind, too. He’d drop the eggs off, but he wasn’t going to hang around Faith’s bakery eating doughnuts, no matter how delicious Ruth claimed they were.
* * *
Of all days to have an egg mishap, Faith was dismayed it happened on a Saturday, the busiest day of the week and the same day she had a special order to fill. When she arrived at the bakery, she surveyed the glass display case, taking inventory.
The honey bars would stay moist through Monday. There were plenty of fresh whoopee pies and molasses cookies, but she’d have to move the cinnamon rolls to the day-old shelf. She had intended to start a few batches of her renowned cream-filled doughnuts before the bakery opened at seven, but now she wouldn’t have enough eggs. When her only employee, Pearl Hostetler, arrived, she’d ask her to whisk over to the mercantile, which didn’t open until eight thirty, to purchase more. Meanwhile, the egg shortage would put them behind schedule on all their baking for the day.
Faith sighed. First things first. She set about mixing yeast with hot water. Although she preferred baking more elaborate goodies, several of her Englisch customers depended on her for homemade bread. Every purchase counted if she was going to meet her financial goal by the first of the year, which was only a month and a half away.
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