Her Secret Amish Child

by Cheryl Williford

  She would always grieve the two tiny souls. She’d asked Gott to protect them from Jonah’s bruising blows. But Gott chose a different path for them. Both had died in her arms. It had been Gott’s will, but she would never understand. She’d left a part of her heart there in that cold Ohio soil. She would never forget her boys.

  * * *

  Fredrik moved fast through the spacious apartment behind the house on Ulla’s property—his property—noting the discolored walls begged for a lick of paint. He frowned as he walked into the kitchen and viewed the table. Once sturdy, it now made do on three legs and threatened to fall. It would have to be thrown out and a new one built. Someday he would be building furniture for his home, maybe even a cradle for his firstborn son.

  He rubbed his hands together as he visualized the new eating area. He would build the replacement table a bit bigger than this tiny one.

  He opened a door at the back of the kitchen. Narrow shelves lined the shallow pantry walls, ready for jars of homemade jams and spices.

  He turned on his heel and looked back into the kitchen. He could picture someone in the galley-shaped work space, cooking their simple meals. He took in a long, satisfying breath of air. Whiffs of gasoline and machine oil wiped the smile off his face. To keep its musky smell from seeping into the apartment, he’d need to seal the walls of the storage shed built against the outer partition of the room.

  He glanced out the window to the big white house down the driveway. His spirits rose. He had finally found the home he had been looking for. Ulla’s house was certain-sure good enough to bring a fraa home to, and he’d been surprised when she’d lowered the price down to a manageable amount for him this morning. He’d start to search for his bride from amongst the church ladies. He’d missed a lot of church services the past three months, his mind busy with work and not on spiritual growth.

  He was a little hesitant when conjuring up faces of the eligible women he knew. What if he decided on someone and they turned him down? Without a doubt, he knew Lizbeth Mullet would reject him.

  The color of Lizbeth’s hair caught his attention, drawing him away from his thoughts. He couldn’t settle on her just yet. He would have to grow spiritually, find a way to make himself the kind of man she’d want for a husband, and then see.

  Thoughts of marriage were on his mind all the time, filling every moment of the day now that he’d made his decision to wed.

  For years the idea of courtship with anyone set alarm bells ringing. Unrequited love had sent him running back to Pinecraft and the comfort of a small, lonely apartment in Sarasota. He’d finally healed, but he hadn’t been ready for this step of faith. Until now.

  He didn’t know what had changed, but something was building in him, an excitement, some emotion he didn’t completely understand. Perhaps it came because of the loneliness he endured, or the way his body ached when he worked extrahard for nothing more than his own benefit. Both were reminders that he wasn’t a boy anymore. At twenty-nine he wasn’t exactly long in the tooth, but time was passing and he wanted to find someone to share his life with. Maybe even start a family now that he had a family home to raise kinner in.

  He heard voices and made his way to the open apartment door. Chicken John stood on the side steps of the house Fredrik had just purchased, his back to him, talking to someone inside.

  “There’s a work shed outside, not that you’ll need one. But the backyard is perfect for Benuel.” Chicken John stepped down onto the driveway.

  From inside the house a feminine voice called out, “Gut. I’ll be right out.”

  Fredrik walked into the bright sunshine, leaving the apartment door ajar.

  Chicken John placed a hand against his brow, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight. A smile of welcome lifted the corners of his mouth. “You scared the life out of me, Fredrik. I thought we were the only ones on the property. Weren’t you supposed to come by yesterday?”

  Fredrik returned his smile. “I was, but I got busy at work and ran out of daylight. I hope you don’t mind me coming by today.”

  “Nee. Today is gut. You know you’re always welcome, but I think you might have left it a bit too late if you were interested in buying this house.” He leaned toward Fredrik and whispered, “Lizbeth needs a rental house. If she likes what she sees she’ll snatch this place away from you.”

  Nerves gripped his stomach. He’d have to be the one to break the news about the sale of the house to Lizbeth and her father. He hated the idea of slipping the house from her grasp, but he needed it as much as she did. She could always stay at her father’s if she didn’t find a place to rent. His need was more urgent. He wanted to marry. If he could talk Lizbeth into courting him, she would have this house as her own, and he’d have a wife he might eventually learn to love. If he could find a way to trust her with his heart.

  The screen door squealed for oil as Lizbeth appeared and stepped onto the porch. She turned in his direction, her brow furrowing from the bright noontime sun. She wore the same navy dress and shoes she’d worn to church on Sunday. Again today her expression was relaxed and friendly.

  “Fredrik,” she said and nodded.

  He tipped his straw hat in her direction and grinned back, noticing her smile reached her warm blue eyes. “Lizbeth.”

  “You two have made friends?” Chicken John said, his tone inquisitive.

  Fredrik spoke first. “A long time ago—”

  “Ya, well. Remember, Benuel and I just happened to meet Fredrik at the café and became friends,” Lizbeth interjected, cutting off his words. Something in her gaze told Fredrik she still didn’t want her daed to remember they knew each other as children. “And speaking of Benuel, we really should be on our way. Ulla offered to watch him for a few hours. Not the whole day.”

  “Ya, you’re right. We’ve taken too long,” her father agreed. He reached around, locked the doorknob from the inside and then shut the side door behind him. “Good seeing you, Fredrik. I’ll call you about the house repairs later today.”

  “Ya. Later today is perfect. I’ll be at the shop. It’s gut seeing you again, Lizbeth. Tell Benuel I said hello.”

  She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I’ll tell him. You have a pleasant night,” she said and hurried away, the sun reflecting strands of gold in her hair.

  His heart racing at the sight of her, Fredrik pushed his straw hat down on his head and followed behind them as they crunched down the pea gravel driveway. He was ashamed he hadn’t found the nerve to tell Lizbeth he’d bought the house she wanted as her own, but his dreams of working in the leaning shed blossomed. Became bigger than life.

  He observed Lizbeth as she gathered up the skirt of her plain blue cotton dress and climbed onto her bike. He liked the way she held her head high, as if nothing could touch her.

  Both turned and waved as they pedaled off. He wondered about the widow wearing a different colored dress now. Did that mean she was over her time of mourning? When she’d arrived in Pinecraft she’d still dressed in black.

  He knew grief could make a woman distant and unfriendly, but Lizbeth seemed friendlier now. Perhaps he’d done the right thing putting her name on his list of potential women to step out with. The fact she had a boy didn’t bother him one bit. It just made his odds better, since she might be looking for a prospective husband to help raise her son. And she might not expect a potential husband to immediately surrender his heart.

  He looked back at the simple wood house and lifted his shoulders as he took in a long, contented breath. He or Ulla would tell John he’d bought the house. No doubt the man could find another house for Lizbeth, but until Fredrik found a suitable wife, he was in no hurry. The widow could rent from him and live in the house if she wanted. He didn’t mind sharing, but she’d have to move once he married. He truly believed Gott would help him find his bride soon.

  F
redrik made his way back to the apartment door, his gaze wandering to the backyard shaded by a big oak draped full of hanging moss. Lizbeth’s son seemed full of energy. This yard would have been the perfect place for a boy like him to play. It still could be.

  Pushing those thoughts aside, he opened the solid wooden apartment door he’d left ajar and stepped back inside, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light. The picture window at the side of the big room had a set of closed, wide wooden blinds that blotted out the daylight. He tugged on their dangling cord and stepped back as dust floated on the sunlight flooding the room. The walls had once been a bright white, but now looked yellow with age. Just as he’d thought, they would need to be washed down and painted.

  A slow walk back around the apartment’s galley kitchen and bathroom told him there were a lot of small jobs to be done, but the bones of the place were sound enough and well worth the price of a few repairs. This place could bring in a good bit of profit if he could get it finished by tourist time.

  He opened the only bedroom door and was surprised at how large it was. He could see a full-size bed fitting in the room, and a big dresser. A comfortable chair placed over by the window would be perfect for reading.

  The closet door almost fell off its hinges as he opened it wide. Inside, space was limited, but Plain people didn’t need lots of space for clothes and shoes. He propped up the closet door and began to tap his pencil against his chin as he wandered back through the rooms, pondering the price of the work needing done in the bathroom as he passed. It might take a while to get a new wall of tiles up, but it would be well worth the effort.

  Concentrating on the task at hand, he walked back into the kitchen and pulled out a chair. He’d make a to-do list and hope he’d get the opportunity to restore the apartment back to its original beauty before winter when places rented for a premium. If it came out as good as he thought it would, he may want to increase the amount of rent he’d had in mind.

  Living in Pinecraft, instead of his apartment in Sarasota, would bring him closer to work, give him extra time to find the perfect wife. If Lizbeth moved in for a time, he could live in the apartment and keep an eye on her and the boy. A woman living alone with a kinner would always need looking out for and he was just the man to do it. A smile creased his face as he wrote down his supply list. That idea of living close to Lizbeth Mullet appealed to him. In fact, the idea of marriage to her appealed even more.

  Chapter Six

  At dusk the next day, Fredrik lumbered up the house’s front steps, the leather soles of his boots squeaking as he made his way across the wooden porch left wet by a sudden summer storm.

  Too full from a hot meal at the café, and tired from a long day at the furniture shop, his shoulders sagged as he lugged his heavy toolbox by his side. He longed to go back to his apartment and kick up his feet, but he’d made a promise to himself he’d start the work in the newly acquired house and wasn’t backing out. He’d get busy with the list of jobs needing done inside, finish inspecting and making additional plans on the separate apartment at the back of the property, and relax later tonight.

  He stumbled over a can of paint and nudged it out of his way, weaving in and out of several other cans he’d left scattered too close to the front door. His thoughts touched on the attractive Amish waitress who’d served him at the local café during his dinner. She was new to Pinecraft and full of questions.

  Marriage fresh on his mind, he’d enjoyed her chatter, but Lizbeth Mullet was the only woman he could imagine on his arm. And that had to change. He had no idea what she thought of him, or if she’d even be agreeable to starting a courtship.

  He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, unlocked the front door and nudged it open with his shoulder.

  Inside, the house was quiet. The warm air smelled musty from weeks of being shut tight. He’d need to work fast if he hoped to get through the foot-long list of jobs that needed doing inside the house. Chicken John had spoken with Lizbeth about the sale of the house, and she’d agreed to be Fredrik’s tenant for as long as he needed one. She wanted to move in the next day so he knew he must hurry.

  He set the toolbox down, opened the windows in the living room and then went back to eyeballing the entry hall’s wood trim and walls. He had seen several dings on the outside of the wooden front door that would need seeing to. The dents looked like they’d been there for years, but he saw no good reason to just overlook them. His father had taught him if a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well.

  His fingers scrubbed at the fine stubble on his chin as he made a mental note to add wood dap and fine-grit sandpaper to his list of supplies that needed to be picked up.

  Fredrik meandered from room to room. He opened doors and looked in all the usual places that received wear and tear.

  He made a mental note that the worn linoleum in the front bathroom would need to be switched out. New tiles would spruce the small room up, but would probably take more time than he had. Lizbeth wouldn’t want him underfoot once she moved in with her son, but she may have to put up with him being around from time to time. It would be a gut opportunity for him to get to know her and the boy.

  The bathroom doorknob wiggled in his grasp. One more job on his list. Might as well get to it now. Fredrik made an adjustment and tightened down a few screws and then wiggled the knob again. Done.

  He ran the faucets in the sink and tub. All were in good working order.

  His mind always raced ahead of the projects at hand. He wondered about the gallons of white paint he had brought with him. The house was smaller than he remembered. He’d probably bought too much, not that he couldn’t use the leftovers when he began the apartment remodel at the back of the property. He was in a hurry to finish both projects. He’d decided he would live in the apartment for a few months when his lease ran out at the end of the month, or maybe rent it now, and lease it out during the Christmas holidays, when rentals went for top dollar. Hopefully he’d have enough time to work on his projects on his days off.

  He flushed the toilet and waited for the tank to fill. The sound of a crash came from the direction of the kitchen.

  He froze midstep, listening.

  Posters had been put up at the post office warning that several houses had been broken into recently, ransacked by thieves and then left for the local family to find.

  He tiptoed past the toolbox. Soundlessly, he eased out a heavy wrench and moved toward the closed kitchen door. A nonviolent man by belief and custom, he still couldn’t stand by and let someone break into the home without trying to stop them.

  He raised the wrench high and leaned against the kitchen door while silently twisting the old-fashioned glass doorknob.

  On high alert, he peered into the well-lit kitchen. Everything seemed in order.

  A cardboard box lay on its side on the floor. The contents, a plastic bottle of bleach and a tight bundle of dust cloths and cleaning brushes, lay scattered around.

  The hair on his neck rose. Ulla had said she and Molly would clean the house after he finished with the repairs in a day or two.

  Fredrik stepped into the room. His heart skipped a beat as a feminine voice ordered, “Stop, or I’ll shoot.”

  * * *

  Lizbeth had no weapon, with the exception of the long scrub brush she brandished across her arm like a shotgun. What was she to do? She’d never struck a person, but the brush seemed to have a mind of its own and lifted, poised to strike. Didn’t she have a right to defend herself? Would it be so wrong?

  She pressed the long-handled brush against her heaving chest. A labyrinth of emotions surged through her as a dark boot and trouser-covered leg stepped into the room.

  She’d been warned by Ulla to be cautious when she’d left the house that afternoon. Thieves had been targeting the vacant homes of hardworking Amish families who spent the ho
t summer months in the north. She should have had her father come with her to check the house.

  She whispered a brief prayer and waited for the right moment to strike. With all her might she shoved at the opening door, cringed as she heard it hit something solid and then watched as the booted foot disappeared. Metal clanked against the floor on the other side of the door.

  She gulped in air and raced for the back door, only to find she’d blocked her own getaway with the new kitchen table and chairs.

  She whirled around, her teeth clenched as she struggled to face the intruder. Her only way out was past the man sprawled on the hallway floor, his head in his hands.

  Her heart beat loudly in her ears as she inched closer. There was something familiar about the ginger hair protruding through the man’s fingers as he massaged his head. Concern replaced fear. “Fredrik! What are you doing here?” She straightened, her arms thrown open wide in disbelief. “I could have hurt you.”

  “I’d say you did hurt me.” Fredrik raked his hair out of his eyes and frowned up at her as he rubbed his forehead.

  “I’m so sorry. I thought you were a burglar. Here, let me help you up.” She offered him her hand, but he ignored it.

  He winced and rubbed his head again. “I heard a noise and came to check it out. I see no reason for you to clobber me with the door.” He rose with a stagger and used the doorjamb to brace himself. Ginger curls dangled across his flushed forehead.

  Guilt-ridden, she grabbed a kitchen chair and shoved it toward him. “Here, please sit.” She motioned toward the chair. “I thought you were someone up to no good.” She tugged at the prayer kapp ribbon dangling against her neck.