by Merry Farmer
“I need to put Jethro and the wagon back in the barn,” Amos told her, either not noticing or not commenting on her surprise at the sight of the Amish buggy. “That’s Jethro’s stall over there, and that other beautiful horse is Lily. She’s expecting at the moment.”
Willow dragged her eyes away from the buggy to smile at the tall, chestnut mare. “How exciting.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Poor Lily isn’t particularly comfortable these days. She’s a bit happier when Jethro’s nearby. So if you don’t mind, do you want to help me get things situated in here?”
“I’d love to.”
Helping Amos store the wagon in the barn and unhitch Jethro ended up being far more enjoyable work than Willow would have imagined. Her whole life, she’d spent most of her time doing small things—sewing, handwork, helping out at her father’s store. Her world had been fiddly and noisy. Now, even though the cows, chickens, and even birds and insects in the fields around the barn and house sang their own songs, things felt peaceful, gentle. It was miles away from the life she’d known in the factory, so much more open space. Out here, she could learn to be useful. Out here, she could do her work without causing trouble, without making mistakes.
Memories of the fire—the smoke and shouting and running away—memories of the part she knew she’d played in the fire—washed back over her. She sucked in a breath and shook them away.
“Is everything all right?” Amos asked. He straightened from where he’d been showing her the neat beds of the kitchen garden, already mostly settled for the winter.
“Yes,” she answered too quickly. She realized she was hugging herself and let her arms drop with a nervous laugh. “I’m just thinking how much I have to learn and how eager I am to learn it.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you.” He stepped closer to squeeze her arm, and after a second of thought, dipped forward to kiss her cheek.
Willow blushed under the affectionate gesture. It was sweet, but she wasn’t sure she deserved it. Amos was hesitant about his past with Mark Lapp, but she knew full well she had things in her own history that would be hard to explain.
“It’s getting late,” he said, standing straight and clearing his throat. “I was expecting that you’d be tired today, so I’ve already prepared supper for tonight. All we have to do is heat it and eat it.”
“That sounds simple enough,” Willow said, but a second thought struck her, squeezing her throat with dread at the same time. What would Amos say when he found out she was a terrible cook?
As far as first days married to a woman who he’d only just met went, it had been a good day. Amos helped Willow set the table and bring the dishes they’d heated over from the counter, filled with optimism. Willow was eager to get to know the farm and its animals, and seemed enthusiastic about the mountain of chores he had for her to do. He liked that he’d caught her simply standing and staring at the hills and fields around his property, breathing deeply and smiling as if she could come to love it all. This marriage would work, he was certain of it.
The only dark spot to the day was Mark’s visit. Amos lost his contented grin as he and Willow took their places at the table—him at the head, her to his right. He’d promised her he would explain the troubles he’d had with Mark. It was a promise he would keep, he just wasn’t sure how.
Willow reached for the bowl of buttered potatoes with dill, spooning some onto both her plate and his, as Amos carved a few slices of savory pot roast for them both. He said a quick, silent thank you to the mother of one of his hired hands, Bill Taylor, for preparing the meal for him, then took Willow’s hand and lowered his head for a prayer.
Some habits died hard. As far back as Amos could remember, his father had led the family in a silent prayer before meals. His mother had sat by his side—hopping up every few seconds to fetch something from the kitchen—and his brothers and sisters would line both sides of the table around them. Even now, as the words of thanks formed in Amos’s heart and head, he couldn’t help but address God as Der Herr, the way the Amish did, and to remember his siblings’ bowed heads. All the disagreements, accusations, and wedges in the world couldn’t separate him from the faith that he held in his heart.
When he finished his prayer and glanced up to see what Willow thought, she too had her eyes closed and her head bowed. When at last she opened them, her eyes glowed with contentment.
“I used to always say a prayer before eating at the factory cafeteria,” she whispered. “Not all of the other girls did, but since we always prayed before eating at home….”
She ended her thought there, reaching for her fork and knife when he did.
There was no getting away from the fact that he had to tell her everything. Willow was his wife now, after all. She was his help and his comfort. At least, that’s the role she deserved to play if he was going to be any sort of husband worth his salt. She had a right to know what she could face from the dozens of neighbors around them—neighbors who still remembered what had happened all those years ago to drive his family away and leave him so isolated.
He took a bite of roast, chewed it, contemplating where best to start.
“I started a letter this afternoon to my friends, who are still in Lawrence, to tell them about the farm,” she began the conversation, tired face aglow. “I can’t wait to finish it with more news tomorrow. We were all so uncertain about what to do after the…the fire.” She drew in a shaky breath, placing a hand on her stomach for a moment. “I just hope they’re as lucky as I am.”
Amos hoped she would be as lucky with him as she expected to be. “There are a lot of good men out there who are in need of a wife. Not all of us are fortunate enough to have a strong society around us to help find the right one.”
She tilted her head to the side, asking exactly the question he hoped she would ask, “But it’s not as though you live in the middle of nowhere, like so many of the other men who were advertising in The Grooms’ Gazette. You have so many neighbors. Why did you place your ad?”
He took a breath and set down his fork. “I may have a lot of people living around me, but after my parents left the Amish church, they…those people turned their backs on us.”
The faintest hint of conscience pricked him at his statement. Did they turn their backs on him or was it the other way around? Did it matter?
Willow must have sensed the seriousness of what he wanted to say. She put her fork down as well and gave him her undivided attention. “Go on,” she prompted, soft and accepting.
Amos let out a breath and leaned back in his chair. “My family has lived here for generations, been a part of the Amish church since the first settlers came over two hundred years ago. My great-grandfather was even bishop of this district for a time.” He paused. How much of this would she understand? Then again, she had said that her grandfather had been Amish.
He took a breath and went on. “We grew up as much a part of the community as any of our neighbors. Mark—” He paused, shifting uncomfortably at the twin feelings of anger and sadness that bit him. “Mark and I were best friends as children. His wife, Beth, too, though she was more friends with my sister, Susan. I always thought that things would continue that way, that we’d grow up in the same community, going to singings together, church at each other’s houses, everything that being part of the community entails.”
“But your parents left?” she ventured.
Amos sighed and nodded. “My father was the best farmer I’ve ever known. He could brush his hand over a field and it would grow just the way he wanted it to. We had more livestock back then too. We were prosperous. So he came up with the idea that he should expand his market stall in Strasburg into a store, to sell the fruits of his labor, not to mention the exquisite quilts and handcrafts my mother and sisters made.”
“That sounds like a fine idea.” Willow smiled.
“It was.” Amos’s frown deepened. “Only the bishop at the time said no.”
“Said no?” she echoed, blinki
ng in confusion.
“Bishop Byler. He said that opening a store would show pride on my father’s part, that it would mean too much interaction with the Englisch. He preached a lot about how we are to live simple, separate lives, humble servants of Der Herr.” He stopped himself and cleared his throat. “My father and mother suspected that the decision was made not out of any principle of faith or through any spiritual guidance, but rather out of jealousy and Byler’s competitive streak.”
Willow’s back stiffened. “Can a bishop make that sort of a decision?” she asked, defensive on his behalf.
Amos sighed and spread his hands. “The rules of the Ordnung are different for each district, and at the bishop’s discretion. As much as it pains me to say it, not everyone who follows the faith—or even who is chosen to serve as bishop—is as godly as they profess to be. Byler convinced enough people that his decision was right. My mother and father knew in their hearts that it was a wrong decision, so, because so many of our neighbors agreed or didn’t object, they left the church.”
“Just like that?”
Amos nodded. The pain of that decision—of the way that his friends and the only people he’d known for as far back as he remembered had reacted—was as acute now as it had been then. He reached for the glass of water at his place and swallowed the bitterness before going on.
“I had hoped Mark at least would stand up for us, but he didn’t.”
Willow frowned. “How old was he at the time? How old were you, for that matter?”
The stab of guilt that always accompanied any deep thoughts about the break bit at his stomach. “Fourteen. We were both fourteen.”
“How is a fourteen year old boy supposed to stand up to his elders when they’ve made a decision like that?” she asked, sighing.
He’d asked himself the same question far, far too many times.
“I wasn’t asking him to stand up to his elders, just…just not to turn his back on me.”
But he had. They all had. They had turned their backs, and overnight Amos had gone from being safe and content in the bosom of a loving community to being out on his own, responsible for himself and his siblings. The community had cut ties with their family, and he wasn’t about to forgive that and pretend bygones were bygones.
Amos knew he’d been silent for too long when Willow picked up her fork and pushed it around her plate with a sad frown. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“No,” he agreed. “What is even less right is that now, fifteen years later, Saul Byler has his own stall in the Strasburg market—a stall that’s as good as a store.”
Willow raised an eyebrow. “And he’s related to the Bishop Byler who said no to your parents.”
“His son.” Amos nodded and took another long draught of his water to push down the acid in his throat. Life was just unfair sometimes. That’s all there was to it. But that didn’t mean that he had to give up and give in and let those same people treat him poorly. He’d vowed then that he wouldn’t let anyone push him around, and he had stood by that choice to this day. “When I was old enough to work the farm on my own, my parents moved with my three youngest siblings to Ohio, where they had cousins who had joined the Mennonite church. My sister, Susan, stayed with me for a year, but only because she was courting a local Englisch boy. When they married, he bought a farm in New York, near Rochester, where my brother Micah moved.”
“They left you all alone,” Willow said, the sadness in her voice hitting him hard.
“It don’t blame them,” he told her, truthfully enough. Though he did miss them. But somehow, writing to them and staying in touch was more painful than letting them go. “My father died eight years ago, and my mother three years later, and the others are busy with their own families now.”
“I see.”
They continued to eat in silence, though Amos’s appetite was all but gone. Willow chewed each bite thoughtfully, pushing her plate back with it still half filled.
“We can store this in the icebox to eat tomorrow, can’t we?” she asked in a small, quiet voice at last.
“Sure.” He stood, reaching for her plate and his and carrying them back into the kitchen.
So much for their first supper together. At least she knew his history now. She wouldn’t need to ask when he went through a moody spell and she wouldn’t pressure him to accept Mark Lapp’s invitation. At least he hoped she wouldn’t.
“Willow.” He cleared his throat as they covered the remaining supper dishes and washed the plates. “I just want to make sure you understand that the things I told you—about my family and what happened—they’re not things I want to talk about. And…and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go talking about them with anyone else either.”
“Oh, of course,” she rushed to assure him. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Those are your things to keep. Just like I wouldn’t want you to go around talking about the f—” She stopped abruptly, her face coloring. “I mean, I will keep your personal things personal and I know you’ll do the same for me.”
“I will.” He smiled, glad they understood each other.
It only took a few more minutes to clean up the rest of supper. By then, the sun had already gone down and the work for the day was done. Night had fallen…his and Willow’s wedding night. All chores finished, the two of them stood where they were, awkward and still.
“Are you sleepy?” Amos asked, uncertain how to approach the next big change in store for them. His glance flickered up in the direction of his bedroom…their bedroom.
Willow nodded, her lips pressed closed, her gaze modestly averted. He had to do something to put her at ease. They had an important night ahead of them. Putting it off would only prolong the awkwardness between them.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped closer to her and slid his arms around her, folding her into an embrace. He caressed her face, then lifted her chin so that she looked him in the eyes. He smiled, and she smiled in return. Her body relaxed against his. The only thing he could think of to do was to kiss her, gently, tenderly. It was a blessing that she let him, opening herself up to receive the honest affection he was so ready to give.
He was ready—ready to be part of something again, ready to be more than just one man on his own. He wanted to live for more than just himself again, to care for someone, a family. That caring started now, and if he had anything to say about it, it would never end.
Chapter Three
Dear Gillian, Emma, and Rose,
You remember how I told you in my last letter that my first day as Mrs. Amos Stoltzfus was not what I expected? Well, it seems I am to continue as I began. I may have been able to rise to the challenge of being a seamstress in Brown Textile Mill, but I’m not so sure I’ll be more than a colossal flop at being a farm wife. Everything is so new and overwhelming. You should have seen me the other day, trying to manage three things at once. But help came from an unexpected source….
After two full days of marriage, Willow was certain she’d made the right choice. Her life couldn’t possibly have been more different than it had been only a week ago. The farm was pretty, quiet, and kept her busy. Amos showed her how to milk the cows and the goats just after the crack of dawn on that first morning. It wasn’t difficult, but it would take a while to get the hang of it. She managed to hide her fears of hurting the cows or knocking pails of milk over from Amos, and the cows were patient enough with her. The chickens were easy too, although not particularly bright. She had the help of a pair of barn cats when she collected the eggs after Amos marched out to his fields with the two young men who worked for him, but her heart quivered with worry that she would drop and smash the eggs.
Since Amos was gone all day, Willow had the big house to herself, although there wasn’t much time to explore. That first supper she’d shared with Amos had been someone else’s doing. Right away the next day, cooking became Willow’s job. It was all she could do to hide the fact that she wasn’t a cook from Amos. She managed to get by on leftovers and the few, s
imple dishes she knew she could manage, but after two days, they were running out of bread and the pot roast was gone.
On top of that, dust from the fields had seeped into the house, and now that October was in full swing, every spider in Lancaster County seemed intent on building webs in the house’s spare corners. Willow wasn’t afraid of spiders, but she was more than a little concerned that between cleaning up the webs, sweeping every room and hall in the house, and keeping the counters clear as she tried her hand at cooking—not to mention caring for the animals in the barn and tending the kitchen garden—there just wasn’t enough of her to go around. She was bound to ruin something eventually.
Still, she was beyond contented with her decision to answer Amos’s advertisement in The Grooms’ Gazette. The nights she spent sharing his bed were a wonder. Her heart sang with the anticipation that she would be able to give him what already she could see that he needed—a family, love, and loyalty. She’d been very lucky indeed to pick such a good man.
Now if only she could figure out how to bake a simple loaf of bread.
“I hope I’m doing this right,” she sighed to the gray tabby barn cat that had wandered in through the kitchen’s open door. The weather was unusually warm that morning, so she’d decided to open as many doors and windows as she could to let the fresh air in. “The way I do things, I’m just as likely to come up with stone instead of bread.” She laughed at her analogy, but the uncertainty in her heart remained. Maybe, in becoming a wife, she’d bitten off more than she could chew.
The gray tabby stared up at her, more interested in the slab of butter that rested on the end of the counter than in anything she had to say. Willow checked the recipe card she’d found in a small box on the pantry shelf and dusted flour onto her hands.
“Do you think this is the right consistency?” she asked the cat, kneading the loaf that had been rising on the counter for the last hour. “It feels elastic enough, don’t you think?”
