by Emma Miller
“Shh, shh,” John soothed. “You’ll be all right.” Dakota clung to John’s neck and buried his face in his shirt. The bleeding had already slowed, and John put pressure on the wound with a handkerchief. Dakota howled again. John started toward the house. He hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps when Grace came running toward him.
“How bad is he hurt? Lori Ann said...” She broke off as John explained what had happened.
“It looks worse than it is,” he said. “Just a bump and a scalp wound. The laceration isn’t deep.”
Grace put out her arms to take him, but John shook his head. “Let me. We’ll take him inside, wash him up and—”
“I can do it,” Grace insisted, patting Dakota’s back. “It’s all right, sweetie, Mommy’s here.”
“If you want.” Reluctantly, John handed over the boy. “If you need bandages, I have some in the truck. I’d really like to examine him, once you’ve washed it. I can tell you if he needs to go to the emergency room.”
“You think he’ll need stitches?”
“If he does, I’ll drive you to the hospital. Do you have a pediatrician?”
“No, we haven’t had time to find one.”
“We have a good medical staff at the hospital, and there’ll be one on call.”
Women had poured out of the house and were offering advice, mostly in Dutch. Hannah arrived, took one look at the two of them, another at the shrieking Susanna and cleared a path. “Take him into the bathroom,” she suggested.
“Is Susanna hurt?” John asked. The King boy had found his way to Susanna and was standing by the tree staring down at her. Oddly, he was crying, too.
Hannah went to her daughter, spoke to her and helped her to her feet. “She’s fine,” she pronounced. “Just scared of blood and afraid that it’s her fault Dakota got hurt.”
“He’ll be fine,” John reassured Susanna, smiling.
By the time they got inside, the bleeding had stopped, and Dakota’s sobbing had faded to a faint sniffle. Once they washed the back of the boy’s head, he could see that the cut was a small one and the bump didn’t seem to be getting any larger. “Put a cold compress on it,” he advised Grace.
“Do you think he should see a doctor?” she asked.
“Watch him for any unusual sleepiness, dizziness or nausea. I’d say the swing barely grazed him. Head wounds bleed a lot.”
“I think I’d feel better if a pediatrician took a look.”
“All right. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
“It’s kind of you, Mr. Hartman.”
“John.” He smiled at her. “The Amish don’t favor titles. Everyone goes by his or her given name. Even children call adults by their first name. You’ll have to get used to that.”
“There are a lot of things I have to learn about this life,” she said, cuddling Dakota against her. She offered him a grateful smile. “I can come to work for you, cleaning the kennels, if the job’s still open. Bishop Atlee said it was all right.”
“Great.” John grinned. “Now, let’s get this boy checked out before we miss out on the wonderful dinner you ladies prepared.”
* * *
Fortunately, the emergency room was nearly empty, and they were in and out of the hospital in less than two hours. John had been right. A little antibiotic ointment, a couple of butterfly bandages and a superhero sticker completed the treatment. By the time they got back to the Yoder farm, the men were just gathering for the first seating for the meal. Dakota scrambled out of the truck and ran to join Jonah and his new friends as Grace turned to John.
“I can’t thank you enough,” she said. “For taking us to see the doctor, for offering to hire me, for everything.”
“No problem,” he said, stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets.
“I want you to know how much I appreciate it. You’re a very nice man, John, and I hope we can be friends.” She hesitated. “As...as well as employer and employee,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean...”
John’s smile widened and his eyes lit up. “I know it’s not politically correct to say so, but I like you. I like you a lot, and I hope we can get to know each other a lot better. I mean this in the most respectful way. I think you’re an admirable woman and a great mother. Would you consider it too pushy if I asked if there was someone...a man in your life?”
“You mean Dakota’s father?”
An expression of sympathy passed over his handsome features. “Hannah told me that your husband had...that you’re widowed. I’m sorry for that, but is there someone else? You’re not seeing someone or...”
“No.” Grace shook her head. “No one, but...” She hesitated. John Hartman was a terrific guy: thoughtful, funny, responsible, just the kind of person she’d want in her life...in her son’s life. “I can’t date you, if that’s what you mean,” she said. Why was this so hard? Why didn’t he wear a wide-brimmed black hat and Amish suspenders? He would be perfect, if only...
“Because you’re going to work for me? I can understand—” he began.
“No, it’s not that,” she said in a rush. “You’re not Amish. I want to be Amish,” she said. “So you can see, it’s impossible...because you’re not. But if you were...” Her cheeks grew warm and her vision blurred. “If you were, you’d be the first man I’d set my Kapp for.”
Chapter Eight
Grace paused on the back step with a pitcher of cider in her hands and surveyed the side yard. A long table, heaped with food, stretched from the cedar tree to the rose arbor. Seated on wooden benches at either side of the table were all the men: the church elders, visitors from other Amish churches and adults from Seven Poplars. Hannah had explained to her that this was the first seating, always all-male. Younger men and teenage boys would eat at the second seating, and women and children last.
When Grace had questioned the custom, Hannah had gone on to explain that baptized men and women were considered equal in the faith, but each had their own duties and responsibilities. Seating the sexes separately at community affairs was simply the way it had always been done and maintaining tradition was a vital tenet among the Old Order Amish.
She looked for Dakota among the preschoolers, didn’t see him and had a moment of anxiety. But then, before she could panic, she heard her son’s squeal of laughter and saw him chasing Jonah around the corner of the hen house. Dakota was running full-tilt, full of energy, as if the earlier bump to his head had never happened.
“Not to worry,” Anna called, carrying a basket of bread to the table. “I told Susanna to keep the little ones away from the swing. And Lydia’s big girls are watching them, too.” She smiled. “Enjoy yourself. This is a day of visiting.”
Grace gave a sigh of relief and smiled back. This was the way things were supposed to be, she told herself: children playing, grandmothers sharing recipes, women singing hymns as they dished up macaroni and potato salads and sprinkled cinnamon on huge bowls of applesauce. It looked like a picture from a calendar that had hung over her foster mother’s desk, like a scene out of the past. An entire community had come together for a day of work and fun. This was exactly the life that she and Dakota had come so far to find.
“Grace! Men are thirsty!” Johanna’s urging pulled her from her reverie.
“Coming!” Taking care not to spill the fresh cider, Grace moved toward the head of the table. Rebecca placed a bowl of chowchow on the spotless white tablecloth, glanced up and nodded her approval.
As Grace began to fill the oversize drink glasses, her thoughts were still racing. She couldn’t help studying the bearded faces, trying to guess which of the men—if any—were possibilities. None of them wore wedding bands. She’d heard that there were several widowers in search of new wives, but she could hardly question her sisters or Hannah as to who they were. Her new family might think her overeager to find
a man; she shouldn’t, couldn’t be so brazen.
There was so much she didn’t know about Amish customs. It wasn’t that she expected to find a husband today or even in the next few weeks. What she wanted to do, for now, was to find out what her options were. It was part of plan B. Now that she knew she wanted to become Amish, picking a new father for Dakota and a husband for herself would be the next big decision she’d have to make.
She’d hoped that cider-making day would be a perfect opportunity to survey the field, but it was going to be harder than she’d thought. Here at the first meal sitting, all the men had beards. She knew unmarried men didn’t have beards. What she didn’t know was whether a widower shaved his off. She hoped that they wouldn’t be too old. She wasn’t exactly over the hill—not yet twenty-eight—but she certainly didn’t want to marry a boy barely out of his teens.
This time she was going to choose a husband logically, not because of infatuation, and she knew she was looking for a man she could respect. Friendship would be a good beginning. But when Amish men and women always separated at affairs like this, how did a single girl get to know an eligible prospect?
She smiled at a chubby brown-haired man with a neatly trimmed beard as she filled his glass with newly made cider. Instead of returning her smile, he looked embarrassed. He said something in Dutch that she couldn’t understand, crammed a biscuit in his mouth and tried to wash it down with half a glass of cider. Before Grace could get away, she heard him choking.
She wanted to hide under the table. She hadn’t been flirting, just being friendly. Had she broken some rule?
She backed away, and some of the cider sloshed onto her apron. Maybe he was married and he was afraid of offending her. Or maybe he was shy or... Grace’s throat clenched. Maybe he didn’t find her attractive.
Had she lost the knack of interacting with men? She’d worked as a waitress in more places than she could count, and she’d always gotten good tips, so she couldn’t be awful at serving. Since Joe’s death, she hadn’t dated, but before they met, she’d gone out with lots of guys. She’d never had anyone so turned off that they’d almost choked to death when she’d smiled at them.
The next man was about her age, but he had a coarse black beard, bushy eyebrows, pale gray eyes and thin lips. He appeared dour, and she couldn’t imagine making breakfast for him every morning for the rest of her life. When she offered him cider, he didn’t speak; he just held out his glass. Grace’s heart sunk as she gazed at the other men. Everyone seemed to be avoiding eye contact with her. What was she doing wrong? Why were the men so unfriendly to her? She wanted to turn and run, but she was no coward. Sucking in a deep breath, she plunged on, pouring cider for one man after the next, and having her hesitant smile met with shuttered looks or blank stares.
On the other side of the table, a tall girl with a broken front tooth laughed at something one of the men said. Rebecca had pointed her out earlier as their cousin Dorcas. Rebecca had said Dorcas was single, so that couldn’t be her husband.
Grace began to wish she’d stayed in the kitchen and washed dishes. There must have been thirty men at the table, and for all she knew, they were all married except John Hartman at the far end. He sat between an older man in a denim work shirt and ball cap who didn’t appear Amish and a pleasant-looking man in his early thirties with a close-cropped beard. John hadn’t seemed to notice her, which was fine with her. He was the one unmarried man she had no interest in.
She nibbled on her lower lip. But maybe...maybe John would give her a few hints as to who was who.
Although she barely knew him, the two hours they’d spent together at the hospital this morning had increased her respect and admiration for him. He’d been good with Dakota, easing his fears, and making him laugh. And he’d done pretty much the same for her. Best of all, when the physician on call had backed up John’s opinion that Dakota didn’t need stitches, John didn’t say, “I told you so.” Leaving the hospital, she realized that she could count John as her first friend in Seven Poplars.
She finished pouring the cider, and when her pitcher was empty, she returned to the kitchen to refill it. She checked to see that Dakota was happily playing under Susanna’s watchful eye, and then returned to the yard. This time, she approached the table from the far end, offering cider first to the older man in the ball cap, then to John and then to the Amish man sitting beside him who’d caught her eye earlier. He shook his head. No.
John introduced her to his uncle Albert in the ball cap who was also a veterinarian at the clinic, and to the Amish man, Roland Byler, on his right.
Roland glanced up into her face, and his eyes widened in a look of surprise. “Welcome,” he stammered. “You...you have the look of your sisters.” He flushed, averted his eyes and reached for a piece of fried chicken.
If this one chokes, I’m out of here, Grace thought, but he didn’t. She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Pleased to meet you, Roland,” she said. He was fair-haired and looked her age.
“Ya.” He nodded and fixed his eyes on his plate. “And you, Grace. Good to have you here today. For the cider making.”
Roland wasn’t quite as handsome as John, but he had nice eyes, and an appealing laugh. Again the thought that it was just her luck that John wasn’t Amish rose in her mind and she forcefully pushed it away. She’d married Joe for love, and look where that had gotten her. This time, maybe for the first time in her life, she’d have to use reason alone.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like more cider?” she asked Roland. “It’s nice and cold.”
“Ne.” He shook his head. “Enough already. But it’s gut. Good,” he corrected. “Charley said you look like Miriam, but I think maybe like some of the others more.”
Grace smiled at him encouragingly. He was positively chatty. She wondered if she could ask which of the women was his wife, which would tell her if he was married or if he was the good-looking bachelor some of the teenage girls had been whispering about—the bachelor with a nice farm. She tried to inspect him without being obvious. Yes, Roland Byler definitely had possibilities.
“Atch, sorry,” Rebecca said as she rushed up and stepped on Grace’s foot. Grace looked up in astonishment, and her sister shook her head. Not him, she mouthed silently behind Roland’s back.
Grace was confused. She started to move out of the way, but Rebecca caught the corner of Grace’s apron and gave a sharp tug. Grace glanced back at Roland. Thankfully, he hadn’t noticed. He was busy consuming a drumstick of chicken, but John was watching her and grinning. What have I done now? Grace wondered.
“Mam needs you,” Rebecca said loudly. “In the house.” She gestured with her hand and hurried away toward the back door. Grace took the hint and followed her. Once they rounded the corner of the house, Rebecca reached for the pitcher. “I’ll finish with this,” she offered.
“Wait,” Grace said. “I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong? Is Roland Byler married?”
“Ne.” Rebecca shook her head. “Not him. He was, but his wife died. A good woman, so young. The sugar.”
“Sugar?” And then it dawned on her. “You mean diabetes?”
“Ya, she had the sugar. And them with a young boy.”
“You mean Roland has a son?” Like me, she thought. Both of us. Could that be a sign?
“Jared. A sweet little boy.” She pointed out a chubby yellow-haired child riding a stick horse on the lawn.
“I don’t understand,” Grace said. “Does he have a...” She was going to say girlfriend, but did the Amish even have girlfriends? What was the word she’d heard used? Is he betrothed?
“He’s not walking out with anybody,” Rebecca answered. “But he’s not for you.”
“Who’s not for her?” Miriam came around the corner with a tureen of corn pudding.
“Roland Byler.” Rebecca’s eye
s twinkled mischievously.
“Ne.” Miriam looked like the cat who’d swallowed the canary. “Best you stay clear of him,” she advised. And then she glanced at Rebecca and they both giggled.
“Wait,” Grace protested. “Roland’s single, doesn’t have a girlfriend and seems pleasant. What’s wrong with him?”
Rebecca stifled another chuckle. “Nothing. Roland is a nice man, everyone likes him.”
“He’s my husband Charley’s brother,” Miriam explained. “Ruth takes care of little Jared two days a week.”
“Then why—” Grace began. But before she could finish, both sisters strode away toward the table, leaving her completely bewildered.
* * *
Roland leaned close to John. “Like Johanna, she looks. Maybe not so tall, but so much. And her voice, too, like Johanna’s.”
John grinned. “I thought so.”
Norman Beachy raised his voice from the far side of the table. “John, wonder if you’d mind stopping by my place later. I’ve got a sow that cut her snout on the fence. It might need stitches.”
“I’d be glad to,” John said. “One of your Polands?”
Norman began a long story about the pig, and John nodded, all the while considering what he’d just witnessed. Grace was checking out the men at this table, and she’d shown a real interest in Roland. John liked him. He was a good guy, an honest man, and he showed common sense and affection in dealing with his animals. Roland had even brought his son’s cat in to be neutered, which endeared him to John. If country people could be persuaded to spay and neuter their pets, there’d be a lot fewer ending up dropped at the shelter. If Grace were to choose an Amish husband, she couldn’t pick a better man than Roland Byler.
“Now that pig can dig under just about any fence a man can build,” Norman continued. “I thought if I put down a row of cement blocks...”
John nodded and helped himself to another biscuit. These had to be Anna’s. Her biscuits were so light they practically floated off the plate. He appreciated a good meal, and these Amish shared dinners were enough to bring tears to a bachelor’s eyes. He’d spent too long suffering under Uncle Albert’s attempts at imitating the chefs on television, and he himself was usually too busy to do more than throw together a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.
