by Emma Miller
“You’ll never be alone again. You have me, and you have a family to watch over you. They love you, Grace. Hannah and your sisters and their husbands.”
They walked in silence past the barn and the corral, past the brick structure of an old well and a root cellar. The hard-packed dirt lane curved around Johanna’s turkey run and led into the orchard. They were beneath the spreading apple trees when John stopped and spoke again.
“Hannah warned me that if I didn’t do right by you, I’d have to answer to her.” He turned to her, lifted her hand to his lips and gently kissed the tops of her knuckles. “It isn’t our custom to wear rings, but if you want one, I’ll buy you one.”
“No, I don’t need a ring. My sisters don’t wear one.” She looked into his eyes. “But I haven’t said yes, yet, John Hartman. Don’t get your cart before the horse. Susanna said you wanted to court me, and I think I like that idea.”
“Just what Uncle Albert said. He thought I should state my intentions, and then we should walk out together, Amish-style.” He chuckled. “It seems that that’s the way we’ve already been doing this. I mean, I already drove you home from a frolic in a buggy.”
She giggled. “In a hay wagon, not a buggy.” She took a breath. “John, this is all crazy. We’ve got to be crazy. We’ve known each other only three and a half months. What do you know about me?”
“That I want to know you better.” They started walking again, now arm in arm. “That I’ve never met anyone who makes me feel the way you do.”
“Are you sure this isn’t too soon to talk of marriage?” she asked.
“I’m asking you to commit to a betrothal and then take all the time you need to be certain I’m right for you,” he answered, and the deep timbre of his voice made her shiver with excitement. “We’ll marry when you’re ready. Three months or three years from now, that’s up to you.”
“You may change your mind about marrying me when you find out that I can’t cook.”
“That makes two of us who can’t cook. So, either one of us learns or we live on takeout pizza and Hannah’s pity.”
She ran her hand down his arm. “Be serious, John. They wouldn’t let me be Amish. What if I can’t be Mennonite, either?”
“I don’t think that will be an issue. It’s different with us. With Mennonites. If you come to church with me, if you decide that my faith feels right to you, then you could be baptized there. And I can promise you that you’ll be welcomed with open arms. The Mennonites aren’t closed off from the world. We believe in doing what we can to bring God’s word and comfort to everyone who wants it.”
“Like Leah and Daniel in South America.”
John nodded. “But I’ve not been called to mission. At least not yet. I’m content to work in our community, here in Kent County. I want to be the best vet I can be, and I hope we can find time to support my church’s charities, especially those that serve children.”
“And you think that there would be a place for me?” She slid her hand into his, looking up at him, again. “That I could help?”
“I know you could.”
She glanced away into the distant darkness. “It seems like a dream come true, that we could be together, the three of us, and that I’d still have Hannah and my sisters. It’s almost too much to hope for.”
He stopped and pushed the scarf back from her forehead. “Look around you, Grace, at this orchard. The apples have all been picked and the leaves have fallen, but in a few months, new leaves will form, buds will become blossoms and then bushels and bushels of delicious apples. Maybe our love is like that. It’s winter now. We know what’s coming in spring, or we think we do. If it would ease your heart, we can take it one day at a time. We can ride in Charley’s buggy, attend services together and wait and pray for those new leaves and buds to blossom.”
“Betrothed.” She smiled up at him. “I think I like the taste of that word on my tongue. John Hartman...my betrothed.” And, in spite of herself, tears began to spill down her cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Why are you crying?”
“Happiness,” she whispered. “Because...because...while nothing I planned worked out, all my dreams are coming true.”
John lowered his head and brought his lips close enough to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face.
“Is that a yes, Grace Yoder? Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? To have and to hold, so long as we both shall live?”
“Ya,” she murmured softly. And then he wrapped his strong arms around her and kissed her tenderly. And she knew instantly that at long last, she’d found her way home.
Epilogue
Kent County, ten months later
Grace pulled her car into the driveway and parked under the old Sheepshead apple tree. Ripe fruit rolled and crunched under her feet as she opened the back door and scooped up her books and a bag of groceries she’d picked up on her way home. Glancing at her watch, she let herself into the mudroom with her key.
She kicked off her clogs and walked through the swinging doors into the spacious kitchen. As whenever she entered the new house, a rush of disbelief swept over her. The log house had been completed in September, two months after she and John had been married in the small, white frame Mennonite Church a few miles down the road, the same church where she’d been baptized. No matter how many times she went out of the house and came back in, seeing the warm hominess of the beautiful log cabin still thrilled her. The house John had built for her...for them.
She dropped the bag of groceries and her books on the counter and gazed around the great room that featured bare beams, reclaimed barn-wood flooring and a massive stone fireplace. “I must be dreaming,” she said to the tabby cat curled up in a basket on the hearth. “I’m afraid I’ll wake up and find myself back in the trailer park with a refrigerator that doesn’t keep Dakota’s milk cold and a stove with one working burner.”
Cat, wisely, said nothing but purred in understanding. Cat had seen tough times, as well. Susanna had rescued him from two English boys at Spence’s who were attempting to drown the half-starved creature in a bucket of rainwater. Cat had come out of the ordeal with a broken tail, one missing tooth and a tattered ear. Uncle Albert had soon healed her wounds, and sweet John had brought her home to live out her days in the cabin beside the pond.
Grace pulled a sweater on over her dress, turned on the oven and retrieved a family-size chicken potpie from the cloth grocery bag. She had time to stick dinner in the oven and start assembling a salad before she had to run over to Hannah’s to pick up Dakota.
Hannah had been true to her word and been supportive, even when Grace had confessed that her marriage to Joe hadn’t been real. The whole family had kept their promise, and a year after her arrival in Seven Poplars, Grace felt more like one of the Yoders than ever.
She glanced at the kitchen clock, wondering if she could squeeze in a shower before going for Dakota. Tonight was Wednesday prayer meeting, and Dakota’s Bible school class would be packing boxes of school supplies, toys and sandals for Leah’s mission school. They had to be there by seven and she wasn’t sure how long the frozen potpie would take to bake. She searched for the directions on the back of the box and was about to rip open the packaging when she heard Dakota’s voice at the front door.
“Mam!”
She hurried into the great room in time to lean over and catch her son as he hurled himself into her arms.
“Mam! Mam!” he cried. “We’re going to do a play at school! A Christmas play. I’m going to be a sheep herd!”
“A sheep herd? That’s wonderful,” Grace exclaimed. She met John’s gaze as he walked in the front door carrying their son’s little backpack in one hand, a basket in the other. “Dakota’s going to be a sheep herd,” she repeated.
“I think that’s a shepherd.�
�� John set the large wicker basket and the backpack on the counter and glanced down at the frozen potpie. “You can put that in the freezer. Hannah sent chicken and dumplings, biscuits and green beans with pecans.”
“Bless her.” Grace sighed. “She remembered that it was my busiest day of the week.”
“Don’t knock Wednesdays,” he teased. “I had a good day and got off in time to pick up Dakota.”
“Mam! Mam!” Dakota jumped up and down. “Jonah and me caught the black hen—the one with the white tail feathers that laid her eggs on the buggy seat.”
John grinned, looking at her. “How was your day? Did you get your grade on the test?”
“Ninety-four.”
“That’s my girl.” He put his arms around her and kissed her.
For a few seconds, Grace forgot her grade point average, forgot that dinner would be rushed and forgot that her son was telling her about an escaped hen. Nothing mattered but her dear husband and her sweet son.
When she and John separated, she was laughing and breathless. “And tomorrow we’re learning to put in IVs,” she managed.
John arched a dark brow. “Hopefully, you had the good sense not to mention to your instructor that you’ve been doing them since you were fourteen.”
“I didn’t.” She ruffled Dakota’s hair as he shot past her, taking his backpack with him.
“I’ll make you a deal,” John said. “You jump in the shower and Dakota and I can set the table for supper.”
“And what do you get in return? Husband of the Year award?”
John’s grin widened. “A happy wife makes for a happy house.”
“Is this a happy house?” she asked him, taking a step toward him.
“Are you a happy wife?”
Her answer was to stand on tiptoes and kiss him again. “Couldn’t be happier,” she whispered. “Not even in my dreams.”
* * * * *
The Prodigal Son Returns
Jan Drexler
To the storytellers in my life, especially my grandmother, Ethel Sherck Tomlonson Rupel, and my parents, John and Veva Tomlonson.
To my dear husband and children, who never stop believing in me.
And to the ladies of Seekerville.net. Without you, I’d still be typing away, alone in my writer cave.
Soli Deo Gloria
He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.
—Psalms 91:4
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
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Chapter One
LaGrange County, Indiana
May 1936
A high-pitched scream forced Bram Lapp’s feet into a run even before his mind could identify the source. He raced up the dusty farm lane between a garden and a plain white house at the top of the sloping yard, and when the next scream sounded, ending in a terrified child’s voice yelling, “Ne, ne!”, adrenaline rushed in, pushing him faster. He knew that sound all too well—a child was in danger, terrified. Grim possibilities flashed through his mind.
Rounding the corner of the barn, Bram’s slick leather soles skidded sideways in the gravel. His feet found purchase, and he focused on the little girl crouched in front of him. A chicken flapped at the end of her outstretched arm, but her eyes were on the four draft horses looming over her. He dived toward her, letting his momentum carry him beyond the horses. Grabbing the girl in his arms, he rolled them both past the dinner-plate-size hooves and slid to a halt at the edge of the grassy backyard.
Bram shoved the child off his chest onto the grass, spitting feathers from his mouth, trying to see past the squawking red hen in his face. Where was she hurt? She screamed even louder as he wrenched the protesting chicken out of her hands and tossed it behind him.
Wide brown eyes cut from the horses to his face and then back again, her screams turning to ragged crying. She tried to pull away, but he kept her close with a firm grip on her arm. If she was hurt, or bleeding, the worst thing she could do would be to run and hide somewhere. He’d seen enough of that with kids on the Chicago streets.
He brushed at the feathers caught in her disheveled brown braids. She no longer looked like a copy of the chicken that still scolded him from a distance, but the tears running down her face clenched at his stomach. He turned her to one side and then the other. No blood that he could see. She ignored his touch; her eyes were fixed on the horses behind his shoulder.
The rattle of the harness told him the horses were moving. Her eyes widened even more as she tried to pull out of his grasp, sucking in a deep breath. Before she could let loose with another scream that might panic the horses further, Bram did the only thing he could think of to prevent it. He clapped his hand over the girl’s mouth.
“What are you doing?”
The fury in the young woman’s voice registered at the same time as the pain in his hand as the little girl sank her teeth into him. He bit back a curse and released her. With a flurry of skirts, a slim Amish woman descended on them from nowhere and snatched the girl up in her arms. Holding the child close, she fixed her blue eyes on Bram, flashing a warning as she watched him scramble to his feet.
He’d rather face the wrong end of a tommy gun than this... Wildcat seemed to be the only word for her.
A wildcat who had no business being angry with him.
His answer barked out in Deitsch before he thought about it. “I was just saving that girl from being trampled by these horses, that’s all. What did you think I was doing?”
Was that a smile that twitched at the corners of her mouth?
“Those horses?”
Bram turned to look at the draft horses and noticed for the first time they were tied to a hitching rail. The near horse flicked a lazy ear at a fly, a movement that did nothing to quell his rising irritation. He spun back to the young woman and the little girl, who stared at him with one finger in her mouth.
“Ja, those horses. No matter how docile they seem, she could be hurt playing around them like that. She was screaming so loudly I assumed she had been.”
The woman caught the edge of her lower lip between her teeth and hitched the little girl around to her hip. The self-righteous soothing of Bram’s prickled temper stopped short at her nod.
“Ja, you’re right. She shouldn’t be near the horses at all. She panics like this every time she gets near them, but you didn’t know that.” She drew a deep breath that shuddered at the end. “Denki for helping.”
That shaky breath got him. Bram straightened his jacket and dusted off his gabardine trousers to give his eyes something to focus on. Her steady gaze demanded his apology, but he wasn’t about to admit he was sorry for saving the girl, was he?
When he looked up, her gaze was still on him, expectant, her blue eyes a sharp contrast to her brown dress. Even standing on a slight rise above him, her kapp barely reached the level of his chin, but he was defenseless.
“I’m sorry. I probably scared her as much as the horses did.”
This time he was sure her mouth twitched.
“Ja, probably.”
Then she did smile, light
ing up her face in a way that would make those painted girls back in Chicago green with envy. Bram drew a deep breath. Who would have thought he’d find a beauty like this among these Plain people?
“Memmi,” the little girl said, “can I go find Grossmutti?”
“Ja, for sure.” The woman set the girl on the grass and watched her run to the back of the house.
Memmi? Bram’s thoughts did an about-face. She was married, a mother, and he had let himself get distracted by a pretty face, and an Amish one at that. He was here to buy a horse, nothing more.
“Is your husband around? I heard he had a horse for sale.”
The woman paused, the smile gone in a shadow. “I think you’re looking for my father. You’ll find him in the barn.”
Bram glanced toward the barn cellar door as she nodded toward it, but by the time he had turned to her again, she was halfway to the house. “Denki,” he called after her. She didn’t look back.
* * *
Ellie Miller fought the urge to run to the safety of the Dawdi Haus with four-year-old Susan, keeping her walk steady until she joined Mam at the clothesline behind the big house.
She had forgotten. An Englischer gave her a crooked grin, and she had forgotten about Daniel. How could something so innocent make her forget her own husband?
Something about that Englischer didn’t make sense...
Ach, he had spoken Deitsch. His suit and hat were Englisch for sure, with that bright yellow necktie, but where had he learned to speak Deitsch?
And that grin! Her breath caught at the whispery ache that wrapped around her chest. Daniel had smiled at her often, but without a mischievous dimple that winked at her. What was she doing even letting her mind remember that grin? He was just another Englischer.
Ellie pulled a shirt from the basket to hang on the line.
Ja, just another Englischer who spoke Deitsch and made her rebellious heart flip when he smiled.
