Love Inspired November 2013 #2

by Emma Miller

  Caleb shook off a shudder. He’d told Rebecca about his ordeal at Bishop Atlee’s table one morning when they’d seen a snapping turtle crossing the road. Rebecca had laughed at the tale, but despite her teasing, he was certain that she would never invite him to share a pot of snapper soup.

  “It’s all right, Caleb,” Dorcas went on, apparently picking up on his distaste. “We’ve got pigs’ knuckles with sauerkraut and dumplings left over from Wednesday night’s supper. You can eat that. It’s still gut.”

  Wonderful, Caleb thought with dark humor. Pigs’ knuckles were his second-most-hated food and he’d already lived through that experience once this week. What will she and Martha serve me next? Blood sausage?

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday evening, snowfall dusted the ground with a fine layer of white. The air was cold on Caleb’s cheeks as he swung his legs over the rail fence that bordered his property. He was late coming home tonight, but he was so close to finishing a console bracket that he’d lost track of the time. It was the first time he’d attempted such an intricate design and he was greatly pleased with the results.

  He knew a man of faith shouldn’t be guilty of hochmut, but when a seasoned block of oak, cherry or walnut took shape under his hands and became an object of beauty, it was hard not to feel pride in his craft. And foolishly, he wanted to show it to Rebecca. In a way, she was partly responsible for the success of the piece, because if he didn’t feel confident that Amelia was safe and well cared for, he couldn’t have concentrated on his work.

  Snow crunched under Caleb’s feet and he began to sing an old hymn of praise. His voice was nothing beyond adequate, but with only the wind and the trees to hear him, he could open his heart and sing praise. As he walked and sang, it came to him that today he was truly happy for the first time in years. Coming East had been the right thing to do for him and his daughter. It had given them the new start that they’d needed to pick up their lives and move forward. This community was quickly becoming his own, and the conservative views and practices seemed right for him.

  Thank You, God, he thought. Thank You for guiding me to a safe place when my eyes were blinded by tears.

  He slipped a hand inside his leather bag and ran his fingers over the perfect curves of the pendant at the bottom of the bracket he had made. It was shaped like a child’s top and sanded as smooth as glass. Later, someone would attach the bracket to a house and probably paint it in the garish colors that the Englishers favored, but for now, it was a deep red oak with lighter streaks of shading. It was strange how his craftsmanship had improved in the months and years since the fire. It was almost as if the flames had burned away his flesh, exposing ugliness but leaving him with a greater ability to create beauty in wood.

  Caleb pushed back the wave of sadness that threatened to suppress his good mood. Those times were past, and the uncle and aunt who’d cared for him had been fair. From them he’d learned to be strong, to depend on himself and to be content with few material goods—all qualities that prepared him to be a good father.

  And husband?

  He grimaced. Tomorrow evening would be another strained visit at the Coblentz home. He wished that he could spend some time alone with Dorcas, to really get to know her, but Martha had made it clear that she wouldn’t allow it.

  “You’re older. You’ve had a wife,” she’d said ominously. “Dorcas is an innocent young woman. Best you remain under the watchful eye of her parents and not risk falling to temptations of the flesh.”

  He found several flaws in Martha’s line of thinking. First, Dorcas wasn’t that young. No one had mentioned her exact age, and he wasn’t about to ask, but he guessed that she was probably close to thirty. And the fact that he had reached an age of maturity meant that he was far less likely to behave inappropriately with a young woman than he had been in his youth. Furthermore, he and Dorcas weren’t yet courting, and if he didn’t get to know her, how could either of them know if they wanted to take the arrangement further?

  Caleb kicked at the snow. He wanted to take this whole thing with Dorcas slowly, especially since it had started so suddenly. He hadn’t intended to commit himself to visiting every Sunday and Wednesday, but with Reuben laid up with his broken leg, it naturally fell to him to be at the Coblentz farm more frequently. Then Martha had brought up Dorcas’s availability and it had snowballed from there. Now everyone seemed to assume that he and Dorcas were courting. Roman had even remarked on their impending marriage during the lunch break today, and Caleb had to make his position clear.

  “There’s nothing definite yet between us,” he’d explained to Roman and Eli. “We’re just considering walking out together.”

  Roman had shook his head and Eli had laughed. “Not what Martha’s telling the womenfolk,” Roman said between bites of his liverwurst sandwich. “My Fannie talks about you two marrying like it’s a done deal.”

  Eli had poured himself another cup of coffee from his Thermos. “Nothing wrong with Dorcas.”

  “I wouldn’t be talking with her if there was,” he’d defended. “Dorcas is a suitable prospect. Her being a member of our church makes it easier. If I picked a wife from another state, she’d be homesick for her family.”

  “Ya,” Roman had agreed with a chuckle. “That’s a fine reason for picking a bride. You don’t have to go far to find her.”

  “Romantic,” Eli added with a straight face.

  “Marriage is a partnership,” Caleb had defended. “For the family and—”

  “Ya, ya.” Roman snapped his fingers. “But a little spark between you never hurts.”

  Was there a spark between them? Caleb wondered as he reached the farmyard. Not so far. But maybe when she was a little more comfortable with him, Dorcas would have more to say. Not that she didn’t talk; it was just that most of her sentences were prefaced by “Mam says.” The thing was, he didn’t want to hear what Martha thought. It was Dorcas he was considering as a wife and companion, not her mother.

  Maybe he could invite her to his shop. Rebecca had been there several times, and she’d always been interested in what he was working on and his plans for increasing the business. Doubtless, Dorcas would be curious about his ability to support her and want to know exactly what he did. He didn’t know how good her math skills were. If Dorcas was proficient in numbers and could learn to do his bookwork as Fannie did for Roman, it would free him to spend more time in the shop.

  Caleb glanced ahead. In the darkness, golden lamplight glowed from the kitchen windows of his house. Rebecca would have the woodstove burning, the table set and supper waiting. He’d hitch up the horse and drive her home before eating. It was too cold for her to walk home, and he worried about her on the road at dusk—too many cars and trucks passing by.

  As he approached the farmhouse, Fritzy barked and Rebecca threw open the back door. “Come in out of the cold. You’re late,” she said. Red-gold curls escaped her scarf to curl around her rosy face. A smudge of flour streaked her chin, and she looked as sweet as a frosted ginger cookie.

  Don’t go there, Caleb thought. Rebecca Yoder was all wrong for him, and it did no good to allow himself foolish yearnings. If he was a younger man... If fire hadn’t marred his features... If he hadn’t been called as a preacher, or she was a more serious girl, then maybe. He caught himself up sharply. “Maybe or might fill no corncribs,” his uncle used to say. He was the man he was, and Rebecca was the way God made her. A smart man didn’t plague his mind with something that could never be.

  “Dat!” As Caleb entered the house, Amelia ran and threw herself into his arms. “Rebecca showed me how to make biscuit pigs!” she cried. “A mama pig and baby pigs with raisin eyes. And we baked them in the oven, and—and I’m going to eat them for supper. With butter on their snouts. You can have one.”

  Stepping into the kitchen, Caleb swung his daughter high until the top of he
r head nearly brushed the ceiling. She squealed with excitement. “I’ll eat your baby pigs,” he teased in a gruff voice. “I’ll gobble them up, one by one.”

  “Ne, Dat.” She giggled. “One baby pig. You get one. Rebecca gets one. And I eat the rest!”

  “We’ll eat when we get back. I’ll take you home, Rebecca. It’s too cold for you to walk. Roads may be slippery.”

  Rebecca pulled a cast-iron frying pan full of biscuits from the oven. “Grace is coming by to pick me up at six, if you don’t mind me staying a little longer. Her boy’s school was closed today, and he was with Johanna.”

  “It’s no bother.” He slipped off his wet shoes and hung his coat and hat on hooks in the utility room. Then he padded in his socks to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. Wonderful smells filled the kitchen and his stomach rumbled with anticipation. “You’re welcome to share our supper,” he said.

  “Ne. Thank you just the same, but Johanna invited us to eat with her.” Rebecca lifted the top of a Dutch oven, revealing a roasted chicken with stuffing. “I hope you like scalloped sweet potatoes and apples.”

  “And apple cobber,” Amelia supplied. “I put in the cinn-a-min.”

  “Amelia did help make the cobbler.” Rebecca dished out a plate for him and a smaller one for his daughter. “She’s going to be a wonderful cook.”

  Caleb took his seat at the table. “Will you at least sit with us?” he asked.

  Rebecca shook her head. “I’ll just slip into the parlor and finish the letter I’ve been writing to The Budget.” Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief in the lamplight. “Uncle Reuben would be disappointed if I didn’t share the news about his accident. I’m mentioning the auction you’ve arranged to help with his medical expenses, too. Some may want to come from out of state to attend.” She went back to the stove and returned with the biscuits. As Amelia had claimed, there were a number of small, misshapen objects that could have been pigs.

  “Mine!” Amelia said, reaching for one. “My baby pigs.”

  “Careful,” Rebecca warned. “The pan is still hot. Don’t burn yourself.”

  Caleb glanced at Rebecca. “Whatever possessed you to teach her to make biscuits shaped like animals?” he asked. “Learning to bake is a useful skill for a girl, but pigs?”

  Rebecca’s mouth tightened. “She’s a child, Caleb. Sometimes she simply has to have fun. Not everything is about work.”

  “She’s growing fast. She can’t get away with the nonsense she did as a baby.” With a twinge, he realized he was echoing a remark he’d heard Martha make when Amelia had tipped over the sugar bowl trying to dip her finger in. “Her mother would expect her to be brought up proper,” he said. “Especially since I’m a—”

  “Ya, ya. A preacher. I know. You’ve made that clear to me.” Rebecca set a pitcher of milk on the table beside Amelia’s empty glass—set it down hard enough to make the silverware rattle together. Her blue eyes darkened. “And, just so you know, Caleb, my father was a bishop. And he’s the one who taught me to make pig biscuits.” With a sharp nod of her chin, she turned and bustled, stiff shouldered, out of the kitchen.

  Caleb stared after her, confused. What had he said to set her off? Was she annoyed with him because he’d questioned the wisdom of her odd-shaped biscuits? His gaze fell on the leather case containing the carved bracket with the exaggerated pendant and disappointment settled over him like a wet coat. I suppose she won’t want to look at the piece now, he thought, as some of the warmth seeped out of the room.

  “Dat?” Amelia stared at him in bewilderment. “Don’t you like my biscuits?”

  “Ya, they are good biscuits. Remember, grace first, before we eat.” Caleb bowed his head for a few moments and then nodded to Amelia and picked up his own fork. The chicken and stuffing had smelled so good, but now each bite tasted like sawdust in his mouth.

  Thankfully, he didn’t have to talk. Amelia couldn’t remain silent long and soon began to chatter on about her day. Apparently, they had scrubbed the floors upstairs and polished the furniture. “Rebecca hung our laundry in the attic,” she explained. “I helped.”

  “Gut,” he said absently. There was a large open space on the third floor with finished walls, but no furniture. He’d thought, when he’d bought the house, he could easily put several more bedrooms up there, if he ever had the need. Chimneys ran up on each end of the house, and when the stoves were in use, the attic was warm and dry. Why hadn’t he thought of that instead of stringing clotheslines across his kitchen in bad weather?

  “Rebecca says that—”

  “Enough about Rebecca,” he said. “Finish your supper.”

  “But—”

  “Amelia.”

  Her face fell, and she sniffed.

  Caleb stared at his plate. He hadn’t meant to be harsh with her, but he’d heard quite enough about— A rap at the back door interrupted his thoughts. Thinking that must be Rebecca’s sister come to pick her up, he rose from his chair to let her in.

  He hadn’t even heard Grace’s car. He walked back through the utility room to let her in but to his surprise, he found not a Mennonite woman but three Amish men standing on his little back porch. Behind them, he saw a horse and buggy in the snowy yard.

  “We’ve come to talk with you about an important matter, Preacher.” The man extended his hand. “Ray Stutzman. Next district over.”

  “Ray.” Caleb shook his hand and waved the visitors in. He recognized Thomas Troyer, a stout elder with a long white beard. “Thomas.”

  The three stomped the snow off their feet and removed their outer jackets and hats. “Samson Hershberger,” Thomas said, indicating a big man of about forty, with dark hair and a full beard.

  “Samson.” Caleb exchanged handshakes with Thomas and Samson before showing them into the kitchen. Amelia slipped out of her chair and dashed out of the room. “Sit down,” Caleb said, picking up the dinner plates to set them in the sink. “Coffee?”

  “If it’s no trouble.” Thomas took a seat. “Sorry to bother you at suppertime, but the weather might get worse. We wanted to speak to you—”

  “Tonight,” Ray finished. “Samson and I are neighbors over on Rose Valley Road.”

  Rebecca appeared in the doorway, saw the visitors and immediately went to the cupboard for cups. “Thomas.” She nodded a greeting to the other two before asking, “How is your wife, Samson? Doing well, I hope? And the new baby?”

  “Both well,” he said with a smile. “Heard you were cleaning for Preacher Caleb.”

  She poured coffee and served the men, quickly clearing away the last of the dinner and bringing sugar and milk and a tray of cookies. “I’ll leave you to your business,” she said and went back into the other room.

  “Usually she doesn’t stay this late,” Caleb explained. “Her ride will be here any minute.”

  “She’s half sister to John Hartman’s wife, isn’t she?”

  Caleb nodded. He didn’t want to be rude, but he was curious as to what urgent business he might have with these men from another church district so important as to bring them out on a snowy night. But these Amish were no different from those men he’d known in Idaho. No business could be contracted until small talk was out of the way. First, the weather, the price of hay and the scarcity of reasonable farm land had to be discussed, chewed over and commented on at length.

  Finally, just when Caleb had nearly lost patience and was ready to come right out and ask why they were there, Thomas got to the point. “What do you know about the Reapers?” he asked.

  “Reapers?” Caleb had no idea what he was talking about.

  “You know about the Gleaners,” Samson said. “The young people’s church group?”

  “Of course.” One of his jobs was to meet with them twice a month and approve projects, frolics and community outreach. “Charley Byler and h
is wife are the sponsors. Surely, the Gleaners haven’t done anything—”

  “Ne,” Thomas replied. “The Gleaners have always been a responsible group. We find no fault with them. It’s this new group, the Reapers.”

  “Teenagers from three of our local districts gathering. Yours included. I’ve had a report from the Delaware State Police of underage drinking of alcohol,” Samson said. “Boys are sneaking out at night and attending parties with Englishers. The policemen told me that they broke up a bonfire in a field near Black Bottom. They caught some of the English kids, but the Amish boys ran into the woods.”

  “There’s no Rumspringa in Kent County,” Ray said. “We don’t allow it. Too dangerous. We need your support to settle this behavior before someone is hurt.”

  “I agree, but why come to me?” Caleb asked. “I have only the one child, and you saw her. She’s not even old enough for school.”

  “We would have asked Reuben for help.” Samson leaned forward on his elbows on the table. He wore long johns under his shirt, and the wrists were worn thin from wear. “He’s been successful with wayward teenagers before, but Reuben’s laid up with that broken leg. You’re the other preacher for Seven Poplars. We were hoping you’d step in.”

  Caleb rose to pour another cup of coffee. His was still half full, but he needed the excuse to gather his thoughts. Bad enough that he’d been thrust into the position of preacher to his own district, a job he doubted he was up to. But this? If he failed to influence the boys and change their dangerous behavior, he’d disappoint his congregation and maybe shame their district in front of the others. “I’m not sure I’m the right man for this,” he said hesitantly.

  “I’d do it myself, but I’m too old,” Thomas said. “The teens feel no connection to most of our elders. And Samson, here, he—”

  “My boy Joe is one of the ringleaders of this bunch,” Samson admitted. “I’ve tried talking to him, tried punishment, but Joe is eighteen and feeling his oats. It would break his mother’s heart if he was arrested or got hurt in this nonsense.”