SISTERS OF THE QUILT
PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS
12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
When the Heart Cries—All Scripture quotations or paraphrases are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved. When the Morning Comes—The Scripture quotations on this page, this page, and this page are taken from The Holy Bible: Copyright © 1994-2007 by The ISV Foundation of Fullerton, California. All rights reserved internationally The quotation of Galatians 6:7 on this page is taken from the King James Version. When the Soul Mends—All Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible: Copyright © 1996-2008 by The ISV Foundation of Fullerton, California. All rights reserved internationally Used by permission.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
When the Heart Cries copyright © 2006 by Cindy Woodsmall
When the Morning Comes copyright © 2007 by Cindy Woodsmall
When the Soul Mends copyright © 2008 by Cindy Woodsmall
Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.
WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Woodsmall, Cindy.
When the heart cries : a novel / Cindy Woodsmall. — 1st ed.
p. cm. — (Sisters of the quilt; bk. 1)
1. Amish—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Woodsmall, Cindy. Sisters of the quilt; bk. 1.
PS3623.O678W47 2006
813′.6—dc22
2006011000
Woodsmall, Cindy.
When the morning comes : a novel / Cindy Woodsmall. — 1st ed.
p. cm. — (Sisters of the quilt; bk. 2)
1. Amish women—Fiction. 2. Amish—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.O678W475 2007
813′.6—dc22
2007015366
Woodsmall, Cindy.
When the soul mends : a novel / Cindy Woodsmall. — 1st ed.
p. cm. — (Sisters of the quilt; bk. 3)
eISBN: 978-0-307-79135-1
1. Amish women—Fiction. 2. Amish—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.O678W477 2008
813′.6—dc22
2008021380
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Book One
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgments
Glossary
Book Two
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Acknowledgments
Glossary
Book Three
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Acknowledgments
Glossary
About the Author
Book One
To the one man I never wanted to live my life without,
my staunchest supporter, my closest friend: my husband.
With you, life is more than I ever thought possible. Thank you.
To my two oldest sons, who believed in me.
You sacrificed your personal time to help with the needs of the household
and took great care of your younger brother so I could write. Thank you.
You also have my gratitude for keeping my computers and Internet in good
running order in spite of my best attempts at sabotage.
To my youngest son, the radiant energy to each day.
You never doubted I could do this.
When I needed humor in this story, your imagination came to the rescue.
May you one day write the stories of your heart.
To my new daughter-in-law, who has helped in hundreds of various ways.
I’m so thankful you’re now a permanent part of our lives.
And above all, to God,
whose patience, love, and forgiveness make
every relationship in my life possible.
May I hear and respond to You and no other.
In loving memory of my mother,
whose inner character always strengthens me
and continues to make its mark on her descendants.
And to all daughters who navigate this ever-changing world,
trying to find who they really are as a child of the King.
Hannah Lapp covered the basket of freshly gathered eggs with her hand, glanced behind her, and bolted down the dirt road. Early morning light filtered through the broad leaves of the great oaks as she ran toward her hopes … and her fears.
A mixed fragrance of light fog, soil, garden vegetables, and jasmine drifted through the air. Hannah adored nature’s varying scents. W
hen she topped the knoll and was far enough away that her father couldn’t spot her, she turned, taking in the view behind her. Her family’s gray stone farmhouse was perched amid rolling acreage. Seventeen years ago she’d been born in that house.
She closed her eyes, breaking the visual connection to home. Her Amish heritage was hundreds of years old, but her heart yearned to be as modern as personal computers and the Internet. Freedom beckoned to her, but so did her relatives.
Some days the desire to break from her family’s confinements sneaked up on her. There was a life out there—one that had elbowroom—and it called to her. She took another long look at her homestead before traipsing onward. Paul would be at the end of her one-mile jaunt. Joy quickened her pace. Her journey passed rapidly as she listened to birds singing their morning songs and counted fence posts.
As she topped the hill, a baritone voice sang an unfamiliar tune. The melody was coming from the barn. She headed for the cattle gate at the back of the pastureland that was lined by the dirt road. Beyond the barn sat Paul’s grandmother’s house, and past that was the paved road used by the English in their cars.
Paul used the cars of the English. Hannah’s lips curved into a smile. More accurately, he drove a rattletrap of an old truck. Even though his order of Mennonites was very conservative, much more so than many of the Mennonite groups, they didn’t hesitate to use electricity and vehicles. Still, his sect believed in cape dresses and prayer Kapps for the women. Surely there was nothing wrong with her caring for Paul since the Amish didn’t consider anyone from his order as being an Englischer or fancy.
As Hannah opened the cattle gate, Paul appeared in the double-wide doorway to the barn. His head was hatless, a condition frowned upon by her bishop, revealing hair the color of ripe hay glistening under the sun. His blue eyes showed up in Hannah’s dreams regularly.
He came toward her, carrying a pitchfork, a frown creasing his brow. “Hannah Lapp, what are you doing, stealing away at this time of day? The whole of Perry County will hear thunder roar when your father finds out.” He stopped, jammed the pitchfork into the ground, and stared at her.
The seriousness in his features made Hannah’s heart pound in her chest. She wondered if she’d overstepped her boundaries. “It’s your last day here for the summer.” She held up the basket of eggs. “I thought you and your grandmother might like a special breakfast.”
He wiped his brow, his stern gaze never leaving her face. “Gram’s awful mean this morning.”
“Worse than yesterday?”
He nodded. “Ya.” A hint of a smile touched his lips. He often teased her about the word she used so much, threatening to tell everyone at the university about that word and the girl who used it. He knew her Pennsylvania Dutch pronunciation of the word as “jah” was correct, but that didn’t stop him from ribbing her about it. As the slight smile turned into a broad grin, it erased all seriousness from his face.
Hannah clutched an egg, reared back, and mimicked throwing it at him.
A deep chuckle rumbled through the air. “Can’t hit anything if you don’t release it … or in your case, even if you do.”
His laughter warmed Hannah’s insides. She placed the egg back in the basket, huffed mockingly, and turned to cross the lawn toward the house.
This would be Paul’s fourth year to return to college. Once again he’d be leaving her throughout fall, winter, and spring—with letters being their sole communication. Even that limited connection had to come through his grandmother’s mailbox. Hannah’s father would end their friendship with no apologies if he ever learned of it.
Paul covered the space between them, lifted the basket from her hands, and smiled down at her. “So, won’t your family be missing you this morning? Or should I expect your father’s horse and buggy to come charging into my grandmother’s drive at any moment?”
“My Daed would not cause a spectacle like that.” Hannah licked her lips, thirsty after hurrying the mile to get there. “I arranged with my sister to do my chores this morning.”
“Then who will do her chores?”
“Sarah’s off this morning ’cause it’s her afternoon to sell produce at Miller’s Roadside Stand. I paid her to do my chores. So it all works out, ya?”
“You paid her. Was that necessary?”
Hannah shrugged. “I’m not her favorite person. But let’s not talk about that. She was willing to work out a deal, and here I am.”
Paul opened the screen door to his grandmother’s back porch. “I just hope Sarah doesn’t say anything to your father.”
“There’s nothing for her to say. As far as she knows, Gram told me to be here to work.” Hannah paused, grasping one side of the basket Paul held. “Besides, even Daed tries to remember it’s my rumschpringe.”
He released the basket to her. “But extra freedoms don’t hold a lot of meaning for your father, do they?”
She refused the disrespectful sigh that begged to be let loose. Her father could be exasperating at times. “The traditional rules keep him a bit subdued. It wouldn’t do to have the bishop discover he’s not following our traditions.”
Hannah opened the door to the house, but Paul placed his arm across the doorframe in front of her, stopping her in her tracks.
He bent close. Hannah kept her focus straight ahead.
“Look at me, Hannah.” The soft rumble of his words against her ear made a tingle run through her. The aroma that she’d come to recognize as easily as the man himself filled her. His scent had come to make her think of integrity, and it made her long to draw closer to him.
Several seconds passed before she managed to lift her gaze to meet his. His lips were pressed together in a smile, but his blue eyes held a look she didn’t understand.
“I’ve been aching to talk to you before I return to college. There are some things I just can’t write in a letter. If you hadn’t come today, I was planning to knock on your door this afternoon.” A light sigh escaped his lips. “But the problems that would have caused would have prevented us from getting to speak.”
“Paul!” a shaky voice screeched out. The slow thump of a cane against the wooden floor announced that his grandmother was only a few steps from seeing them.
Hannah took a step backward, thinking she’d die of embarrassment if anyone saw her this close to Paul.
He straightened, putting even more distance between them. “Promise me we’ll get time alone today. I need to talk with you before I leave.”
Hannah stared into his eyes, promising him anything. “I give you my word,” she breathed.
He lowered his hand from the doorframe. “Gram, Hannah’s here.”
From the berry patch, Paul heard the familiar chime of the sitting room’s clock. It rang out five times, but Paul needed no reminder of the hour. He was more than ready to see Hannah for a second time today and before he left for the fall semester.
He dumped the handful of blueberries into the half-full galvanized bucket. He straightened the kinks out of his back and studied the horizon for a glimpse of Hannah. The moment they had washed the last breakfast dish, Hannah had scurried home, hoping no one had missed her. So they hadn’t managed to find a moment for private conversation. He turned his attention back to the almost-bare bushes, glad he’d bought two pints of blueberries from Lee McNabb’s Farmers’ Market yesterday.
Sisters of the Quilt Page 1
