Her Secret Amish Child
Her Secret Amish Child
Cheryl Williford
An Amish Second ChanceNewly-widowed Lizbeth Mullet has a secret: she’s never told anyone the true identity of her son’s father. Not even now that she’s come home to Pinecraft and the man in question is her new landlord. Fredrik Lapp may not know Benuel is his son, but the two soon form an unmistakable bond. And seeing Fredrik again stirs feelings Lizbeth had worked hard to bury. With Fredrick’s affections resurfacing too, the burden of Lizbeth’s secret is only getting heavier. Revealing the truth could mean a lifetime of happiness together—or the loss of her second chance at forever.
An Amish Second Chance
Newly widowed Lizbeth Mullet has a secret: she’s never told anyone the true identity of her son’s father. Not even now that she’s come home to Pinecraft and the man in question is her new landlord. Fredrik Lapp may not know Benuel is his son, but the two soon form an unmistakable bond. And seeing Fredrik again stirs feelings Lizbeth had worked hard to bury. With Fredrick’s affections resurfacing, too, the burden of Lizbeth’s secret is only getting heavier. Revealing the truth could mean a lifetime of happiness together—or the loss of her second chance at forever.
“I appreciate your help, but I can clean the rest myself,” Lizbeth assured him.
One of the ladies tossed him a new trash bag. He squatted and began to work on the pile of trash under the steps. “This is my fault,” he said, glancing up and grinning at her in the goofy way he had when he was a boy. The memory made her heart skip a beat.
“But I made the mess.” She picked up a half-eaten apple off the step and tossed it into the bag.
Fredrik’s grin spread into a full-blown smile. “Ya, but I was supposed to fix that raised nail this morning before it could cause someone trouble.”
The past fell away and she was a girl of seventeen again, looking into the sparkling blue eyes of the young Fredrik Lapp. He continued to hold her gaze. She pulled her eyes away. The man was having too much fun at her expense. She didn’t have a clue what to do about it or the emotions churning in her stomach. But she knew she couldn’t let herself grow too close to him. Not this time. Too much was at stake.
CHERYL WILLIFORD and her veteran husband, Henry, live in South Texas, where they’ve raised three children, numerous foster children, alongside a menagerie of rescued cats, dogs and hamsters. Her love for writing began in a literature class, and now her characters keep her grabbing for paper and pen. She is a member of her local ACFW and CWA chapters, and is a seamstress, watercolorist and loving grandmother. Her website is cherylwilliford.com (http://cherylwilliford.com).
Her Secret Amish Child
Cheryl Williford
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Fear not, for I am with you; Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, Yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.
—Isaiah 41:10
I dedicate this book to my husband, Henry, who endures endless hours of backstory and plot. To my two daughters, Barbara and Susan. You make me want to succeed. And to God, who gave me writing when I needed a clear and untroubled path. God bless ACFW’s Golden Girls critique group. Nanci, Liz, Shannon and Jan…you dear, talented ladies make my job so much easier.
Contents
Cover (#u04cdfa81-3486-546b-b9b8-e1e780f375ab)
Back Cover Text (#u1e816952-6450-5049-bee8-fe068ff16a20)
Introduction (#u4469ca8c-95d0-50ff-8513-f6c64254938c)
About the Author (#u91ec66c2-6df1-538c-b8e7-92f71c8205c6)
Title Page (#u978779f7-beee-5d99-84b8-4396943d1951)
Bible Verse (#u1d1c39ea-87db-57ed-9e25-f1541637c3ee)
Dedication (#uda014057-a6c1-5eff-aad6-80f12a4a4597)
Chapter One (#u18fb51eb-c665-5938-8dab-6dfc6775c80f)
Chapter Two (#u50b9c45b-5535-59cf-b594-93c6a9341f3f)
Chapter Three (#ue2d4d2b7-a341-5726-b87a-3475184bc9aa)
chapter Four (#u438563d2-a581-5b94-ac70-c14ba5279b1e)
Chapter Five (#ud6bd2f01-b806-5160-8f64-d57934d06a0e)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ub71b6fb5-cd3e-5bb6-b1c2-0f60eca74147)
Pinecraft, Florida—a midsummer afternoon
Had she made yet another mistake?
“Don’t touch that seat again,” Lizbeth Mullet said, stretching across her son’s extended legs to wedge their carry-on bag in front of his small brown shoes, hoping to block his incessant movement.
Three times in the past hour Benuel had slapped or kicked at her when she’d scolded him. Each time she hadn’t known what to do, how to change the overactive four-year-old boy’s behavior. She knew what she wanted to do, what felt like the right thing to do, but her built-in insecurities held her back, forced her to doubt her abilities as a single parent. A torturous night without sleep and little to eat added to her misery.
“Pinecraft, Florida,” the bus driver announced. With the flick of his wrist he turned the bus’s steering wheel and headed off the highway to his designated stop.
Several people milled around the parking lot of the Pinecraft Tourist Church, waiting for loved ones to arrive. With her father running late, no one would be waiting for her and the boy. They’d left Ohio in secret, telling no one except her father they were leaving or where they were going. There would be no going back. Her late husband’s family could not hurt them now.
The Amish and Mennonite people scattered throughout the Pioneer Trails bus began to reach under seats for bags and wake up sleeping children.
Memories of the quaint little resort town she once called home beckoned. Pinecraft Park was on her right, and her father’s prosperous chicken farm a few miles down the road, on the outskirts of the small town of Sarasota. She had grown up in this community of Old and New Order Amish people. This is where she belonged. Gott willing, she would heal and regain her strength here, around the people who knew her best and loved her.
Scrambling to gather up their belongings while trying to keep Benuel from climbing over her legs and escaping, Lizbeth tucked his bag of toys under her arm and scooped up their satchel from the floor.
“I want my car,” he demanded, grabbing for the toy sack.
Standing, Lizbeth put out her hand and forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Not now, soh. When your Grossdaddi comes for us I’ll find it for you.”
“I’m thirsty.” Tall like her and lightly dotted with ginger freckles across his nose, he allowed her to take his hand after a moment of debate and shuffled by her side to the front of the bus. He touched each seat as he passed, counting aloud. “One, two, three.”
“That’s very good,” Lizbeth encouraged. Early on Benuel had showed signs of being slow with numbers and letters. Perhaps his developmental delay had been caused by the long, painful labor she’d endured, but she noticed he’d come out of his shell some since her husband Jonah’s death and was beginning to respond to her positive encouragement.
Taking the bus driver’s extended hand, Lizbeth stepped down into the sultry heat of the cloudless summer day. She had missed the smell of the sea.
Benuel hopped down each step. His eyes darted around, the enthusiasm in them making her grin. He’d spent too many hours on the farm and was seldom with children his age. Seeing only her husband’s family had left him shy and unsocial and sometimes angry, but today he looked different, ready to conquer the world.
“Do you have more bags on the bus, ma’am?”
Lizbeth nodded and let go of Benuel’s hand as she dug through her purse for the silver ticket she’d been given when she’d relinquished their larger suitcase back in Ohio. Blond hairs escaping from her crushed prayer kapp blew around her face. “Yes. A small one, but I’d like to pick it up a bit later when my daed arrives, if that’s all right. He warned me he’d be running late.”
“Sure. You hold on to that ticket and come get it inside the church when you’re ready.” He tipped his head. “Thanks for riding Pioneer Trails.”
She turned to make sure Benuel was at her side, found him gone and held back a groan. He was nowhere to be seen. Twisting back and forth, she searched the remaining cluster of people standing close by and then saw movement near a row of picturesque shops on her right. Her heart began to pound against her breastbone. It was Benuel, and he was running.
Forgetting to breathe, she chased after him, her black lace-up shoes slapping hard against the hot pavement. Fear pushed her forward. She had to catch him before he made it to the street and oncoming traffic. He had no fear of roads. His experience with the small-town streets of Iris, Ohio, could be counted on one hand. Someone had always been holding on to him, directing his path. But not now.
“Benuel James, stop!”
Startled by her shout, a swarm of shiny black grackles took flight and made their way to treetops across the street.
She quickly crossed the shop’s parking lot and pushed off the curb, fear building and twisting her stomach into knots. She couldn’t lose Benuel, too.
Her son rushed on, laughing, his reddish-blond hair blowing in the breeze, blissfully unaware of the danger he was in.
Crossing the road, Benuel’s body mere inches from her grasp, she glanced both ways as she sprinted close behind him.
Sunrays reflected off the silver scooter approaching. Her heart skipped a beat, uncertain she could reach Benuel before it was too late. She ignored the blast of the scooter’s horn and lunged forward, desperate to reach her son before the speeding scooter. Bent forward, she stumbled, but managed to grasp the back of Benuel’s shirt as she went down.
Dread grabbed her by the throat. Hot, sticky air filled her lungs as she gasped for breath.
Please, Gott, please. Don’t let us be hit. She pulled his squirming body close to hers and rolled.
The whirr of the scooter’s motor and the screeching of the tires braking caused Lizbeth’s body to tense. She held tight to her son and squeezed her eyes closed.
The raw sounds of scraping metal enveloped them and then stopped.
The fast-paced beat of her heart hammered in her ears, her chest, ticking off the seconds.
Close by, birds squawked high in the trees lining the road, and then all was silent.
What had happened?
Afraid to look, she slowly opened her eyes.
Heat shimmered off the deserted two-lane road where they lay. She scrambled up and searched her son’s body for injuries.
A startled expression widened Benuel’s sky blue eyes. She hugged him close and whispered, “You’re fine. Don’t be frightened, soh.” He seemed unharmed, with the exception of an insignificant graze on his left elbow, no doubt caused from being pulled down on the hot asphalt.
Her breath came fast. She had to force herself to calm down. The boy didn’t need to see her fear. He’d had enough trauma in his young life. He was her only living child and so precious to her. What if Gott had snatched him away, too? How would she have lived?
She placed him on his feet and watched for signs of pain, but saw none. Relieved, she crushed him to her and cooed as if he were a baby. “My sweet boy. Mamm loves you.”
“You’re hurting me,” Benuel squealed, the flat of his hands pushing her away.
Lizbeth sighed with relief. She was upset. Not her son. It had been an adventure to him. “I’m sorry, liebling. I didn’t mean to squish you.” She forced a smile, tried to look normal.
The midday sun beat down on them, penetrating her starched white kapp. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. The wrecked scooter had to be somewhere close by.
She grabbed Benuel’s wrist and urged him out of harm’s way, to the side of the road where a ragged palm tree’s fronds rustled in the breeze.
A few feet away, a row of blossoming bushes nestled against sturdy privacy fencing. She scanned under them, and then along the curb where several cars and adult tricycles were parked. The silver scooter had to be nearby. I know what I heard.
But there was nothing. No scooter. No rider.
“Look at that man, Mamm,” Benuel said. “He’s sleeping on the ground.”
Lizbeth glanced in the direction her son pointed. “Oh, no.” Hidden behind a parked car, a ginger-haired man dressed in traditional Amish clothes and black boots lay sprawled across the sidewalk a few yards away. The silver scooter teetered on its side a foot from him, its back wheel still spinning.
Benuel’s hand clasped firmly in hers, she hurried over, pausing long enough to instruct her son in a trembling voice, “You stay right here.”
His bottom lip puckered. “But I want to see.”
Releasing his hand, she said, “I know you do, but stay put, please.” Dreading what she might see, she fell to her knees in front of the man’s prostrate body and gave him a quick once-over, searching for twisted limbs and blood. He groaned and then stirred, his single status clearly stated by his clean-shaven chin that scraped the rough sidewalk as his head turned in her direction. Dirt and grit smudged his face and neck.
Why is there no one left on the street? I need help, Gott.
“Lie still. You may have broken something,” she instructed.
His hand moved and then his arm. Blue eyes—so like her son’s—opened to slits. He blinked at her. A shaggy brow arched in question. Full, well-shaped lips moved, but no words came out.
She leaned back in surprise. She knew this face as well as she knew her own. The man on the ground was Fredrik Lapp, her brother’s childhood friend. The last man in Pinecraft she wanted to see. “Are you all right?” she asked, bending close.
His coloring looked normal enough, but she knew nothing about broken bones or head trauma. She looked down the length of his body. His clothes were dirty, but seemed intact.
The last time she’d seen him she’d been a skinny girl of nineteen, and he’d been a wiry young man of twenty-three, with shaggy auburn hair and blue eyes the color of a summer sky. Unbaptized and not yet a member of the church, he’d had an unruliness about him, a restlessness that kept his mamm and daed worried for his future, and the rumor mill turning with tales of his latest wild escapades.
Now he was a fully matured man, with a thick neck and neatly trimmed hair, cut in a traditional Amish style to his ears. A man who could rip her life apart if he learned about the secret she’d kept all these years.
She leaned in and eyed his clean-shaven chin. Why is he still unwed and living in Pinecraft? There were no significant scrapes on his face, with the exception of a small cut above his left eyebrow.
The sidewalk under him had to be uncomfortably hot. She jerked a length of attached quilt squares from her bag and squatted, carefully slipping the soft folds under his head.
He coughed several times and scowled as he drew in a deep breath.
“Do you hurt anywhere?” Lizbeth used her clean handkerchief to wipe away the blood slowly oozing from the small cut above his left eye.
“Ouch!” He twisted his head out of her reach.
She jerked her hand away and rose. “I thought the blood might blur your vision.”
“Is the kinner all right?” Fredrik’s voice sounded deeper and raspier than it had years ago. He coughed, and with a grunt braced himself with his arms and struggled into a sitting position.
Lizbeth glanced Benuel’s way. He was looking at them, his young face pinched with concern. Her heart ached for the intense, worried child.
“Ya, he’s fine,” she assured him, and tried to hold Fredrik down as he started to move about. “Please don’t get up. Let me get some help first. You might have really hurt yourself.” He had no family left in the area. Why had he come back?
He ignored her direction and rose to his feet, dusting the long legs of his dark trousers down, and then bent to pick her fabric off the ground. He handed her the bundle after doing his best to refold the length of colorful cotton squares. “I got the wind knocked out of me, that’s all.” He laughed.
He peered at his bleeding arm, shrugged his broad shoulders and rotated his neck as she’d seen him do a hundred times as a boy.
“That was a foolish thing you did,” he muttered, his brow arched.
“What was?” she asked, mesmerized by the way his muscles bulged along his freckled arm. It had to be wonderful to be strong and afraid of nothing.
He gestured toward the boy. “Letting your soh run wild like that? He could have been killed. Why didn’t you hold his hand while you crossed the road?”
She took exception to Fredrik’s sharp tone, the disapproving expression on his face. The knot in her stomach tightened and grew. She pushed the ribbon of her prayer kapp away and then wiped sweat from her top lip, her frustration growing. She may not know how to properly raise an energetic, belligerent boy, but she was learning and doing the best she could. How dare he chastise her like Jonah and his family had done so many times? “I know we could all have been killed.”
Her face grew warm. If only she had been more careful, grabbed Benuel’s hand as soon as she’d handed over the ticket to the bus driver. She knew what the boy was like lately. Acting out, not listening to anyone. She looked toward the curb. Benuel’s head was turned away, no doubt watching the birds peck away at bugs in the short tufts of grass a few feet away.
With a grunt of frustration, she stuffed the bloodied handkerchief back into her apron pocket and dusted down her skirt. She hadn’t been back in Pinecraft a full hour and already was involved in a situation with Fredrik. She had plans for the money she had on her, like paying for somewhere to live. If Fredrik blamed Benuel for the crash, repairing the scooter could leave her totally dependent on her father, and she could not allow that to happen.
“You’ll need someone to come get you.” She pointed at the crumpled machine on the ground. “It looks like that Englischer contraption of yours is ruined.” Fredrik had always been a risk taker, never considering the cost to himself or those around him. She knew Benuel was equally to blame for the accident, but it would be just like Fredrik to blame someone else for his share of the mishap.
Fredrik’s brows furrowed as he shoved his hand though his disheveled hair. He dropped his arm with a grimace. “That Englischer contraption, as you call it, was an expensive scooter. I saved for a year. Bought it less than an hour ago.”
Lizbeth swallowed hard. She ran her hands down her arms, her nerves sending tremors through her body, no doubt her reaction to their near miss.
She twisted back toward the scooter. She knew all about men’s “big boy” toys, thanks to her Amish daed, who prized all things with wheels and gears. This man was cut from similar cloth, but he lacked her father’s love of familye and commitment to this small community. No doubt he had once again set aside his Amish beliefs to fulfill some foolhardy need for speed.
“I was on my way to the insurance company,” he grunted. He turned his broad back on her.
She watched him glance down the empty road shimmering with watery mirages.
He spoke to the sultry air around him. “I thought...what can happen? The insurance office is only a few blocks down the road. What a bensel I am.”
“It’s not insured then?” She stepped back, waited for his reply while gulping down a knot the size of her fist.
He turned back to her, his brow furrowed. “Nee, not insured.”
* * *
Fredrik Lapp didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his own stupidity, not that he wasn’t used to making rash decisions that managed to put him in a bad light. He should have made a call from the bike shop, gotten the scooter insured before he left the showroom. But no, he didn’t want to be late for work and disappoint Mose Fischer, his boss, who firmly believed in punctuality. And look what a mess I’m in now.
With a glance, he calculated the damage to the scooter. The front tire looked flat, the frame slightly bent, the fender folded back where it had hit the metal street pole. No telling what kind of scratches dug into the underside of the machine when it hit the ground.
He groaned aloud, but not from pain. The fancy front light he’d been so excited about, and special ordered, now hung suspended in the air by a single black wire. He’d be out hundreds of dollars for restoration and the scooter’s odometer didn’t read a mile.
He looked over at the ginger-haired boy with freckles across his button nose and instantly felt contrite, regretting his immature, self-centered thoughts. The boy looked to be young, maybe five or six. Fredrik’s heart flip-flopped, the rhythm of the beat kicking up as he realized he might have killed the kinner with his carelessness. But the boy had been at fault, too. He should have been holding his mother’s hand.
The boy’s mother, a tall willowy woman dressed in mourning black, stood next to the child, her protective arm around her son’s thin shoulders. She’s protecting him from me. He silently asked Gott for forgiveness. He could have taken a life.
The woman’s arched brow told him she didn’t believe she and her son had caused the accident, even though she hadn’t uttered a single word of accusation toward him. She didn’t have to. He knew he’d also made an error in judgment and driven too fast.
Instead of enjoying the exhilaration of speed, he should have been watching the traffic more closely, paying attention to what he was doing. This was no golf cart or three-wheeled bike. He had no experience on a scooter. No idea how to control the metal machine.
Perhaps this was Gott’s punishment for him buying such a fancy scooter in the first place. The idea of fast, dependable transportation had made all the sense in the world while looking at the showroom’s catalog a year ago. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name,” he said, glancing at the widow.
“Mullet. Lizbeth Mullet. And this is Benuel.” She nodded briskly, her thin fingers nervously rubbing the side of her son’s neck.
Her crooked kapp had bobbed on her blond head when she nodded. There were laugh lines etched in her cheeks, but no smile appeared today. He realized she looked slightly familiar, like someone he should know, but he couldn’t place her. A lot of snowbirds and Plain people visited the tourist town of Pinecraft, even during the summer months, but she could easily be someone he’d been introduced to at church or met at work.
He glanced over at the fidgeting, serious-faced child and then back to the woman. Sweat curled the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.
Not sure what to do, he extended his hand to her. “My name’s Fredrik Lapp. I hope I didn’t scare you too much.” At first he thought she would ignore his gesture, but then her hand was placed in his. It was soft and looked fragile, even though she wasn’t a diminutive woman and stood nearly as tall as him. He felt the power of her grasp, the hidden strength in her, but she was trembling and he was to blame.
An arrow of pain shot through his shoulder and he winced. As she held his gaze, one perfectly arched brow lifted. She inspected his face with probing eyes the color of his mamm’s blue-violet periwinkles. A pretty woman, he realized. Someone who would fit fine on his list of women to step out with—if he seriously decided to look for a fraa.
Her frown deepened. “Are you certain-sure you’re fine?” she asked. “You’ve gone all washed out. Perhaps you should go to the hospital, be checked by an Englisch doctor. I’ve heard a person can have brain damage and not know it until it’s too late.”
“Nee, it wasn’t my head that hit,” he said with a laugh and rubbed his shoulder like a child might. “The scooter’s front bumper took the impact. I just got the wind knocked out of me when I landed.”
“Even so, shouldn’t the police be called? It was an accident, and they’ll want you to make a report, or do whatever is required.”
Fredrik considered her words. He probably should, even though calling would probably cost him a traffic ticket. “Ya, you’re right. I’ll call them now.” He gestured toward a café’s front door and motioned her forward. “Come in with me. It’s too hot to be standing on the sidewalk. I don’t know about you, but a glass of sweet tea sure sounds gut to me.”
Chapter Two (#ub71b6fb5-cd3e-5bb6-b1c2-0f60eca74147)
Inside, the café pulsed with life. The lunch crowd of local Amish and Mennonite folks, with some summer tourists sprinkled in, blended into a loud, but happy, sea of faces.
Still shaking, Lizbeth followed a waitress in and ushered Benuel into the small booth upholstered in cheap red leather. Fredrik flopped down across from them a few moments later, making himself comfortable as he ordered a glass of tea and one of the cook’s famous sweet rolls.
“What would you two like? Sweet tea, a Coke?”
“We’ll have ice water, danki,” she answered, watching Fredrik’s face. She searched for and found the bump on his nose. She’d caused the break when she’d thrown a basketball at him years ago.
She relaxed. He still didn’t seem to recognize her, but there was no reason he would. She’d been dishwater blond as a teen, and full of life. Nothing like the rake-thin, ordinary, mouse-blond woman she’d become, with her unremarkable face that drew no second glances.
“Can I have Coke?” Benuel blurted out.
She gave her son a warning look. He shouldn’t be asking for treats. Not after running off. Unsure, she fought an inner battle, trying to decide whether to be hard on the troubled child and not knowing when to hold firm to her convictions. She hadn’t been allowed to discipline Benuel in any way while her husband was alive. He or his mother always stepped in, took control of the boy. Punished him for her mistakes.
Benuel’s hopeful expression vanished. His forehead took on a sulky frown. She reached to pull him closer, but he pushed away with a grunt of annoyance.
“My treat,” Fredrik offered.
She looked across the table at Fredrik. His grin was easygoing, relaxed. “Danki, but nee. He has to learn to obey.”
Fredrik made a face at the boy, his nose crinkling up in a comical way. Benuel giggled slightly and then ducked his head. Silence had been a firm rule enforced by Jonah and his parents back in Ohio. Children should be seen and seldom heard. Especially her child.
Lizbeth watched the all-too-familiar lift of Fredrik’s brow, the way his lips curved as he laughed at Benuel’s reaction to his teasing. His smile revealed a tiny chip on his front tooth. He’d fallen his last summer in Pinecraft. He’d chased her, trying to get his straw hat from her hand, and slipped on wet stones.
“How about some pancakes with strawberries? They’re my favorite. Come on, Mamm. Let the boy enjoy life.”
He had no idea the inner conflict she endured, the indecisiveness she fought regarding Benuel’s discipline. Her reply came out harsher than she intended. “I am letting the boy enjoy life. Benuel’s being disciplined for running away and can’t have sweets right now. He’ll be having plain food for the rest of the day as his punishment.”
The bell over the café door rang. Lizbeth glanced over and then jumped up, rushing into her father’s waiting arms.
“I’ve been looking all over for you, girl,” John Schwarts scolded, but gave his daughter another tight hug that spoke of his love for her. “You should have waited at the church. I told you I’d be a bit late.”
“I’m sorry, Daed. It got so hot. We came in for a quick cold drink of water.” She looked at Fredrik over her father’s shoulder and saw a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. He finally knew who she was. Something to worry about later, she thought, lowering her gaze.
Her cheek nuzzled against her father’s barrowed chest as she listened to the sound of him breathing, the beat of his heart. It had been five long years since she’d left the safety of his arms. It was good to be home.
“It’s no matter,” he responded, as he slid in beside Fredrik. “So, what are you doing here? I thought Mose told me you were working early today.”
Fredrik had the decency to look a little embarrassed. He glanced over at Lizbeth.
She gently shook her head, praying he wouldn’t say anything about their near accident. She already had Fredrik thinking she was a bad mamm. She didn’t need her daed thinking it, too.
“I was...ah...am working early today. I just thought I’d stop and get a cold glass of tea first,” Fredrik stammered, pulling his summer hat off and setting it on his lap. “Lizbeth was kind enough to share a booth with me. It’s pretty busy in here.”
The waitress hurried over and interrupted the men’s chatter. Lizbeth took a deep, calming breath. Her daed looked good. His new wife, Ulla, must have been taking fine care of him.
John smiled his grandson’s way. “So this is Benuel. How are you, soh?”
Benuel frowned and then looked away, all the while tapping his fingers on the table. “I’m not allowed to speak to strangers,” he muttered.
Lizbeth patted her daed’s hand. “He’ll warm up. It’ll just take him a while.”
“Ya, sure. I understand. You were always a bit standoffish with strangers at his age. We’ll get to know each other at the chicken farm, won’t we, Benuel?”
Benuel ducked his head, his ginger-colored hair falling in his eyes as he nodded slightly.
Fredrik spoke up, ending the awkward moment. “You going to work at the church tomorrow, John?”
“Certain-sure, I am. That roof’s leaking like a sieve when it rains.”
Lizbeth took the glass of water handed to her by the waitress, slid Benuel’s water to him and watched her father’s face light up as he talked about future church repairs with Fredrik.
It was so good to be back home. Her daed had changed very little. Oh, he’d gotten some grayer, a bit more round at the middle, but he looked happy.
Benuel kicked her leg under the table. She flinched. “Drink your water, and keep your legs under you,” she instructed, warning him with her eyes.
“He’s as fidgety as those new roosters I bought.” John laughed.
Lizbeth tried to act normal. Her father didn’t understand, didn’t know about Benuel’s medical issues yet. She realized she’d have to tell him about the boy’s ADHD issues, but now wasn’t the time, not with Fredrik Lapp sitting there, listening to every word said. “He’s a hyper young man, that’s for sure,” she said and pushed Benuel’s water closer to him. She hoped she’d never have to tell her daed about the things she and the boy had seen and been through while in Ohio.
Benuel swished his hand across the table, knocking over the water glass. He smirked Lizbeth’s way, rebellion written across his young face. “I’m sorry,” he said, righting the glass as cold water and chips of ice streamed into her lap.
* * *
Fredrik watched Lizbeth’s face redden, saw the way her hands shook as she grabbed napkins to sop up the spill. He still couldn’t believe this woman was the Little Lizzy he’d grown up with. She’d changed. And here she was, back in town, with a rowdy little boy. Her son had knocked over the glass on purpose. Fredrik was sure of it, and he could tell John knew it, too. The older man’s forehead was creased into an irritated scowl. Turning his head, he looked at the kinner closely. Benuel’s expression had become calm again, almost serene. As if nothing had happened.
That boy needed a talking-to, but Fredrik could tell by the look on Lizbeth’s face that she wasn’t going to discipline him in front of his grandfather the first time they met. She’d leave it for another time. Poor woman looked exhausted and frazzled from her long trip home.
Fredrik grabbed the napkin under his water and helped Lizbeth clean up the mess. “Kids always seem to manage to spill their water,” he reassured her with a smile.
“Ya,” she muttered, picking up the last of the ice cubes scattered across the table. Her face still flushed with embarrassment. “Danki, Fredrik.”
She looked at her father, her fingers twisting the wet napkin in her hand.
Fredrik watched the tiny blue vein in her neck pulse with tension.
“Benuel is often overactive, Daed,” she said, glancing at Benuel squirming in his seat. “But he’s a gut boy.”
“Ya, I know he is,” John said, nodding. His smile was that of a patient grandfather who understood the ways of rambunctious boys.
Lizbeth visibly relaxed, her lips turning up at the ends. “I’m so glad to be home. Benuel needs a strong man like you in his life.”
“Ya, well. You’ve got the whole town of Pinecraft at your disposal, dochder. We’ll all pitch in. You’re not alone.”
Tears glistened in her eyes as she put her arm around her son and pulled him close. “I’m so glad, Daed. Change can be hard for Benuel. All he’s ever known is the farm. Life’s been difficult for him.”
John smiled gently. His big calloused hand patted hers. “I’ll go and grab your bag from the church. You can wait here until I get back.” She handed a ticket to John and he nodded at Fredrik. “Don’t be too late to work,” he said with a smile.
Fredrik shook John’s hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the church. Make sure you wear your loose pants. The ladies are cooking for us.”
John nodded. “I’ll be there.” And he walked to the door.
Fredrik turned back to Lizbeth and saw a slight smile on her face. “It’s been years, and I know I’ve changed,” she said, “but I’m assuming you’ve remembered me by now, Fredrik. I’m Little Lizzy, Saul’s schweschder.”
Fredrik leaned toward her with a grin. “Of course I know who you are. I realized it as soon as you greeted your daed. Little Lizzy. I can’t believe it. I’d heard you had married and had moved away while I was in Lancaster. Why didn’t you tell me who you were as soon as we met?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “It didn’t seem important. And I wanted to see how long it would take for you to remember. I knew it was you the minute I saw that ginger hair of yours and your broken nose.”
He trailed his finger down the bridge, to the almost invisible bump, thinking of that day so many years ago. “Ya, and I remember who broke that nose. You had a mean pitching arm back then.”
“I still do.”
Fredrik glanced up and saw one of Sarasota’s finest walk through the café door, the gun on his hip standing out in the crowd of Plain people and tourists. “The police officer is here. I’ve got to go. It was good to see you again, Lizbeth.” He stood and pulled her to his side in a hug, his arm sliding around her slim waist.
Then he let her go and walked off, peeking over his shoulder at her one last time. She’d been the picture of calm since her father arrived. Her daed was what she needed. A strong man to lean on.
He walked toward the police officer, his heartbeat kicking up. He’d leave Lizbeth and the boy out of this situation. She had enough on her plate. Going by the shake of her head earlier, she wouldn’t want to talk to the police right now anyway, not when her father could return at any moment. Could she have thought Benuel was at fault for the accident? If she did, she was mistaken. He knew he was to blame and would make sure the police knew it, too.
Chapter Three (#ub71b6fb5-cd3e-5bb6-b1c2-0f60eca74147)
The next morning, Ulla Schwarts glanced at the quilt top Lizbeth had been working on since sunrise, and smiled. “You’ve only been home a day and that top is almost finished.” Bent at the waist, she swished a sudsy dishcloth across the big wooden farm table, reaching for and finding a spot of dried plum jelly that needed scrubbing. “You sew pretty fast.”
“Ya, it came together quickly,” Lizbeth agreed, looking up from her breakfast, over to her father and then his wife of one month. She smiled as the gray-haired woman wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, and then went back to cleaning the big wooden table positioned in the middle of her mamm’s well-loved kitchen.
Lizbeth already liked the spirited older Amish woman and found merit in her humor and work ethic. It would take some time to adjust to seeing another woman in her mother’s haus, caring for her daed, even though years had passed since her mamm’s sudden passing.
“It’s time I go check on the chickens,” her father stated, then wiped egg off his mouth. His chair scraped the floor as he rose. He lightly kissed Lizbeth on the forehead. “I’m so glad you’re back,” he said for the hundredth time that morning.
Lizbeth smiled, joy warming her heart. “Me, too, Daed.”
“You have any plans for today?” he asked.
“Nothing important,” Lizbeth muttered, and grinned. She’d had a hard morning with Benuel and didn’t have much energy left in her.
“I’m off then.” John kissed his wife’s cheek and whispered something in her ear that had her giggling as she swatted him out the back door with her dishcloth.
Still smiling, Ulla commented to Lizbeth, “There’s a sewing circle that meets at the civic hall on Tuesday mornings if you have a mind to go.” Ulla shoved a stubby water glass into the sea of dishwater and swished a cloth around in it.
Lizbeth gathered up her plate, coffee cup and the remains of her half-eaten bacon and eggs destined for the chickens’ scrap bowl. “Does Berta King still go?”
Ulla shook her head and moved to clean the stove. “Not since the cancer took hold.”
Lizbeth paused, her hand going to her heart. “I didn’t know.” The spry little woman had taught her to quilt and had been her mother’s best friend and confidante for more years than she could remember. Berta had been there to wave her off when she’d quickly married and left Pinecraft five years before.
“Nee, you wouldn’t, would you? Living so far away. I only see her when I take meals over on Tuesday and Friday nights. She looks bad. So thin and frail. Abram’s not looking so good himself, poor man. Someone told me their daughter from Ohio is coming on the bus. She’ll help out until her mamm passes, and then take her daed home with her.”
“It’s never gut to be alone.” Lizbeth adjusted the work scarf on her head and then plunged her hands into the sink of hot soapy water. The water burned a small scrape caused by her fall in the street the day before.
She began scrubbing dried egg yolk off her plate. She had to find a way to make Benuel understand that roads were dangerous. Living in a busy tourist town held hazards he didn’t understand at such a young age. It would take time and patience to guide him.
Perhaps she clung to him too tightly now that she had him all to herself. Benuel had always been easily distracted, but he had grown more willful of late, even cruel at times. She remembered the kick he’d given her under the booth the day before and sighed deeply. He needed a man’s firm hand, but the thought of marrying again sent her pulse racing wild with fear. Not that any man in his right mind would want her as his fraa once he found out she was emotionally damaged.
And the last time she had married for her child’s sake hadn’t gone so well. What would she do if anyone discovered the truth about Benuel? It would ruin both of them.
There had to be another way to help him grow into a strong man without a father in his life. Perhaps settling down near her daed and the kind people of Pinecraft would bring about the stability he needed, as her father had suggested. At least she prayed that it would.
Ulla plugged in a portable electric fan and positioned it on the long wooden counter nearest her. “You’ll need this if you’re going to wash those breakfast dishes. The humidity is high. We must be expecting a storm.”
“Danki,” Lizbeth muttered and plunged in another yolk-covered plate.
Ulla hummed as she shuffled across the room, a stack of folded towels in her arms.
A glance out the kitchen window revealed threatening gray clouds. A gust of wind twisted two small palm trees to the ground.
The old German clock in the living room ticked away the remaining minutes of the morning. She rinsed her hands and rehung the dish towel on its wooden peg next to the window and then pressed her hands into the small of her back. A long, busy day stretched out in front of her and she had no energy left.
She had to talk to Benuel about his behavior at the breakfast table, and was dreading it. He’d poured milk on Ulla’s clean tablecloth. He’d done it on purpose, even though her father claimed it had been an accident. All she seemed to do was scold the child, when all she wanted was to pull him onto her lap and hold him until his anger went away.
“So, you have nothing planned for your day?” Ulla came back into the room with a load of sheets ready to be washed. Her tone and smile were friendly and inviting, unlike the daily dramatic scenes that played out back in Ohio with her mother-in-law. She could never please the woman, no matter how hard she tried. And she had tried.
Lizbeth took in a deep, cleansing breath, her memories of Ohio pushed to the darkest recesses of her mind once more. She smiled. “I’ve got the usual. Keeping Benuel entertained and getting that quilt top finished after I make our beds.”
Ulla paused under the kitchen’s arched door. She braced a wicker basket, fluffy with unfolded sheets, against her stomach. “We have church service tomorrow. I make it a practice to help with the cooking of the communal meal. You can join me if you like. It would give you a chance to get reacquainted with some of the ladies of the community.”
Preparing the communal meal had been one of Lizbeth’s mother’s favorite chores. Being one of the volunteer church cooks was something Lizbeth could embrace now that she was back, not that she was a very good cook. Going along with Ulla would give Benuel a chance to play with children his own age. But doubt stalled her. “I don’t know. He’s such a handful today.”
“Ach, don’t let his acting up stop you from doing a good deed. You haven’t met Beatrice, my oldest kinskind yet.” Ulla laughed, her smile animating her wrinkled face with a glow. “Now that child is a certain-sure handful. She and her sister Mercy will be there.” The woman’s tone became serious. “Benuel needs the company of other kinner, Lizbeth.”
Lizbeth’s face flushed. He needed so much more than she seemed able to give him, but she would learn. “Ya, maybe I will come after all.”
“Gut. I’ll get this load of sheets folded and then we’ll make a list for our trip to the store. I thought I’d make chicken and dumplings and a peanut butter shoofly pie. Is there anything special you’d like to make?”
Benuel had smashed his fist into the center of the last cake she’d baked, sending chunks of chocolate cake all over her mother-in-law’s kitchen floor. “Maybe I’ll make chocolate cupcakes for the kinner. Chocolate is Benuel’s favorite.”
Ulla laughed. “Beatrice and I have an understanding when it comes to cupcakes of any flavor. She behaves and does what I tell her, or I get to eat hers. You might try that on Benuel. Missing a few cupcakes might bring about a bit of good behavior from the boy.”
Lizbeth found herself smiling. “Ya, I might try that. Danki.” Her smile grew. “You’ve been so kind to us since we arrived, Ulla. I want to thank you for opening your home, taking us in.”
“Nonsense. This is your home, too. John and I are happy you moved back to Pinecraft, sudden or not.” Ulla set the basket on the floor. “Having you here has been a blessing. But what’s this John tells me about you already looking for a home of your own?”
“Ya, I am looking, not that you both haven’t made us feel so very willkumm. It’s just that Benuel needs to settle into a routine before school begins.” Still so unsure of her parenting skills, she wasn’t positive she would be putting him in school. She had to decide soon, but not today.
Ulla grinned as she flipped out a square tablecloth and shoved it into the washer. “I own an empty house that’s up for sale and begging for a family to bring it back to life. It’s simple and Amisch Plain, but not too far from here and close to the Christian school. If the local man who asked about it doesn’t buy it, you’re welcome to rent it until you marry again. We have a busy weekend, but John can show it to you on Monday.”
“That would be wunderbaar. A simple house would be an answer to prayer,” Lizbeth said, ignoring Ulla’s comment about a new marriage. She had no intention of marrying again. It would be just her and Benuel from now on.
Surely the money she had squirreled away would be enough to make rent payments until she could find a part-time job and someone safe to leave Benuel with. Maybe there would be enough left over for a few pieces of secondhand furniture. When they had left Ohio, she had taken nothing but their clothes and a few of Benuel’s favorite toys. She pushed away her reasons for leaving the farm, unwilling to bring back the harsh memories that haunted her unguarded sleep each night.
Gott’s will be done. He had brought them back to Pinecraft, to the Plain people she’d grown up with, and she was grateful to be home.
* * *
At noon on Monday, Fredrik leaned his old bike against an orange tree and turned on his heel, ready to begin his search for a wife in the crowd of Amish women standing around, chatting.
After seeing Lizbeth Mullet wearing a pretty blue dress at church the day before, and hearing two pastors preach on the joys of married life, he’d lost sleep that night, tossing and turning, but managed to make a firm decision. It was time to forget Bette, who had accepted his proposal and then run off and wed his best friend in Lancaster County, where Fredrik was completing his apprenticeship. He would buy Ulla’s house and settle down. It shouldn’t be too hard to find someone to marry him. Perhaps Lizbeth Mullet would consider him and if not her, someone else just as comely. Whoever he chose, though, would have to understand that theirs would be only a friendly partnership. An attempt at showing the community—and himself—that he could grow and become responsible. He’d never give another woman his heart after the way Bette had stomped on it.
The woman he married would have to be patient, accept him as he was. He wasn’t exactly sure how much he could change his youthful ways, but almost killing a child had affected him deeply. It was past time he stopped behaving like a youngie and got on with his life.
He ambled across the dry park grass, over to the food tables and joined his boss, Mose. The square-shouldered Amish man greeted him with a nod of his head and then filled one side of his sturdy paper plate with fried chicken. He inched his way forward, toward a bowl of hot potato salad decorated with perfect slices of boiled eggs and olives.
“You’re late. You almost missed out on my Sarah’s specialty,” Mose said, adding an extra helping of the creamy potatoes to his too-full plate. “It’s almost gone.”
“I see that,” Fredrik smiled and took the last of the potato salad with a half-moon of boiled egg buried on top.
“You oversleep?”
Fredrik cleared his throat before speaking. “No, I had to pay a traffic ticket. No insurance.”
Glancing back, Mose said, “Is this one of your yarns?”
Fredrik glanced up. “Nee, I’m not joking.”
“Then what do you mean? The police don’t give tickets for bike riding.”
Fredrik lumbered close behind Mose, both men still circling around the table laden with food. “I wasn’t exactly riding a bike.” He reached across the table for three meaty ribs shining with barbecue sauce. He added a forkful of pickles as an afterthought and then speared a meaty chicken leg covered in crispy fried batter.
Together they headed for the drinks table, and stood in a line with community leaders and hardworking Plain men waiting for a cold glass of sweet tea. The big oak tree draped with moss spared them the bright overhead sun.
Fredrik had hoped to speak privately with Mose, but the park grounds were already packed with people supporting the lunch that would bring in enough money to pay for the new roof on the church.
Fredrik frowned, not liking the idea of someone from the congregation overhearing what a fool he’d been. In Pinecraft, simple situations were known to grow into full-blown gossip sessions, innocent words passed on from family to family until the truth could barely be recognized.
Balancing his tall glass of tea and a few napkins against his chest, Fredrik followed close behind Mose.
“What were you riding, a golf cart?”
“No, a scooter.” He waited for the critical remark he knew was coming. Acting as his mentor and older brother, Mose had warned him about leaning too close to Englischer ways, but Fredrik had prayed about buying the scooter and Gott had remained silent. Fredrik had taken His silence as approval, and he’d been wrong.
“Were you speeding?” Mose’s brow arched as he placed his glass of tea on a cloth-covered picnic table and slid his plate in front of it.
Fredrik joined him at the table and smiled at Sarah, Mose’s fraa, as she kissed her husband fondly on the forehead, then hurried off, pushing a twin stroller of chubby kinner. A curly-haired toddler followed her, tugging at the back of her skirt. “Sarah’s looking well rested. The twins must be sleeping through the night at last.”
The big blond-haired man wasn’t smiling. “Don’t change the subject. You’ll have to tell me sometime. Are you hiding a secret about this scooter you borrowed?”
“I didn’t borrow the scooter. It’s mine. I picked it up the other day. That’s why I was late to work.” Fredrik took a gulp of tea and sat the sweating glass back on the table.
“Ya, well. You said you were buying one with your savings, but didn’t you know you’d need insurance for the thing?”
Fredrik nodded. “I did know, but I got ticketed before I could get the insurance.” He paused to pray silently over his food and then shoveled in a mouthful of potato salad and chewed as he thought back to the day of the accident. An image of the pretty widow came back to haunt him. If only he could get her and her son off his mind. He pictured them round-eyed with worried looks. Were they still traumatized by his stupidity? He hoped not.
“Well, it makes me to wonder if you should have prayed more about this magnificent piece of machinery of yours,” Mose said after he’d prayed. “Perhaps Gott isn’t pleased with your purchase and is letting you tie a rope around your neck.” Mose flashed a sardonic smile that showed a piece of mustard green stuck to the front of his tooth. The man bent forward and went back to attacking his food.
“Ya, you might be right.” Fredrik nodded. “Nothing gut has come from the purchase.” The other side of their picnic table was still empty. Now was as good a time as any to speak to Mose. He blurted out the lines he had practiced. “You think there’s any chance I could get a church loan for a down payment on Ulla’s house?”
Mose laid down his fork. “Ya, sure. We have money set aside for such as this. Ulla’s house would make a fine house for a young man like yourself. There’s plenty of room for a fraa and kinner.” He smiled, probably expecting his words to unsettle the unmarried man. “I’m sure she’ll sell it to you. She has no use for it now. Let’s walk over by the river and talk for a moment.”
Throwing his paper plate into the trash for the flies to buzz around, Fredrik ambled alongside Mose, his mind racing.
Houses in Pinecraft seldom came up for sale since they were usually passed on from family member to family member. When they were put on the market, they were too dear for most young people. Perhaps Mose could convince Ulla to sell the house to him at a reasonable price.
“So, you’re finally ready to marry,” Mose said, stopping to sit at an old picnic table close to the river.
Fredrik followed his lead and sat. “Ya.” He’d never experienced being tongue-tied in his life, but it seemed he couldn’t get his words to untangle on his tongue to form a complete sentence. “I...” he said and hiccupped from a nervous stomach. He groaned silently and then plunged on, forcing the words out. “Before we talk about the loan, I need to tell you I had an accident on the scooter the first day it was mine.” There! The words were out.
“My daed used to talk to me about his bruder, Thomas. Seems all his life my onkel liked all things fast. The Englisch ways appealed to him more than Gott and the church.” Mose waved at his small blond son running past on short, dimpled knees.
Fredrik watched clusters of Amish and Mennonite people eating their meal. A cooling breeze blew across the park. Tablecloth edges flapped in the breeze like white sails at sea. A gull’s sharp cry rang out overhead, perhaps predicting doom and gloom for Fredrik’s project.
He got a quick glimpse of Lizbeth Mullet and Benuel sitting with a crowd of women one table over. Today she was smiling and talking to her son in an animated way, the wind blowing lengths of her fine blond hair around the simple neckline of her yellow dress. Regret tightened his stomach once again.
“Church and Gott mean a lot to me. More than that scooter,” Fredrik said, and swallowed hard. “I’ll be thirty soon. It’s time I settle down and get married.”
“Have you found anyone suitable?”
“I’ve made a list of available women in the area.” He laughed and glanced back at Lizbeth, wishing she was someone he could mention as a prospective fraa. “Ulla’s sister is a matchmaker, and coming for a visit soon. If I can’t decide on someone, I hope she’ll help me find a woman from the surrounding communities while she’s here.”
“Have you considered Lizbeth Mullet? She’s widowed now and could use a husband to help raise her soh.”
Fredrik wanted to admit he was considering her, but he had a feeling she’d never agree to stepping out with him. She just thought of him as her big brother’s annoying friend. “Not really, but I will add her name to my list. Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” he said with a smile. “Who knows? Gott might speak to her about me.” A home and wife was what he needed, but could he find the right bride without allowing his heart to be broken again? He hoped so.
Chapter Four (#ub71b6fb5-cd3e-5bb6-b1c2-0f60eca74147)
Later that afternoon, Lizbeth hoisted the heavy green garbage bag out of the industrial-size plastic container and hastily placed it on the church’s tiled kitchen floor. It was heavier than she’d anticipated, and made bulky by several plastic milk jugs she’d added to the jumble after making chocolate pudding. She tied the bag off, and with a grunt of determination, gathered her strength, lifted the burden and wrestled it to the back door.
Twisting, she turned the knob and hip bumped the sticking door open. Sunlight and a cool breeze poured into the sweltering kitchen.
Five narrow steps and a four-foot drop greeted her. Great! Just what I need. More obstacles in my path.
She glanced around and found a row of enormous black trash cans lined along the church. They were at least six feet away.
Six feet or six inches, she was going to get the trash into one of those cans if it took her the rest of the afternoon. Stubbornness fed her resolve. I can do this.
Positioned on the second step, her back to the yard, she heaved the plastic bag up and then dropped it on the top stair.
“You need help with that?” a masculine voice asked from somewhere behind her. She recognized it was Fredrik.
“Nee, but danki.” She shot a glance over her shoulder. Fredrik was bareheaded and wiping sweat from his brow with a colorful bandana.
“You sure?”
Doubt rang in his words and spurred her on. As a girl she’d had no defenses against his teasing, but infatuation didn’t rob her of her voice now. “Ya, I’m sure. Go about your business, Fredrik. I can manage.” Somewhere in her mind she knew she probably should accept the man’s offer of help, but she shut out the voice of reason. She’d been controlled too many years, her choices taken away from her. This was her project. She had something to prove to herself. She’d get the bag of trash into one of the cans if it was the last thing she did.
With another grunt, she stepped down, lifted the oversize green bag and repositioned it on the second step. She heard Fredrik’s muffled snicker and tensed. Her shoulders came back and her backbone went rigid. With trembling fingers, she straightened her work scarf, took a deep breath and prepared for the next step. She might not be as strong as the muscular man standing behind her, but she had determination that would carry her through to the end.
She grabbed hold of the bag, stepped down, her foot finding the edge of the narrow step.
Her stomach tightened into a knot as she swayed, fought to regain her balance and repositioned her foot. With another grunt, she jerked the bag up. It caught on the edge of the step and puckered. She tugged carefully. The slit formed and then grew. The bottom of the bag gave way with a rush.
There was no time to jerk her feet away. Trash covered her legs and the toes of her black shoes with a goopy mixture of tomato sauce and coffee grinds. Potato peels and an assortment of empty plastic containers fell through the stairs onto the dirt.
Lizbeth glared down between the stair’s wooden slats to the growing heap of trash. Her mamm’s gentle words of reprimand echoed through her mind. Pride is a sin, child. It will only bring you misery.
“Here, let me help you with that.” Fredrik came into view.
She noticed the ends of his ginger hair curled attractively around his light blue shirt collar. He was covered in sawdust and small wood chips. A smudge of roof tar told her he’d been working with the roofing crew she and the other ladies cooked for.
He reached for the bag, his hand covering the gash at the bottom as he eased it away from her.
She released her hold, not wanting his touch, and watched the muscles in his forearm bulge as he raised her burden as if it were weightless. She slipped him the fresh bag she had tucked in her apron pocket and watched as he lifted the trash can lid and chucked the bag in, wiping his hands down the front legs of his pants as he gave her a satisfied grin.
She stamped her feet against the wooden step, dislodging most of the coffee grounds from her shoe, but red sauce splotched her legs.
Heat suffused her face as she looked up and noticed the last of the kitchen staff standing in the open doorway, all smiles and giggles, watching her exchange with Fredrik with great interest.
Lizbeth cringed. Every time she turned around she was causing herself some kind of embarrassment, and somehow Fredrik always managed to be involved. “Danki. I appreciate your help, but I can clean the rest myself,” she assured him.
One of the ladies tossed him a new trash bag. He squatted and began to work on the pile of trash under the steps. “This is my fault,” he said, glancing up and grinning at her in the goofy way he had when he was a boy. The memory made her heart skip a beat.
“But I made the mess.” She picked up a half-eaten apple off the step and tossed it into the bag.
Fredrik’s grin spread into a full-blown smile. “Ya, but I was supposed to fix that raised nail this morning before it could cause someone trouble.”
The past fell away and she was a girl of seventeen again, looking into the sparkling blue eyes of the young Fredrik Lapp. He continued to hold her gaze. She pulled her eyes away. The man was having too much fun at her expense. She didn’t have a clue what to do about it or the ripple of emotions churning in her stomach. But she knew she couldn’t let herself grow too close to him. Not this time. Too much was at stake.
* * *
An hour later Fredrik and six other men sat at the square table in the corner of the kitchen. Lizbeth refilled each man’s glass with cold milk, accepted their thanks and then busied herself with the last of the pots and pans.
She listened to the deep hum of their conversation, not to eavesdrop, but to enjoy the sound of men talking in a friendly manner. She’d spent too much time alone on the farm in Ohio. And the only conversations she’d heard when her husband and his family were around had been harsh and ugly. She’d used the time to gather her thoughts and make life-changing decisions. Jonah’s sudden death allowed her to act on her choices.
Memories of Jonah filled her mind. Lean, with plain, unremarkable features, he had been the only man she’d stepped out with after Fredrik had left Pinecraft without a word of goodbye. Always kind and gentle, Jonah’s love for her had been evident in the way he’d talked to her and showed her respect at the start. And he’d been one of the few who knew the truth, knew of her sin. She’d thought he’d be willing to treat Benuel as his own son. But she’d been wrong. About everything.
In Ohio, where his family farmed, she’d found herself embedded in a hostile community of rigid Old Order Amish rules. The people lived bitter lives. The painful memories of Benuel’s birth followed quickly by news of her mother’s sudden death had put a fresh sting of unshed tears in her eyes.
After his birth, Benuel was taken from her and given to Jonah’s mother, who’d just lost her youngest boy in a farming accident. Jonah had longed for sons of his own, children who would work the family farm with him in his later years.
And when Lizbeth got pregnant again, she’d thought he’d get his wish. But the babies died a few moments after their birth, born too early to survive. Jonah grew impatient with her as the years passed. She could still feel the sting of his words after their deaths. Where are my sohs? You carry them in your stomach, but they die, gasping for air. What have I done to earn this punishment? You have brought sin into my home. Their deaths are your fault.
Deep inside, she knew Jonah was at fault for the loss of her twin sons. When he drank, his physical abuse had cost her much too much.
Lizbeth shoved a chocolate chip cookie loaded with walnuts into her mouth, eating out of taut nerves and not pleasure. She had to remind herself Jonah would never hurt her or Benuel again.
She submerged an oversize saucepan into the hot dishwater and began to scrub. Once again she relived the sound of the accident that took her husband’s life. The terrible screech of tires, the scream of their horse.
Visions of the overturned buggy, the Englischers’ car mangled and burning next to it. Her breath grew ragged. The terrible sights and sounds of that night were seared deeply into her memory. Jonah had been badly burned, his chest crushed by the weight of their dead horse. She could still see the sterile white hospital room where he later died, his suffering finally over. She’d disappointed him in every way imaginable.
The police later confirmed her suspicions. Her husband had been driving drunk the night of the accident, and their old mare, Rosie, was out of control and running wild when the Englischers’ car hit the buggy.
She’d been too ashamed to admit she knew he had taken to drink to dull the pain of his lost sons. Jonah had lashed out at her earlier that dreadful night at the supper table. He’d screamed at her, told her she was useless. But she knew it had been the drink talking and she had forgiven him everything he’d said. Who could blame a man whose fraa could not give him more sons? Benuel had been a witness to the wreck, to her moments of insanity.
She glanced down at her trembling hands, at her little finger, once broken and now permanently twisted out of shape. A reminder of Jonah’s fits of rage when her tiny boys were laid to rest in the cold ground. Dark memories surrounded her like a heavy shawl. She pushed the memories away and went back to work, her thoughts on Benuel. He mattered now. No one else.
The final pan scrubbed and rinsed, she placed it on a dish towel and leaned against the stainless steel sink, her eyes closed, pushing away all the misery, the memories of her past life with Jonah.
Her son had paid the highest price of all. He had no daed to follow around, no man to emulate, to show him how to grow strong. And it was her fault. She knew she had to do something. He needed a father, but she didn’t want another husband, someone she would disappoint. No Amish man in his right mind would want a traumatized woman with the built-in ability to fail. Gott’s will be done in Benuel’s life.
The scrape of a chair behind her caused her to turn. Fredrik moved toward the commercial-size refrigerator, his empty glass in hand. The other server had left the room moments before, leaving her alone with the last shift of workers. She jerked a square of paper towel from the roll and dried her hands. “Can I get you something?”
He stopped, turned toward her with a warm smile. “You’re busy. I can pour my own milk.”
“Would you like some ice in it?”
He quietly observed her. “Little Lizzy, I can’t believe you remember I like ice in my milk.”
“I’m the one who introduced you to it.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “And I’m not so little anymore. Neither one of us is, Freddie.”
“I still see your bruder as often as I can. I’m sure he still thinks of you as little.”
Lizbeth found herself smiling at the mention of her older brother. “Ya. His two boys look just like him, ain’t so?”
Fredrik nodded. “Remember those childish fights we used to get into? You were always such a pesky kid, hanging around, bothering us. Back then, Saul and I were convinced you were only born to annoy us.”
He laughed again and Lizbeth felt her face and neck flush pink with warmth. When she was little, both boys had made it clear they didn’t want her tagging along. Her young life had been full of merciless teasing. “Mamm made Saul take me along. I didn’t want to go.” Her mother’s image impressed itself on her mind. The beloved woman had been tall and always too lean. She’d worn simple dresses of cotton made by her own hands. Lizbeth could almost hear her mamm’s words floating in the air around her. Ya, Saul. You will take Lizbeth with you, or you won’t go yourself.
She gently edged her memories of her mother away, along with the pain of her loss. “Mamm always wanted me out from under her feet so she could clean or quilt with the ladies.” She wiped at the side of the big fridge and opened the door, her thoughts back to her youth as she wiped down the rack where milk had been spilled. Her childhood feelings for the man standing next to her flushed her face warm again. She felt eleven years old again, longing for Fredrik to take notice of her. Embarrassment had her chatting again. “You boys teased me terrible when you took me fishing. You threatened to use me as bait.”
“Ya, because you didn’t know how to shut up.” He softened his words with a lopsided grin. “You were so skinny back then. I was always afraid you’d fall in the river and we’d have to fish you out.”
She stood tall, almost eye to eye with him. With a mind of its own, her finger poked at his broad chest. “Ya, well. I never fell in and you didn’t have to save me once.” She snickered. This was one of the few times her above-average height served her well.
“Nee.” He stepped back and removed his hand from her arm. “I never did have to save you, but you ran off lots of fish.”
She took the glass from his hand, splashed in frothy milk from a cold metal pitcher and then dropped two ice cubes into the milky swirl. “Two enough?” she asked, looking up at him.
He had a strange expression on his face and was smiling like someone who had just been given a special Christmas gift. “Ya. Sure. Two is perfect,” he said and turned away with the glass of milk in hand, but not before winking at her with one bright blue eye lined with rusty brown lashes.
She turned on her heel and left the room, but not before turning back and giving the man one last look. He sat down at the kitchen table circled with men and went back to eating like nothing had happened.
She hurried away from the kitchen, leaving the men to fend for themselves. She’d left Benuel alone with the other children a long time. It was best she checked up on him and made sure he was behaving himself. Left to his own devices, there was no telling what he’d get up to.
She forced her thoughts to Benuel and off Fredrik. What foolishness. The man had never been drawn to her.
Chapter Five (#ub71b6fb5-cd3e-5bb6-b1c2-0f60eca74147)
Lizbeth leaned her borrowed bike next to her father’s big-seated tricycle and followed him up the steps of the porch. She was encouraged the two of them had finally found spare time to look at the empty house together.
The street was quiet, the homes well kept. The front lawn was neatly cut and edged. Made of white clapboard, with a brown tiled roof, Ulla’s house looked exactly like every other home in the small Amish community. Plain and nondescript as it had been described to her. The dwelling had a big wraparound porch, graced by two oversize cushioned rockers. They made the home more inviting, an added bonus she hadn’t expected but was thrilled to see.
Her foot on the last step, she glanced back at the neighborhood, trying to take it all in at once. She turned back to the white house and admired the tidy beds of fragrant pink rosebushes nestled along each side of the porch. The wood fence surrounding the backyard had a pleasant gray patina and looked strong enough to hold her son behind its sturdy walls.
She smiled as she went up the steps, picturing Benuel climbing trees and running around in the privacy of his own yard, where he’d be safe from the dangers of the road. This house would suit them to perfection if the inside was as nice as the outside.
Her daed turned the key and stepped back so Lizbeth could precede him. “Ya, well. Like I told you. There’s a few repairs to be done. The roof needs a shingle or two, but all that will be fixed before you move in.”
The entry hall was clean and spacious, the hardwood floors shining from a fresh coat of beeswax. He led the way to the great room filled with comfortable-looking furniture. Solid navy drapes were pulled back at each side of the big windows. “You’ll get the morning sun in here.”
“Gut,” Lizbeth said, hoping to find a brick fireplace and then realizing she wouldn’t need one in Florida. There’d be no more snow or icy roads to contend with. No more shivering in buggies, carting wood and milking cows. She smiled and continued to follow her father.
Across the entry hall he led her into a big square kitchen. The walls were lined with wooden cabinets painted a glossy white. A large Englischer stove and refrigerator sat across from each other. The sunny kitchen window, framed with pale blue checkered curtains, crowned the deep country sink in front of her.
“Ulla kept a small table and chairs placed by the door, but her daughter wanted them since her daed had made them. I’m sure you can get a set for a fair price at one of the auctions coming up.”
Lizbeth imagined a round table with four chairs in the empty floor space and grinned. “Perhaps I can get Mose Fischer to make me one.”
“Ya, he could make it fit perfectly in here. He’s known for the quality of his work.” Her father ran his hand down the length of the kitchen’s work-top counter and smiled. “I’m sure Ulla and her daughters had many good times here, baking and making memories.”
“Perhaps renting the house to me isn’t a good idea. It could be difficult for her.”
“Ya, well, not that hard. She said she took her memories with her when we married. She seemed happy to move in to my home. This phase of her life is over. Her new life has begun, just like yours will when you marry again. Now, let’s go look at the bedrooms at the back and see if you think Benuel would be happy in one of them.”
“Will she be leaving all the furniture?” Lizbeth ignored her father’s comment about her getting married again and ambled toward a beautiful hall table made of oak wood and polished to a high shine. A real beauty. She held her breath as she waited for an answer.
“That’s up to the renter.” Her daed chuckled. “Houses are hard to come by in Pinecraft and most renters want their homes to be furnished, especially if they’re snowbirds from up north and only staying a short while each year.”
“If I decide to rent the house, I’d want the furniture to remain,” Lizbeth assured him and then hurried into the first bedroom off the hall, her excitement building as she examined the good-size room with a double bed and wooden dresser that matched. “I left the farmhouse in Ohio as is and walked away with nothing but our clothes.” She could have said more, but didn’t. She hadn’t told anyone about her life in Ohio. Why share the misery? Speaking out would change nothing in her past and erase none of the damage done to her soul. Her one regret was walking away from the graveyard that held the bodies of her babies.
She would always grieve the two tiny souls. She’d asked Gott to protect them from Jonah’s bruising blows. But Gott chose a different path for them. Both had died in her arms. It had been Gott’s will, but she would never understand. She’d left a part of her heart there in that cold Ohio soil. She would never forget her boys.
* * *
Fredrik moved fast through the spacious apartment behind the house on Ulla’s property—his property—noting the discolored walls begged for a lick of paint. He frowned as he walked into the kitchen and viewed the table. Once sturdy, it now made do on three legs and threatened to fall. It would have to be thrown out and a new one built. Someday he would be building furniture for his home, maybe even a cradle for his firstborn son.
He rubbed his hands together as he visualized the new eating area. He would build the replacement table a bit bigger than this tiny one.
He opened a door at the back of the kitchen. Narrow shelves lined the shallow pantry walls, ready for jars of homemade jams and spices.
He turned on his heel and looked back into the kitchen. He could picture someone in the galley-shaped work space, cooking their simple meals. He took in a long, satisfying breath of air. Whiffs of gasoline and machine oil wiped the smile off his face. To keep its musky smell from seeping into the apartment, he’d need to seal the walls of the storage shed built against the outer partition of the room.
He glanced out the window to the big white house down the driveway. His spirits rose. He had finally found the home he had been looking for. Ulla’s house was certain-sure good enough to bring a fraa home to, and he’d been surprised when she’d lowered the price down to a manageable amount for him this morning. He’d start to search for his bride from amongst the church ladies. He’d missed a lot of church services the past three months, his mind busy with work and not on spiritual growth.
He was a little hesitant when conjuring up faces of the eligible women he knew. What if he decided on someone and they turned him down? Without a doubt, he knew Lizbeth Mullet would reject him.
The color of Lizbeth’s hair caught his attention, drawing him away from his thoughts. He couldn’t settle on her just yet. He would have to grow spiritually, find a way to make himself the kind of man she’d want for a husband, and then see.
Thoughts of marriage were on his mind all the time, filling every moment of the day now that he’d made his decision to wed.
For years the idea of courtship with anyone set alarm bells ringing. Unrequited love had sent him running back to Pinecraft and the comfort of a small, lonely apartment in Sarasota. He’d finally healed, but he hadn’t been ready for this step of faith. Until now.
He didn’t know what had changed, but something was building in him, an excitement, some emotion he didn’t completely understand. Perhaps it came because of the loneliness he endured, or the way his body ached when he worked extrahard for nothing more than his own benefit. Both were reminders that he wasn’t a boy anymore. At twenty-nine he wasn’t exactly long in the tooth, but time was passing and he wanted to find someone to share his life with. Maybe even start a family now that he had a family home to raise kinner in.
He heard voices and made his way to the open apartment door. Chicken John stood on the side steps of the house Fredrik had just purchased, his back to him, talking to someone inside.
“There’s a work shed outside, not that you’ll need one. But the backyard is perfect for Benuel.” Chicken John stepped down onto the driveway.
From inside the house a feminine voice called out, “Gut. I’ll be right out.”
Fredrik walked into the bright sunshine, leaving the apartment door ajar.
Chicken John placed a hand against his brow, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight. A smile of welcome lifted the corners of his mouth. “You scared the life out of me, Fredrik. I thought we were the only ones on the property. Weren’t you supposed to come by yesterday?”
Fredrik returned his smile. “I was, but I got busy at work and ran out of daylight. I hope you don’t mind me coming by today.”
“Nee. Today is gut. You know you’re always welcome, but I think you might have left it a bit too late if you were interested in buying this house.” He leaned toward Fredrik and whispered, “Lizbeth needs a rental house. If she likes what she sees she’ll snatch this place away from you.”
Nerves gripped his stomach. He’d have to be the one to break the news about the sale of the house to Lizbeth and her father. He hated the idea of slipping the house from her grasp, but he needed it as much as she did. She could always stay at her father’s if she didn’t find a place to rent. His need was more urgent. He wanted to marry. If he could talk Lizbeth into courting him, she would have this house as her own, and he’d have a wife he might eventually learn to love. If he could find a way to trust her with his heart.
The screen door squealed for oil as Lizbeth appeared and stepped onto the porch. She turned in his direction, her brow furrowing from the bright noontime sun. She wore the same navy dress and shoes she’d worn to church on Sunday. Again today her expression was relaxed and friendly.
“Fredrik,” she said and nodded.
He tipped his straw hat in her direction and grinned back, noticing her smile reached her warm blue eyes. “Lizbeth.”
“You two have made friends?” Chicken John said, his tone inquisitive.
Fredrik spoke first. “A long time ago—”
“Ya, well. Remember, Benuel and I just happened to meet Fredrik at the café and became friends,” Lizbeth interjected, cutting off his words. Something in her gaze told Fredrik she still didn’t want her daed to remember they knew each other as children. “And speaking of Benuel, we really should be on our way. Ulla offered to watch him for a few hours. Not the whole day.”
“Ya, you’re right. We’ve taken too long,” her father agreed. He reached around, locked the doorknob from the inside and then shut the side door behind him. “Good seeing you, Fredrik. I’ll call you about the house repairs later today.”
“Ya. Later today is perfect. I’ll be at the shop. It’s gut seeing you again, Lizbeth. Tell Benuel I said hello.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I’ll tell him. You have a pleasant night,” she said and hurried away, the sun reflecting strands of gold in her hair.
His heart racing at the sight of her, Fredrik pushed his straw hat down on his head and followed behind them as they crunched down the pea gravel driveway. He was ashamed he hadn’t found the nerve to tell Lizbeth he’d bought the house she wanted as her own, but his dreams of working in the leaning shed blossomed. Became bigger than life.
He observed Lizbeth as she gathered up the skirt of her plain blue cotton dress and climbed onto her bike. He liked the way she held her head high, as if nothing could touch her.
Both turned and waved as they pedaled off. He wondered about the widow wearing a different colored dress now. Did that mean she was over her time of mourning? When she’d arrived in Pinecraft she’d still dressed in black.
He knew grief could make a woman distant and unfriendly, but Lizbeth seemed friendlier now. Perhaps he’d done the right thing putting her name on his list of potential women to step out with. The fact she had a boy didn’t bother him one bit. It just made his odds better, since she might be looking for a prospective husband to help raise her son. And she might not expect a potential husband to immediately surrender his heart.
He looked back at the simple wood house and lifted his shoulders as he took in a long, contented breath. He or Ulla would tell John he’d bought the house. No doubt the man could find another house for Lizbeth, but until Fredrik found a suitable wife, he was in no hurry. The widow could rent from him and live in the house if she wanted. He didn’t mind sharing, but she’d have to move once he married. He truly believed Gott would help him find his bride soon.
Fredrik made his way back to the apartment door, his gaze wandering to the backyard shaded by a big oak draped full of hanging moss. Lizbeth’s son seemed full of energy. This yard would have been the perfect place for a boy like him to play. It still could be.
Pushing those thoughts aside, he opened the solid wooden apartment door he’d left ajar and stepped back inside, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light. The picture window at the side of the big room had a set of closed, wide wooden blinds that blotted out the daylight. He tugged on their dangling cord and stepped back as dust floated on the sunlight flooding the room. The walls had once been a bright white, but now looked yellow with age. Just as he’d thought, they would need to be washed down and painted.
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Cheryl Williford
An Amish Second ChanceNewly-widowed Lizbeth Mullet has a secret: she’s never told anyone the true identity of her son’s father. Not even now that she’s come home to Pinecraft and the man in question is her new landlord. Fredrik Lapp may not know Benuel is his son, but the two soon form an unmistakable bond. And seeing Fredrik again stirs feelings Lizbeth had worked hard to bury. With Fredrick’s affections resurfacing too, the burden of Lizbeth’s secret is only getting heavier. Revealing the truth could mean a lifetime of happiness together—or the loss of her second chance at forever.
An Amish Second Chance
Newly widowed Lizbeth Mullet has a secret: she’s never told anyone the true identity of her son’s father. Not even now that she’s come home to Pinecraft and the man in question is her new landlord. Fredrik Lapp may not know Benuel is his son, but the two soon form an unmistakable bond. And seeing Fredrik again stirs feelings Lizbeth had worked hard to bury. With Fredrick’s affections resurfacing, too, the burden of Lizbeth’s secret is only getting heavier. Revealing the truth could mean a lifetime of happiness together—or the loss of her second chance at forever.
“I appreciate your help, but I can clean the rest myself,” Lizbeth assured him.
One of the ladies tossed him a new trash bag. He squatted and began to work on the pile of trash under the steps. “This is my fault,” he said, glancing up and grinning at her in the goofy way he had when he was a boy. The memory made her heart skip a beat.
“But I made the mess.” She picked up a half-eaten apple off the step and tossed it into the bag.
Fredrik’s grin spread into a full-blown smile. “Ya, but I was supposed to fix that raised nail this morning before it could cause someone trouble.”
The past fell away and she was a girl of seventeen again, looking into the sparkling blue eyes of the young Fredrik Lapp. He continued to hold her gaze. She pulled her eyes away. The man was having too much fun at her expense. She didn’t have a clue what to do about it or the emotions churning in her stomach. But she knew she couldn’t let herself grow too close to him. Not this time. Too much was at stake.
CHERYL WILLIFORD and her veteran husband, Henry, live in South Texas, where they’ve raised three children, numerous foster children, alongside a menagerie of rescued cats, dogs and hamsters. Her love for writing began in a literature class, and now her characters keep her grabbing for paper and pen. She is a member of her local ACFW and CWA chapters, and is a seamstress, watercolorist and loving grandmother. Her website is cherylwilliford.com (http://cherylwilliford.com).
Her Secret Amish Child
Cheryl Williford
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Fear not, for I am with you; Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, Yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.
—Isaiah 41:10
I dedicate this book to my husband, Henry, who endures endless hours of backstory and plot. To my two daughters, Barbara and Susan. You make me want to succeed. And to God, who gave me writing when I needed a clear and untroubled path. God bless ACFW’s Golden Girls critique group. Nanci, Liz, Shannon and Jan…you dear, talented ladies make my job so much easier.
Contents
Cover (#u04cdfa81-3486-546b-b9b8-e1e780f375ab)
Back Cover Text (#u1e816952-6450-5049-bee8-fe068ff16a20)
Introduction (#u4469ca8c-95d0-50ff-8513-f6c64254938c)
About the Author (#u91ec66c2-6df1-538c-b8e7-92f71c8205c6)
Title Page (#u978779f7-beee-5d99-84b8-4396943d1951)
Bible Verse (#u1d1c39ea-87db-57ed-9e25-f1541637c3ee)
Dedication (#uda014057-a6c1-5eff-aad6-80f12a4a4597)
Chapter One (#u18fb51eb-c665-5938-8dab-6dfc6775c80f)
Chapter Two (#u50b9c45b-5535-59cf-b594-93c6a9341f3f)
Chapter Three (#ue2d4d2b7-a341-5726-b87a-3475184bc9aa)
chapter Four (#u438563d2-a581-5b94-ac70-c14ba5279b1e)
Chapter Five (#ud6bd2f01-b806-5160-8f64-d57934d06a0e)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ub71b6fb5-cd3e-5bb6-b1c2-0f60eca74147)
Pinecraft, Florida—a midsummer afternoon
Had she made yet another mistake?
“Don’t touch that seat again,” Lizbeth Mullet said, stretching across her son’s extended legs to wedge their carry-on bag in front of his small brown shoes, hoping to block his incessant movement.
Three times in the past hour Benuel had slapped or kicked at her when she’d scolded him. Each time she hadn’t known what to do, how to change the overactive four-year-old boy’s behavior. She knew what she wanted to do, what felt like the right thing to do, but her built-in insecurities held her back, forced her to doubt her abilities as a single parent. A torturous night without sleep and little to eat added to her misery.
“Pinecraft, Florida,” the bus driver announced. With the flick of his wrist he turned the bus’s steering wheel and headed off the highway to his designated stop.
Several people milled around the parking lot of the Pinecraft Tourist Church, waiting for loved ones to arrive. With her father running late, no one would be waiting for her and the boy. They’d left Ohio in secret, telling no one except her father they were leaving or where they were going. There would be no going back. Her late husband’s family could not hurt them now.
The Amish and Mennonite people scattered throughout the Pioneer Trails bus began to reach under seats for bags and wake up sleeping children.
Memories of the quaint little resort town she once called home beckoned. Pinecraft Park was on her right, and her father’s prosperous chicken farm a few miles down the road, on the outskirts of the small town of Sarasota. She had grown up in this community of Old and New Order Amish people. This is where she belonged. Gott willing, she would heal and regain her strength here, around the people who knew her best and loved her.
Scrambling to gather up their belongings while trying to keep Benuel from climbing over her legs and escaping, Lizbeth tucked his bag of toys under her arm and scooped up their satchel from the floor.
“I want my car,” he demanded, grabbing for the toy sack.
Standing, Lizbeth put out her hand and forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Not now, soh. When your Grossdaddi comes for us I’ll find it for you.”
“I’m thirsty.” Tall like her and lightly dotted with ginger freckles across his nose, he allowed her to take his hand after a moment of debate and shuffled by her side to the front of the bus. He touched each seat as he passed, counting aloud. “One, two, three.”
“That’s very good,” Lizbeth encouraged. Early on Benuel had showed signs of being slow with numbers and letters. Perhaps his developmental delay had been caused by the long, painful labor she’d endured, but she noticed he’d come out of his shell some since her husband Jonah’s death and was beginning to respond to her positive encouragement.
Taking the bus driver’s extended hand, Lizbeth stepped down into the sultry heat of the cloudless summer day. She had missed the smell of the sea.
Benuel hopped down each step. His eyes darted around, the enthusiasm in them making her grin. He’d spent too many hours on the farm and was seldom with children his age. Seeing only her husband’s family had left him shy and unsocial and sometimes angry, but today he looked different, ready to conquer the world.
“Do you have more bags on the bus, ma’am?”
Lizbeth nodded and let go of Benuel’s hand as she dug through her purse for the silver ticket she’d been given when she’d relinquished their larger suitcase back in Ohio. Blond hairs escaping from her crushed prayer kapp blew around her face. “Yes. A small one, but I’d like to pick it up a bit later when my daed arrives, if that’s all right. He warned me he’d be running late.”
“Sure. You hold on to that ticket and come get it inside the church when you’re ready.” He tipped his head. “Thanks for riding Pioneer Trails.”
She turned to make sure Benuel was at her side, found him gone and held back a groan. He was nowhere to be seen. Twisting back and forth, she searched the remaining cluster of people standing close by and then saw movement near a row of picturesque shops on her right. Her heart began to pound against her breastbone. It was Benuel, and he was running.
Forgetting to breathe, she chased after him, her black lace-up shoes slapping hard against the hot pavement. Fear pushed her forward. She had to catch him before he made it to the street and oncoming traffic. He had no fear of roads. His experience with the small-town streets of Iris, Ohio, could be counted on one hand. Someone had always been holding on to him, directing his path. But not now.
“Benuel James, stop!”
Startled by her shout, a swarm of shiny black grackles took flight and made their way to treetops across the street.
She quickly crossed the shop’s parking lot and pushed off the curb, fear building and twisting her stomach into knots. She couldn’t lose Benuel, too.
Her son rushed on, laughing, his reddish-blond hair blowing in the breeze, blissfully unaware of the danger he was in.
Crossing the road, Benuel’s body mere inches from her grasp, she glanced both ways as she sprinted close behind him.
Sunrays reflected off the silver scooter approaching. Her heart skipped a beat, uncertain she could reach Benuel before it was too late. She ignored the blast of the scooter’s horn and lunged forward, desperate to reach her son before the speeding scooter. Bent forward, she stumbled, but managed to grasp the back of Benuel’s shirt as she went down.
Dread grabbed her by the throat. Hot, sticky air filled her lungs as she gasped for breath.
Please, Gott, please. Don’t let us be hit. She pulled his squirming body close to hers and rolled.
The whirr of the scooter’s motor and the screeching of the tires braking caused Lizbeth’s body to tense. She held tight to her son and squeezed her eyes closed.
The raw sounds of scraping metal enveloped them and then stopped.
The fast-paced beat of her heart hammered in her ears, her chest, ticking off the seconds.
Close by, birds squawked high in the trees lining the road, and then all was silent.
What had happened?
Afraid to look, she slowly opened her eyes.
Heat shimmered off the deserted two-lane road where they lay. She scrambled up and searched her son’s body for injuries.
A startled expression widened Benuel’s sky blue eyes. She hugged him close and whispered, “You’re fine. Don’t be frightened, soh.” He seemed unharmed, with the exception of an insignificant graze on his left elbow, no doubt caused from being pulled down on the hot asphalt.
Her breath came fast. She had to force herself to calm down. The boy didn’t need to see her fear. He’d had enough trauma in his young life. He was her only living child and so precious to her. What if Gott had snatched him away, too? How would she have lived?
She placed him on his feet and watched for signs of pain, but saw none. Relieved, she crushed him to her and cooed as if he were a baby. “My sweet boy. Mamm loves you.”
“You’re hurting me,” Benuel squealed, the flat of his hands pushing her away.
Lizbeth sighed with relief. She was upset. Not her son. It had been an adventure to him. “I’m sorry, liebling. I didn’t mean to squish you.” She forced a smile, tried to look normal.
The midday sun beat down on them, penetrating her starched white kapp. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. The wrecked scooter had to be somewhere close by.
She grabbed Benuel’s wrist and urged him out of harm’s way, to the side of the road where a ragged palm tree’s fronds rustled in the breeze.
A few feet away, a row of blossoming bushes nestled against sturdy privacy fencing. She scanned under them, and then along the curb where several cars and adult tricycles were parked. The silver scooter had to be nearby. I know what I heard.
But there was nothing. No scooter. No rider.
“Look at that man, Mamm,” Benuel said. “He’s sleeping on the ground.”
Lizbeth glanced in the direction her son pointed. “Oh, no.” Hidden behind a parked car, a ginger-haired man dressed in traditional Amish clothes and black boots lay sprawled across the sidewalk a few yards away. The silver scooter teetered on its side a foot from him, its back wheel still spinning.
Benuel’s hand clasped firmly in hers, she hurried over, pausing long enough to instruct her son in a trembling voice, “You stay right here.”
His bottom lip puckered. “But I want to see.”
Releasing his hand, she said, “I know you do, but stay put, please.” Dreading what she might see, she fell to her knees in front of the man’s prostrate body and gave him a quick once-over, searching for twisted limbs and blood. He groaned and then stirred, his single status clearly stated by his clean-shaven chin that scraped the rough sidewalk as his head turned in her direction. Dirt and grit smudged his face and neck.
Why is there no one left on the street? I need help, Gott.
“Lie still. You may have broken something,” she instructed.
His hand moved and then his arm. Blue eyes—so like her son’s—opened to slits. He blinked at her. A shaggy brow arched in question. Full, well-shaped lips moved, but no words came out.
She leaned back in surprise. She knew this face as well as she knew her own. The man on the ground was Fredrik Lapp, her brother’s childhood friend. The last man in Pinecraft she wanted to see. “Are you all right?” she asked, bending close.
His coloring looked normal enough, but she knew nothing about broken bones or head trauma. She looked down the length of his body. His clothes were dirty, but seemed intact.
The last time she’d seen him she’d been a skinny girl of nineteen, and he’d been a wiry young man of twenty-three, with shaggy auburn hair and blue eyes the color of a summer sky. Unbaptized and not yet a member of the church, he’d had an unruliness about him, a restlessness that kept his mamm and daed worried for his future, and the rumor mill turning with tales of his latest wild escapades.
Now he was a fully matured man, with a thick neck and neatly trimmed hair, cut in a traditional Amish style to his ears. A man who could rip her life apart if he learned about the secret she’d kept all these years.
She leaned in and eyed his clean-shaven chin. Why is he still unwed and living in Pinecraft? There were no significant scrapes on his face, with the exception of a small cut above his left eyebrow.
The sidewalk under him had to be uncomfortably hot. She jerked a length of attached quilt squares from her bag and squatted, carefully slipping the soft folds under his head.
He coughed several times and scowled as he drew in a deep breath.
“Do you hurt anywhere?” Lizbeth used her clean handkerchief to wipe away the blood slowly oozing from the small cut above his left eye.
“Ouch!” He twisted his head out of her reach.
She jerked her hand away and rose. “I thought the blood might blur your vision.”
“Is the kinner all right?” Fredrik’s voice sounded deeper and raspier than it had years ago. He coughed, and with a grunt braced himself with his arms and struggled into a sitting position.
Lizbeth glanced Benuel’s way. He was looking at them, his young face pinched with concern. Her heart ached for the intense, worried child.
“Ya, he’s fine,” she assured him, and tried to hold Fredrik down as he started to move about. “Please don’t get up. Let me get some help first. You might have really hurt yourself.” He had no family left in the area. Why had he come back?
He ignored her direction and rose to his feet, dusting the long legs of his dark trousers down, and then bent to pick her fabric off the ground. He handed her the bundle after doing his best to refold the length of colorful cotton squares. “I got the wind knocked out of me, that’s all.” He laughed.
He peered at his bleeding arm, shrugged his broad shoulders and rotated his neck as she’d seen him do a hundred times as a boy.
“That was a foolish thing you did,” he muttered, his brow arched.
“What was?” she asked, mesmerized by the way his muscles bulged along his freckled arm. It had to be wonderful to be strong and afraid of nothing.
He gestured toward the boy. “Letting your soh run wild like that? He could have been killed. Why didn’t you hold his hand while you crossed the road?”
She took exception to Fredrik’s sharp tone, the disapproving expression on his face. The knot in her stomach tightened and grew. She pushed the ribbon of her prayer kapp away and then wiped sweat from her top lip, her frustration growing. She may not know how to properly raise an energetic, belligerent boy, but she was learning and doing the best she could. How dare he chastise her like Jonah and his family had done so many times? “I know we could all have been killed.”
Her face grew warm. If only she had been more careful, grabbed Benuel’s hand as soon as she’d handed over the ticket to the bus driver. She knew what the boy was like lately. Acting out, not listening to anyone. She looked toward the curb. Benuel’s head was turned away, no doubt watching the birds peck away at bugs in the short tufts of grass a few feet away.
With a grunt of frustration, she stuffed the bloodied handkerchief back into her apron pocket and dusted down her skirt. She hadn’t been back in Pinecraft a full hour and already was involved in a situation with Fredrik. She had plans for the money she had on her, like paying for somewhere to live. If Fredrik blamed Benuel for the crash, repairing the scooter could leave her totally dependent on her father, and she could not allow that to happen.
“You’ll need someone to come get you.” She pointed at the crumpled machine on the ground. “It looks like that Englischer contraption of yours is ruined.” Fredrik had always been a risk taker, never considering the cost to himself or those around him. She knew Benuel was equally to blame for the accident, but it would be just like Fredrik to blame someone else for his share of the mishap.
Fredrik’s brows furrowed as he shoved his hand though his disheveled hair. He dropped his arm with a grimace. “That Englischer contraption, as you call it, was an expensive scooter. I saved for a year. Bought it less than an hour ago.”
Lizbeth swallowed hard. She ran her hands down her arms, her nerves sending tremors through her body, no doubt her reaction to their near miss.
She twisted back toward the scooter. She knew all about men’s “big boy” toys, thanks to her Amish daed, who prized all things with wheels and gears. This man was cut from similar cloth, but he lacked her father’s love of familye and commitment to this small community. No doubt he had once again set aside his Amish beliefs to fulfill some foolhardy need for speed.
“I was on my way to the insurance company,” he grunted. He turned his broad back on her.
She watched him glance down the empty road shimmering with watery mirages.
He spoke to the sultry air around him. “I thought...what can happen? The insurance office is only a few blocks down the road. What a bensel I am.”
“It’s not insured then?” She stepped back, waited for his reply while gulping down a knot the size of her fist.
He turned back to her, his brow furrowed. “Nee, not insured.”
* * *
Fredrik Lapp didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his own stupidity, not that he wasn’t used to making rash decisions that managed to put him in a bad light. He should have made a call from the bike shop, gotten the scooter insured before he left the showroom. But no, he didn’t want to be late for work and disappoint Mose Fischer, his boss, who firmly believed in punctuality. And look what a mess I’m in now.
With a glance, he calculated the damage to the scooter. The front tire looked flat, the frame slightly bent, the fender folded back where it had hit the metal street pole. No telling what kind of scratches dug into the underside of the machine when it hit the ground.
He groaned aloud, but not from pain. The fancy front light he’d been so excited about, and special ordered, now hung suspended in the air by a single black wire. He’d be out hundreds of dollars for restoration and the scooter’s odometer didn’t read a mile.
He looked over at the ginger-haired boy with freckles across his button nose and instantly felt contrite, regretting his immature, self-centered thoughts. The boy looked to be young, maybe five or six. Fredrik’s heart flip-flopped, the rhythm of the beat kicking up as he realized he might have killed the kinner with his carelessness. But the boy had been at fault, too. He should have been holding his mother’s hand.
The boy’s mother, a tall willowy woman dressed in mourning black, stood next to the child, her protective arm around her son’s thin shoulders. She’s protecting him from me. He silently asked Gott for forgiveness. He could have taken a life.
The woman’s arched brow told him she didn’t believe she and her son had caused the accident, even though she hadn’t uttered a single word of accusation toward him. She didn’t have to. He knew he’d also made an error in judgment and driven too fast.
Instead of enjoying the exhilaration of speed, he should have been watching the traffic more closely, paying attention to what he was doing. This was no golf cart or three-wheeled bike. He had no experience on a scooter. No idea how to control the metal machine.
Perhaps this was Gott’s punishment for him buying such a fancy scooter in the first place. The idea of fast, dependable transportation had made all the sense in the world while looking at the showroom’s catalog a year ago. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name,” he said, glancing at the widow.
“Mullet. Lizbeth Mullet. And this is Benuel.” She nodded briskly, her thin fingers nervously rubbing the side of her son’s neck.
Her crooked kapp had bobbed on her blond head when she nodded. There were laugh lines etched in her cheeks, but no smile appeared today. He realized she looked slightly familiar, like someone he should know, but he couldn’t place her. A lot of snowbirds and Plain people visited the tourist town of Pinecraft, even during the summer months, but she could easily be someone he’d been introduced to at church or met at work.
He glanced over at the fidgeting, serious-faced child and then back to the woman. Sweat curled the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.
Not sure what to do, he extended his hand to her. “My name’s Fredrik Lapp. I hope I didn’t scare you too much.” At first he thought she would ignore his gesture, but then her hand was placed in his. It was soft and looked fragile, even though she wasn’t a diminutive woman and stood nearly as tall as him. He felt the power of her grasp, the hidden strength in her, but she was trembling and he was to blame.
An arrow of pain shot through his shoulder and he winced. As she held his gaze, one perfectly arched brow lifted. She inspected his face with probing eyes the color of his mamm’s blue-violet periwinkles. A pretty woman, he realized. Someone who would fit fine on his list of women to step out with—if he seriously decided to look for a fraa.
Her frown deepened. “Are you certain-sure you’re fine?” she asked. “You’ve gone all washed out. Perhaps you should go to the hospital, be checked by an Englisch doctor. I’ve heard a person can have brain damage and not know it until it’s too late.”
“Nee, it wasn’t my head that hit,” he said with a laugh and rubbed his shoulder like a child might. “The scooter’s front bumper took the impact. I just got the wind knocked out of me when I landed.”
“Even so, shouldn’t the police be called? It was an accident, and they’ll want you to make a report, or do whatever is required.”
Fredrik considered her words. He probably should, even though calling would probably cost him a traffic ticket. “Ya, you’re right. I’ll call them now.” He gestured toward a café’s front door and motioned her forward. “Come in with me. It’s too hot to be standing on the sidewalk. I don’t know about you, but a glass of sweet tea sure sounds gut to me.”
Chapter Two (#ub71b6fb5-cd3e-5bb6-b1c2-0f60eca74147)
Inside, the café pulsed with life. The lunch crowd of local Amish and Mennonite folks, with some summer tourists sprinkled in, blended into a loud, but happy, sea of faces.
Still shaking, Lizbeth followed a waitress in and ushered Benuel into the small booth upholstered in cheap red leather. Fredrik flopped down across from them a few moments later, making himself comfortable as he ordered a glass of tea and one of the cook’s famous sweet rolls.
“What would you two like? Sweet tea, a Coke?”
“We’ll have ice water, danki,” she answered, watching Fredrik’s face. She searched for and found the bump on his nose. She’d caused the break when she’d thrown a basketball at him years ago.
She relaxed. He still didn’t seem to recognize her, but there was no reason he would. She’d been dishwater blond as a teen, and full of life. Nothing like the rake-thin, ordinary, mouse-blond woman she’d become, with her unremarkable face that drew no second glances.
“Can I have Coke?” Benuel blurted out.
She gave her son a warning look. He shouldn’t be asking for treats. Not after running off. Unsure, she fought an inner battle, trying to decide whether to be hard on the troubled child and not knowing when to hold firm to her convictions. She hadn’t been allowed to discipline Benuel in any way while her husband was alive. He or his mother always stepped in, took control of the boy. Punished him for her mistakes.
Benuel’s hopeful expression vanished. His forehead took on a sulky frown. She reached to pull him closer, but he pushed away with a grunt of annoyance.
“My treat,” Fredrik offered.
She looked across the table at Fredrik. His grin was easygoing, relaxed. “Danki, but nee. He has to learn to obey.”
Fredrik made a face at the boy, his nose crinkling up in a comical way. Benuel giggled slightly and then ducked his head. Silence had been a firm rule enforced by Jonah and his parents back in Ohio. Children should be seen and seldom heard. Especially her child.
Lizbeth watched the all-too-familiar lift of Fredrik’s brow, the way his lips curved as he laughed at Benuel’s reaction to his teasing. His smile revealed a tiny chip on his front tooth. He’d fallen his last summer in Pinecraft. He’d chased her, trying to get his straw hat from her hand, and slipped on wet stones.
“How about some pancakes with strawberries? They’re my favorite. Come on, Mamm. Let the boy enjoy life.”
He had no idea the inner conflict she endured, the indecisiveness she fought regarding Benuel’s discipline. Her reply came out harsher than she intended. “I am letting the boy enjoy life. Benuel’s being disciplined for running away and can’t have sweets right now. He’ll be having plain food for the rest of the day as his punishment.”
The bell over the café door rang. Lizbeth glanced over and then jumped up, rushing into her father’s waiting arms.
“I’ve been looking all over for you, girl,” John Schwarts scolded, but gave his daughter another tight hug that spoke of his love for her. “You should have waited at the church. I told you I’d be a bit late.”
“I’m sorry, Daed. It got so hot. We came in for a quick cold drink of water.” She looked at Fredrik over her father’s shoulder and saw a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. He finally knew who she was. Something to worry about later, she thought, lowering her gaze.
Her cheek nuzzled against her father’s barrowed chest as she listened to the sound of him breathing, the beat of his heart. It had been five long years since she’d left the safety of his arms. It was good to be home.
“It’s no matter,” he responded, as he slid in beside Fredrik. “So, what are you doing here? I thought Mose told me you were working early today.”
Fredrik had the decency to look a little embarrassed. He glanced over at Lizbeth.
She gently shook her head, praying he wouldn’t say anything about their near accident. She already had Fredrik thinking she was a bad mamm. She didn’t need her daed thinking it, too.
“I was...ah...am working early today. I just thought I’d stop and get a cold glass of tea first,” Fredrik stammered, pulling his summer hat off and setting it on his lap. “Lizbeth was kind enough to share a booth with me. It’s pretty busy in here.”
The waitress hurried over and interrupted the men’s chatter. Lizbeth took a deep, calming breath. Her daed looked good. His new wife, Ulla, must have been taking fine care of him.
John smiled his grandson’s way. “So this is Benuel. How are you, soh?”
Benuel frowned and then looked away, all the while tapping his fingers on the table. “I’m not allowed to speak to strangers,” he muttered.
Lizbeth patted her daed’s hand. “He’ll warm up. It’ll just take him a while.”
“Ya, sure. I understand. You were always a bit standoffish with strangers at his age. We’ll get to know each other at the chicken farm, won’t we, Benuel?”
Benuel ducked his head, his ginger-colored hair falling in his eyes as he nodded slightly.
Fredrik spoke up, ending the awkward moment. “You going to work at the church tomorrow, John?”
“Certain-sure, I am. That roof’s leaking like a sieve when it rains.”
Lizbeth took the glass of water handed to her by the waitress, slid Benuel’s water to him and watched her father’s face light up as he talked about future church repairs with Fredrik.
It was so good to be back home. Her daed had changed very little. Oh, he’d gotten some grayer, a bit more round at the middle, but he looked happy.
Benuel kicked her leg under the table. She flinched. “Drink your water, and keep your legs under you,” she instructed, warning him with her eyes.
“He’s as fidgety as those new roosters I bought.” John laughed.
Lizbeth tried to act normal. Her father didn’t understand, didn’t know about Benuel’s medical issues yet. She realized she’d have to tell him about the boy’s ADHD issues, but now wasn’t the time, not with Fredrik Lapp sitting there, listening to every word said. “He’s a hyper young man, that’s for sure,” she said and pushed Benuel’s water closer to him. She hoped she’d never have to tell her daed about the things she and the boy had seen and been through while in Ohio.
Benuel swished his hand across the table, knocking over the water glass. He smirked Lizbeth’s way, rebellion written across his young face. “I’m sorry,” he said, righting the glass as cold water and chips of ice streamed into her lap.
* * *
Fredrik watched Lizbeth’s face redden, saw the way her hands shook as she grabbed napkins to sop up the spill. He still couldn’t believe this woman was the Little Lizzy he’d grown up with. She’d changed. And here she was, back in town, with a rowdy little boy. Her son had knocked over the glass on purpose. Fredrik was sure of it, and he could tell John knew it, too. The older man’s forehead was creased into an irritated scowl. Turning his head, he looked at the kinner closely. Benuel’s expression had become calm again, almost serene. As if nothing had happened.
That boy needed a talking-to, but Fredrik could tell by the look on Lizbeth’s face that she wasn’t going to discipline him in front of his grandfather the first time they met. She’d leave it for another time. Poor woman looked exhausted and frazzled from her long trip home.
Fredrik grabbed the napkin under his water and helped Lizbeth clean up the mess. “Kids always seem to manage to spill their water,” he reassured her with a smile.
“Ya,” she muttered, picking up the last of the ice cubes scattered across the table. Her face still flushed with embarrassment. “Danki, Fredrik.”
She looked at her father, her fingers twisting the wet napkin in her hand.
Fredrik watched the tiny blue vein in her neck pulse with tension.
“Benuel is often overactive, Daed,” she said, glancing at Benuel squirming in his seat. “But he’s a gut boy.”
“Ya, I know he is,” John said, nodding. His smile was that of a patient grandfather who understood the ways of rambunctious boys.
Lizbeth visibly relaxed, her lips turning up at the ends. “I’m so glad to be home. Benuel needs a strong man like you in his life.”
“Ya, well. You’ve got the whole town of Pinecraft at your disposal, dochder. We’ll all pitch in. You’re not alone.”
Tears glistened in her eyes as she put her arm around her son and pulled him close. “I’m so glad, Daed. Change can be hard for Benuel. All he’s ever known is the farm. Life’s been difficult for him.”
John smiled gently. His big calloused hand patted hers. “I’ll go and grab your bag from the church. You can wait here until I get back.” She handed a ticket to John and he nodded at Fredrik. “Don’t be too late to work,” he said with a smile.
Fredrik shook John’s hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the church. Make sure you wear your loose pants. The ladies are cooking for us.”
John nodded. “I’ll be there.” And he walked to the door.
Fredrik turned back to Lizbeth and saw a slight smile on her face. “It’s been years, and I know I’ve changed,” she said, “but I’m assuming you’ve remembered me by now, Fredrik. I’m Little Lizzy, Saul’s schweschder.”
Fredrik leaned toward her with a grin. “Of course I know who you are. I realized it as soon as you greeted your daed. Little Lizzy. I can’t believe it. I’d heard you had married and had moved away while I was in Lancaster. Why didn’t you tell me who you were as soon as we met?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “It didn’t seem important. And I wanted to see how long it would take for you to remember. I knew it was you the minute I saw that ginger hair of yours and your broken nose.”
He trailed his finger down the bridge, to the almost invisible bump, thinking of that day so many years ago. “Ya, and I remember who broke that nose. You had a mean pitching arm back then.”
“I still do.”
Fredrik glanced up and saw one of Sarasota’s finest walk through the café door, the gun on his hip standing out in the crowd of Plain people and tourists. “The police officer is here. I’ve got to go. It was good to see you again, Lizbeth.” He stood and pulled her to his side in a hug, his arm sliding around her slim waist.
Then he let her go and walked off, peeking over his shoulder at her one last time. She’d been the picture of calm since her father arrived. Her daed was what she needed. A strong man to lean on.
He walked toward the police officer, his heartbeat kicking up. He’d leave Lizbeth and the boy out of this situation. She had enough on her plate. Going by the shake of her head earlier, she wouldn’t want to talk to the police right now anyway, not when her father could return at any moment. Could she have thought Benuel was at fault for the accident? If she did, she was mistaken. He knew he was to blame and would make sure the police knew it, too.
Chapter Three (#ub71b6fb5-cd3e-5bb6-b1c2-0f60eca74147)
The next morning, Ulla Schwarts glanced at the quilt top Lizbeth had been working on since sunrise, and smiled. “You’ve only been home a day and that top is almost finished.” Bent at the waist, she swished a sudsy dishcloth across the big wooden farm table, reaching for and finding a spot of dried plum jelly that needed scrubbing. “You sew pretty fast.”
“Ya, it came together quickly,” Lizbeth agreed, looking up from her breakfast, over to her father and then his wife of one month. She smiled as the gray-haired woman wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, and then went back to cleaning the big wooden table positioned in the middle of her mamm’s well-loved kitchen.
Lizbeth already liked the spirited older Amish woman and found merit in her humor and work ethic. It would take some time to adjust to seeing another woman in her mother’s haus, caring for her daed, even though years had passed since her mamm’s sudden passing.
“It’s time I go check on the chickens,” her father stated, then wiped egg off his mouth. His chair scraped the floor as he rose. He lightly kissed Lizbeth on the forehead. “I’m so glad you’re back,” he said for the hundredth time that morning.
Lizbeth smiled, joy warming her heart. “Me, too, Daed.”
“You have any plans for today?” he asked.
“Nothing important,” Lizbeth muttered, and grinned. She’d had a hard morning with Benuel and didn’t have much energy left in her.
“I’m off then.” John kissed his wife’s cheek and whispered something in her ear that had her giggling as she swatted him out the back door with her dishcloth.
Still smiling, Ulla commented to Lizbeth, “There’s a sewing circle that meets at the civic hall on Tuesday mornings if you have a mind to go.” Ulla shoved a stubby water glass into the sea of dishwater and swished a cloth around in it.
Lizbeth gathered up her plate, coffee cup and the remains of her half-eaten bacon and eggs destined for the chickens’ scrap bowl. “Does Berta King still go?”
Ulla shook her head and moved to clean the stove. “Not since the cancer took hold.”
Lizbeth paused, her hand going to her heart. “I didn’t know.” The spry little woman had taught her to quilt and had been her mother’s best friend and confidante for more years than she could remember. Berta had been there to wave her off when she’d quickly married and left Pinecraft five years before.
“Nee, you wouldn’t, would you? Living so far away. I only see her when I take meals over on Tuesday and Friday nights. She looks bad. So thin and frail. Abram’s not looking so good himself, poor man. Someone told me their daughter from Ohio is coming on the bus. She’ll help out until her mamm passes, and then take her daed home with her.”
“It’s never gut to be alone.” Lizbeth adjusted the work scarf on her head and then plunged her hands into the sink of hot soapy water. The water burned a small scrape caused by her fall in the street the day before.
She began scrubbing dried egg yolk off her plate. She had to find a way to make Benuel understand that roads were dangerous. Living in a busy tourist town held hazards he didn’t understand at such a young age. It would take time and patience to guide him.
Perhaps she clung to him too tightly now that she had him all to herself. Benuel had always been easily distracted, but he had grown more willful of late, even cruel at times. She remembered the kick he’d given her under the booth the day before and sighed deeply. He needed a man’s firm hand, but the thought of marrying again sent her pulse racing wild with fear. Not that any man in his right mind would want her as his fraa once he found out she was emotionally damaged.
And the last time she had married for her child’s sake hadn’t gone so well. What would she do if anyone discovered the truth about Benuel? It would ruin both of them.
There had to be another way to help him grow into a strong man without a father in his life. Perhaps settling down near her daed and the kind people of Pinecraft would bring about the stability he needed, as her father had suggested. At least she prayed that it would.
Ulla plugged in a portable electric fan and positioned it on the long wooden counter nearest her. “You’ll need this if you’re going to wash those breakfast dishes. The humidity is high. We must be expecting a storm.”
“Danki,” Lizbeth muttered and plunged in another yolk-covered plate.
Ulla hummed as she shuffled across the room, a stack of folded towels in her arms.
A glance out the kitchen window revealed threatening gray clouds. A gust of wind twisted two small palm trees to the ground.
The old German clock in the living room ticked away the remaining minutes of the morning. She rinsed her hands and rehung the dish towel on its wooden peg next to the window and then pressed her hands into the small of her back. A long, busy day stretched out in front of her and she had no energy left.
She had to talk to Benuel about his behavior at the breakfast table, and was dreading it. He’d poured milk on Ulla’s clean tablecloth. He’d done it on purpose, even though her father claimed it had been an accident. All she seemed to do was scold the child, when all she wanted was to pull him onto her lap and hold him until his anger went away.
“So, you have nothing planned for your day?” Ulla came back into the room with a load of sheets ready to be washed. Her tone and smile were friendly and inviting, unlike the daily dramatic scenes that played out back in Ohio with her mother-in-law. She could never please the woman, no matter how hard she tried. And she had tried.
Lizbeth took in a deep, cleansing breath, her memories of Ohio pushed to the darkest recesses of her mind once more. She smiled. “I’ve got the usual. Keeping Benuel entertained and getting that quilt top finished after I make our beds.”
Ulla paused under the kitchen’s arched door. She braced a wicker basket, fluffy with unfolded sheets, against her stomach. “We have church service tomorrow. I make it a practice to help with the cooking of the communal meal. You can join me if you like. It would give you a chance to get reacquainted with some of the ladies of the community.”
Preparing the communal meal had been one of Lizbeth’s mother’s favorite chores. Being one of the volunteer church cooks was something Lizbeth could embrace now that she was back, not that she was a very good cook. Going along with Ulla would give Benuel a chance to play with children his own age. But doubt stalled her. “I don’t know. He’s such a handful today.”
“Ach, don’t let his acting up stop you from doing a good deed. You haven’t met Beatrice, my oldest kinskind yet.” Ulla laughed, her smile animating her wrinkled face with a glow. “Now that child is a certain-sure handful. She and her sister Mercy will be there.” The woman’s tone became serious. “Benuel needs the company of other kinner, Lizbeth.”
Lizbeth’s face flushed. He needed so much more than she seemed able to give him, but she would learn. “Ya, maybe I will come after all.”
“Gut. I’ll get this load of sheets folded and then we’ll make a list for our trip to the store. I thought I’d make chicken and dumplings and a peanut butter shoofly pie. Is there anything special you’d like to make?”
Benuel had smashed his fist into the center of the last cake she’d baked, sending chunks of chocolate cake all over her mother-in-law’s kitchen floor. “Maybe I’ll make chocolate cupcakes for the kinner. Chocolate is Benuel’s favorite.”
Ulla laughed. “Beatrice and I have an understanding when it comes to cupcakes of any flavor. She behaves and does what I tell her, or I get to eat hers. You might try that on Benuel. Missing a few cupcakes might bring about a bit of good behavior from the boy.”
Lizbeth found herself smiling. “Ya, I might try that. Danki.” Her smile grew. “You’ve been so kind to us since we arrived, Ulla. I want to thank you for opening your home, taking us in.”
“Nonsense. This is your home, too. John and I are happy you moved back to Pinecraft, sudden or not.” Ulla set the basket on the floor. “Having you here has been a blessing. But what’s this John tells me about you already looking for a home of your own?”
“Ya, I am looking, not that you both haven’t made us feel so very willkumm. It’s just that Benuel needs to settle into a routine before school begins.” Still so unsure of her parenting skills, she wasn’t positive she would be putting him in school. She had to decide soon, but not today.
Ulla grinned as she flipped out a square tablecloth and shoved it into the washer. “I own an empty house that’s up for sale and begging for a family to bring it back to life. It’s simple and Amisch Plain, but not too far from here and close to the Christian school. If the local man who asked about it doesn’t buy it, you’re welcome to rent it until you marry again. We have a busy weekend, but John can show it to you on Monday.”
“That would be wunderbaar. A simple house would be an answer to prayer,” Lizbeth said, ignoring Ulla’s comment about a new marriage. She had no intention of marrying again. It would be just her and Benuel from now on.
Surely the money she had squirreled away would be enough to make rent payments until she could find a part-time job and someone safe to leave Benuel with. Maybe there would be enough left over for a few pieces of secondhand furniture. When they had left Ohio, she had taken nothing but their clothes and a few of Benuel’s favorite toys. She pushed away her reasons for leaving the farm, unwilling to bring back the harsh memories that haunted her unguarded sleep each night.
Gott’s will be done. He had brought them back to Pinecraft, to the Plain people she’d grown up with, and she was grateful to be home.
* * *
At noon on Monday, Fredrik leaned his old bike against an orange tree and turned on his heel, ready to begin his search for a wife in the crowd of Amish women standing around, chatting.
After seeing Lizbeth Mullet wearing a pretty blue dress at church the day before, and hearing two pastors preach on the joys of married life, he’d lost sleep that night, tossing and turning, but managed to make a firm decision. It was time to forget Bette, who had accepted his proposal and then run off and wed his best friend in Lancaster County, where Fredrik was completing his apprenticeship. He would buy Ulla’s house and settle down. It shouldn’t be too hard to find someone to marry him. Perhaps Lizbeth Mullet would consider him and if not her, someone else just as comely. Whoever he chose, though, would have to understand that theirs would be only a friendly partnership. An attempt at showing the community—and himself—that he could grow and become responsible. He’d never give another woman his heart after the way Bette had stomped on it.
The woman he married would have to be patient, accept him as he was. He wasn’t exactly sure how much he could change his youthful ways, but almost killing a child had affected him deeply. It was past time he stopped behaving like a youngie and got on with his life.
He ambled across the dry park grass, over to the food tables and joined his boss, Mose. The square-shouldered Amish man greeted him with a nod of his head and then filled one side of his sturdy paper plate with fried chicken. He inched his way forward, toward a bowl of hot potato salad decorated with perfect slices of boiled eggs and olives.
“You’re late. You almost missed out on my Sarah’s specialty,” Mose said, adding an extra helping of the creamy potatoes to his too-full plate. “It’s almost gone.”
“I see that,” Fredrik smiled and took the last of the potato salad with a half-moon of boiled egg buried on top.
“You oversleep?”
Fredrik cleared his throat before speaking. “No, I had to pay a traffic ticket. No insurance.”
Glancing back, Mose said, “Is this one of your yarns?”
Fredrik glanced up. “Nee, I’m not joking.”
“Then what do you mean? The police don’t give tickets for bike riding.”
Fredrik lumbered close behind Mose, both men still circling around the table laden with food. “I wasn’t exactly riding a bike.” He reached across the table for three meaty ribs shining with barbecue sauce. He added a forkful of pickles as an afterthought and then speared a meaty chicken leg covered in crispy fried batter.
Together they headed for the drinks table, and stood in a line with community leaders and hardworking Plain men waiting for a cold glass of sweet tea. The big oak tree draped with moss spared them the bright overhead sun.
Fredrik had hoped to speak privately with Mose, but the park grounds were already packed with people supporting the lunch that would bring in enough money to pay for the new roof on the church.
Fredrik frowned, not liking the idea of someone from the congregation overhearing what a fool he’d been. In Pinecraft, simple situations were known to grow into full-blown gossip sessions, innocent words passed on from family to family until the truth could barely be recognized.
Balancing his tall glass of tea and a few napkins against his chest, Fredrik followed close behind Mose.
“What were you riding, a golf cart?”
“No, a scooter.” He waited for the critical remark he knew was coming. Acting as his mentor and older brother, Mose had warned him about leaning too close to Englischer ways, but Fredrik had prayed about buying the scooter and Gott had remained silent. Fredrik had taken His silence as approval, and he’d been wrong.
“Were you speeding?” Mose’s brow arched as he placed his glass of tea on a cloth-covered picnic table and slid his plate in front of it.
Fredrik joined him at the table and smiled at Sarah, Mose’s fraa, as she kissed her husband fondly on the forehead, then hurried off, pushing a twin stroller of chubby kinner. A curly-haired toddler followed her, tugging at the back of her skirt. “Sarah’s looking well rested. The twins must be sleeping through the night at last.”
The big blond-haired man wasn’t smiling. “Don’t change the subject. You’ll have to tell me sometime. Are you hiding a secret about this scooter you borrowed?”
“I didn’t borrow the scooter. It’s mine. I picked it up the other day. That’s why I was late to work.” Fredrik took a gulp of tea and sat the sweating glass back on the table.
“Ya, well. You said you were buying one with your savings, but didn’t you know you’d need insurance for the thing?”
Fredrik nodded. “I did know, but I got ticketed before I could get the insurance.” He paused to pray silently over his food and then shoveled in a mouthful of potato salad and chewed as he thought back to the day of the accident. An image of the pretty widow came back to haunt him. If only he could get her and her son off his mind. He pictured them round-eyed with worried looks. Were they still traumatized by his stupidity? He hoped not.
“Well, it makes me to wonder if you should have prayed more about this magnificent piece of machinery of yours,” Mose said after he’d prayed. “Perhaps Gott isn’t pleased with your purchase and is letting you tie a rope around your neck.” Mose flashed a sardonic smile that showed a piece of mustard green stuck to the front of his tooth. The man bent forward and went back to attacking his food.
“Ya, you might be right.” Fredrik nodded. “Nothing gut has come from the purchase.” The other side of their picnic table was still empty. Now was as good a time as any to speak to Mose. He blurted out the lines he had practiced. “You think there’s any chance I could get a church loan for a down payment on Ulla’s house?”
Mose laid down his fork. “Ya, sure. We have money set aside for such as this. Ulla’s house would make a fine house for a young man like yourself. There’s plenty of room for a fraa and kinner.” He smiled, probably expecting his words to unsettle the unmarried man. “I’m sure she’ll sell it to you. She has no use for it now. Let’s walk over by the river and talk for a moment.”
Throwing his paper plate into the trash for the flies to buzz around, Fredrik ambled alongside Mose, his mind racing.
Houses in Pinecraft seldom came up for sale since they were usually passed on from family member to family member. When they were put on the market, they were too dear for most young people. Perhaps Mose could convince Ulla to sell the house to him at a reasonable price.
“So, you’re finally ready to marry,” Mose said, stopping to sit at an old picnic table close to the river.
Fredrik followed his lead and sat. “Ya.” He’d never experienced being tongue-tied in his life, but it seemed he couldn’t get his words to untangle on his tongue to form a complete sentence. “I...” he said and hiccupped from a nervous stomach. He groaned silently and then plunged on, forcing the words out. “Before we talk about the loan, I need to tell you I had an accident on the scooter the first day it was mine.” There! The words were out.
“My daed used to talk to me about his bruder, Thomas. Seems all his life my onkel liked all things fast. The Englisch ways appealed to him more than Gott and the church.” Mose waved at his small blond son running past on short, dimpled knees.
Fredrik watched clusters of Amish and Mennonite people eating their meal. A cooling breeze blew across the park. Tablecloth edges flapped in the breeze like white sails at sea. A gull’s sharp cry rang out overhead, perhaps predicting doom and gloom for Fredrik’s project.
He got a quick glimpse of Lizbeth Mullet and Benuel sitting with a crowd of women one table over. Today she was smiling and talking to her son in an animated way, the wind blowing lengths of her fine blond hair around the simple neckline of her yellow dress. Regret tightened his stomach once again.
“Church and Gott mean a lot to me. More than that scooter,” Fredrik said, and swallowed hard. “I’ll be thirty soon. It’s time I settle down and get married.”
“Have you found anyone suitable?”
“I’ve made a list of available women in the area.” He laughed and glanced back at Lizbeth, wishing she was someone he could mention as a prospective fraa. “Ulla’s sister is a matchmaker, and coming for a visit soon. If I can’t decide on someone, I hope she’ll help me find a woman from the surrounding communities while she’s here.”
“Have you considered Lizbeth Mullet? She’s widowed now and could use a husband to help raise her soh.”
Fredrik wanted to admit he was considering her, but he had a feeling she’d never agree to stepping out with him. She just thought of him as her big brother’s annoying friend. “Not really, but I will add her name to my list. Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” he said with a smile. “Who knows? Gott might speak to her about me.” A home and wife was what he needed, but could he find the right bride without allowing his heart to be broken again? He hoped so.
Chapter Four (#ub71b6fb5-cd3e-5bb6-b1c2-0f60eca74147)
Later that afternoon, Lizbeth hoisted the heavy green garbage bag out of the industrial-size plastic container and hastily placed it on the church’s tiled kitchen floor. It was heavier than she’d anticipated, and made bulky by several plastic milk jugs she’d added to the jumble after making chocolate pudding. She tied the bag off, and with a grunt of determination, gathered her strength, lifted the burden and wrestled it to the back door.
Twisting, she turned the knob and hip bumped the sticking door open. Sunlight and a cool breeze poured into the sweltering kitchen.
Five narrow steps and a four-foot drop greeted her. Great! Just what I need. More obstacles in my path.
She glanced around and found a row of enormous black trash cans lined along the church. They were at least six feet away.
Six feet or six inches, she was going to get the trash into one of those cans if it took her the rest of the afternoon. Stubbornness fed her resolve. I can do this.
Positioned on the second step, her back to the yard, she heaved the plastic bag up and then dropped it on the top stair.
“You need help with that?” a masculine voice asked from somewhere behind her. She recognized it was Fredrik.
“Nee, but danki.” She shot a glance over her shoulder. Fredrik was bareheaded and wiping sweat from his brow with a colorful bandana.
“You sure?”
Doubt rang in his words and spurred her on. As a girl she’d had no defenses against his teasing, but infatuation didn’t rob her of her voice now. “Ya, I’m sure. Go about your business, Fredrik. I can manage.” Somewhere in her mind she knew she probably should accept the man’s offer of help, but she shut out the voice of reason. She’d been controlled too many years, her choices taken away from her. This was her project. She had something to prove to herself. She’d get the bag of trash into one of the cans if it was the last thing she did.
With another grunt, she stepped down, lifted the oversize green bag and repositioned it on the second step. She heard Fredrik’s muffled snicker and tensed. Her shoulders came back and her backbone went rigid. With trembling fingers, she straightened her work scarf, took a deep breath and prepared for the next step. She might not be as strong as the muscular man standing behind her, but she had determination that would carry her through to the end.
She grabbed hold of the bag, stepped down, her foot finding the edge of the narrow step.
Her stomach tightened into a knot as she swayed, fought to regain her balance and repositioned her foot. With another grunt, she jerked the bag up. It caught on the edge of the step and puckered. She tugged carefully. The slit formed and then grew. The bottom of the bag gave way with a rush.
There was no time to jerk her feet away. Trash covered her legs and the toes of her black shoes with a goopy mixture of tomato sauce and coffee grinds. Potato peels and an assortment of empty plastic containers fell through the stairs onto the dirt.
Lizbeth glared down between the stair’s wooden slats to the growing heap of trash. Her mamm’s gentle words of reprimand echoed through her mind. Pride is a sin, child. It will only bring you misery.
“Here, let me help you with that.” Fredrik came into view.
She noticed the ends of his ginger hair curled attractively around his light blue shirt collar. He was covered in sawdust and small wood chips. A smudge of roof tar told her he’d been working with the roofing crew she and the other ladies cooked for.
He reached for the bag, his hand covering the gash at the bottom as he eased it away from her.
She released her hold, not wanting his touch, and watched the muscles in his forearm bulge as he raised her burden as if it were weightless. She slipped him the fresh bag she had tucked in her apron pocket and watched as he lifted the trash can lid and chucked the bag in, wiping his hands down the front legs of his pants as he gave her a satisfied grin.
She stamped her feet against the wooden step, dislodging most of the coffee grounds from her shoe, but red sauce splotched her legs.
Heat suffused her face as she looked up and noticed the last of the kitchen staff standing in the open doorway, all smiles and giggles, watching her exchange with Fredrik with great interest.
Lizbeth cringed. Every time she turned around she was causing herself some kind of embarrassment, and somehow Fredrik always managed to be involved. “Danki. I appreciate your help, but I can clean the rest myself,” she assured him.
One of the ladies tossed him a new trash bag. He squatted and began to work on the pile of trash under the steps. “This is my fault,” he said, glancing up and grinning at her in the goofy way he had when he was a boy. The memory made her heart skip a beat.
“But I made the mess.” She picked up a half-eaten apple off the step and tossed it into the bag.
Fredrik’s grin spread into a full-blown smile. “Ya, but I was supposed to fix that raised nail this morning before it could cause someone trouble.”
The past fell away and she was a girl of seventeen again, looking into the sparkling blue eyes of the young Fredrik Lapp. He continued to hold her gaze. She pulled her eyes away. The man was having too much fun at her expense. She didn’t have a clue what to do about it or the ripple of emotions churning in her stomach. But she knew she couldn’t let herself grow too close to him. Not this time. Too much was at stake.
* * *
An hour later Fredrik and six other men sat at the square table in the corner of the kitchen. Lizbeth refilled each man’s glass with cold milk, accepted their thanks and then busied herself with the last of the pots and pans.
She listened to the deep hum of their conversation, not to eavesdrop, but to enjoy the sound of men talking in a friendly manner. She’d spent too much time alone on the farm in Ohio. And the only conversations she’d heard when her husband and his family were around had been harsh and ugly. She’d used the time to gather her thoughts and make life-changing decisions. Jonah’s sudden death allowed her to act on her choices.
Memories of Jonah filled her mind. Lean, with plain, unremarkable features, he had been the only man she’d stepped out with after Fredrik had left Pinecraft without a word of goodbye. Always kind and gentle, Jonah’s love for her had been evident in the way he’d talked to her and showed her respect at the start. And he’d been one of the few who knew the truth, knew of her sin. She’d thought he’d be willing to treat Benuel as his own son. But she’d been wrong. About everything.
In Ohio, where his family farmed, she’d found herself embedded in a hostile community of rigid Old Order Amish rules. The people lived bitter lives. The painful memories of Benuel’s birth followed quickly by news of her mother’s sudden death had put a fresh sting of unshed tears in her eyes.
After his birth, Benuel was taken from her and given to Jonah’s mother, who’d just lost her youngest boy in a farming accident. Jonah had longed for sons of his own, children who would work the family farm with him in his later years.
And when Lizbeth got pregnant again, she’d thought he’d get his wish. But the babies died a few moments after their birth, born too early to survive. Jonah grew impatient with her as the years passed. She could still feel the sting of his words after their deaths. Where are my sohs? You carry them in your stomach, but they die, gasping for air. What have I done to earn this punishment? You have brought sin into my home. Their deaths are your fault.
Deep inside, she knew Jonah was at fault for the loss of her twin sons. When he drank, his physical abuse had cost her much too much.
Lizbeth shoved a chocolate chip cookie loaded with walnuts into her mouth, eating out of taut nerves and not pleasure. She had to remind herself Jonah would never hurt her or Benuel again.
She submerged an oversize saucepan into the hot dishwater and began to scrub. Once again she relived the sound of the accident that took her husband’s life. The terrible screech of tires, the scream of their horse.
Visions of the overturned buggy, the Englischers’ car mangled and burning next to it. Her breath grew ragged. The terrible sights and sounds of that night were seared deeply into her memory. Jonah had been badly burned, his chest crushed by the weight of their dead horse. She could still see the sterile white hospital room where he later died, his suffering finally over. She’d disappointed him in every way imaginable.
The police later confirmed her suspicions. Her husband had been driving drunk the night of the accident, and their old mare, Rosie, was out of control and running wild when the Englischers’ car hit the buggy.
She’d been too ashamed to admit she knew he had taken to drink to dull the pain of his lost sons. Jonah had lashed out at her earlier that dreadful night at the supper table. He’d screamed at her, told her she was useless. But she knew it had been the drink talking and she had forgiven him everything he’d said. Who could blame a man whose fraa could not give him more sons? Benuel had been a witness to the wreck, to her moments of insanity.
She glanced down at her trembling hands, at her little finger, once broken and now permanently twisted out of shape. A reminder of Jonah’s fits of rage when her tiny boys were laid to rest in the cold ground. Dark memories surrounded her like a heavy shawl. She pushed the memories away and went back to work, her thoughts on Benuel. He mattered now. No one else.
The final pan scrubbed and rinsed, she placed it on a dish towel and leaned against the stainless steel sink, her eyes closed, pushing away all the misery, the memories of her past life with Jonah.
Her son had paid the highest price of all. He had no daed to follow around, no man to emulate, to show him how to grow strong. And it was her fault. She knew she had to do something. He needed a father, but she didn’t want another husband, someone she would disappoint. No Amish man in his right mind would want a traumatized woman with the built-in ability to fail. Gott’s will be done in Benuel’s life.
The scrape of a chair behind her caused her to turn. Fredrik moved toward the commercial-size refrigerator, his empty glass in hand. The other server had left the room moments before, leaving her alone with the last shift of workers. She jerked a square of paper towel from the roll and dried her hands. “Can I get you something?”
He stopped, turned toward her with a warm smile. “You’re busy. I can pour my own milk.”
“Would you like some ice in it?”
He quietly observed her. “Little Lizzy, I can’t believe you remember I like ice in my milk.”
“I’m the one who introduced you to it.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “And I’m not so little anymore. Neither one of us is, Freddie.”
“I still see your bruder as often as I can. I’m sure he still thinks of you as little.”
Lizbeth found herself smiling at the mention of her older brother. “Ya. His two boys look just like him, ain’t so?”
Fredrik nodded. “Remember those childish fights we used to get into? You were always such a pesky kid, hanging around, bothering us. Back then, Saul and I were convinced you were only born to annoy us.”
He laughed again and Lizbeth felt her face and neck flush pink with warmth. When she was little, both boys had made it clear they didn’t want her tagging along. Her young life had been full of merciless teasing. “Mamm made Saul take me along. I didn’t want to go.” Her mother’s image impressed itself on her mind. The beloved woman had been tall and always too lean. She’d worn simple dresses of cotton made by her own hands. Lizbeth could almost hear her mamm’s words floating in the air around her. Ya, Saul. You will take Lizbeth with you, or you won’t go yourself.
She gently edged her memories of her mother away, along with the pain of her loss. “Mamm always wanted me out from under her feet so she could clean or quilt with the ladies.” She wiped at the side of the big fridge and opened the door, her thoughts back to her youth as she wiped down the rack where milk had been spilled. Her childhood feelings for the man standing next to her flushed her face warm again. She felt eleven years old again, longing for Fredrik to take notice of her. Embarrassment had her chatting again. “You boys teased me terrible when you took me fishing. You threatened to use me as bait.”
“Ya, because you didn’t know how to shut up.” He softened his words with a lopsided grin. “You were so skinny back then. I was always afraid you’d fall in the river and we’d have to fish you out.”
She stood tall, almost eye to eye with him. With a mind of its own, her finger poked at his broad chest. “Ya, well. I never fell in and you didn’t have to save me once.” She snickered. This was one of the few times her above-average height served her well.
“Nee.” He stepped back and removed his hand from her arm. “I never did have to save you, but you ran off lots of fish.”
She took the glass from his hand, splashed in frothy milk from a cold metal pitcher and then dropped two ice cubes into the milky swirl. “Two enough?” she asked, looking up at him.
He had a strange expression on his face and was smiling like someone who had just been given a special Christmas gift. “Ya. Sure. Two is perfect,” he said and turned away with the glass of milk in hand, but not before winking at her with one bright blue eye lined with rusty brown lashes.
She turned on her heel and left the room, but not before turning back and giving the man one last look. He sat down at the kitchen table circled with men and went back to eating like nothing had happened.
She hurried away from the kitchen, leaving the men to fend for themselves. She’d left Benuel alone with the other children a long time. It was best she checked up on him and made sure he was behaving himself. Left to his own devices, there was no telling what he’d get up to.
She forced her thoughts to Benuel and off Fredrik. What foolishness. The man had never been drawn to her.
Chapter Five (#ub71b6fb5-cd3e-5bb6-b1c2-0f60eca74147)
Lizbeth leaned her borrowed bike next to her father’s big-seated tricycle and followed him up the steps of the porch. She was encouraged the two of them had finally found spare time to look at the empty house together.
The street was quiet, the homes well kept. The front lawn was neatly cut and edged. Made of white clapboard, with a brown tiled roof, Ulla’s house looked exactly like every other home in the small Amish community. Plain and nondescript as it had been described to her. The dwelling had a big wraparound porch, graced by two oversize cushioned rockers. They made the home more inviting, an added bonus she hadn’t expected but was thrilled to see.
Her foot on the last step, she glanced back at the neighborhood, trying to take it all in at once. She turned back to the white house and admired the tidy beds of fragrant pink rosebushes nestled along each side of the porch. The wood fence surrounding the backyard had a pleasant gray patina and looked strong enough to hold her son behind its sturdy walls.
She smiled as she went up the steps, picturing Benuel climbing trees and running around in the privacy of his own yard, where he’d be safe from the dangers of the road. This house would suit them to perfection if the inside was as nice as the outside.
Her daed turned the key and stepped back so Lizbeth could precede him. “Ya, well. Like I told you. There’s a few repairs to be done. The roof needs a shingle or two, but all that will be fixed before you move in.”
The entry hall was clean and spacious, the hardwood floors shining from a fresh coat of beeswax. He led the way to the great room filled with comfortable-looking furniture. Solid navy drapes were pulled back at each side of the big windows. “You’ll get the morning sun in here.”
“Gut,” Lizbeth said, hoping to find a brick fireplace and then realizing she wouldn’t need one in Florida. There’d be no more snow or icy roads to contend with. No more shivering in buggies, carting wood and milking cows. She smiled and continued to follow her father.
Across the entry hall he led her into a big square kitchen. The walls were lined with wooden cabinets painted a glossy white. A large Englischer stove and refrigerator sat across from each other. The sunny kitchen window, framed with pale blue checkered curtains, crowned the deep country sink in front of her.
“Ulla kept a small table and chairs placed by the door, but her daughter wanted them since her daed had made them. I’m sure you can get a set for a fair price at one of the auctions coming up.”
Lizbeth imagined a round table with four chairs in the empty floor space and grinned. “Perhaps I can get Mose Fischer to make me one.”
“Ya, he could make it fit perfectly in here. He’s known for the quality of his work.” Her father ran his hand down the length of the kitchen’s work-top counter and smiled. “I’m sure Ulla and her daughters had many good times here, baking and making memories.”
“Perhaps renting the house to me isn’t a good idea. It could be difficult for her.”
“Ya, well, not that hard. She said she took her memories with her when we married. She seemed happy to move in to my home. This phase of her life is over. Her new life has begun, just like yours will when you marry again. Now, let’s go look at the bedrooms at the back and see if you think Benuel would be happy in one of them.”
“Will she be leaving all the furniture?” Lizbeth ignored her father’s comment about her getting married again and ambled toward a beautiful hall table made of oak wood and polished to a high shine. A real beauty. She held her breath as she waited for an answer.
“That’s up to the renter.” Her daed chuckled. “Houses are hard to come by in Pinecraft and most renters want their homes to be furnished, especially if they’re snowbirds from up north and only staying a short while each year.”
“If I decide to rent the house, I’d want the furniture to remain,” Lizbeth assured him and then hurried into the first bedroom off the hall, her excitement building as she examined the good-size room with a double bed and wooden dresser that matched. “I left the farmhouse in Ohio as is and walked away with nothing but our clothes.” She could have said more, but didn’t. She hadn’t told anyone about her life in Ohio. Why share the misery? Speaking out would change nothing in her past and erase none of the damage done to her soul. Her one regret was walking away from the graveyard that held the bodies of her babies.
She would always grieve the two tiny souls. She’d asked Gott to protect them from Jonah’s bruising blows. But Gott chose a different path for them. Both had died in her arms. It had been Gott’s will, but she would never understand. She’d left a part of her heart there in that cold Ohio soil. She would never forget her boys.
* * *
Fredrik moved fast through the spacious apartment behind the house on Ulla’s property—his property—noting the discolored walls begged for a lick of paint. He frowned as he walked into the kitchen and viewed the table. Once sturdy, it now made do on three legs and threatened to fall. It would have to be thrown out and a new one built. Someday he would be building furniture for his home, maybe even a cradle for his firstborn son.
He rubbed his hands together as he visualized the new eating area. He would build the replacement table a bit bigger than this tiny one.
He opened a door at the back of the kitchen. Narrow shelves lined the shallow pantry walls, ready for jars of homemade jams and spices.
He turned on his heel and looked back into the kitchen. He could picture someone in the galley-shaped work space, cooking their simple meals. He took in a long, satisfying breath of air. Whiffs of gasoline and machine oil wiped the smile off his face. To keep its musky smell from seeping into the apartment, he’d need to seal the walls of the storage shed built against the outer partition of the room.
He glanced out the window to the big white house down the driveway. His spirits rose. He had finally found the home he had been looking for. Ulla’s house was certain-sure good enough to bring a fraa home to, and he’d been surprised when she’d lowered the price down to a manageable amount for him this morning. He’d start to search for his bride from amongst the church ladies. He’d missed a lot of church services the past three months, his mind busy with work and not on spiritual growth.
He was a little hesitant when conjuring up faces of the eligible women he knew. What if he decided on someone and they turned him down? Without a doubt, he knew Lizbeth Mullet would reject him.
The color of Lizbeth’s hair caught his attention, drawing him away from his thoughts. He couldn’t settle on her just yet. He would have to grow spiritually, find a way to make himself the kind of man she’d want for a husband, and then see.
Thoughts of marriage were on his mind all the time, filling every moment of the day now that he’d made his decision to wed.
For years the idea of courtship with anyone set alarm bells ringing. Unrequited love had sent him running back to Pinecraft and the comfort of a small, lonely apartment in Sarasota. He’d finally healed, but he hadn’t been ready for this step of faith. Until now.
He didn’t know what had changed, but something was building in him, an excitement, some emotion he didn’t completely understand. Perhaps it came because of the loneliness he endured, or the way his body ached when he worked extrahard for nothing more than his own benefit. Both were reminders that he wasn’t a boy anymore. At twenty-nine he wasn’t exactly long in the tooth, but time was passing and he wanted to find someone to share his life with. Maybe even start a family now that he had a family home to raise kinner in.
He heard voices and made his way to the open apartment door. Chicken John stood on the side steps of the house Fredrik had just purchased, his back to him, talking to someone inside.
“There’s a work shed outside, not that you’ll need one. But the backyard is perfect for Benuel.” Chicken John stepped down onto the driveway.
From inside the house a feminine voice called out, “Gut. I’ll be right out.”
Fredrik walked into the bright sunshine, leaving the apartment door ajar.
Chicken John placed a hand against his brow, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight. A smile of welcome lifted the corners of his mouth. “You scared the life out of me, Fredrik. I thought we were the only ones on the property. Weren’t you supposed to come by yesterday?”
Fredrik returned his smile. “I was, but I got busy at work and ran out of daylight. I hope you don’t mind me coming by today.”
“Nee. Today is gut. You know you’re always welcome, but I think you might have left it a bit too late if you were interested in buying this house.” He leaned toward Fredrik and whispered, “Lizbeth needs a rental house. If she likes what she sees she’ll snatch this place away from you.”
Nerves gripped his stomach. He’d have to be the one to break the news about the sale of the house to Lizbeth and her father. He hated the idea of slipping the house from her grasp, but he needed it as much as she did. She could always stay at her father’s if she didn’t find a place to rent. His need was more urgent. He wanted to marry. If he could talk Lizbeth into courting him, she would have this house as her own, and he’d have a wife he might eventually learn to love. If he could find a way to trust her with his heart.
The screen door squealed for oil as Lizbeth appeared and stepped onto the porch. She turned in his direction, her brow furrowing from the bright noontime sun. She wore the same navy dress and shoes she’d worn to church on Sunday. Again today her expression was relaxed and friendly.
“Fredrik,” she said and nodded.
He tipped his straw hat in her direction and grinned back, noticing her smile reached her warm blue eyes. “Lizbeth.”
“You two have made friends?” Chicken John said, his tone inquisitive.
Fredrik spoke first. “A long time ago—”
“Ya, well. Remember, Benuel and I just happened to meet Fredrik at the café and became friends,” Lizbeth interjected, cutting off his words. Something in her gaze told Fredrik she still didn’t want her daed to remember they knew each other as children. “And speaking of Benuel, we really should be on our way. Ulla offered to watch him for a few hours. Not the whole day.”
“Ya, you’re right. We’ve taken too long,” her father agreed. He reached around, locked the doorknob from the inside and then shut the side door behind him. “Good seeing you, Fredrik. I’ll call you about the house repairs later today.”
“Ya. Later today is perfect. I’ll be at the shop. It’s gut seeing you again, Lizbeth. Tell Benuel I said hello.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I’ll tell him. You have a pleasant night,” she said and hurried away, the sun reflecting strands of gold in her hair.
His heart racing at the sight of her, Fredrik pushed his straw hat down on his head and followed behind them as they crunched down the pea gravel driveway. He was ashamed he hadn’t found the nerve to tell Lizbeth he’d bought the house she wanted as her own, but his dreams of working in the leaning shed blossomed. Became bigger than life.
He observed Lizbeth as she gathered up the skirt of her plain blue cotton dress and climbed onto her bike. He liked the way she held her head high, as if nothing could touch her.
Both turned and waved as they pedaled off. He wondered about the widow wearing a different colored dress now. Did that mean she was over her time of mourning? When she’d arrived in Pinecraft she’d still dressed in black.
He knew grief could make a woman distant and unfriendly, but Lizbeth seemed friendlier now. Perhaps he’d done the right thing putting her name on his list of potential women to step out with. The fact she had a boy didn’t bother him one bit. It just made his odds better, since she might be looking for a prospective husband to help raise her son. And she might not expect a potential husband to immediately surrender his heart.
He looked back at the simple wood house and lifted his shoulders as he took in a long, contented breath. He or Ulla would tell John he’d bought the house. No doubt the man could find another house for Lizbeth, but until Fredrik found a suitable wife, he was in no hurry. The widow could rent from him and live in the house if she wanted. He didn’t mind sharing, but she’d have to move once he married. He truly believed Gott would help him find his bride soon.
Fredrik made his way back to the apartment door, his gaze wandering to the backyard shaded by a big oak draped full of hanging moss. Lizbeth’s son seemed full of energy. This yard would have been the perfect place for a boy like him to play. It still could be.
Pushing those thoughts aside, he opened the solid wooden apartment door he’d left ajar and stepped back inside, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light. The picture window at the side of the big room had a set of closed, wide wooden blinds that blotted out the daylight. He tugged on their dangling cord and stepped back as dust floated on the sunlight flooding the room. The walls had once been a bright white, but now looked yellow with age. Just as he’d thought, they would need to be washed down and painted.
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Cheryl Williford
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: An Amish Second ChanceNewly-widowed Lizbeth Mullet has a secret: she’s never told anyone the true identity of her son’s father. Not even now that she’s come home to Pinecraft and the man in question is her new landlord. Fredrik Lapp may not know Benuel is his son, but the two soon form an unmistakable bond. And seeing Fredrik again stirs feelings Lizbeth had worked hard to bury. With Fredrick’s affections resurfacing too, the burden of Lizbeth’s secret is only getting heavier. Revealing the truth could mean a lifetime of happiness together—or the loss of her second chance at forever.