The Amish Widower Read online

  “Amen.” Daed ended the prayer and reached for the eggs in front of him. “While you’re in town, would you stop at Zimmerman’s and pick up a can of creosote conditioner?”

  An everyday errand, one such as any man might perform during a perfectly normal outing to town. The task gave me a measure of comfort. “Ya, sure.”

  “Oh, good!” Becky grinned across the table at Saloma. “I love Zimmerman’s.”

  Zimmerman’s Hardware Store stocked a huge variety of items, everything from kitchen mops to tractor parts. A person could wander up and down the aisles for hours, though I hoped Becky didn’t plan on spending that much time there. At least they offered a few well-placed benches up near the front where I could wait until the women were finished browsing.

  “I want to stop by Eldreth Pottery for sure.” Saloma ladled a helping of gravy over the fried potatoes on her plate. “I think I can find something nice for my sister there.”

  Mark raised his head and fixed an eager glance on his mamm. “Can we go?”

  Hope sprang into his bruder’s eyes as well as they awaited the answer.

  Without hesitation, Saloma replied with a firm, “No. You and Sadie will stay with Mammi and Grossdaadi. This shopping trip is for grown-up women only.”

  A forkful of eggs hovering in front of my mouth, I cleared my throat.

  She shot an apologetic look toward me. “And Onkel Seth because he is driving us.”

  Both boys drooped.

  “On the way, I’d like to stop by Lettie Miller’s to return a book I borrowed from her,” Mamm said. “Would that be okay, Seth?”

  Something in her tone put me on alert, and I looked toward her. She calmly sliced a bite of ham and speared it with her fork, her expression serene. A bit too serene, perhaps? I intercepted a quick glance between Saloma and Becky, and then they, too, became absorbed in their plates. The three definitely had a plan, something they’d not shared with me.

  It didn’t take much pondering to figure out what that plan might be. If I remembered correctly, Lettie Miller had two unmarried daughters living at home.

  A shock of certainty slapped at me. I laid my fork on the edge of my plate and sat back in my chair. Recent comments rose up from memory, innocent enough at the time that I had not put them together. Mamm’s soft gaze as she said good night and added, “I worry about you, Seth. I do not want you to be lonely.” And yesterday, Saloma’s comment as I swooped one of the twins up into the air and his giggles pealed. “The boys love you so. You are good with children.” She had not added, “It’s a shame you don’t have any of your own,” because that would have been too hurtful, but I saw the unspoken comment in her eyes. Innocent and caring remarks in themselves, but combined they led to a conclusion.

  The women in my family were plotting to find me a third wife.

  I waged a private battle while staring at the food in front of me, taking care to keep my face frozen into a placid expression. So driving was not sufficient progress toward my recovery. Apparently, they had decided that one year of being a widower was long enough. Pain and anger flared in equal measures. Anger, because I could not believe these women who loved me could be so blind to my still-raw grief. Didn’t they know that the agony of Hannah’s tragic death had not receded even a tiny bit? That the sound of Rachel’s last, unsteady breath haunted me when I lay in my bed listening to the night sounds from the other rooms in the house? Pain, because I relived the moments before the accident over and over, torturing myself with questions.

  Had I pulled too hard on the brake lever, and thus aggravated skittish Lars’s panic over the sound of the automobile’s horn? Had my weight crashing against Hannah as I grappled for her hand proven to be the tipping point, like the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back? What if, instead of leaning toward her, I’d thrown myself in the opposite direction and used my weight as a counterbalance? Would it have made a difference and kept the buggy on all four wheels? Or what if I’d done the reverse—flung myself toward her, grabbed her by the waist and kicked off the floorboard with enough force that we both would be thrown far enough that the buggy wouldn’t have crushed her?

  An awkward silence around me drew me from my torment, and I realized everyone was staring at me, waiting for an answer to Mamm’s question. Fighting for a controlled tone, I nodded, “Ya, of course we can stop by the Millers’.”

  Let Mamm return her book, and let all of them take a moment to visit with the Miller women. I would wait in the buggy.

  THREE

  After breakfast Aaron helped me hitch our buggy to Rosie. We worked in silence, outwardly in the comfortable companionship of a lifetime of laboring side by side. Inside, though, the storm cloud with which I’d awoken threatened to break. I fastened the collar around Rosie’s neck, and then Aaron buckled the harness. I followed him, checking the snugness of the straps and testing the security of each buckle. We fastened Rosie in, and again I checked every connection.

  When I began a third inspection, Aaron laid a hand on my arm. “It is gut, Seth.”

  His soft voice and the understanding in his brown gaze struck me like a hammer, and I struggled to remain composed. Swallowing hard, I nodded and stepped back. It was then that I noticed the women had exited the house and stood watching.

  “Are we ready?” Saloma asked brightly.

  “Ya.” Aaron helped the three women into the buggy while I battled a compulsion to check the fittings one more time.

  When all were seated in the back, I climbed up and took my place in the front. If a slight tremble had returned to my hands, my family kindly said nothing. I took up the reins, piling the extra length on the bench beside me. Rosie’s ears flicked back, waiting for me to tell her what to do. An irrational fear seized me, clenching my insides with a fist. I could still refuse, make up an excuse of sudden illness. Too much gravy at breakfast. My mouth opened, the words on the verge of being spoken.

  A movement at the kitchen window drew my eye. Mammi stood there, watching from inside. When our eyes met, she smiled and raised a hand in farewell. At the simple gesture, one that might be given on any ordinary day to any ordinary buggy driver, a bit of the panic that had gripped me receded. With a soft chuck-chuck and a slight shake of the reins, I prodded Rosie forward.

  The world did not end. I did not collapse from nerves, nor did terror stop my heart from beating. Instead, the buggy bounced the length of our rough driveway. The slight jolt when the wheels left the dirt and found the pavement set my teeth on edge, and I fought to ignore the awful resurgence of that fateful afternoon a year ago.

  But this was a different day. Rosie was far steadier than poor Lars, whose presence I could not tolerate since the accident that had taken my Hannah from me. He had been sold at a mud auction a few weeks afterward. This buggy was heavier, more solid, and enclosed. Realization struck me, the force of it almost taking my breath. I could do this. A cautious sense of victory swelled, and my grasp on the reins relaxed.

  The Millers lived in the district just south of ours. The oldest Miller son, Joel, was several years my senior, but I knew him from various gatherings when our districts combined for things like barn raisings and singings. Because their farm was on the way to Strasburg, we headed there first.

  Mamm spoke from behind me, where she sat between Saloma and Becky, swathed in quilts for warmth. “I hope Lettie isn’t in the middle of a chore. I don’t want to disturb her, but it seems a shame to drop off the book and not spend a few moments visiting.”

  Hospitality being what it was, Lettie would stop any task she was involved in and invite us to sit down for coffee and a slice of cake or pie or whatever she had to offer. The interruption would not pose a hardship, either. The districts in this part of Lancaster County consisted mostly of farmers, so our lives were led in isolation, necessitated by distance and the all-encompassing work of running our farms. Visits, planned or spontaneous, were an occasion to be enjoyed.

  Except by me, in this case. I may have taken a gian
t stride toward conquering my fear of driving a buggy, but the idea of sitting across the table from the Miller sisters, idly sipping coffee and pretending I didn’t know the scheme of every woman in the room, left me colder than any February wind.

  I answered in a mild tone. “The longer we stay, the less time we’ll be able to spend in Strasburg.”

  The comment was met with silence. I fought the impulse to turn my head and see their expressions but focused instead on guiding Rosie down the long, frozen path leading to the Miller house. Snow covered the fields on either side of the driveway, shallow enough that the pattern of straight rows plowed into the land beneath was clearly visible. As I pulled the buggy to a stop in front of the house, I scanned the area and, with a surge of relief, found my excuse to avoid the uncomfortable encounter. The doors to the nearby barn stood open, and inside I glimpsed Joel crouching beside a piece of equipment.

  After I’d lifted the three women from the buggy and set them on the ground, I nodded toward the barn. “Enjoy your visit. I’ll go and see if I can help Joel with whatever he’s doing.”

  Clearly disturbed, Mamm’s forehead creased. “But don’t you want to come inside and say hello?”

  “Just for a minute,” Saloma added. “We won’t stay long.

  “You go ahead.” I kept my smile guileless. “Give me a shout when you’re ready to leave.”

  I left them standing there and headed toward the barn, congratulating myself on avoiding what would surely have been an awkward situation.

  Parts of a disassembled plowshare lay scattered around the floor. Joel, who rubbed at a gauge wheel with a cloth, looked up at my approach.

  “Seth. Guder mariye.”

  When he started to rise to greet me, I stopped him with a wave and instead squatted beside him. Nodding at the plow parts, I asked, “Can I give you a hand here?”

  “Nah. Just cleaning everything up before I put it back together.” He held up the spoke-shaped object. “This gauge was starting to slip a bit last year. I thought it might need to be replaced, but I think it was just loose.”

  During the winter months, when the land lay dormant beneath a covering of snow and ice, farmers took advantage of their free time to maintain their equipment. We’d done the same with ours, making sure everything was in good working order for the coming planting season.

  The gauge clean, he set it down and picked up the jointer knife and a pad of steel wool. “What brings you here?”

  “We’re heading to Strasburg, and Mamm wanted to return a book she’d borrowed.”

  A female voice I recognized as Joel’s wife called from the house. “Joel, why don’t you and Seth come inside? There’s fresh coffee.”

  He tossed the wool pad on the ground and, opening his mouth to answer, started to rise.

  I stopped him with a hand. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”

  With a startled look, he studied my face a moment. Realization dawned on him, and he gave a quick nod. Retrieving the pad, he shouted an answer. “I can’t right now. I’m in the middle of something.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled. “I got the impression that the book wasn’t the only reason my mamm wanted to stop by.”

  His features softened, and he tossed the steel wool toward me. “Here. You do this while I check out the moldboard.”

  Glad for something to do, I picked up the jointer knife, and we worked for a while in companionable silence. Not five minutes had passed before the sound of shoes crunching on snow alerted me to someone’s approach.

  Turning, I spied one of the Miller girls heading toward the barn with a steaming mug in each hand. I didn’t bother to hide a low groan. Apparently, Mamm would not have her plan thwarted and had decided on a different approach. Joel gave me a sympathetic look.

  To ignore her would be unforgivably impolite, so I stood and turned as she entered the barn.

  “I brought something to warm you.” The young woman handed Joel a mug first and then turned to me.

  Joel performed the introduction, his tone resigned. “Seth, you’ve met my sister Hannah, haven’t you?”

  The name hit me like a brick, and the hand I’d been in the process of extending shook so violently I shoved it behind my back, afraid to take the mug. Hannah. A common enough name, but hot anger flashed through my skull. How could Mamm be so unfeeling as to confront me with someone who shared the name of my beloved wife?

  This Hannah must have seen my emotions in my face because her eyes widened and she took a backward step. Guilt flooded me, dousing the angry flames. I plastered on a calm expression. The poor girl before me had done nothing wrong, and it was rude of me to make her uncomfortable.

  With rigid control, I halted the trembling and extended a steady hand toward the coffee. I even managed a quick smile. “Danke.”

  Her hesitation clear, she stretched her arm to hand me the mug without coming closer. “Mamm said to tell you there’s warm biscuits and apple butter in the house if you’d care to join us.”

  Her gaze failed to meet mine, and I experienced another stab of remorse. She was young, probably not yet twenty, with round eyes and wisps of curly dark hair showing beneath her kapp.

  “Tell her I appreciate the offer, but I had a big breakfast. I couldn’t eat another bite.” I sipped coffee and then lifted the mug. “But danke for bringing this.”

  She stood hesitantly a moment longer and then hurried from the barn. I watched her cross the thinning layer of snow and disappear into the house, and then I turned to find Joel studying me.

  “How long has it been since…” He cleared his throat. “Since the accident?”

  “A year.” I clipped my answer short, not out of ill manners but because whenever I spoke of it, an invisible fist griped my throat and threatened to squeeze it shut.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I answered with a nod and looked away from the pity in his face. Crouching again to the floor, I set the coffee mug down and picked up the steel wool. Joel returned to his task. This time, though, the silence that fell between us as we worked was heavy and uncomfortable. I forced my thoughts to focus on the task, rubbing the jointer knife with smooth, even pressure.

  By the time Mamm and the others exited the house, ready to continue our journey, that was the cleanest jointer knife in all of Lancaster County.

  Strasburg was a sprawling town that bustled with a bizarre blend of Amish and Englisch trade. Many of the businesses were built for the benefit of Englisch tourists, and thousands flocked there each year to visit Amish country. The historic town had been built centuries ago by French immigrants. The Amish came later, attracted by the lush farmland that sprawled in all directions from the town. Now, those who shared my faith lived and worked side by side with the Englisch, separated by virtue of our beliefs, our culture, and our ways. In the world but not of it, as the Lord instructed.

  A tourist attraction called the Amish Village offered visitors a look at life inside an Old Order Amish farmhouse and a one-room schoolhouse. Though some of my friends laughed at the idea of a sterile house furnished to look as if someone might really live there, I’d been through the place a couple of times and thought it pretty well done. There were even real animals in the barn. And, of course, before the visitor left, they were invited to browse a gift shop, where they could purchase a variety of souvenirs to remind them of their trip to Amish land.

  Another of Strasburg’s popular attractions was the Choo Choo Barn, a gigantic model train layout where the Pennsylvania Dutch countryside had been re-created in miniature. Trains traveled around the layout, past animated figures that depicted the local culture and lifestyle, including even a barn raising. When Rachel and I were dating, she loved to visit the Choo Cho Barn. Thankfully, that attraction lay on the far side of Strasburg, and we would not be going that way today. One less set of memories to haunt me.

  We rode past the Amish Village on our way into the town proper, and I noted in passing that the parking lot held a small number of automobiles. Tou
rism would pick up when the weather warmed, but apparently a few hardy folk didn’t mind braving the cold Pennsylvania winter.

  “Zimmerman’s first?” I asked. The hardware store was the logical first stop because we would encounter that establishment on our way into town.

  “I thought we could we go to Eldreth Pottery first. That’s the farthest, and then we can work our way back and stop at Zimmerman’s last.” Saloma leaned forward to touch my shoulder. “Is that okay with you, Seth?”

  I shrugged. On this trip I was the driver, nothing more. Other than picking up the creosote conditioner for Daed, I had no agenda besides chauffeuring the women around.

  Not true. My second goal, a new one and of the utmost importance to me, was to avoid any marriageable females they might attempt to introduce me to. I hoped the Millers were the only trap they intended to spring on me today, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Eldreth Pottery it is,” I replied, and urged Rosie into a slightly quicker pace.

  In my peripheral vision I saw Becky lean forward to speak to both me and Saloma. “Before we go to Eldreth’s, maybe we ought to stop by that new place Lettie Miller told us about. I’d kind of like to see what they have. We know what Eldreth’s has to offer, so we can always go there if you don’t find anything you like.”

  “Ya, it’s a good plan,” Mamm agreed.

  “What new place?” I asked.

  Becky leaned even further forward so I could see her scowl. “If you’d come inside the Millers’ to visit with us, you would know.”

  I did turn my head then, just to give them all a chance to see my stern expression. “Joel appreciated my help with his plowshare. I felt more comfortable lending a hand with that than sitting in a kitchen with the women.”

  Before I turned back, I held Mamm’s gaze for a long moment, until I was sure she took my meaning. She looked away first, her eyes lowering to the quilt on her lap, but not before I caught a glimpse of loving determination in those brown depths. Sighing, I faced forward. Someday soon I would have to confront her. She needed to understand that I was not interested in marrying again. Not now. Not ever.