by Jan Drexler
Lovina went back to the kitchen, leaving Bethany to answer Mari’s question.
“I’m going to tell your daed how much I love him.”
“I love him, too. Can I tell him?”
“You can tell him any time you like.” Bethany kissed the top of Mari’s kapp.
She gave the girls a handkerchief to play with. Mari hadn’t been able to make a handkerchief baby yet, but she insisted on trying until she mastered the skill. Bethany showed her how to twist the handkerchief just so until the poor cotton cloth was a damp, wrinkled mess. Rachel, curious about everything Mari did, looked on.
By the end of the afternoon, Bethany was exhausted. She hadn’t gotten tired of watching Aaron’s and Katie’s faces, though. She didn’t think she had ever seen a happier couple.
The young men started cleaning up as people left, loading the benches into the church wagon. Chore time was approaching, and folks had to get home.
Lovina gathered up Rachel after the dishes had all been washed.
“I’ll see you on Sunday?” she asked.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Andrew was ready to go soon after that, and Bethany got into the new buggy with Martha and Mari for the ride home.
“That was a lovely wedding,” Martha said. “I wish I had been here for yours, but it couldn’t be helped.”
“I’m glad I was there,” Bethany said, “but I was so nervous that I hardly remember anything about it.”
“Did you remember that you invited your brothers to spend the night with us tonight?” Andrew asked.
“For sure, I did. They’re coming over for supper, and they’ll stay until chore time in the morning.”
“The last time they were at our place, John and James stayed up all night.”
“Not this time.” Bethany was determined they wouldn’t pull that stunt again. “This time, I’m deciding when they go to bed, not Nathaniel.”
By the time Mari was in bed and asleep that night, though, Bethany was having second thoughts. Martha had gone to bed the same time as Mari, but Nathaniel had brought up the subject of whether the Plain people should use tractors, and Andrew was caught in the debate. John had joined in the discussion, which was lasting far past the younger boys’ bedtimes.
She finally convinced John and James to go to sleep in her old bedroom over the porch, leaving Andrew and Nathaniel to fend for themselves. After making sure her brothers were putting themselves to bed, she wandered down the hall to her bedroom to check the clock on Andrew’s side of the bed. It was nearly eleven o’clock.
“Andrew, come to bed,” she groaned to herself, but she was determined to stay awake until he came upstairs.
Bethany brushed her hair and braided it for the night, then went back to the head of the stairs. Andrew and Nathaniel were still talking, their voices drifting up the staircase. She peeked in Mari’s door to check on her. The room was dim, but enough light filtered in the window that she could make out the form of her daughter sleeping peacefully under the quilt Rose had made. She leaned against the door frame, thinking of how blessed her life was, and how full of love.
She heard Andrew on the steps, but didn’t move until he came up behind her, peering over her shoulder at their daughter.
Bethany leaned her head against Andrew’s cheek. “You and Nathaniel talked for a long time.”
Andrew put an arm around her and drew her close. “Did we keep you awake?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“You should have gone to bed instead of waiting for me.”
“But I have something to tell you.”
The clouds that had been blocking the moon drifted away and the light filtered through the window onto Mari’s face. Bethany reached up and tugged at Andrew’s beard.
“I thought you’d like to know that you need to finish the Dawdi Haus. We’ll want to use that other bedroom soon.”
“Did you want to move into the downstairs bedroom?”
“We’ll need to.”
“What is wrong with our room?”
“Someone else needs to use it.”
Andrew stilled, then caressed her cheek with one finger. “Someone small?”
She nodded. “And probably hungry.”
“Do I need to make a cot?”
“And I need to make diapers.”
“That is the happiest news of all.” He leaned closer and kissed her.
* * *
If you enjoyed this Amish romance,
be sure to pick up these other Amish historical
romances from Jan Drexler:
The Prodigal Son Returns
A Mother for His Children
An Amish Courtship
The Amish Nanny’s Sweetheart
Find more great reads at
www.LoveInspired.com
Keep reading for an excerpt from Their Wyoming Courtship Agreement by Stacy Henrie.
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Dear Reader,
This story was inspired by an incident in my grandmother’s life.
Before any of us were born, Grandma had a sweetheart. Sometime during their college years, they lost touch. He married and raised a family.
Meanwhile, Grandma married and raised a family of her own.
Fifty years later, now both widowed, Grandma and her sweetheart attended the same wedding. His request—“Do you mind if I write to you?”—led to a renewal of their romance. Their marriage lasted ten years, until Grandma’s sweetheart passed away.
Andrew and Bethany’s story grew out of the question “What if they had been reunited sooner?” What if?
But as we know, God’s ways are not our ways. Grandma’s story happened just as it should have.
I love to hear from my readers! You can contact me through my website, www.JanDrexler.com, or on Facebook at www.Facebook.com/JanDrexlerAuthor.
May God bless you,
Jan Drexler
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Their Wyoming Courtship Agreement
by Stacy Henrie
Chapter One
Sheridan, Wyoming, April 1902
“I have two pieces of news!”
Isobel Glasen glanced up from the sewing draped over her lap as her assistant seamstress breezed into the back room of the dress shop. “What sort of news?” she asked, bending over the gown
again. The commissioned dress of red print silk would be picked up this afternoon, and Isobel needed to finish hand-stitching the black braiding along the bodice.
“First, I’ve fallen in love.” Stella Ivy sighed dreamily as she plopped into the vacant seat in front of the nearby sewing machine.
Unsure whether to groan or smile, Isobel settled for raising her eyebrows in a mild show of interest. This was not the first time Stella had declared herself in love—and Isobel suspected it would not be the last. The girl traded hearts like seasonal gowns.
Isobel didn’t fault her too much. After all, at twenty-two years old, Stella was still young with her whole life ahead of her. A life that would likely include a husband and children.
“Who is the fortunate beau this time?” Isobel asked.
The girl removed her hat from her strawberry blonde coif and smiled, her green eyes sparkling. “He’s a newly hired wrangler for the Running W ranch and his name is Franklin.”
Isobel finished one line of braiding and used the tiny scissors pinned to her shirtwaist to cut the excess thread. “When did you meet Franklin?” She couldn’t recall Stella mentioning a young man with that name last week.
“Just now.” Stella jumped up to hang her hat and coat on the hat tree.
The girl had met this boy minutes ago and was already convinced it was love? Isobel suppressed a skeptical chuckle. Not that romance couldn’t happen in such a way. It just hadn’t happened in that way for Isobel. In the past, she’d taken her time to get to know a man before choosing to risk her heart. Even then, that hadn’t lessened the reality of getting hurt.
With her thoughts focused elsewhere, she accidentally poked herself with the needle. She put her thumb to her lips to alleviate the smarting. How she wished old pains could be as easily soothed and forgotten. At least she had no fear of being hurt in the future. Her courting days were long past. She was content with her dress shop, her cozy apartment on the second floor above and the company of her beloved aunt and uncle who lived not too far from town.
“I encountered a huge puddle of mud on the walk to the shop this morning,” Stella said, her hands gesturing, animating her story. “As I was trying to figure out how to cross without getting my shoes dirty, this handsome wrangler happened by. He introduced himself and insisted he help me cross the street.”
Isobel couldn’t help a genuine smile this time, even if it was a small one. What girl could resist a gallant hero? “When will he be in town again?”
“This Saturday. He wants to take me for a buggy ride.”
Holding the next line of braiding in position, Isobel began sewing it into place. “What will Gerald think?” Stella’s last beau was the son of the bank manager.
“It hardly matters. I don’t care what he thinks anymore,” the girl replied with a sniff. “He was standing right outside the bank, waiting to talk to me, and didn’t even bother to come over to help.”
Poor Gerald. He would now join the handful of suitors who found themselves on the receiving end of Stella’s cooling infatuation. Or perhaps the real people Isobel ought to feel sorry for were Mr. and Mrs. Ivy. The couple had expressed their frustration and fears that Stella would never settle down. It was part of the reason they’d been so eager to have their daughter come work for Isobel three years ago. Not necessarily for the monetary benefits but for what they called the blessing of being around Isobel’s “mature and ladylike character.”
At the age of twenty-eight, Isobel knew that was the Ivys’ diplomatic way of saying Stella might profit from being around a spinster.
Whether their motive was to show their daughter what might befall her if she remained fickle in love or a hope that Stella would gain greater restraint and wisdom working at the dress shop, Isobel couldn’t say. Perhaps it was a bit of both.
“Which dress do you want me to work on this morning?” Stella asked, pulling Isobel’s attention to the present.
She pointed with her needle at the half-finished, black-and-white striped afternoon dress lying on top of the cutting table. “I told Mrs. Kitt that we would have it ready for her to pick up tomorrow.”
The wives and daughters of Sheridan’s elite didn’t change their gowns nearly as often as their wealthy counterparts back East did—something Isobel hadn’t minded giving up when she moved to Wyoming seven years ago. However, her customers did like to feel that they looked every bit as stylish as the rest of the country, even way out here in the shadow of the Big Horn Mountains. And her dress shop had thrived as she’d provided those fashionable gowns.
Bringing Stella on as an assistant had been a blessing for Isobel, too. Together they were able to produce nearly twice as many dresses as Isobel had by herself. So much so that a year ago she’d begun to seriously consider the idea of expanding her shop. When the building next door came up for sale, it had seemed more than fortuitous.
Isobel had been saving for months now in order to buy the building. She’d even hoped Stella’s interest in Gerald might help sway the bank manager to champion her plans, though that was less likely to happen now that the young man was no longer a suitor.
“If I hurry and finish Mrs. Kitt’s gown, can I keep working on my May Day dress?” Stella picked up the striped gown and returned to the sewing machine.
Isobel nodded. The girl had a natural knack for sewing, and her gown would surely be the envy of many at the town gathering. And since Mr. Ivy was the city council member in charge of this year’s May Day festival, Stella had talked of little else the past few weeks.
“Are you going to make yourself a new dress for the celebration?” The girl looked over her shoulder at Isobel. “A yellow one would look so lovely with your amber eyes.”
It wasn’t the first time Stella had made such an observation, nor was she the first to do so. Whitman Russell had often complimented Isobel when she’d worn yellow, even before they’d become engaged. A few years older, Whit had been handsome and successful, so she’d been inclined to believe his opinion. However, when he’d ended their engagement, Isobel vowed never to wear yellow again—and she’d held fast to that commitment.
“If I decide to attend and make a new dress, it won’t be yellow. Maybe something red, like this one.”
Stella gave her a contemplative look. “Red would be nice, too.” She returned her focus to the garment on the sewing machine. “Whatever color you pick, I think you ought to wear your hair down, Issy. If mine was half as thick and pretty as yours, I’d never wear my hair up.”
Another style choice that was out of the question. Beau Doyle, Isobel’s second fiancé, had preferred it when she wore her hair down. He’d grown up out West and didn’t put much stock in anything stylish—be it hair or clothes. Isobel had fallen for him nevertheless, only to have her half-patched heart shattered all over again when Beau asked for his ring back. That had been six years ago and she hadn’t worn her hair down in public since.
After snipping the last bit of thread from the braiding, Isobel held up the dress. It was simple yet elegant. She smiled and rose to her feet as something else Stella had said earlier repeated through her mind.
“What was your other piece of news?” Isobel placed the finished gown on the table.
“Hmm?”
“You said you had two pieces of news.”
Stella spun in her chair. “You’re right! In all the excitement of telling you about Franklin, I almost forgot.” She paused, likely for dramatic effect, then announced in an incredulous tone, “Gerald was waiting to tell me that the building next door has been sold.”
“What?” Isobel’s joy over the completion of another beautiful gown snapped. Sharp disappointment rushed in to take its place. “It’s already been sold?”
“I’m afraid so.” Stella climbed to her feet and came to put her arm around Isobel’s shoulders. “I’m sorry, Issy. I know you wanted to buy it.”
Isobel glan
ced down through tear-brimmed eyes at the red dress. “I was sure that, once we completed the spring and summer orders, I’d have enough money.” She ran her hand over the silk material, her dreams of a larger dress shop tearing apart like tattered pieces of fabric. “Has the new owner moved in?”
“That’s what Gerald said.”
Willing back her tears, Isobel lifted her chin. “Then I ought to go next door and welcome him or her.” It was the proper, ladylike thing to do, no matter how much it hurt to give up on her original plan. And a lady was what her late mother had raised Isobel to be.
You must embody those refined qualities, my dear Isobel. For that is the only way you’ll survive and thrive in a world that measures a woman’s worth far differently than God does.
The memory elicited another ripple of pain, both from the accuracy of her mother’s words and the grief Isobel still felt at times since Lydia Glasen’s passing eight years earlier. Now was not the time to dwell on the past, though. Tucking the grief away, Isobel placed her hat on top of her dark brown hair and slipped on her coat. It might be spring, but it was still chilly outside.
“I’ll be back,” she said as she moved to the door.
“You’re a better woman than me, Isobel.” Stella folded her arms and leaned back against the cutting table. “I’d likely march into Gerald’s father’s office and demand he rethink the sale.”
Isobel allowed a soft laugh. If she’d had any siblings, she would have enjoyed having a younger sister like Stella. “I can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed my mind, but it would accomplish little. I didn’t have the money in time. This new owner did. There’s nothing more to it than that.”
“I still wish it had worked out for you.”
“Thanks, Stella.” Her young friend’s support meant a great deal.
She walked into the dress shop’s main room and paused to angle the dressed mannequin in the picture window before stepping outside. A brisk breeze swished her light blue skirt around her shoes. A stab of frustration pricked Isobel anew as she surveyed the building next door. But, as she’d told Stella, there was nothing more to do but accept things and be neighborly.