by Emma Miller
“I believed that, too. Once, a long time ago.” Honor gripped the back of a chair. “But then he walked out on me nine years ago.” Against her will, tears filled her eyes. “The morning we were to be married.”
* * *
As soon as Luke walked into the barn, he could tell where the feed room was by the muffled shouts and thuds. He found his way past a dappled gray horse, a placid Jersey cow, stray hens and a pen of sheep to a door with a wooden bar across it. He swung the bar up, and the door burst open. Out spilled a slight, sandy-haired, teenage girl with tear-streaked cheeks.
“They locked me in again!” she declared. She seemed about to elaborate on her plight when she suddenly saw him and stopped short in her tracks, eyes wide. “Atch!” she cried and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“I’m Luke,” he said. “Honor sent me to let you out.” That wasn’t exactly true, but close enough without going into a detailed explanation. “Are you all right?”
“They are bad children! Bad!” she flung back without answering his question. “And that oldest is the worst. Every day, they lock me in the feed room.” She thrust out her lower lip, sniffed and began to weep again. “I want to go home.”
“Don’t cry,” Luke said. “You say they lock you in the feed room every day? So why...why did you give them the opportunity to lock you in? Again and again?”
“Aagschmiert. Tricked. I was tricked.” She wiped her nose with the back of the sleeve of her oversize barn coat. “And it’s dark in there. I hate the dark.”
“Ya.” Luke nodded. “I’m not overly fond of it myself. At least I wouldn’t be if someone locked me in.” He reached out and removed a large spiderweb from the girl’s headscarf.
She shuddered when she saw it. “Wildheet,” she insisted. “Wild, bad kinner.” She pointed at a chicken. “See? They let the chickens out of their pen, too. And yesterday it was the cow. Everything, they let loose. Me, they lock in.”
Luke pressed his lips tightly together and tried not to laugh. “As I said, I’m Luke. I came to make repairs to the house. And who are you?”
“Greta. Silas’s niece. From Ohio.” Another tear rolled down her cheek. “But going home, I think. Soon.”
“Well, Greta from Ohio, best we get back in the house before they send someone else out in the rain to see if I’m locked up somewhere, too.”
Still muttering under her breath about bad children, Greta led the way through the cluttered barn and, hunching her back against the downpour, made a dash for the house.
They went inside, leaving their wet coats and his hat hanging on hooks in the laundry room, and made a beeline for the woodstove in the kitchen. Greta’s teeth were chattering. Luke had the shivers, but he clamped his teeth together and refused to give in to the chill. He put his hands out to the radiating heat, grateful for the semidry kitchen, and glanced sideways at Honor.
In the time since he’d gone to the barn and returned, she’d twisted up her hair and covered it with a woolen scarf. Her plain blue dress had seen better days and her apron was streaked with flour and mud. Her black wool stockings were faded; her slender feet were laced into high black leather shoes. Honor had always been a small woman, and now she was even more slender and more graceful. Life and motherhood had pared away the girlish roundness of her face, leaving her stunning to his eye, more beautiful than he’d dreamed.
“Again?” she said to the girl. “You let them lock you in again?”
Greta began to sniffle.
“None of that,” Honor said, not unkindly. “Go change into dry things and then find the boys. They need a bath and clean clothes.”
“The wash is still damp,” Greta protested. “I hung it in the attic like you said, but it’s still wet.”
“Then bathe them and put them into their nightshirts. I won’t have them running around the house in those muddy clothes.”
“They won’t listen to me,” Greta muttered. “Justice won’t get in the tub and the little one will run off as soon as I turn my back to him.”
“Never you mind, child,” Sara said. “I’ll come along and lend a hand. I’ve bathed my share of unwilling kinner. And, I promise you, they won’t get the best of me.” She fixed Luke with a determined gaze. “Honor and Luke have some matters to discuss in private, anyway. Don’t you?”
He nodded, feeling a little intimidated by Sara. She reminded him of his late mother.
“I wrote to you,” he said when they were alone, as he held out his cold fingers to the warm woodstove. “I wrote every month since I heard that...that your husband passed. You refused my letters and they were returned.” He searched her face, looking for some hint that she still cared for him...that she could forgive him. “I apologized for—”
“I didn’t want to hear what you had to say then or now,” she answered brusquely.
He exhaled. “Honor, I was wrong. I regret what I did, but I can’t change the past.” Only a few feet separated them. He wanted to go to her, to clasp her hands in his. But he didn’t; he stood where he was. “I’m sorry, Honor. What more can I say?”
“That you’ll go back to Kansas and leave me in peace.”
“I can’t do that.” He gestured to the nearest leak in the ceiling. “You need help. And I’m here to do whatever you need. I’m a good carpenter. I can fix whatever’s broken.”
“Can you?” she asked softly.
And, for just a second, he saw moisture gleam in her large blue eyes. Emotion pricked the back of his throat. They weren’t talking about the house anymore. They were talking about their hearts.
“I can try,” he said softly.
She shook her head. “It’s over, Luke. Whatever we had, whatever I felt for you, it’s gone.”
He stared at the floor. Despite her words, he still felt a connection to Honor. And he had a sense that what she was saying wasn’t necessarily how she felt. So he took a leap of faith. He lifted his head to look into her eyes. “I’ll be here first thing tomorrow morning with my tools. I know you hate me, but—”
“I don’t hate you, Luke.”
“Good, then we’ve a place to start. As I said, I’ll be here early in the morning to start patching your roof.”
“Patching won’t do,” she said, looking up and gesturing. “Look at this. The whole thing needs replacing.”
“We’ll see. If it can’t be patched, I’ll find a crew and we’ll put on a new roof.”
She faced him squarely, arms folded, chin up. “I want no favors from you.”
“Then you’ll have none. You can pay me whatever the going hourly wage is. I’ll start in this kitchen and go from there. I’ll mend whatever needs doing.”
She pursed her lips, lips he’d once kissed and wanted desperately to kiss again. “You will, will you? And what if I lock the door on you?”
“You won’t.”
Darker blue clouds swirled in the depths of her beautiful eyes. “And what makes you so certain of that?”
“Because you’ll think better of it. You didn’t expect to see me here, and you’re still angry. I get that. But you always had good sense, Honor. When you consider what’s best for you and your children, you’ll decide I’m the lesser of two evils.”
“Which is?”
“Putting up with me doing your repairs is better than living with a leaky roof and a fallen windmill.” He smiled at her. “And you will agree to let me do it. Because turning me away isn’t smart, and you’ve always been the smartest woman I’ve ever known.”
Chapter Three
Honor pulled back the curtain and peered out the kitchen window. Maybe he won’t come, she told herself. By this morning, he’s realized he doesn’t belong here. He’ll give up and go back to Kansas. Go somewhere. She certainly didn’t want him here in Kent County. She didn’t want to take the chance of running into him at Byler’s Store or on the street in Do
ver. Luke Weaver was out of her life, and there was no way that she would ever let him back in again. She couldn’t.
“Mam!” Elijah wailed. “My turn. My turn!”
“It’s not!” Justice countered. “He went first. I want to feed the lamb. I want to feed—” with each word, her middle son’s voice grew louder until he was shouting “—the lamb!”
“You already did. He did,” Tanner said. “Besides, he’s too little. They’re both too little. It’s my job to—”
“Please stop,” Honor admonished as she turned away from the window, letting the curtain fall. It was foolish to keep looking for Luke. He wasn’t coming. She didn’t want him to come. She didn’t know why was she looking for him. “I warned the three of you about fighting over the bottle.” She crossed the kitchen and took the bottle out of Tanner’s hands. “If you can’t get along, none of you get to feed her. Go and wash your hands. With soap.”
The children scattered. The lamb bleated and wagged her stub of a tail. The old wooden playpen that had once confined her oldest son had been pressed into service as a temporary pen for the orphan lamb that had been silly enough to come into the world the previous night. It wasn’t really an orphan, but the mother had refused to let it nurse, so it was either tend to it or see it die.
And the truth was that Honor had a soft spot for animals. She couldn’t bear to see them in distress. She had to do whatever she could to save them. And the barn was too cold for a smaller-than-usual lamb with a careless mother. So it was added to the confusion that already reigned in her kitchen. It wasn’t a good option, but she could think of no other.
Honor held the bottle at an angle, letting the lamb suck and wondering whether it would be possible to put a diaper on the fluffy animal. Probably not, she decided. She’d just have to change the straw bedding multiple times a day. At least here in her kitchen, near the woodstove, she wouldn’t have to worry about keeping the little creature warm. And the rain had stopped, assuring that both animal and children wouldn’t have to endure trickles of water dripping on their heads. “Thank You, God,” she murmured.
There was a clatter of boots on the stairs and the three boys spilled into the kitchen again. “We’re hungry,” Tanner declared. He held up his damp hands to show that he’d washed.
Greta wandered into the room behind them, baby Anke in her arms. Anke giggled and threw up her hands for Honor to take her.
“Just a minute, kuche,” Honor said. “I have to finish giving the lamb her breakfast.”
“I want breakfatht,” Elijah reminded her.
Greta had made a huge batch of oatmeal earlier, but she’d burned it. It wasn’t ruined, simply not pleasant. Raisins and cinnamon could make it edible, Honor supposed. But then she weakened. “I’ll make you egg and biscuit,” she offered.
“With scrapple,” Justice urged. “Scrapple.”
Justice liked to say the word. He didn’t like scrapple, wouldn’t eat meat of any kind, but the other boys did.
The other two took up the chant. “Scrapple, scrapple!”
Justice grinned. Sometimes, looking at him, Honor wondered just what would become of him when he was grown. He was a born mischief maker and unlikely to become a bishop. That was for certain.
The lamb drained the last of the formula from the bottle, butted her small head against the back of Honor’s hand and kicked up her heels.
“She wants more,” Tanner proclaimed, but Honor shook her head. Lambs, like children, often wanted to eat more than was good for them. She went to the sink and washed her hands, then looked around for a clean hand towel.
“All in the attic drying,” Greta supplied. “Still wet.”
Honor prayed for patience, dried her hands on her apron and turned on the flame under the cast-iron frying pan. “Get the eggs for me, will you, Greta?” she asked. That was a request she regretted a moment later when the girl stumbled, sending the egg carton flying out of her hand and bouncing off the back of a chair. Eggs splattered everywhere and the boys shrieked with excitement. Anke wailed.
Greta stood there and stared at the mess, looking as if she was about to burst into tears. “It was the cat’s fault,” she insisted. “Or maybe I slipped on a wet spot on the floor.”
One remaining egg teetered on the edge of the table. Justice made a dive for it and missed. The egg rolled off. Tanner grabbed it in midair and the egg cracked between his fingers. The cat darted toward one of the broken eggs, only to be confronted by the dog. The cat hissed, and the dog began to bark, barely drowning out the shouts of the children.
“Clean it up, please,” Honor told Greta. “And stop crying. It’s only eggs.” She scooped her daughter out of Greta’s arms as a loud knock came at the back door. “Ne,” she muttered, closing her eyes for a moment. “It can’t be.” Maybe it’s someone from Sara’s, come to tell me that Luke changed his mind, she thought as she pushed open the back door.
But there he was, taller and handsomer than he’d seemed last night. He had just shaved; an Amish man didn’t grow a beard until he married. She could smell the scent of his shaving cream. His blond hair, showing from beneath the too-small hat, was as yellow as June butter. She drew in a deep breath.
“Are you going to let me in?” he asked. And then that familiar grin started at the left corner of his mouth and spread, as sweet and slow as warm honey, across his face. “You look surprised to see me, Honor. I told you I’d be here.”
Behind her, the kitchen chaos continued: Greta whining, the boys quarreling, the cat hissing at the dog and the lamb bleating. For a few seconds, she felt as if she were trapped in a block of ice. She couldn’t let him in. There was no way she could invite him into her house...into her life. She’d lived through Luke Weaver once. She could never do it again. She’d crack and break like those eggs on the floor if she tried.
“Honor?” His green eyes seemed to dare her to turn him away. Or were they daring her to let him in?
She turned and walked slowly back to the kitchen, where the frying pan was smoking. Justice had pulled off his shoes and was dancing barefoot in a mess of egg yolk and crushed shell, and Elijah was trying to climb into the lamb’s playpen.
“Turn off the burner!” Honor called to Greta. “The pan’s too hot. There’s smoke...” She trailed off and did it herself.
Patience, she cautioned herself. If she wasn’t gentle with Greta, the girl would run weeping to her bed and she’d be no help all the rest of the day. Not that she was much help, but at least she was another pair of hands. And there were never enough hands to do all that was needed in the house or outside on the farm.
She thrust the baby into Greta’s arms. “Put her in her high chair and give her a biscuit. Break it up, or she’ll try to get it all in her mouth at once.”
She realized that Justice and Tanner were staring at something behind her. She glanced back and saw that Luke had followed her into the kitchen. A leather tool belt—weighed down with a carpenter’s hammer, screwdriver and pliers—was slung over one shoulder. In his other hand he carried a metal toolbox. What was he doing in here? She’d closed the door on him, hadn’t she? She opened her mouth to ask him what he thought he was doing, but clamped it shut just as quickly. She’d left the door open behind her...an invitation.
“Is that coffee I smell?” he asked.
“If you want some, pour it yourself. Cups are up there.” She pointed to a line of mugs hanging on hooks.
“You remember that I like mine sweet.” His tone was teasing.
“Cream is in the refrigerator. Sugar on the table.” She turned her back on him, refusing to acknowledge his charm. She waved the smoke away from the stove.
“Honey?”
She snapped around, a hot retort ready to spring from her throat. But then she realized he was grinning at her and pointing to the plastic bee bottle on top of the refrigerator. Honey. Luke had always preferred honey
in his coffee. She retrieved Elijah from the playpen, saving the lamb from certain destruction. “Ne,” she admonished. “You cannot ride her. She’s not a pony.”
“What if she was a pig?” Justice asked, leaning on the playpen. “You can ride a pig.”
“You can’t ride pigs!” Tanner corrected.
“Hungry,” Elijah reminded her.
“Justice, put your boots on. The floor’s cold.”
“Once I fix those holes, it will be a lot warmer.” Luke squirted honey into his coffee. “I need to get up on the roof now that the rain has passed. If it can’t be patched, I’ll have to look into getting a roofing crew together.”
“Ask Freeman at the mill.” Honor turned the flame on under the frying pan again and went to the refrigerator for scrapple. “Tanner, run out to the barn and see if you can find more eggs. Greta, go with him. You carry the eggs, and don’t let him lock you in anywhere.” She turned her gaze back to Luke. “James Hostetler has the best contracting bunch, but he’s busy for months. I already tried him. If anyone is available and has the skill to hold a hammer, Freeman will know it.”
“Freeman Kemp? I know him,” he said, taking a seat at the table. “Did know him.”
She turned her back on Luke again. She felt almost breathless with anger or something else, something she didn’t want to confront. “Ya, Freeman owns the mill, so he’s usually there.”
“That’s right. I forgot his family has the mill. I’ll stop and talk with him on the way back to Sara’s.”
“If you’re stopping there, you might as well pick up some chicken feed and save me the trip. I’ll give you the money. That one can’t drive a horse and wagon.” She nodded in Greta’s direction. “She’s afraid of horses,” she said, managing to keep any disapproval from her tone. She needed to work on judging people. But who ever heard of an Amish girl who was afraid of horses?
With the pan the right temperature, Honor added thick slices of scrapple. She tried to concentrate on what she was doing, because what sense would it make to burn herself making breakfast through foolishness over a man she’d put aside long ago? Rather, one who had put her aside. She winced inwardly. The hurt was still there, mended over with strong thread, almost forgotten, but still having the power to cause her pain if she dwelled on it.