by Jan Drexler
“He’s a lot younger than I am. Besides, I doubt if Salome wants me for a daughter-in-law.” Elizabeth shuddered, remembering the tone of Salome’s voice when she had mentioned that very thing to Mamm not too long ago. But Salome had been right to let the idea go. She would never be good enough to satisfy that woman.
Ruby tapped her forefinger on her lips, thinking. “Aaron Zook is single, and any friend of Jonas might be a good prospect.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together and shook her head. “If I ever marry again, my husband will have to be a member of the church. I’ll not make that mistake again.”
“Perhaps Solomon Mast is the answer. We need to get to know him better, but he seems like a good Amish man. Solid and secure.”
Elizabeth turned her cup between her hands. The warmth felt good on her suddenly chilled fingers. Solomon was handsome and outgoing, but he probably wouldn’t look twice at a woman like her. She certainly wasn’t the new wife he would be looking for.
“He’ll most likely snatch up some pretty young girl. I don’t think he’d be interested in me.”
Ruby sipped her coffee. “I’ll keep looking. There has to be a man out there for you somewhere.”
Elizabeth reached across the table and took Ruby’s hand. “Don’t. I’m not planning to marry again. I don’t ever want to be at the mercy of another man.”
“Not all men are like Reuben,” Ruby said, her voice low. “There are good men too.”
Elizabeth’s eyes filled as Ruby squeezed her hand. She didn’t deserve a good man.
By Wednesday, Aaron had the wooden leg fashioned to his satisfaction. He smoothed his hand along the straight length, checking for any stray splinters. It still looked more like a piece of wood than a leg, but it should do. He had hollowed the top like a bowl to give his bad leg a secure rest, then he had whittled the remaining log down until it resembled a peg. Carving an actual leg with a foot had been his first vision, but that was beyond his skills. And he appreciated one advantage to this design. It was lighter than if he had tried to duplicate his missing limb’s shape.
Since the day was overcast and drizzly after a night of heavy rain, Jonas had offered to drive him to Dan Zook’s in the afternoon. The cool, damp air made Aaron’s leg ache.
“I’m happy you will finally be getting to know Dan,” Jonas said, breaking the silence of the quiet drive.
“I didn’t meet him at church, did I?”
Jonas shook his head. “They had some illness among the children in both families last Sunday.” He grinned. “But I told him about you, and he’s convinced that you’re related to each other.”
“I doubt that we are. Grandpop told stories about a brother, but no other kin.”
“So, you don’t know your grandfather’s family?”
“Never met them, and from his stories about his pa, I’m not certain I’d want to.”
“Family is important.” Jonas leaned back in the wagon seat. “Even when I was out East with the army, I knew my parents and the rest of my family were keeping me in their prayers. And home . . .”
His voice faded. He swallowed and then continued.
“Coming home wasn’t to see the buildings and the farm, but to see the people. Katie, of course, but also my parents, my brother and sisters, the church family. That’s what makes a home.” Jonas turned the horse onto another road that angled toward the east from the one they had been on. “I know you lost your house in Tennessee, and your father and grandfather. That makes it even more important to find any other family. What if Dan turns out to be a cousin you never knew you had?”
Jonas’s words brought back memories of the events that had propelled Aaron into joining the army. Grandpop had been killed trying to defend his home and property from a Yankee raiding party, and then Pa, never in his right mind since Ma had passed on, had been killed early in the war, taking a foolhardy chance trying to avenge Grandpop. With their deaths, the last vestige of home was destroyed. He was alone and adrift in the world.
Aaron pulled his mind back from the edge of that dark abyss. “My family is gone. Clinging to some imagined sense of attachment to a stranger isn’t going to change that.”
“But what if it isn’t imagined? What if it’s true?”
Aaron snorted. “They’re still strangers, ain’t they?”
Jonas whistled a bar of “Dixie,” then grinned at him. “They’re only strangers until you meet them.”
The roof of a large barn rose above the trees, and before long Jonas drove the horse into the barnyard. The house was nearly identical to the Weavers’ home, painted white to match the barn. A garden had been planted between the house and the road, and across the farm lane was a smaller building that matched the barn and house, with a sign over the door. The words were German, but Aaron recognized the name. It was the same as his own. His mouth went dry. Knowing there were other Zooks around was one thing, but reading his name on the sign . . . he couldn’t deny that it felt good to see it.
A tall man that looked close to Aaron’s age came out of the shop to greet them. He spoke to Jonas in Pennsylvania Dutch, his words running together too quickly for Aaron to follow, but his eyes often drifted to Aaron as he spoke. Those eyes . . . they were Grandpop’s eyes.
When Dan spoke to Aaron, it was in Englisch. “Jonas tells me you know some harness making.”
“A bit. My grandfather taught me how to repair our mule’s harness when I was a youngster, but not much else.”
“Come into the shop. We’ll see what we can do.”
Jonas took the wooden leg and they both followed Dan into the harness shop. Aaron breathed in the various scents of leather, tannin, and neat’s-foot oil. Scents that were sharp and familiar. If he closed his eyes, he could be back in the barn in Tennessee, watching Grandpop work the oil into the old mule’s harness.
Dan motioned for Jonas to set the wooden leg on his workbench. “Let’s see what we have here.”
He examined the leg, using his hands to explore every inch from the supporting saddle to the peg leg.
“That’s fine work. Not a splinter anywhere.” Dan looked at Aaron. “Did you have any ideas about how to hold it on?”
“I modeled this after one I saw while I was still in the hospital. The man had a cloth belt with laces that fastened around his leg above the knee, then leather straps on either side sewn to that. The straps were fastened to the wooden leg near the top.”
Dan nodded. “We have a piece of canvas we can use for the belt, and the leather straps should be easy enough. Will you be able to work on it with me so we can be certain it fits properly?”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“A few days.” Dan started sorting through a bundle of leather scraps, then grinned at Aaron. “It will give us an opportunity to get acquainted and figure out how we’re related.”
Jonas returned home, leaving Aaron with Dan as they got to work. As Dan talked, his face was animated. Every expression reminded Aaron of Grandpop, as if he were with a younger version of the man who had raised him. The man who had refused to talk about his father but had entertained the young Aaron with tales of his boyhood escapades during the quiet winter evenings by the fire.
“Tell me what you know about your Zook family,” Dan said as he sorted out straps that were approximately the same length. “Where do they live?”
“Grandpop said he grew up in Pennsylvania, but I don’t know if any of his family still lives there. He had no brothers or sisters.”
“Do you know where in Pennsylvania?”
“All I know is that it was in Lancaster County, but it was a long time ago. Grandpop was near ninety years old when he was killed, and he said he left home when he was barely old enough to grow a beard.”
Dan took an awl from his workbench and started tapping out the stitching guides along the edge of the leather. Aaron took a second strap and another awl and followed suit.
“Dawdi—my grandfather—was about the same age as him,
then. He passed on last fall.” He measured out some thread and started coating it with beeswax. “My datt and stepmother still live in Lancaster County, but in his last letter Datt wrote of moving out here now that Dawdi is gone. He would know more than I do about the Zook relations. We’ll have to ask him when they arrive next month.”
“So, you and your brother moved out here together, but your father stayed in Pennsylvania. What made you decide to move to Ohio?”
“We had heard about the good farms out here and talked about making the move, but then Datt married a widow with her own children, and Ephraim and I decided it was time to head west. Tobias and Elise, our stepbrother and stepsister, needed Datt’s attention after being without a father for several years.” Dan took his strap and Aaron’s and started sewing them together with the waxed thread. “We’ve been here for six years. The land is better than the farm in Pennsylvania, and we’ve got a good Amish community here, so Datt decided to join us.”
“You must be a close family.” A memory trickled into Aaron’s mind. A mother. A father. Grandpop. Happier times.
“I suppose you could say that,” Dan said, concentrating on his stitching. “We write every week even though we haven’t been able to visit the rest of the family since we moved out here.” He grinned at Aaron. “It will be good to see them all again.”
Aaron watched Dan finish the seam, his strong hands tightening each stitch before going on to the next one. In profile, the resemblance to Grandpop was even stronger. It was possible they were related, but what difference would that make? Dan didn’t need him. He had a family that he loved. He didn’t need a tagalong shirttail cousin trying to fit himself into a home here.
He would move on when the time came.
Solomon Mast rose early on Friday morning. After two days of steady rain, he frowned at the clear light of sunrise as he stood on his front porch with a cup of black coffee in his hand. The rain had kept folks home and had given him time to plan his next move. The better weather might bring unwanted callers.
Patterson had built his house on the highest point of his land, giving Solomon a good view of the valley to the south and the creek that wound past the tidy farms. Weaver’s Creek, they called it. He drained the cup of coffee and grimaced at the bitterness. He spat out the coffee grounds that had been mingled with the last mouthful.
When he had stopped by the land office in Millersburg earlier in the month, he had spent hours examining the map of the county and had settled on German Township because most of the farmers were Amish. Solomon liked the Amish he had run into since he left the Shenandoah Valley two years ago. They were as peaceful as the Mennonites he had grown up around, but much more placid. Like sheep, they didn’t act until the entire community agreed on a matter. And like sheep, they were trusting of anyone as long as he acted like one of them.
Sunday, his first introduction to the folks of Weaver’s Creek, had gone well. They had been friendly and accepting, just as he had expected. They welcomed him as one of their own, but he hadn’t missed the clucks of disapproval when old Abraham Weaver had inspected the red trim on his new buggy.
“Buggies are new around here,” he had said, “but that red trim stands out. You say it’s allowed in your old district?”
Solomon had painted over the glossy red paint with dull black on Monday morning.
He sat in Abel Patterson’s willow rocking chair and leaned back, his gaze on the land across the Millersburg Road. Hearing that the farm belonged to the widow Elizabeth Kaufman hadn’t surprised him. He had learned that information at the land office. But finding out that she was young and lovely was a welcome bit of information he had tucked away. He had taken the Patterson place because of the widow across the road, and her beauty just made his plans more desirable.
Settling back in the rocking chair, Solomon rested his heels on the porch rail. The widow’s land was one hundred sixty acres, divided into two parcels. Added to the eighty acres he got from Patterson, he was on his way to a respectable-sized farm, but just a small place compared to Abraham Weaver’s holdings. The number of acres in the Weavers’ names had turned his gut into a twisting mass as he had traced the borders on the map. He needed that land. It should be his. It would be his. His heels thudded on the porch floor as he stood to get another look at his neighbor’s land.
Patience. He batted at the word as if it were a wasp circling his head. Patience? He had no time for patience. The land was his.
He took a deep breath, his gaze still on the land across the road. No mistakes this time. Move slow. Don’t rush. Make them trust you.
Movement on the road to the east of the Patterson place drew his gaze. A spring wagon pulled by a single horse. A young man and an older woman. He watched the horse turn into his farm lane.
“Callers.” The very thing he had expected when the morning had dawned so fine. He turned around and cracked open the front door. “Dulcey!”
The young woman appeared in the hall leading to the back of the house, her dark skin blending into the shadowed interior of the house.
“Get yourself down into the cellar and stay put. Someone is coming and I don’t want them to see you yet.”
The girl disappeared like a shadow and Solomon closed the door. He shook his arms, letting his hands hang loose for a moment, then took a deep breath. As he let it out, he stepped into the man his visitors expected to see. Well-to-do Amishman Solomon Mast, new to the community and pleased to be part of it.
The young man driving the rig had a fair complexion with pink skin that looked prone to sunburn. The woman with him looked old enough to be his mother. Solomon searched through the faces in his memory. Sally? Sarah? Not quite.
The woman waved to him as the young man brought the wagon to a stop at the bottom of the porch steps.
“I’m glad we found you at home,” she called, rising to her feet before the wagon came to a complete halt.
With the sound of her grating voice, the name came to him.
“Salome Beiler, isn’t it?” Solomon stepped off the porch to help her step out of the wagon. He glanced at the driver. “And Levi? Did I remember correctly?”
Salome’s smile was broad. “You did. Levi is my son. I wanted to call on you earlier this week, but the weather didn’t allow it.”
“Won’t you come in? I have coffee on the stove.”
“Ach, ne.” Salome waved him off. “I know you’re living alone, so I brought some things over for you.” She signaled Levi and he jumped down from the wagon and brought a basket from the rear. “Only a few baked goods and a pot of soup. Just enough to give you some of the comforts of home.”
“I appreciate it,” Solomon said, reaching for the basket. The fragrance of freshly baked bread drifted through the morning air.
“Levi can take it into the kitchen for you.” Salome peered around him to the front door. “And it wouldn’t be any trouble for me to fix a fresh pot of coffee for you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Solomon said.
As he took the basket from Levi, Salome slipped past him and started up the porch steps.
Levi gave him a sheepish grin and shrugged his shoulders. “Very few folks find it easy to keep Mother from extending hospitality when she sets her mind to it.”
Solomon fought to keep his face pleasant. “What a charming trait, and so appropriate for a woman of her position.”
At Levi’s raised eyebrows, Solomon mentally gave himself a kick. No Amishman talked like that. He took the basket into the house, Levi following him. Salome was in the front room.
“Abel Patterson left all of his belongings?” she asked.
“He was in a hurry and sold it all to me.” He pushed past Salome, hoping Dulcey had followed his instructions and left no evidence of her presence. “The kitchen is this way.”
As he set the basket on the table, Salome took charge. Whisking off the covering towel, she brought out two loaves of bread, a pie, and a covered iron pot wrapped in a cloth. She unwrapped th
e pot and set it on the stove, then stirred the morning’s fire and put more sticks on to bring it up. She moved the coffeepot to the front of the stove and opened the lid, peering into the dark interior.
“Tsk, tsk.” She shook her head and poured the remainder of the contents into the slop bucket. “I’ll make some fresh coffee and we can visit while we have some pie.” She turned to Solomon. “I hope you like peach pie. I made it with some preserves from last summer. Now sit down and we’ll have a nice visit to get acquainted.”
Solomon’s smile was genuine as he took a seat at the kitchen table next to a resigned Levi. He might not have wanted callers this morning, but Salome Beiler was just the type of person to give him the information he needed without even realizing what she was doing.
He gave Salome his most charming wink and picked up his fork as she set a plate in front of him. “Now then, tell me all about my new neighbors.” He cut the point off the triangle of pie. “Start with the Weavers.”
As he listened to Salome talk, he savored the sweet peach syrup and flaky pie crust. Yes, Salome was a perfect fit for his plans.
5
A week after his first day of working with Dan Zook, Aaron strapped on his new wooden leg, ready to begin his new life. He stood next to his bed, testing the weight on his leg. The stump was still tender, but the pad Lydia had made for him helped distribute the pressure. He took a step, adjusted the laces on the cloth foundation, then took another careful step. Finally, he straightened up, stretching to his full height.
He grinned, catching sight of himself in the small mirror hanging on the washstand. He looked normal again. After nearly a month in Weaver’s Creek, eating Lydia’s good cooking and working outdoors, he was gaining strength. His color was better, his cheeks ruddy above his red beard rather than pale. The new leg would take some getting used to, and he’d need to use a cane to help with balance for the rest of his days, but for the first time since that fateful battle near Richmond, he could look himself in the eye.