Autumn Winds

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Ben sighed sadly. A tear had trickled down each of Rhoda’s cheeks and he didn’t dare wipe them away. “I wouldn’t lie to ya, Rhoda. My mamm and dat fooled a lot of folks into thinkin’ they were newlyweds well into their marriage—and jah, part of it was their attitude, their ability to enjoy life even though they had to work from sunup to sundown to keep us all clothed and fed.”

  Rhoda planted her fists against her hips then, challenging him with another frown. “I don’t believe ya! You’re sayin’ that on account of how Mamma sweet-talked ya first, and—and ya think she’s got money—you’re hitchin’ your wagon to her star!” she blurted. “Is that how it goes?”

  Ben removed his hat to sweep his hair back from his face. “Do I impress ya as a fella who’d chase after a woman so he could live off her?” he demanded in a low voice. “That hurts, Rhoda, to think ya see me in such a way.”

  He stepped farther away from her, thinking fast. Trying to remain rational . . . knowing Miriam and Rachel would eventually be hearing Rhoda’s version of this story. “Ya better leave now—or I will. There’s gettin’ to be too many reasons for not stayin’ in this wee little room together.”

  Rhoda swiped at her face, fighting a crying spell. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—ya got me all ferhoodled, sayin’ ya were thirty-five.” Her voice sounded raw with disappointment as the truth settled over all the dreams she’d been weaving. “I can’t believe you’re only five years younger than Mamma! She’s so much older than you in so many ways—”

  “We always see our parents as old, Rhoda,” Ben replied with a rueful smile. How could he prove his point without making her feel even worse? “I know how it hurts to have somebody turn ya down,” he murmured. “When I was about your age, I was courtin’ a girl—real serious about settlin’ down with her because she was just perfect for me. Next thing I heard around town, she was marryin’ a fella who’d come into some farmland and a house when his dat died.” He shrugged, not knowing what else to do.

  Rhoda turned away, covering her face with her hands. “I’m soundin’ like a biddy hen, peckin’ at ya,” she said in a ragged voice. “I didn’t mean to—oh, I’d best be on my way before I do anythin’ else stupid. What would a fella like you possibly see in me?”

  Rhoda hurried down the stairs then, the sounds of her sobs echoing in the shop below before she slammed the outside door.

  Ben slumped, wishing he’d said kinder, more comforting words . . . wondering what Rhoda would tell her mamm, and if there might be any backlash from this little conversation.

  Here less than two days and already ya broke somebody’s heart. You’ve got to do better if ya think Miriam’ll turn down other fellas, more established, in favor of settlin’ for you.

  Miriam gazed into the moonlit night from her upstairs window, not really chaperoning Rhoda from afar yet watching, all the same. What a day they’d all had! She was exhausted and three o’clock would come too soon—not to mention a big order for breakfast rolls and pastries to be served at a retreat for some of the department heads at the college in Warrensburg. If Hiram had any idea how much the Sweet Seasons business had expanded beyond the Plain communities of Willow Ridge, Morning Star, and New Haven, he’d be taking her down a peg or two.

  Puh! His own business depends on buyers from all over the country! Don’t be thinkin’ ya have to remain such a small, local shop—especially with winter comin’ on, cuttin’ down on the tourist business.

  No doubt in her mind the bishop wasn’t finished coming after her, finding ways to steer her toward his own upkeep and family concerns. Had Ben not been resting against that apple tree, what might Hiram have done? Her shoulders still felt sore from where he’d grabbed her this afternoon.

  The sound of sobbing came through her closed window, and here came Rhoda down the driveway, mopping her face while she walked at a fast, stiff gait toward the house. What had Ben Hooley done to her? Had he gotten caught up in Rhoda’s big blue eyes and the wishful look she’d worn ever since she’d met him? Had he behaved in a way that dishonored her daughter—

  Just as Hiram’s behavior dishonors you!

  Or had Rhoda been the one to start the sparks flying?

  Miriam sighed, knowing this night wasn’t nearly over yet, even though she needed her sleep. It broke her heart to see her girl as upset and unsettled as she’d been of late. She headed down the hallway, praying for words of comfort to come out instead of anything that might sound judgmental or nosy.

  “Rhoda!” she murmured as her daughter topped the stairs. “What’s happened, honey-bug? Can ya tell me about it so’s we both won’t lie awake all night?”

  Rhoda stepped away, her bitter expression clear even in the shadowy hallway. “Ben says he’s thirty-five, Mamma! Does that make ya happy?”

  Before Miriam could figure out the story that must have led to such a sharp-edged remark, Rhoda slipped into her room and shut the door. The lock snicked.

  Ben must’ve given her a talkin’-to about bein’ too old . . . even though we all know couples with fourteen years between ’em.

  And if that’s what had happened, Rhoda would someday realize Ben Hooley had done her a big favor, setting her straight with tough talk. She, like every other person on God’s green Earth, had to learn the hard way that life wasn’t always fair. Things didn’t always work out the way you saw them in your dreams. Goodness knows she herself had learned that lesson plenty of times over the years.

  Miriam chuckled. Why was she smiling in the darkness?

  Thirty-five! Who’d have thought that?

  Chapter 10

  Early Monday morning, Miriam scraped the sides of the crockery bowl she held, stirring the dense, dark batter of the Boston brown bread she was making for that breakfast retreat at the college. Those academic folks tended toward anything healthful, but they liked their sweets, too. Along with her Danish pastries and sticky buns she was making whole grain breads and bran muffins studded with raisins and walnuts. Nothing smelled nicer than the earthy scents of whole wheat flour, cornmeal, and the molasses that gave this bread its rich sweetness and color.

  She stopped stirring to listen. Was someone tapping on the door? Or did a branch from the sweet gum tree out back need pruning? Miriam stepped toward the kitchen window for a better view.

  When Ben Hooley pressed his nose to the glass, his smile made her heart skitter.

  “Come on in!” she called out.

  As he stepped into the bakery’s kitchen, Ben inhaled deeply . . . yeast and cinnamon . . . butter and sweet cherry filling . . . scents he’d enjoyed as a boy in his mamm’s kitchen. The warmth in this room came from the ovens, yes, but it was Miriam’s smile that took the chill off the windy autumn morning. His mother had never looked this fetching wearing a puff of flour on her nose!

  Ben grinned, and then reminded himself of his mission. He fished a ten-dollar bill from his pocket. “Whenever you’re ready for a break, I’ll buy ya breakfast so we—”

  “I’m not takin’ your money, Ben!”

  “Jah, you are, Miriam. I’ve got some talkin’ to do and I’m interruptin’ your work time,” he replied firmly. “It’s best that folks know I’m a payin’ customer so there’s not so much talk.”

  “Puh! The tongues’re already waggin’ about us.”

  “Never let it be said that Ben Hooley doesn’t pay his way.”

  Miriam stirred the raisins into her dough. It might be best to let him say his piece and save her from asking some pesky questions.

  Ben watched her divide the brown dough into four loaf pans. Why did this woman’s café kitchen feel like such a fine place to clear his mind? Or was it the cook who set him at ease with her presence? “I’m sorry about upsettin’ Rhoda last night,” he began, leaning against the back counter so he could face her. “I didn’t want any passersby seein’ her in the apartment alone with me, and—well, there’s no easy way to explain this, Miriam. When Rhoda expressed . . . romantic notions, I told her I was too old for her. She
didn’t like it one little bit.”

  Oh, but that grin on her smudged face played with him! Miriam cleared her throat.

  “Not much you can do about bein’ thirty-five, Ben.”

  “Ah. So she talked to ya.”

  “Mostly she cried and carried on like it was my fault ya turned her down.”

  “Rhoda’s a nice girl. Smart and perty, like her mamm. I s’pose that’s your fault, too, Miriam.”

  “Jah, and if it weren’t a sin, I’d be right proud of it, too—Rhoda bein’ smart and perty, that is.”

  She’d kept a straight, serious face, but then she chuckled. The kitchen rang with their laughter, and Miriam got to giggling so hard she couldn’t stop. Her whole body shook with laughter, and Ben liked it that he’d made her give in so completely to a moment of happiness.

  “I—I felt awful bad for her, Ben,” she admitted when her laughter settled down, “but I thank ya for spellin’ it out instead of lettin’ her go on with hopes and dreams that weren’t gonna work out.”

  “And how did ya know that?”

  “Know what?” She looked up from smoothing the batter in the pans, eyes wide, as though she had no idea what they’d just been talking about.

  Once again Ben felt fluttery inside. How did this woman make him laugh so easily—make him feel so alive and vibrant? “How’d ya know I wouldn’t go along with Rhoda’s plans for my life? She’s a gut catch, ya know.”

  “I raised her that way.”

  It was Ben’s turn to chuckle when she stuck her pans in the oven as though they hadn’t been discussing something important. “You’re a tease, Miriam.”

  “Denki, Ben. It feels gut to have a man tell me that.” She cocked one eyebrow as she ran water into her dirty mixing bowl. “But I can’t lie to ya. While I felt all crushed and hurt inside for my girl, I was happy for me. And mighty grateful for the way ya stood up to the bishop yesterday, and—”

  “I was just doin’ the right thing.” Ben shrugged, crossing his arms. “And I wanted Hiram to know straight-out I wasn’t gonna go along with his plans for your life, either.”

  “And why would that be, Ben?” Miriam nipped her lip. Had she gotten too forward and presumptuous? This fine-looking fellow had only been in town forty-eight hours and already he’d shaken up a lot of lives.

  “I like puttin’ that smile on your face of a mornin’, Miriam. If it’s the only thing I accomplish all day, makin’ you happy makes me happy, too.”

  Miriam felt the color creeping up her neck. Oh, but this man was a smooth talker! In all their years together, even when they’d been young and courting, Jesse Lantz had never been so flirty or quick with a quip.

  Your husband was somber and serious, but he took gut care of ya. Have ya forgotten that part?

  Where had that prickly thought come from? The ding-ding-ding of an oven timer gave her something to do as she considered the questions that had whirled in her mind ever since Ben Hooley blew in with the rain. But she hated to spoil this fine mood they were in.

  Ben watched her pull out one pan and then another of the biggest, puffiest cinnamon rolls he’d ever seen. The cinnamon-raisin filling bubbled out between the pinwheels of dough and filled the air with the promise of sweetness . . . Sugar and spice and everythin’ nice. That’s what Miriam Lantz is made of!

  “I’d like to think that little grin’s somethin’ I put on your face, too,” she replied quietly. “But we’ve got things to talk about.” She avoided his gaze now . . . began to drizzle white frosting over the hot rolls.

  “What do ya want to know, Miriam? I whooshed into Willow Ridge and we haven’t had a chance to talk about—”

  “Are ya baptized into the Old Order faith, Ben?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Jah, I am. Took my kneelin’ vows at seventeen.”

  She nodded, satisfied for the moment. It didn’t take her but half a minute to finish squirting squiggly lines of frosting on the first pan of rolls, and she started the second pan without missing a beat. He’d always enjoyed watching experts at work—the way they moved so smoothly, as though their tools were extensions of their hands.

  “Gut,” she finally remarked. “Hiram said ya weren’t.”

  “And how would he know?” Ben challenged her.

  Miriam’s lips curved. “Because he’s the bishop? Got divine connections?” she replied with an apologetic smile. “But all teasin’ aside, I’ve got to wonder why a fella would take his vows so young and then set off across the country. Ya didn’t take much time for runnin’ around and whoopin’ it up durin’ your rumspringa.”

  Ben eased closer to her worktable. He laughed out loud when she smacked the hand heading for one of those cinnamon rolls that smelled so outrageously delicious. “I was settin’ myself up to marry the little gal I’d been sweet on all through school—Polly Petersheim,” he explained. “She was takin’ her instruction to join the church, so I did, too. For her, I would’ve stuck around home.”

  Miriam looked up, the obvious question in her dark brown eyes.

  Ben sighed. It just didn’t seem right to spoil their good mood, so he didn’t go into all the details. “Seems she fell for a man from down the road who’d just come into a nice piece of ground when his dat died.”

  “So she followed the money? I’m sorry to hear that, Ben,” Miriam said in a low voice. “It couldn’t have been much fun to find out your honey was sweet on somebody else.”

  He shrugged and thought back to that time of heartache and disappointment . . . and realized his life on the road had been leading him to Willow Ridge the whole time. He just hadn’t known it. “We all take our turns at gettin’ our hearts broken, ain’t so? If it’s not one thing, it’s another,” he ventured. It was too soon to gush about how his life’s purpose had just come into focus as he stood in Miriam’s kitchen, talking to her.

  “Jah, it’s true.” The way she said it told him another question would follow close behind. “So . . . your girl turned ya down? And you’ve been runnin’ the roads ever since?”

  Ben smiled ruefully. “No two ways about it, Miriam. With six boys in a family, some of them have to take jobs that aren’t tied to the family land. I’d already apprenticed with the local smith and become a journeyman farrier, so—”

  “So if you’ve been a smith all your adult life, why are you lookin’ to start up a mill?”

  There it was again, her direct way of getting information she needed to make informed decisions. Miriam Lantz was obviously a woman of faith—lived the life God gave her every day—yet she took nothing for granted.

  “I’ve got a couple brothers in the millin’ business, and they’re itchin’ to expand—which is all but impossible to do there in Lancaster, what with such high property prices. And most of the gut land passes from father to son.”

  Miriam nodded; he had mentioned those brothers before. With the sticky buns finished and the dough on the rise for her next pastries and bread, it was a good time for a break . . . a good time to feed this fellow who’d already given her more to be thankful for these past two days than he would ever know. “So you’d be bringin’ family out this way to run that mill, then?” She leaned down to grab a cast-iron skillet.

  Ben crossed his arms tighter. He should be focused on their talk instead of on the way Miriam moved in her kitchen. “That’s the plan. Of course, I have to latch on to the land first,” he remarked. “Who would I talk to about buyin’ up some ground near those rapids on the river? I’d have to look the whole area over, of course, before I made up my mind to—”

  “You’re already talkin’ to her.”

  Ben swallowed. Had he really met this funny, fabulous woman as well as the owner of the land he was most interested in? “This is almost soundin’ too gut to be true, ya know?”

  “That thought’s crossed my mind.” Miriam melted butter in her skillet and then cracked five eggs, one after the other, and dropped them into it. Salt, pepper . . . even a sprinkle of dill and paprika to color them up. Seasoni
ng food was second nature to her, even more than for most Plain women.

  “If it’s the right place for the mill, I’d pay ya cash up front, top dollar for—”

  “Jah, ya will. I know just the banker to write up the sale, too.” She smiled at him and then expertly flipped the eggs with her spatula. They crackled in the hot butter as she turned off the gas. “Not because I don’t trust ya, understand, but because Hiram would be all over me for lettin’ ya have anythin’—”

  “It’s the right way to do business, Miriam. No matter what happens between you and me as a man and a woman, I don’t want bad business spoilin’ a gut friendship.”

  One eyebrow rose. She flipped two eggs onto a plate, three onto another, and then lifted a hot, frosted cinnamon roll onto each plate, as well. “Friendship, is it?”

  That tone in her voice made him chuckle. He liked the way Miriam teased him yet let nothing important pass her by. “It should start as that, jah. Too many folks get hitched for the wrong reasons and then they find out they don’t much like each other,” he mused aloud. “I’m a man of my word, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with somebody only because I made a promise to.”

  Miriam’s heart hammered so hard she wondered if maybe the doctor should check on her; her parents had both passed young, from heart problems.

  You’re a silly goose, ya know it? This fella’s sayin’ all the things ya wished Jesse would’ve said . . .

  She turned toward the stools she and Naomi sat on while they peeled veggies—but Ben had already grabbed them. He put them at the back counter . . . close together, yet not so close that he’d be touching her, should Naomi or her girls show up early. “Shall we pray on it?” she whispered.

  “Gut idea. Even if God’s already workin’ all this stuff out for us.”

  Miriam bowed her head, yet the nearness of this man had her too ferhoodled to feel very prayerful. Sorry, Lord, if I’m feelin’ all giggly instead of bein’ respectfully grateful for all You’ve brought me—