Autumn Winds

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “That’s the idea, jah.” He sat on the tall stool beside the one Miriam perched on and took the fork she offered. Her face looked damp from working in the steam of the dishwasher, yet this rosiness showed him how she must have looked when she was Rachel and Rhoda’s age.

  Before he could cut into the apple pie, Miriam sneaked her fork beneath his to section off a large part of its tip. Ben laughed—and then opened his mouth to accept that first big bite from her. “So what did ya think of my Rebecca?” she asked.

  “I like her a lot.” He chewed that bite of warm pie, closing his eyes over the cinnamon and buttery crumb of the topping . . . sweet-tart apples and a moist crust. “And I’m glad she’s come back to ya and wants to be your daughter. Could’ve happened a lot different, I suspect.”

  “Oh, she looked like a ghoulie-girl that first day! Witchy-black hair spiked like a porcupine. Black-painted fingernails and little chains between her wrists and her finger rings.” Miriam shook her head as she opened her mouth for the bite of cherry pie he’d forked up for her. “She got Hiram and Gabe all stirred up, comin’ here—but after her English mamm passed, she’d found the little Plain pink dress she was wearin’ the day she washed away. She wanted to know where it came from . . . what sort of family she was born into.”

  She paused to take another bite of pie from Ben’s fork. “And then, at the girls’ twenty-first birthday party in August, she wanted to dress like Rachel and Rhoda! Oh, it was a sight for this mother’s eyes to see my three girls together in their new blue dresses and fresh kapps, so happy to be sisters.”

  Ben’s eyes misted as he listened. He took a bite of cherry from her fork this time, and then cut a bite of the apple for Miriam. What a treat it was to sit so close to her, holding a pie plate between them, talking about things that fulfilled them. It seemed the best form of forgiveness, having Miriam share herself with him again.

  “Luke and Ira are that way. Not twins, but they’re real close because they came along later than the rest of us,” he reflected. “They gave our mamm and dat fits as they were growin’ up, but this chance to start fresh where there’s gut land will help the folks accept their settlin’ so far from home.”

  “And they’ll be with their brother Ben. Who also left home at a young age.”

  “But none of us left the faith.” Ben playfully snatched up the last bite of their pie and held it a little way from Miriam’s mouth. “And we never lost faith in followin’ our own talents, doin’ what we believed was the Lord’s work.”

  She fixed her huge brown eyes on him. “And is it the Lord’s work you’re doin’, teasin’ me with that last bite, Ben? Well, I’ll have ya know, I don’t want it! It’s yours.”

  “Nope. I can tell the cherry’s your favorite, so it’s yours, perty girl.” He leaned in as close as he dared, craving the way her lips would taste right now, all sweet and moist and fruity.

  The loud jangle of a phone made them both jump. Miriam laughed and waved it off, saying, “We’ve got the phone wired so when it rings in the shanty we can hear it in here over the sound of the dishwasher and exhaust fan. Most likely it’s—”

  “You’d better answer it. Could be orders for ya.”

  “—Lydia Zook or somebody else wantin’ pies, but the message machine’ll catch it. Or Eva, next door at the quilt shop, will get it.”

  Ben nodded, but when the phone stopped ringing and then rang again, their moment of closeness was lost, anyway. “I’ll wait at the wagon while ya take that call,” he suggested. “After Hiram’s remarks today, I thought ya might be curious about my home on wheels but too polite to ask about it.”

  Miriam hurried out the back door to answer the phone behind the building. Ben ran some water in the pie plate, gazing around the kitchen . . . the world where Miriam and Naomi Brenneman and the Lantz girls had made a new life for themselves after Jesse passed. Good, solid women, they were. Their love for their work showed in every pie, every pancake that got plated here each day.

  Ben sighed, pulled in different directions: if he got the itch to move along again, after he settled his brothers into their mill business—or even when he finished his two weeks’ worth of work in Willow Ridge—Miriam would have a fine life without him hanging around to complicate it for her.

  He ambled out past the shanty toward his wagon. Why now, when he’d run across such a wonderful opportunity to settle down like any good Amish fellow would, was he having doubts about wanting to stay? Ben shook his head. He went to his wagon and sat on the back end of it, waiting for Miriam to finish her call.

  Miriam gripped the receiver, closing her eyes as the female voice on the other end chattered on.

  “. . . so when my bishop, John Knepp, called me to say Ben Hooley was there in Missouri, and gave me this phone number, I—I just wanted to call and say hello!”

  “And what did ya say your name was again?” Miriam murmured. She watched out the shanty’s window as handsome Ben walked to his wagon.

  “Polly Hershberger—Polly Petersheim Hershberger,” she replied brightly. “And isn’t that somethin’, that your bishop’s name is Knepp, too? But then, there must be a hundred John Knepps here in Pennsylvania alone, so it’s really not such a coincidence, but . . .”

  Miriam’s head was spinning. Had Hiram really called a bishop—named Knepp—in Lancaster County? And how had he known that Polly was Ben’s former fiancée? With Polly talking her ear off, it was difficult to think about such connections, and as she saw the way Ben was looking at her, waiting for her, Miriam’s heart felt like it was beating out of rhythm. “So tell me this, Polly,” she began, sensing it was an impertinent question, but necessary. “When ya married your husband all those years ago, instead of hitchin’ up with Ben Hooley—”

  “Oh, that was all Dat’s doin’, ya know. He insisted Ben wouldn’t settle down—would never amount to much on account of how he was travelin’ around with his blacksmith work instead of lookin’ for land and a house. So he told me I was to marry Homer Hershberger instead.”

  Miriam blinked. Maybe it was best to play along with this chatty woman who was so free with her talk. “And how did that work out? Ya don’t hear so much about arranged marriages nowadays.”

  Polly sighed. “Homer passed about a year ago—he was quite a lot older than I, ya know. The two daughters who’ve survived—I lost four little babies over the years—are joinin’ the church so’s they can get hitched by the end of November. What I’m gonna do in this house all by myself is beyond me—”

  “I—I’m sorry about your husband. I’ve lost mine, too, and it takes some gettin’ used to,” Miriam replied quietly. Oh, but her heart was beating hard. The rise in Polly’s voice could only be leading to one thing.

  “So, is Ben still workin’ there in Willow Ridge?” she asked. “Sure would like to talk to him—catch up on what-all he’s been doin’, and whether he’s still travelin’ around shoein’ horses, or—”

  “Jah, he’s still doin’ that.”

  “Would ya tell him I called? Here’s my number—got a pencil?”

  Miriam pressed her lips together to keep from screaming. “Jah,” she rasped—but she copied the number, figuring it might come in handy. “Okay, I got it, Polly. I’ll tell Ben ya called.”

  The click on the line ended the call, but it was just the beginning of the race her imagination was about to run—unless she told Ben what had just happened, and watched how he reacted. Hiram Knepp had set this ball to rolling, but his insinuations might well be her saving grace, when it came to answering questions about who Ben Hooley was . . . and what sort of husband material he’d make.

  She stepped outside into the bright autumn light. At this time of the afternoon, the sun hit her right in the face, so she had to squint and shield her eyes with her hand. Wouldn’t it be somethin’ if, while you’re bein’ blinded by this light, you really see Ben Hooley for the first time?

  Ben smiled as she approached the back end of his red farrier wagon. “Must’ve b
een quite a conversation. Gut thing ya answered.”

  “Polly Petersheim wants ya to call her,” Miriam murmured. “I left her number on the scratch pad in the shanty.”

  Ben’s face was a kaleidoscope of emotions. His brow furrowed, and then his eyes widened, and then his jaw dropped, and he looked, well—completely ferhoodled. He was swallowing so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed above his shirt. “How on God’s gut Earth did Polly know I was here?” he rasped.

  “Best I can tell from that flurry of chatter, Hiram called her bishop. His last name just happens to be Knepp, too.”

  Ben speared his hand through his light brown hair. He replaced his hat and then stared at something taped on the inside of his wagon door. “Oh, this is gettin’ too . . . Bad enough Hiram was in here snoopin’ amongst my things, but he had to have read this piece from the paper and made some connections. Look, Miriam, what do ya think?”

  Miriam approached, to see a yellowed clipping that had a photo of a wagon. It was a blue wagon, with HOOLEY’S HORSESHOE SERVICE on the side, and it was hitched to a different horse, but it was clearly Ben’s business at an earlier stage of his life.

  Ben jabbed a paragraph of the article. “This was written up in the Lancaster News on account of how I was so unusual, travelin’ with my trade. Hiram must’ve read this part about the district I was from—”

  His breath left him in a rush. “Polly’s dat was the bishop then. So if Hiram called out there askin’ for Bishop Levi Petersheim, he might’ve talked to Polly’s mamm—”

  “And gave her my phone number.”

  Ben’s mouth clapped shut. “Miriam,” he murmured, “I’m sorry this is gettin’ so twisted around, all because Hiram got so nosy and—” His arms dropped limply to his sides. His eyes filled with regret. “I was just a kid when I was engaged to Polly. It’s been a lot of years and miles—”

  But Miriam had heard the hopeful tone in Polly’s voice. Maybe Ben was saying he’d left his old fiancée behind, but the widowed Polly had not forgotten about the fellow her dat wouldn’t let her marry.

  “—and I was hopin’ if ya looked around in my wagon, you’d understand a little better about the life I live,” he went on in an earnest voice. “And I hope this fluke phone call won’t make ya doubt my intentions about buyin’ that land for my brothers—nor doubt my feelin’s for you, either, Miriam.”

  Her heart wasn’t completely in it, but when Ben pulled down the little steps so she could climb up, Miram went inside the wagon. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she recognized safety masks, farrier aprons, tool carts, welders, and other equipment Jesse had used in his shop . . . everything in its place, and neatly arranged so Ben wouldn’t waste time finding what he needed. As she stepped farther back, she saw a few shirts hung on hangers . . . more pegs on the walls for hats and galluses, and an old washbasin and pitcher with a small mirror, on a shelf fitted into the wagon’s front corner. A hammock hung from hooks in the ceiling.

  Ben stepped up behind her and slid a section of the ceiling aside to reveal a small window. “What do ya think? Not as homey as your place, but it’s everythin’ a fella needs to do his job, wherever he might be.”

  Miriam was secretly fascinated—impressed—with Ben’s tidy little quarters, yet the questions remained. “So . . . if Polly’s dat made her marry that Hershberger fella because ya weren’t likely to settle into a home—”

  “The bishop wanted all his girls livin’ close by. Some of the older Petersheim girls had had a chance to settle a new community with their husbands, but their dat forbade them to go,” Ben explained. “Levi suspected they were gonna start up a Beachy Amish town—freer, ya know—or even join up with the Mennonites thereabouts. Bishop Petersheim felt like his religion—his version of the Ordnung—was the only true faith.”

  “Ah. Ruled with a heavy hand, did he?” Miriam asked with a rueful smile. “Guess we know another bishop who likes to have that sort of control, too.”

  Ben stepped closer to her, beseeching her with his eyes. “That’s another reason I didn’t want to stay around home,” he admitted softly. “I’m as faithful to the Lord as the next fella, but I’m not much for bein’ told how to live every little detail of my life. And—like everybody knows—there was just no practical way to buy land when I was that age. So I took off down the road, and I only go back now and again to see my family.”

  “And will that change this next time?” Miriam felt she might as well ask, since all these difficult questions were popping up now. “Polly’s husband passed last year. And if the bishop’s name is Knepp now, that means her dat has passed, too.”

  Ben’s gaze didn’t waver. “Too much water under the bridge—and I’m not in the habit of lookin’ back,” he replied in a low voice. “I felt at home here the minute I walked into your bakery, Miriam . . . the minute ya helped me in out of the storm and got so worried about Pharaoh kickin’ some sense into me.”

  “And did he? Kick some sense into ya?”

  Ben chuckled and framed her face in his hands. “Miriam.”

  She swallowed hard. In the light from his little ceiling window, Ben’s eyes took on a shine and his hair glowed. “Jah?”

  “I believe Willow Ridge is where I’ve been drivin’ to all along, and I finally got here—to find you. And I believe we can make this work out for the both of us, even if our life looks unconventional to some folks, or downright un-Amish to others,” he added with a smile. “We’ve both done our best life’s work by followin’ what God put in our hearts instead of listenin’ to what other folks told us we should do. Ain’t so?”

  “Jah. Jah, there’s that.”

  “We don’t have to hurry this along, Miriam. If ya don’t want to sell that land—”

  “No. I’m fine with that now. For sure and for certain I am.”

  Ben’s smile widened. “Then let’s settle first things first. You can focus on gettin’ Rachel married, and I’ll get my brothers started in their business. Then we’ll decide what happens for you and me. Make sense?”

  Miriam smiled in spite of the misgivings that had plagued her during Polly Petersheim’s call. Ben made a valid point: now that she’d lived without a husband and had supported herself and her girls, she wasn’t one to follow anyone else’s rules about how she should practice her faith or live her life. “It does make sense, Ben. Is this what came of Pharaoh kickin’ ya, then?”

  He looked at her for a moment before opening his pale blue shirt between his galluses. “He left his mark, jah.”

  “Oh, Ben—” Miriam couldn’t help touching the dark purple bruise, feeling an edge where he’d bled and a scab had formed. “Ya should’ve let me put on some—”

  “Doctored it myself, with some peroxide and salve,” he insisted as he pressed her palm against the injury. “This happens every now and again, as ya know. Occupational hazard.”

  “Jah, I’ll never forget how that spooked stallion trampled Jesse,” she whispered.

  “But if ya look close, you’ll see why I think of it as a sign—on account of its shape and location.”

  Ben lifted her hand. Miriam couldn’t help smiling even though the bruise was surely as painful as it was colorful; it was centered on his chest, in the shape of a heart. Ben placed her palm on the wound again, resting his forehead against hers. His pulse beat steadily . . . tamed her own rapid heartbeat into his more controlled rhythm as they stood together for several moments, silent.

  Ben sighed and kissed her cheek. “Please be patient with me. No matter how the evidence might pile up while Hiram’s diggin’ his dirt, I . . . I love you, Miriam.”

  Miriam closed her eyes. Her thoughts raced ahead in joy even as his words made her more nervous and scared than she’d been in years.

  “Don’t say that back to me just yet,” he added. “I know you’re not ready. But I sure hope ya will be someday. Fair enough?”

  Miriam blinked back sudden tears. “Jah, fair enough, Ben.”

  They stood there in the silence
for several moments, breathing together . . . just holding each other, with her hand over his heart. Finally she sighed; sooner or later someone was bound to peek inside the wagon.

  “It’s probably a gut time to call Derek in his office, to set up the appraisal and the survey we’ll need,” she finally suggested. “Would ya like to call your brothers after that?”

  “Sounds like a plan, perty girl. And we’ll make it work out, too.”

  Chapter 15

  The next afternoon, Miriam wiped down countertops and took time to redd up the fridge as she waited for Derek Shotwell from the bank in New Haven. Once again her pulse quickened as she considered what it meant to sell part of the Lantz land to the Hooley brothers. Jesse’s dat had farmed here, and Jesse had built his farrier shop before he’d even courted her. Miriam hoped her husband was pleased with the decisions she was making in his absence; it wasn’t as though they had sons to pass the land to, and Rachel and Micah would live in the house next door to the one the Brennemans had grown up in. So much history here . . .

  “Miriam, good afternoon! It smells awesome in here!” a familiar voice called from the dining room.

  She closed the fridge door and greeted Derek Shotwell. “Can I get ya somethin’ while we wait for Ben? A fruit muffin, maybe, or a slice of fudge ripple cake?”

  The loan officer rubbed his stomach. “Thanks, but I need to weigh in at the doctor’s office tomorrow for my physical.”

  Miriam smiled, glancing out the window to see if Ben’s wagon was in sight. “It’s gut you’re takin’ care of yourself regular-like. Can’t say that about most of the fellas I know.”

  Derek tilted his head slightly, smiling. “So what’s going on with your land along the river, Miriam? No disrespect intended, but I hope it’s not Hiram Knepp’s idea that you’re selling this property.”