What a wonder a baby was. Rose never failed to appreciate the miracle of a new life, human or animal. So small and sweet, with overlong legs and a dainty little face.
Galen rubbed his legs and back, slow and gentle, until the foal quit fidgeting and stood still for it. “Every day someone needs to be stroking the colt’s hooves so that he’s used to getting his feet handled.”
“He’s still a baby.”
“No, Rose. He’s not a foal any longer. He’s a yearling. And he’s a promising horse—his conformation is good, his muscle development is right on target. In fact, most yearlings are gelded by now. This colt is far behind in his training from where he should be.”
“The boys did a good job for the first few months, but after school started it slipped off to the back burner.”
“It’s not something that can be ignored and picked up again, on a whim. If you’ve ever had to shoe a horse that didn’t like having his feet handled, you’d know how important this is.”
She crossed her arms, annoyed. “I didn’t say it wasn’t important, Galen. It’s just hard to keep up with everything.”
Galen reached out and cupped her cheek with his palm, dissolving her annoyance in the time it took to draw a startled breath. “I know. I see.”
“Deacon Abraham stopped by yesterday to remind me we’re due to host church the first Sunday in May.” As if she had forgotten. She thought of all the things that needed to be done to prepare for hosting church: the house would need to be scrubbed, top to bottom. The walls washed down, curtains washed and ironed. Every bureau and cupboard should be cleaned out and organized. The barn needed a serious sweeping out. The front porch was begging for touch-up paint. Windows had to be rubbed until they were squeaky clean. Everything had to be perfect—not for show, but to glorify the Lord God.
Her eyes noticed something new—a broken window on the second floor that looked like it was hit by a stray baseball. She blew out a puff of air. “So much to do.”
Galen glanced up and saw the broken window too. “Make a list. I’ll help.”
“I can’t ask that of you.”
He took a step closer to her, his eyes smiling in that special way he had, just for her. He raised one hand to her temple and grazed her cheekbone with the tips of his fingers. “Yes, you can. You can ask anything of me.” He leaned over to kiss her, gently, brushing his lips against hers.
Their lips had just touched again when they broke apart, startled by the sound of the kitchen door opening as Vera walked out on the porch and settled into the swing. Rose turned away, color rising in her cheeks. How ridiculous! Sometimes, she felt like a schoolgirl around Galen. “You’ve got your own farm and work to take care of. Spring is the busiest time for you. And you don’t have Jimmy Fisher’s help anymore.”
“I’m surprised to discover how much I’ve missed his help. I have more work than I can manage.” He leaned against the pen with his arms crossed over his chest. “Think there’s any chance Edith Fisher would cut him a little slack and let him come back to horses?”
“I don’t see how. She needs his help with the chicken and egg business, even more so after her bunion surgery.” She bit her lip. “I don’t suppose you’d consider taking on Tobe when he’s released.”
Galen’s chin lifted. “Rose, we’ve been through this before. Tobe doesn’t have the temperament for horses. What makes you think he’d even return to Eagle Hill?”
“This is his home. He can’t keep running forever. I think he’s starting to face up to things—after all, he’s the one who pled guilty to withholding evidence. That’s a step in the right direction, isn’t it?”
“A step, perhaps.”
A wave of irritation at Galen came over Rose suddenly. “Couldn’t you even give him a chance? For your sister’s sake?”
“Naomi?” He looked baffled. “Why would I want Tobe around Naomi?”
“Galen—you must realize there’s something brewing between the two of them.”
“Not while he’s in jail, there’s not.”
“Definitely while he’s in jail. Haven’t you noticed the letters they write to each other? She runs to that mailbox every single day. I’ve seen her! And she walks back slowly, reading that familiar gray envelope.”
Galen had a skeptical look in his eyes.
“Before you close your mind to their budding romance, have you even noticed that she hasn’t had a single migraine since Tobe returned last fall? Not one.”
It wasn’t often that Galen King was confounded, but at that moment, he looked at Rose as if she was speaking another language. She turned her attention back to the colt and let Galen resume training Silver Queen. He didn’t say another word about the subject of Tobe and Naomi. Neither did Rose. She thought she had said enough.
There was so much Naomi had to thank God for: she hadn’t had a migraine since—well, not since Tobe had returned after he’d gone missing for a year. Naomi had suffered from headaches the doctors could neither diagnose nor cure.
It seemed trite, a cliché, but happiness had cured Naomi of the headaches. Happiness and love. For she was in love with Tobe Schrock, and he loved her, and soon he would be released from prison and life could start fresh. Love, she had always thought, could do extraordinary things to people. Now she knew it to be true.
The Lord works in mysterious ways. She had always heard that phrase but never knew what it meant until she saw the miracle God was working in Tobe’s life, even in jail. Especially in jail. For God was everywhere and all around and couldn’t be kept out of any earthly place, not even a federal prison. A prison chaplain led Bible studies in the community area and delivered a Sunday service. Tobe was making strides in his journey of faith. “I feel a weight lift from my shoulders,” he had written to her. And another time: “I’m beginning to realize a lot of things don’t matter anymore. My chest is much less tight, the awful feeling of running down a long corridor gone.” Only God could do this work in Tobe’s life. He had been running for over a year and it took God to force him to stop, to take a breath, to catch up with himself. To be still and to know God was God.
And that’s exactly what was happening, in a federal prison of all places. The questions Tobe had in his letters, the longings he expressed, the desire to know God, to be a man after God’s own heart—why, Naomi fell in love with him all over again. She used to love what he could be, now she loved who he was becoming.
She was grateful for these blessings and many others, but she was also troubled, for when she prayed in her room at night, it was as much from worry as from gratitude. She picked up Tobe’s letter that she had received today and re-read it:
Dearest Naomi,
You used to complain that I was too buttoned-up in my letter-writing. Now I wonder if you’ll never write to me again after I pour my heart out to you. But here goes, here’s the full whoosh of the waterfall.
Lately, I’ve thought of little else but your advice to leave Jake Hertzler in God’s hands. The beliefs of the Amish church are easier to talk about in theory than to put into practice. They’re counterintuitive to human nature.
Is it so wrong to want revenge on Jake Hertzler? So that he doesn’t keep hurting others? Because he will, Naomi. Jake is made that way—to steal, to take, to harm, to not care a whit about the consequences. You’ve said we must forgive him and even to pray for him, but does that mean he doesn’t have to face justice? Is that what nonresistance truly means?
I just can’t do it, Naomi. I can’t let him continue to hurt my family. I told the SEC lawyer most of the things Jake had done to Schrock Investments, but not all. A few important pieces—the most important part—I kept to myself, because I want to get out of prison and face Jake myself. It’s my responsibility to see it through.
Problem is, I have no idea how to go about doing it. I spent a year trying to set a trap for him, but Jake was always a step ahead of me. In fact, he was the one who set the snare for me to step into. That’s why I’m here, serving out a pr
ison sentence, while he is off scot-free.
I love you, Naomi. And I do give serious consideration to what you have to say on the matter. Pray that I will do the right thing, sweetheart.
Pray for him? He didn’t even need to ask! She prayed for him frequently throughout the days, and often at night. Naomi had been taught since she was small to be grateful in all things and for all things, so despite a feeling of foreboding for this unsettled issue, she gave thanks for it and for what lay ahead.
And then she ate a full roll of Tums.
5
Late last night, Mim was informed by her sister Bethany that Danny Riehl had driven Katrina Stoltzfus home from the youth gathering. Bethany felt she should know. “I went back and forth,” Bethany had said, “on whether I should tell you or not, and finally decided I would want to know if Jimmy Fisher took another girl home.”
Mim only shrugged and gave her a flat look. Why should it matter? Danny had become the permanent substitute teacher at her school. He had to stop inviting her to look through his telescope on starry nights because he felt it wasn’t appropriate.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it did.
Mim trudged down the driveway on the way to school with her brothers, who felt the need to crush the thin layer of ice that lined every puddle, then howl with approval and sock the air with their fists. She stayed clear of their splatters and wondered why boys always had the urge to break something, even at seven thirty in the morning.
“Yoo hoo!”
Mim spun around to find the new Eagle Hill guest waving to her from the door of the guest flat. She told Sammy and Luke to head off to school and she walked over to see what she wanted.
The guest, a very tall woman with spiky, short blonde hair, thrust her hand out to Mim. In it were dollar bills. “I’m Brooke Snyder.” She motioned toward the guest flat. “I’ll be staying for a little while. I’d like you to get me a newspaper each day. Preferably the Times.”
Mim raised her eyebrows. “You want me to bring you the Stoney Ridge Times?”
Brooke Snyder blinked. “No. The New York Times.”
Mim shook her head. “I’ve never seen that newspaper sold in Stoney Ridge.”
She frowned. “Then bring me the closest thing to it. That’s not asking too much, is it?”
“I suppose not,” Mim said. “But I wouldn’t be able to get it to you until late in the day. I have chores in the morning, then I have to go to school. And I have chores in the afternoon.”
“That’s fine. I’ll just save it for the next day’s breakfast. Old news is still news.”
Mim considered pointing out that the very word news meant it was new, thus, old news was an oxymoron. But she didn’t think her suggestion would be appreciated. Her family never appreciated her grammatical corrections, so why would a guest whom she’d just met?
“I’m not sure how long I’m going to stay here. Maybe for a while. I want a newspaper for the entire time I’m here, rain or shine. I’ll pay you for your trouble.” She pushed the dollars into Mim’s hand.
“Sure.” Mim pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “Sure,” she repeated, nodding vigorously. In fact, it was an ideal opportunity to read her Mrs. Miracle column. Usually, she only saw a copy of the paper if she was at the Sisters’ House because her grandmother refused to subscribe. “Rubbish!” her grandmother called the newspaper. Mim spotted the black hats of her brothers as they disappeared over the hill and realized she’d better hurry or she’d be late for school. “Today. I’ll bring you a paper later today.”
As Mim ran up the hill, she tried to figure out why the guest would bother reading a newspaper like the Stoney Ridge Times. It was filled with stories about local people, stories like the one about the mayor who had just been reelected for the sixth time, which might sound impressive until you learned that no one ever ran against him. Then there was the police report, which mostly consisted of parking tickets. Once or twice a month, there were some scandals. Bennie Adams had been fired at the bank because he’d come to work drunk. Junior Jackson’s wife had run off with the high school track coach. Those kinds of stories were why Mammi Vera called the Stoney Ridge Times the gossip buzz line. The sisters at the Sisters’ House had a different point of view. They liked knowing what was going on in town. She wished for the hundredth time that Mammi Vera were more like the sisters—any sister, even Fannie, who was often prickly and her least favorite.
It wasn’t that Mim didn’t like Mammi Vera. After all, she was her grandmother. She had to like her, or maybe she just had to love her. Maybe it was the liking part she had a choice about. It wasn’t Mammi Vera’s fault that she wasn’t like the old sisters.
That afternoon on her way home from school, Mim stopped at the Bent N’ Dent and bought the last copy of the Stoney Ridge Times. She spoke to the clerk Katrina, the sister of the incorrigible Jesse Stoltzfus, and asked her to save a copy each afternoon. The sister, she noted, was nice to her despite being irritatingly pretty. Katrina seemed to glide around the store, not walk like a normal person. Of course, she didn’t wear glasses. She would never be called Four Eyes or Owl Eyes by the sixth grade boys.
The Mrs. Miracle column was running twice a week now, and the receptionist had confided in Bethany that there were even rumblings about expanding it to three times a week. Such an opportunity only filled Mim with panic: Someone, somewhere, was going to find out! Bethany was the only one who knew the true identity of Mrs. Miracle. No, that wasn’t exactly accurate (and Mim prided herself on accuracy). Ella of the Sisters’ House had guessed once, but she had memory woes and had already forgotten. No one else in all of Stoney Ridge suspected that Mrs. Miracle was actually a fourteen-year-old Amish girl.
Mim loved her role as Mrs. Miracle and took it very seriously. When she didn’t know the answer to something, she would research it or carefully, cautiously, question the right people. She liked helping others and, not to brag, but she gave excellent advice. Excellent. Mostly, though, she was just reminding people to use common sense. It seemed to be in short supply.
But the Mrs. Miracle column was supposed to be a tiny little side job for her. It brought in only five dollars a week, and it gave her something interesting and challenging to do. No big deal. Just a once-a-week column.
She hadn’t expected the readership to explode. She hadn’t expected the editor to expand it to twice a week. And now . . . three times a week? Each time she thought of it, she couldn’t even swallow. What if she was found out? What if the bishop learned of her secret job? What would her mother say?
She walked as slowly as she could back toward Eagle Hill, reading the newspaper, admiring the Mrs. Miracle column. It was well written, and she tried not to feel proud, but she did. When she had nearly reached the driveway to Eagle Hill, she felt someone over her shoulder.
“My sisters love that column too. They fight over who gets to read it aloud.”
Jesse Stoltzfus, of all people! Mim snapped the paper shut and tucked it under her arm. “Mrs. Miracle would say that it’s only good manners for a person to let another person know that the person is there.”
Jesse was staring at her with his mouth open, as if he didn’t hear her properly. He thumped the side of his head with the palm of his hand, like he was shaking water from his ear. “But . . . I did.” He tipped his felt hat back on his forehead. “Good thing you’re not writing a newspaper column. That was the most confusing sentence a person ever said to another person.” He grinned and took off his hat, bowing and sweeping his hat in a big arc. “This person needs to be on his way, if the other person will excuse this person.”
Jackanapes! That boy always tried to best her. It irked her that Danny—who used to be her special friend before he got so high and mighty and puffed up—he only encouraged Jesse Stoltzfus’s gargantuan ego. Just this afternoon, he had read Jesse’s composition aloud. “I am sure,” Danny told the class, “that all of you were as impressed as I was by Jesse’s exciting essay.”
Impressed? Mim was dumbfounded. Jesse wrote a heartstopping composition about a time when he was lost in a snowstorm and had to make a snow cave to survive the night. Jesse described the sound of the wind and the bite of the cold so clearly she felt right there with him, in the middle of the blizzard, gasping for breath, trying to push down panic as he dug a snow cave deep down in a world of no light and little air.
How could she be all in a tremble just listening to Danny read about it? It actually hurt to listen—she was that jealous of Jesse’s writing ability. Mim labored painfully over her writing, every single sentence; Jesse scribbled things down and turned them in before school or during recess. She had seen him! He had forgotten the essay that was due today and dashed it off during lunch.
On the other hand, Danny always caught Mim when her mind was on vacation, though he never suspected Jesse of not paying attention. Danny had one of those tricky voices. It would buzz along for several minutes quite comfortably, then bang! he was focused in and asking you a question.
Earlier in the week, Danny had cornered Mim with a question out of the blue, when she was a million miles away. Her mind went completely blank. Throughout the classroom she heard a shuffling of feet and paper, waiting for her to answer him. She could feel everyone’s eyes boring into her. Mose Blank was staring at her so intently she thought his crossed eyes might switch sockets. “Parakeets can live nearly twenty years,” she blurted out and the class roared with laughter. Turned out Danny had asked her the names of the different kinds of cloud formations in the sky.
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
Then he asked Jesse the names of clouds and of course he knew the answers, including the Latin translations of the words: cumulus, heap; stratus, layer; nimbus, rain; cirrus, curl of hair. Wasn’t that just like Jesse, to answer more than the teacher had asked for? Danny was delighted. Mim thought Jesse was showing off.
Revealing, The (The Inn at Eagle Hill Book #3): A Novel Page 5