Pushing his fatigue aside, he started.
Dear Mom and Dad,
Greetings in the name of Christ our Savior. I am happy to report that I have found an Amish church, and I attended there on Sunday. I spent the night at the bishop’s house. His name is Nisley. He knew my grandfather and took me in very well.
On Sunday morning, they even asked me to lead the praise song. They are just a small group but very friendly. I have plans to attend there at least every other Sunday. Hopefully this will be okay with Deacon Miller, if he should ask. You know what I mean.
The peanut butter tasted strange. Not that it was bad or anything. Maybe they don’t use the same syrup as back home. They have a bunch of boys in the young folks but not many youth activities.
Your son,
Jake Byler
Jake twiddled his pen. A great desire came over him to ask about Eliza. Did he dare? No, he better not. It could result in embarrassment. If anything had changed, they would have let him know, hoping it might just bring him home.
She’s probably already planning her wedding, he thought, and fresh anger surged through him. How could she do something like that? Did she care nothing for me? What of all the times she said she loved me?
He rose from the table, walked over to the window, and looked at the valley. His thoughts were not on its beauty. Absently, after only a few moments, he returned to his letter, sealed it, and took it to the drop box in the office.
Hannah sat in the saddle on Prince and slid her fingers into the envelope. Carefully she extracted the letter, holding it away from her as if it were a serpent. Prince shifted his weight beneath her and lifted his head high into the air.
“Easy, boy,” she said. “Let’s see what this says.”
The letter began with “Dear Hannah.”
I suppose you will be surprised at a letter from me. It’s just that I couldn’t keep myself from writing to you.
I wondered how it would be with you gone. I miss you a lot already. I saw your mother in town and asked for your address. I hope you are doing well. Montana is a big state, I think. Don’t get lost in it.
I would very much like to write more to you while you are gone. Would this be okay? It might make the time go faster for me, and if you would write what you are doing that would be interesting as well.
So long,
Sam Knepp
“There it is,” Hannah pronounced loudly as if Prince could understand. “The monster himself. Now what shall we do with him? Mommy’s love and Auntie’s perfection—yet shall he be mine?”
She threw her head back and laughed at the idea. Out here things like this letter didn’t seem as serious. But life out here is different than back there, isn’t it?
Hearing her sigh, Prince turned his head as if mildly interested.
“You have no idea what’s going on, Mr. Prince,” she said. “Your little horse life is not complicated at all. Just go when you’re told and eat when you’re hungry, hmmm? What a life!”
Prince lowered his head as if looking for grass, and Hannah turned back to her thoughts. Oh, to dream or not to dream? That is the question, now, isn’t it? Yet, no more dreaming for me. No more wonder boys who charm me. Now it’s time to do what’s right and take the path that Mother wants.
“Well, Mr. Prince,” she said, “are you going to write the letter? Of course not,” she said, answering herself. “That falls on me, the one who needs to do penance for her sins. Oh, if I had never strayed from the path, then this would not have happened to me.” She sighed again. “But I must bear my burden and follow the best I can.”
Then to her surprise, a tear trickled down her face. Prince neighed as if in sympathy.
“You understand,” she said as she looked down to pat him on the neck, “even if I don’t.”
Suddenly Hannah noticed the sun was much lower in the sky. It was time to go back. Not in the mood to gallop, she still urged Prince into a run to save time. He cantered along as she rode smoothly. Hannah wished her life was as smooth, but there seemed little that could be done about it. When the wide plain narrowed down to the riverbed, she had to slow down and take the rest of the way at a walk.
“Where were you?” a worried Betty called out from the kitchen door as Hannah came in.
“Putting Prince up,” she said. “Time got away from me. I was sitting on Prince…thinking some things through.”
“Any decisions?” Betty asked, her curiosity bubbling to the surface.
“I’m going to write him back,” Hannah muttered.
Betty was not to be deterred. “Would that be to Sam?”
“Yes, Sam.”
Betty gushed, “Oh, your mother will be so happy. Does Sam have a lot of money?”
“He’s going to inherit the family farm,” Hannah said without emotion.
“That’s nothing to sneeze at,” Betty proclaimed. “You don’t have to look down your nose.”
“I’m just writing a letter,” Hannah said. “That’s all.”
“You never know,” Betty said. “Little things can lead to bigger things. Remember your mother likes him.”
“I’ll try,” Hannah said halfheartedly as she headed for her room upstairs.
She found her writing tablet and began her letter.
Dear Sam,
I am in Montana, of course, on Betty’s little farm. They have purchased two new horses since I’ve arrived. Business is that good. I suppose you would know all about that. I certainly enjoy myself, and the little church is nice. Friendly people and all…
When she came close to the end of the letter, Hannah told Sam what he really wanted to hear.
I guess writing would be okay for now. I don’t know how often I can, but I will try.
Then she signed it simply, “Hannah.”
After that she couldn’t resist. Carefully she drew a little smiley face after her name. That will do it, she told herself.
In her mind, Hannah saw Sam’s mouth drop open—just as plain as day. She sobered a few minutes later. Something would have to be done about that. Perhaps the boy really could be trained.
For the first time, that night Hannah dreamed of Peter. She found herself in a moonless night again but with an awful roar in the air. She was with Peter on the roof of her home in Indiana as leaves and branches flew all around them. In the distance great flashes of light came and went. She clung to the roof in terror while Peter bravely walked around and beckoned for her to come to him. She tried to find the courage, but the strength to move wasn’t in her.
In a swirl of motion and without having climbed off the roof, she was suddenly in his car. They sped along a gravel road as the wind whistled through the open car window. She was rigid with fear, clutching the handlebar above the window. “Stop, stop,” she screamed.
“Be brave,” Peter said, laughing. “Hang on.” He drove even faster, and now blue and yellow lights were everywhere as they raced along in the night.
Her father’s face appeared through the windshield, telling her to come home, but she couldn’t get Peter to stop the car. Her father called her name loudly while Peter laughed.
Hannah struggled, her muscles like water, and finally got herself awake, sure that her cries had been heard by someone in the house. Her hands trembled under the covers, and she knew she needed to do something to calm herself.
Finally she got up enough courage to slide out of bed and lower herself to kneel on the floor. There, as the night air from her open windows blew around her, she begged God to forgive her and never let her dream this dream again.
“I will listen to Mom and Dad from now on. I promise,” she whispered, believing the words spoken out loud were better than just thinking them. Surely God heard spoken prayers more clearly than just thought prayers.
“Just give me the strength to walk away from my own ways and the desire to do things Your way. Help me, please.”
She stayed there until she felt sure God had heard, and then she climbed back into bed and fell a
sleep.
Sam received Hannah’s letter three days later. He gingerly pulled the letter out of the pile of mail his mother had left on the kitchen table. He took a long and deep breath. If this was from whom he hoped…Well, then he was a man now and must act accordingly.
“Is somebody writing to you?” his mother called from the sewing room. Sam could hear her ironing board squeak.
“Yep,” he hollered and left it at that. He wanted to see the letter first. Perhaps it contained bad news, but at least she had written. He cut the envelope open and slid out the paper.
It was from her. That was good. The gentle feminine sweep of the words on the paper told him so. Her name at the end confirmed it. He rubbed his forehead and took another deep breath. That Hannah would write to him shouldn’t come as a surprise, he told himself. He had asked her to write, and, of course, she would. Yet deep down, he knew he had tread on sacred ground, held out his hand to a beautiful blossom, strained for it, and had now touched it.
“Is somebody writing to you?” his mother repeated from the sewing room and stuck her head through the doorway. “I guess someone did.” She answered the question herself when she noticed Sam with his head down, his eyes intent on the words.
Sam read quietly as his mother’s face disappeared. Hannah had written all about what had happened—her trip to Montana, Prince, the new horse, and her work. At the end of the letter, Hannah finally wrote the news he really wanted to hear—she was, indeed, going to write more, and he could write to her.
The smiley face Hannah had drawn struck him to his heart. Sam thought long and hard. A girl now wrote to him. Not just any girl—Hannah Miller—the one from school who used to smile at him but afterward would have nothing to do with him. The world almost changed colors in front of him. Hannah Miller was writing to him.
Sam walked to the sewing room. His mom had the ironing board open and a stack of ironed clothes on one side. On the other side was a basketful of clothes still needing to be ironed.
“Hannah wrote to me,” he said.
“Hannah Miller?” she asked and raised her eyebrows.
“Yes,” he said with a pleased look on his face. She might as well share in his triumph.
“How did that happen?” she asked.
“I wrote to her first,” he said and shrugged as if that were all the explanation necessary.
“It is just the one letter, though?” his mom said, asking the obvious.
“No,” he said and let the pleasure show even more, “we are writing.”
“Really?” she asked. The implications of writing were unspoken but clear. “Are you sure you’re up to a girl like that?”
“By God’s help,” he said, “and Dad is giving me the farm someday.”
“Well, yes,” she agreed, “but I’m kind of surprised at this.”
“I was hoping for it,” he said, and with that, Sam firmly squared his shoulders. “I want to be a good man for her.”
“Aren’t you moving a little fast?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “She’s writing to me.”
Nineteen
On Sunday morning, Hannah sat with Betty and the other women for the church services. This was simply a whim of hers for this one Sunday. It would hardly be considered proper for a girl her age to always sit with the married women. If she were an old maid, perhaps, but that time was not anywhere near.
For now, however, Hannah enjoyed the company of the older women. It took some of the awkwardness out of having to sit with girls much younger than she. The real reason, though, was that it removed her farther from the boys on the second row. Not that they were a threat, but she felt like she stuck out on the bench with the regular local girls.
Even sitting here with the women, she felt the eyes of one of the boys on her. Hannah had named him Mr. Scarred Logger. His real name was Ben Stoll. He came from a good family, she supposed. It was just that she felt no interest in him at all. That he had an interest in her was a foregone conclusion, given that his options were not that many.
No, this boy wasn’t a problem…yet. But from the way he looked at her, he would soon get up enough nerve to ask if he could drive her home. The impression was so strong that she made a note to tell Betty her answer was “no” before he even asked. That would be if he approached either Steve or Betty to serve as an intermediary. But then he might just ask her instead of going through either of them.
Well, she would simply have to deal with it. She was already writing to someone. That would serve as a good enough excuse and prevent too many hurt feelings. Sam wasn’t really that much of an attraction. In fact, why not drop the word around before any boy even asked? Maybe Betty could discretely make mention of this and pass it along the lines.
It was a good plan, and she would run it by Betty this afternoon.
At least she didn’t have to deal with that fellow who had reminded her of Peter. Of course, he didn’t really look like Peter. It must have been her imagination.
Since Sunday school was being held today instead of a main church service, the ministers were not upstairs in conference. Bishop Nisley stood up right after the singing ended and read a Scripture. After that he dismissed them for classes.
Hannah followed the youth as they moved upstairs to the open foyer area that served as their temporary classroom. All of the bedrooms had been designated for use by classes for the younger children.
Bishop Nisley was the youth teacher. This suited Hannah, especially because she was the only new girl. Although some bishops didn’t make her feel all that comfortable, Bishop Nisley did.
The whole church, except the children’s classes, followed the same text, and today the selection was the tenth chapter of Proverbs. It was read in High German, not in their common language of Pennsylvania Dutch. The first verse caught Hannah’s attention. “A wise son maketh a glad father: but a foolish son is the heaviness of his mother.”
Bishop Nisley went on to explain that this verse applied not just to sons but to daughters as well. Obedience to one’s parents was a staple requirement of the Christian life. One should always honor one’s mother and father.
Hannah drank it all in and resolved to apply this to her life. She would do what her mother wished. Betty would help her, and she would get it done. Wisdom was what she wanted very badly, and here was a chance to get it. Even if it might very well apply to Sam—as much as she wished it didn’t.
Just before the class was dismissed, Bishop Nisley announced that a youth gathering was planned at his place for the next Saturday.
“We don’t have many youth,” he explained, “and only one hymn singing a month, though we have Hannah with us for the summer and Jake Byler every other Sunday. Since next Sunday is the planned hymn singing, we can have an extended youth weekend.”
The locals smiled and nodded their heads. Hannah was sure she would appear quite pale if anyone had looked at her. Wasn’t Jake the name of the boy she didn’t want to see again? She was sure that was what Steve had said. So he would come every other week? That was not good news.
After Bishop Nisley dismissed the class, everyone gathered again. The whole group then went over the text one more time. Here in a mixed congregation, only the men spoke.
No lunch was served after such a Sunday-school Sunday, and the buzz of conversation filled the room while people got ready to leave. Betty tapped Hannah on the shoulder, and they gathered their shawls and bonnets in the front entryway. Mr. Logger stuck his head in from the main part of the house. Hannah gasped, but Betty just grinned and offered no help other than to dash back into the house after a tight squeeze past Mr. Logger.
“Hi,” he said after Betty had left.
“Hi,” Hannah said and offered a polite nod.
He stood there, towering over her by nearly a foot, 200 pounds of muscle and scars turned into blushing redness, his hat literally in his hands.
“Do you need a ride to the youth gathering on Saturday night?” he asked.
She ha
d to do what she had to do. So she took a breath, offered her best smile, and said, “Not really. Betty and Steve can take me.”
He cleared his throat. Obviously this tree wouldn’t fall without the direct application of the saw. “I would like to take you.”
“Oh, that’s nice of you,” she said and met his eyes, “but I’m already writing somebody.”
“Ach.” He drew in his breath, gathered his wits about him, and continued. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “You couldn’t have known.”
“Well, then,” he said, nodding in confusion. He put his hat on, reached for the doorknob, and was gone.
The women seated in the living room turned to catch a glimpse of him as he passed the window. “Do you think Ben had any success?” Bishop Nisley’s wife, Elizabeth, asked the others.
“Not from the look on his face,” Barbara Yoder, the wife of one of the younger men, said quickly.
“I could have told you,” Betty spoke up sagely. “Hannah’s already writing to someone, but I didn’t want to say so for her.”
“Oh, she is?” The disappointment was audible in the chorus of voices. “Who is he?”
“I’ve not seen him,” Betty said, enjoying the attention on such an interesting matter. “His name’s Sam Knepp. She received a letter from him this week already.”
“They must be serious, then,” Elizabeth said. “That’s kind of soon.”
“It sounds like it,” Betty said. “Her mother is all for it.”
A Dream for Hannah (Hannah's Heart 1) Page 14