At Home in Pleasant Valley

by Marta Perry

  He chuckled, to show that was a joke. Naturally Isaac wouldn’t want to give up the reins yet.

  “I’m sure Caleb is willing to wait until you’re ready.” That seemed the proper answer, although she had no idea why Isaac would be talking to her about it.

  “Well, and that’s just what we don’t want him to do. A young couple like that, just starting out, it’s a gut thing to have their own place. Helps them to be steady-like, knowing what they’re working toward.”

  “I see.” She was beginning to, actually. “Are you talking about my farm?”

  He looked a little nettled, as if he didn’t care to be rushed toward the point he wanted to make, but then his face smoothed out into a determined smile.

  “Don’t hurry into answering me. I just want you to think about this. Seems it would be the best solution all around. Ezra’s farm would go to his kin, as I’m sure he’d want, and we’d pay you a fair market price. Set it up any way you want, with monthly payments or a lump sum.”

  Ezra’s farm, he’d said. Of course that was the way he’d see it, conveniently forgetting that the farm had come to them from her aunt and uncle. Childless themselves, they’d made it easy for their favorite niece and her husband to buy their place.

  That didn’t really matter, did it? The point was that if she was going to have to sell, it would be better to sell to family, as Isaac said.

  The familiar indecision settled on her. “I’m not sure . . .”

  “What aren’t you sure about?” His voice sharpened. “You can’t run a dairy farm on your own. You must be sure of that much. It was hard enough for Ezra, with the children not old enough to help yet.”

  Ezra had worked too hard, tried to do too much, but he’d loved it. No matter how tired he was, he always had a smile and a dream for the future. That was what he’d been working for—to have the right life for their family.

  “You have to think about the children’s future,” Isaac said, gesturing toward Mary, who’d begun arranging pebbles around the edge of the bed. “Suppose you try to hang on to the farm and you fail. You could get into trouble with the taxes and end up losing everything Ezra worked so hard for. Better to make the decision now, while it’s yours to make.”

  He made it all sound so sensible. It was sensible, she supposed. It just seemed wrong, somehow. This wasn’t the way Ezra’s dream was supposed to end.

  “I . . . I’ll think about it.” Her voice sounded weak and indecisive, even to herself, and she hated that. Had she really been so dependent on Ezra that she couldn’t make up her own mind?

  “Gut, gut.” Isaac rocked back on his heels, smiling. “You think on it. Pray on it. I know you’ll decide right.”

  It was easy for Isaac to say. He wasn’t the one who’d have to live with the results.

  • • •

  Gideon’s hands tightened on the lines as his buggy rolled down the lane to the Brand farm. That was Isaac Brand he’d spotted, heading back across the fields to his adjoining farm.

  Judging by what he’d seen of Rachel’s relationship with her brother-in-law, he probably wouldn’t find her in a tranquil temper after a visit from Isaac. That didn’t bode well for the success of his mission today.

  He’d have to be persistent, that was all. He’d been trying for well over a week to get Rachel’s final approval on the plans for the greenhouse. He’d figured that once she’d committed herself to letting him build it, that would be the end of the discussion, and he could get on with it.

  But each time he’d tried to pin her down, Rachel had found yet another reason to avoid giving him the final go-ahead. At first he’d thought she just couldn’t figure out what she wanted. Now he was beginning to wonder if she still thought she’d find a way to get out of it entirely.

  He didn’t have all summer to get this job finished, not without having it affect the other projects he’d committed to. After the months of recuperation that he’d begun to think would never end, his shattered leg was finally healing. He might not be ready to climb on any scaffolding yet, but a small job like the greenhouse was the perfect place to start.

  His hands tightened in the frustration that was becoming too familiar a companion. Orders for the windmills that were his specialty were stacking up. If he didn’t start filling them soon, he risked losing the business to someone else.

  Folks had been willing to wait for him so far, some because they were Amish and so were brethren, others because they wanted the skill he provided.

  But they wouldn’t wait forever. The doctors kept saying he had to be patient, that he’d regain much of his mobility in time. Unfortunately, patience was not something he’d ever had in great supply. Maybe that was why God had sent him this particular trial—so that he could practice developing it.

  Truth was, he’d almost welcomed the pain of his injuries. The guilt he carried every day demanded some penalty. “Survivor guilt,” the doctor had called it. Having a name didn’t help him cope with it.

  He stopped at the hitching rail, making an effort not to favor his left leg as he climbed down. Acting as if he were whole must be a step to getting there, he’d think.

  Rachel had obviously seen him coming. She stood waiting for him by the herb garden near the back porch, with little Mary digging in the bed next to her. Motionless, she looked oddly forlorn in the slanting rays of the early spring sunshine.

  Maybe she saw that he was watching her, because she squared her shoulders and smiled. He thought it took an effort. Her hands weren’t gathered into fists, so apparently her encounter with Isaac hadn’t made her angry, but it had had some sort of effect on her.

  “I hope I’m not coming too late, Rachel. Mary, how are you?” He smiled down at the little girl. So like her mother, she was, her blue eyes fixed on him in an unwavering stare.

  “No, it’s fine. We’re finished here.” Rachel glanced at her daughter. “Mary, what are you doing?”

  Mary had come over to him. She tugged on his pants leg, and then she linked her fingers together in a rocking motion.

  “It’s all right.” He grinned at the child. “She remembers that I made her a cradle from my handkerchief once. That’s been over a year ago. Think of her still remembering that.”

  Mary tugged at his pants leg again.

  “Persistent, aren’t you?” Chuckling a little, he pulled out his handkerchief. He folded it into a triangle and then did the double roll and twist that transformed a handkerchief into a cradle with a baby in it, if you had the imagination of a child. He rocked it once between his fingers and then handed it to Mary.

  She laughed and swung it back and forth. “Schloofe, boppli. Schloofe.”

  Rachel was staring at him, and he couldn’t read her expression. “You’re very talented,” she said.

  He shrugged. “I have nieces and nephews who sometimes need distracting.”

  “When did you do this for Mary?” Her voice seemed to have cooled.

  He didn’t care much for the disapproval he sensed in her. She’d never really liked the time Ezra had spent with him, it seemed. Had it been jealousy of their close friendship? Or resentment that he took Ezra away from family sometimes? She certainly couldn’t imagine he was leading Ezra into mischief. During their rumspringa, it had been Ezra who always came up with that.

  “When she went with Ezra and me to an auction, I think.” He held up the plans he’d tucked under his arm. “Are you ready to take a look at these?”

  She blinked at the abrupt change of subject. He could see her scrambling to come up with an answer.

  “I . . . I was thinking that maybe it doesn’t make so much sense to start the greenhouse right now. I mean, the frost danger will be over in another month, and I probably wouldn’t get much use from it for a while. If you have other projects to do first—”

  He kept a rein on his temper. Rachel had been a pliant girl, and sh
e’d always seemed eager to do as Ezra wanted. Now it seemed she didn’t want to be told what to do, and he wouldn’t fall into the same mistake that Isaac made in dealing with her.

  “Now is the perfect time to get on with the greenhouse. My leg’s not up to the high work on windmills yet, but I can certainly handle a greenhouse.”

  He wasn’t going to tell her the rest of it—his sense that if only he could start doing something for her and her kinder, he’d ease the weight of responsibility that he felt each time he thought of Ezra.

  Her face had tightened with the reminder of his injury, but she gave a jerky nod. “Makes sense, I guess. It’s getting chilly. Komm inside. We can work there.”

  Success, of a sort, he supposed. He followed her into the haus, and Mary trailed after them, crooning a soft lullaby to her imaginary infant.

  Obeying Rachel’s gesture, he spread the plan out on the table, smoothing it down, while she poured coffee from the ever-present pot on the stove. She carried two mugs to the table, handing one to him, and stood for a moment staring down at the simple plan.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I’ve hesitated about this long enough. If this is a gut time for you, let’s go ahead already.”

  “Fine.” He kept it matter-of-fact and leaned over, tracing the shape with his finger. “Here’s the area we talked about adding along the side. It’ll make the greenhouse a bit bigger than the original plan, but it’ll give you more light, especially early in the spring.”

  She bent over the plan next to him, studying it. “I didn’t think about it being bigger—will we need more materials, then?”

  He heard a trace of anxiety in her voice, making him wonder if the cost was an issue. “I don’t think so.”

  And if they did, he’d take care of that himself. She need never know.

  “That’s gut.” Her fingertips glided over the outline almost lovingly. “I was just thinking that—” She hesitated, as if reluctant to voice the thought.

  “What?”

  “Well, it could be a little extra income for me, ain’t so? Growing the plants and selling them. If I had more, I could maybe go to all the spring Mud Sales, even the farmer’s market, ferleicht.”

  “No ‘perhaps’ about it. You could do that.”

  Now it was his turn to hesitate. Had Ezra not left her provided for? He’d always assumed this was a prosperous farm, but Rachel sounded as if finances were a worry.

  He had been Ezra’s closest friend. He had the responsibility to ask. “Is the money a problem? I thought the dairy herd brought in a gut income.”

  Rachel sighed, a little catch of breath that brushed his heart. With her eyes fixed on the plan she wasn’t looking at him, and his gaze traced the clear line of her profile. She stood very close, and the air around them was so still it seemed even the room held its breath.

  “I never had to worry about it when Ezra was taking care of things.” She stopped, shaking her head. “But with Isaac and William doing all the work for the dairy herd, it’s only fair that they share the money from the milk.”

  His own breath seemed to be strangling him. Fair? Well, they deserved something for their work, but—

  “How big a share?”

  She didn’t have to answer, but he hoped she would.

  “We go halves.” She glanced at him then, troubled. “That’s only right.”

  “Does Isaac also pay half the expenses—the feed, the taxes?” Because it would be Isaac who expected the payment. He felt sure that young William was doing this because he had a gut heart and because he’d loved Ezra.

  “Well, no. I mean, it’s not his farm.”

  No, it wasn’t. And if anyone accused Isaac of taking advantage of his widowed sister-in-law, all he’d have to say was that she’d pay as much or more if she had to hire the work done.

  And saying anything to Isaac would only cause trouble in the family and dissension in the church. It was better, much better, to keep his opinions of Isaac’s doings to himself and find some other way to help Rachel.

  “I think your plans for the greenhouse are very sound. You might go a little further, if you wanted.”

  “Further?”

  “Fresh flowers for the farmer’s market, say. My brother Aaron and his wife go twice a week in the growing season. I’m sure he’d be willing to take them for you. And if you potted up some of the perennials you grow, that would be another thing to sell.”

  His enthusiasm for the idea built as he talked. A fine gardener like Rachel had plenty to offer that folks, especially the English, would pay for.

  “Those herbs of yours, too,” he added. “You might even go into growing some ornamental shrubs and raspberry or blackberry bushes and such-like for sale.”

  Rachel’s eyes had widened, as if she could see all the possibilities. For a moment her face lit with enthusiasm, but then the light went out like a snuffed candle.

  “There would be expenses. And besides, I don’t know anything about running a business.”

  “I can help you with that.”

  He saw in an instant that he should have stopped at offering the ideas. Those she might take. Actual assistance, at least from him—that she didn’t want. She was only accepting it with the greenhouse because she couldn’t find a way out.

  She pulled away from the table. “That’s kind of you, Gideon. But I can’t let you do anything else for me.”

  “Can’t?” If he didn’t do some plain speaking, this would always stand between them. “Or won’t, because you don’t forgive me for Isaac’s death?” There. It was out, though his heart hurt with it.

  Her face blanched. “It was an accident. You’re not to blame. And even if you were, I would forgive.”

  It was the Amish way. They both knew that. Forgive as you would be forgiven. God didn’t offer His forgiveness on any easier terms, no matter how much His children might want it.

  “Forgiveness is more than words.” He paused, but maybe it was best to say the rest of it. “The truth is that you didn’t like my friendship with Ezra long before the accident. Every time he went off with me, I could see it in your face.”

  “No.”

  He ignored the denial, because they both knew what he said was true. “You resented our friendship. I never really understood why. And now you resent it that I’m still alive.” The face of his dead wife flickered through his mind. Ja, he was still alive, for a reason only God understood.

  He took a harsh breath. “I loved him, too, Rachel. I mourn for him. And I am going to do everything I can to help you and his children, so I hope you can find a way to live with that.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Folks in the outside world probably had people they went to when they had a problem. Doctors and other advisors, Rachel shouldn’t wonder. When the Leit, the Amish of Pleasant Valley, needed someone to talk to, they went to Bishop Mose. So that was where she was headed today.

  The weather had turned gray and chill again, as the end of March often did, and the wind had whipped at the brim of her bonnet as Brownie clip-clopped along the narrow blacktop road to town. If March was going to go out like a lamb, it had best start warming up. But she was here now, and Mose’s workshop would be warm.

  She swung down from the buggy seat and fastened the lines to the hitching rail. She reached back under the buggy seat for the piece of harness with the loose buckle. That needed mending anyway, so it gave her a good reason for coming to Mose Yoder’s harness shop, just in case her courage failed her and she couldn’t bring up the thing she wanted to talk with him about.

  Bishop Mose, like all ministers and bishops among the Amish, worked at his trade as the apostle Paul had, accepting their Christian duties in addition.

  There were two steps up to the little wooden porch, hollowed with the passage of many feet over the years. The glass-paneled door bore a hand-lettered sign. Hors
e People Only, No Tourists, it read. Beneath those directions Mose had added, in firm black-marker letters, No Picture-Taking.

  She smiled a little. Once, the signs wouldn’t have been necessary, but in recent years tourists had discovered the Amish of Pleasant Valley. Bishop Mose did business with the English horse-owners in the area, some even coming from as far away as Mifflinburg to get good handcrafted tack. But he could do without the tourists.

  She opened the door, the bell jangling, and stepped inside. Bishop Mose stood behind the cash register, busy with a customer, but he gave her a quick, welcoming smile. Since the customer was English and not anyone she knew, she moved to the side counter, keeping her gaze politely averted from the business they were transacting.

  The rich scents of leather and oil transported her back through the years. She’d been coming to Mose’s harness shop since her father brought her and Johnny when they were little more than Mary’s age. The shop fascinated her—the harness and tack hanging from pegs and lining shelves up to the ceiling; the mysterious, to her child’s mind, machinery that Mose used on the leather; and most especially Bishop Mose Yoder himself.

  She slid a sideways glance as he bent over the counter, listening courteously to some story the Englischer was telling. As always, Mose wore a heavy apron over his black trousers and blue shirt to protect them from his work.

  Had he really not aged since she was a child? Somehow she’d always thought him old, with his long beard and hair a snowy white and his face a patchwork of tiny wrinkles, much like a piece of his own leather.

  Running her fingers along a fine Western saddle with elaborate leatherwork, she tried to figure out how old Mose must be. Close to eighty, surely, wasn’t he? An Amish bishop was a bishop for life, just as the ministers were, chosen by lot through God’s guidance. Had Mose started out looking like a patriarch of the Old Testament, or had the look grown on him as he ministered to his flock?