by Sarah Price
After the wedding, everything changed. Rosanna noticed that Timothy acted differently on the weekends than he did on weekdays. Their farm was small, just enough to keep a dozen dairy cows and plant a decent-size crop of corn in one field and hay in another. But it wasn’t quite enough to sustain them. To augment their income, Timothy worked part-time for an Englischer who did construction.
After work on Friday evenings, he would come home a little bit later than usual, and his eyes would be red. She thought she smelled tobacco on his breath. Two months after their wedding, she realized it was not cigarettes but something else. The bittersweet smell that lingered on his clothing and his squinty eyes clearly indicated that Timothy was not just drinking. Her best guess was that he had begun to dabble with drugs.
And then she found the bag of crumbled marijuana.
With that single discovery, her world shattered around her. She took the plastic bag to the bishop, who confirmed her suspicions and approached Timothy. She never knew what, exactly, had been discussed between the two of them. For a while, Timothy stopped misbehaving at home, clearly thankful that he hadn’t been shunned by the bishop. But the longer he stayed sober, the more Timothy began to act angrily toward Rosanna.
He blamed her for ruining his reputation by telling the bishop. And with this new accusation against her, Timothy no longer pretended to be kind to her, not even in public. It was as if she didn’t exist.
She was stunned by the change in his personality, and it didn’t help that she was pregnant with her first child and feeling sickly. But she ignored the changes in her husband.
Until six months later, when it happened again. She found him in the morning, asleep in the barn with an empty bottle of vodka nearby. She wasn’t certain he had smoked marijuana, but she suspected as much. This time, however, Rosanna said nothing. She knew that the community would not be so forgiving, and she also knew that she could not deal with additional verbal abuse from him. Besides, with a newborn infant to tend, she couldn’t handle the emotional stress of living with a shunned husband.
After that, things began to spiral out of control.
Eventually the marijuana smoking stopped, but it was replaced, full force, by alcohol abuse. At first Timothy tried to hide it from her, stashing it in the barn and hayloft. After Cate’s birth, however, he stopped caring if she knew. No one else in the g’may seemed to suspect anything was amiss. They had no reason to. After all, he continued working and was genuinely considered to be a good man. Little did they know that, once the sun set, the bottle came out and the nights became a dark nightmare.
“Best get started on your chores,” she said to Aaron and motioned toward the barn.
Rosanna listened as Aaron bounded down the porch steps. Standing by the window, she watched him hurry toward the barn, and a few seconds later, the dogs ran free. Any time now, Cate would get up and demand Rosanna’s attention, so for the moment she enjoyed watching the three dogs play in the small patch of grass before darting back into the shadows of the barn.
Timothy had already left the kitchen, his breakfast barely eaten—the eggs were too runny and the potatoes undercooked. There was always something not good enough in everything she did. At least his complaints stung less and less each day. Perhaps she was just numb from hearing so many of them.
Aaron was in the barn, milking the cows at last. They had only a dozen cows, so the morning chores didn’t take very long. He’d bring her a pail of fresh milk so that she could make cheese or butter, depending on what they needed. The rest of the milk would be canned and sold to a local store that catered to the Amish who were not fortunate enough to have access to their own fresh farm produce.
Leaning forward, Rosanna cast a glance in the direction of her garden. The back edge of it ran along the property line of the neighbor’s house, an elderly non-Amish woman, Gloria, who lived with her adult daughter in a more contemporary neighborhood. Years ago the family who had previously owned the Zooks’ farm had sold half of it to a developer. That land now housed several streets of Englische houses, the first of which had backyards that bordered the Zooks’ fields.
Rosanna thought that some of their problems stemmed from the isolation of their property from the rest of the g’may. Because the back of their farm bordered an Englischer neighborhood, there was little risk of the Amish witnessing Timothy’s behavior. After the sun set, no one stopped by to visit, and that gave Timothy enough opportunity to lose himself at the bottom of a bottle. He only drank at night, long after the risk of detection by the community.
Rosanna always tried to get Aaron and Cate to bed early so they wouldn’t see their father when he was in really bad shape. When he was, his behavior often became erratic.
Once, when he had been drinking, he took the hoe into the garden late at night and began digging more rows along the back. The neighbor, Gloria, came out of her house and began screaming at him about the hour and that he was too close to her property. Timothy responded by spitting at her. The battle between Timothy Zook and Gloria Smith hadn’t let up since.
Rosanna was still standing by the sink, lost in thought after having washed the morning dishes, when he snuck up behind her.
“Mayhaps I’ll go check on those rows of horse corn I planted at the back of your garden,” he said, more to himself than to her. He had that special gleam in his eyes when he said this, and Rosanna knew exactly what he would do: drop a few ears of corn along the property line in order to attract rodents to Gloria’s yard.
“Timothy . . .”
If there was one thing that Gloria complained about constantly, it was that the fence behind the Zooks’ garden was on her land. Timothy always responded by insisting on planting crops right up to the fence, which then led to complaints about the increase of field mice and wood rats on Gloria’s side.
Now Timothy turned his head to look at Rosanna. There was anger in his eyes, a look that she had long ago recognized as his feeling of superiority over others, especially her. She knew that the truth was that he was an angry man, angry at everything and nothing at the same time. And when he felt angry, anyone could be a target for his rage. Today it was Gloria.
“She’s an old crankpot, Rosanna. No wonder her husband up and left her!”
“Isn’t it better to just ignore her? Not instigate her?” she tried to reason, but he cut her off with a swift gesture of his hand. He always cut her off, as if to prove the point that her opinion did not matter very much to him.
“Her daughter is just as bad as she is,” he said without any sympathy. His eyes seemed to gleam with delight at his next statement. “Why, I heard she was arrested for drunk driving not once but twice in a two-week period of time! And that’s why she was away for so long.” He laughed when he said this, but the irony of the gossip was not lost on Rosanna.
Even on the nights that Timothy did make it to bed, he would shuffle in after the clock chimed midnight, often knocking into the dresser or dropping his flashlight—Rosanna had taken to hiding the kerosene lanterns when she went to bed, realizing the danger of one in his hands. Other nights, he slept in his clothes with his leg tossed over the arm of the sofa. Who was he to mock Camille Smith? The only difference between the two of them was that the authorities hadn’t caught up with Timothy Zook.
“And from the looks of her belly,” he added with a sneer, “she breeds, too!”
Lowering her eyes, Rosanna turned away from the window. “Best finish your coffee,” she whispered, not wanting to hear any more of his evil gossip. She heard him laugh as she moved to the stove, hating the ugly feeling that welled up inside of her chest.
Please God, she prayed, give me the strength to follow Your will.
CHAPTER ONE
The small brass bell jingled as she opened the glass door to the shop. Inside, Rosanna inhaled deeply and shut her eyes for just a moment. Leather. It smelled warm and welcoming. For some reason, the scent reminded her of her father and growing up on the farm in Pequea. Perhaps it was from t
he many Saturday afternoons he had spent cleaning the horse’s harness, rubbing leather soap on the reins and collar, wiping them clean until there was not one speck of dirt left on any of the equipment. Her parents still lived there, but in the smaller haus. Her oldest brother and his family managed the farm; their daed was now too old for such manual work.
The wide-plank floorboard creaked as Rosanna walked past a tall rack of saddles. Most of them were western-style, with funny-shaped horns in front of the rider’s seat, although she did notice two smaller used English saddles for sale on consignment. Most likely children’s saddles, she thought. Two Amish men stood in the aisle, their backs to the saddles as they stared at a rack of products: dewormer, equine shampoo, hoof polish. Rosanna imagined that for an Amish man, the shop evoked a similar feeling to the one she felt at the fabric store.
She loved going to the Troyer Harness Shop. Besides the smell, she loved the sounds: the soft murmur of men talking, the distant noise of machinery, and the hissing of the propane-powered lamps that cast bright light throughout the shop. It was so different from her home, which, these days, was quiet.
It was mid-May, and school had ended just last week for Cate. Rosanna was surprised that everything still seemed so quiet, but Cate had made herself scarce during her first week of summer vacation. She spent long mornings playing with the dogs in the freshly cut hayfield. Aaron had scolded her on more than one occasion, reminding her to avoid running through that field so that she didn’t damage his crops. However, she rarely listened to her older brother, merely waiting until he was working in the barn or the cornfield before grabbing an old tennis ball, whistling to the dogs, and heading in the exact direction Aaron had told her not to go. Rosanna had grown tired of telling Cate that whistling was definitely not ladylike.
However, with her own chores finished and both kinner occupied—Aaron with his work and Cate with the dogs—it was the perfect time for Rosanna to slip away from the house and venture into town. She had used the kick scooter to go quietly down the long driveway to the road, hoping that neither Aaron nor Cate would see her and ask where she was going. Cate would surely have insisted on accompanying her. But this was a journey that Rosanna wanted to take alone.
With the kick scooter, it had taken only ten minutes to navigate the back roads to the center of town. The harness store was on Jasper Road, on the other side of town. Although it was just two blocks off Main Street, Jasper was a winding road that, once past Main, was surrounded by farmland. There were no other businesses near the harness store.
A customer stood at the counter, his back to Rosanna, settling his bill. One hand was wrapped around two brand-new reins for his horse’s harness. Rosanna stood nervously in the shadows waiting. Her heart pounded, and she felt a sudden wave of guilt. Had she made a mistake to come in the middle of the day? She had never done this before, and despite how innocent the deed seemed, she felt as if she might be engaged in a terrible transgression.
Once the customer moved toward the door carrying the reins, Rosanna saw him. Her husband, Reuben Troyer, stood behind the counter, a frown on his face as he squinted through his glasses to read the piece of paper he held in his hand. He picked up a pencil and made some annotations in his thin ledger book. The creases in his forehead deepened, and Rosanna made a mental note to pick up stronger reading glasses the next time she shopped at Walmart.
As if sensing her approach, he looked up and, upon seeing Rosanna, smiled. His blue eyes twinkled, and he immediately removed his glasses and set them on top of the counter.
“What a gut surprise, fraa!” he said.
Rosanna practically glided across the floor toward him, her black sneakers making no sound. She’d worn her plain navy-blue dress because the color was one of her favorites, and before leaving for the store, she had changed her apron to make certain that there were no traces of flour or dust from her morning chores. Her chestnut-brown hair was freshly brushed, and it shone from beneath her white prayer kapp.
“Thought I’d wander down here to say hello and see how your day is going,” she said lightly. She hoped that her presence was not a distraction for him.
To her relief, he appeared genuinely pleased. “Why, I’m glad you did!” He stepped from behind the counter and, after a quick glance over his shoulder at his workers, reached for her hand. No one looked up; their heads stayed down as they worked the leather cutter and the industrial sewing machines.
Squeezing her hand gently, Reuben led Rosanna through a swinging door into the back room. “Come, I want to show you something.”
She would have followed him anywhere. Reuben Troyer—the man who had saved her life. As far as she was concerned, he was an angel who had swooped down and rescued her when she was in the depths of despair.
“What is it, Reuben?”
He glanced at her and smiled a mischievous smile that lit up his face. “It’s a surprise.”
Still holding her hand, he led her through the inventory room, past the shelves lined with boxes and crates. Everything smelled like new leather, and Rosanna loved it. She inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of the bridles and collars hanging on the walls.
On the other side of the room was a door that led outside. Reuben guided her through a small breezeway and toward a three-stall stable. His horse stood in the first stall, rubbing its nose on the side of the door. It was a dark bay Saddlebred, one that had seen Reuben through two marriages. Rosanna often wished that the horse could talk; she would have loved to hear what it had to say about Rachel and Grace, Reuben’s previous wives.
Reuben led her to the stall next to his horse’s. It was usually empty, but now it was occupied by a sandy-brown Standardbred horse. Reuben leaned against the door and reached over to brush his hand along the horse’s neck. “What do you think, Rosanna?”
She stared at the creature, admiring the way its ears pointed forward, slightly arched, but not as much as an Arabian’s. They twitched ever so slightly, as if listening for her response. “She’s beautiful!”
“He,” Reuben corrected, his hand resting on the horse’s shoulder. There was a gentleness in his touch, his fondness for the animal more than apparent. “And he’s for Aaron.”
Rosanna caught her breath, and she felt a flutter rising in her chest and a lump forming in her throat. A horse for her son? She lifted her hand to her mouth, covering it as she fought the tears that were beginning to form in the corners of her eyes. “Oh, Reuben!”
He nodded, delighted with her reaction. His blue eyes moved over the horse again, a look of pride on his face. She knew what he was thinking—they had that type of relationship. He was picturing Aaron’s expression when Reuben brought the horse home and handed the boy the lead rope.
Actually he wasn’t a boy anymore. Sixteen. He was a young man now and one who had just started his rumschpringe, the period of time after Amish youths turned sixteen and were given freedom to explore the world before deciding to take the kneeling vow and become baptized members of the church. Most of the youths did make that commitment. Some did not. Rosanna had no doubt that Aaron would follow in the footsteps of their ancestors and accept baptism within a few years.
Regardless of that choice, every young man needed a horse. Under normal circumstances, his father would have given him one for his sixteenth birthday or shortly thereafter. The Amish didn’t generally associate birthdays or holidays with large gifts, but a young man needed a horse to get around with during the rumschpringe.
Because Timothy had died three years before he could bestow that gift on Aaron, it was only right that Reuben should have the honor of gifting his stepson his very first horse. And what a magnificent horse he was!
Rosanna felt a familiar tugging of emotion in her chest. Reuben constantly did special things like this to please her and her kinner. She bit her lower lip and reached out a hand to touch the horse. He snorted and lifted his head, causing her to laugh. “Spirited, is he not?”
Reuben nodded. “Ja, he’s still young. Fou
r years old and not quite broke for the buggy yet. But he’ll be a right gut pacer—once Aaron breaks him.”
“Oh help,” she mumbled. “Must have been expensive.”
She couldn’t help but worry about money. After Timothy’s death, she had struggled to keep the farm. That first year, the g’may had helped her as much as they could, but they needed to tend to their own crops and farms first. Barely thirteen years old, Aaron had stepped up to the responsibility, and between the two of them, the fields were plowed, the seeds planted, and the crops harvested. Luckily the farm was small enough that they managed it. Cate had also had to step up to help with some of the house chores.
For two years, they had struggled. At one point, her parents tried to talk her into selling the farm. “It’s too much for you, Rosanna girl,” her daed insisted.
“Nee, Daed,” she replied, shaking her head. “I can’t sell it. I need to hang on to it, if only for the kinner . . . for Aaron. If we sell it now, we’ll never be able to afford another farm. He’d have to learn a trade, and his heart is in farming. You know that. And without the farm, I’d have to work at the market or in a store. That’s just not for me.”
It was just after the two-year anniversary of Timothy’s death when Reuben Troyer had stopped by the house after a worship service. He was clad in his best—and as she later learned, only—black suit. His graying beard hung down to the second button on his white shirt. She knew him from church as a kindly middle-aged man. He had married twice before, but neither marriage had produced any children. His first wife had died after falling off a horse, and his second wife had died from brain cancer. Reuben remained alone for a long time after the death of his second wife, working in his harness store and attending church every other Sunday.
Rosanna had always thought Reuben’s light-blue eyes and neatly trimmed graying beard made him stand out from the other men. While he was respected by the g’may, he also had a reputation of being a rather tough employer. Not unfair, but demanding. Because of this, and the fact that he was so much older than her, Rosanna had never seriously considered Reuben as an option. She had barely spoken to him. To be truthful, she really hadn’t thought about getting remarried at all since Timothy’s death.