“If I wanted to sell a half-dozen milk cows around here, who do you suppose might be interested in them?”
Johnny straightened his thick gloves and prepared to handle the roll of wire. “Not too many folks. Milk cows are not the same as cattle raised for beef. The feed’s not the same.”
“Can you think of anyone?”
“Maxwells, maybe.”
“Maxwells?” Willem raised his eyebrows.
“Brothers. Jason and Raymond. They’ll buy most any kind of livestock and then try to turn a profit.”
“So they’ll take horses, too?”
“As long as they aren’t ready to be horse meat.”
Rudy’s horses were healthy, and one was still young as far as horses went. Most of the cows had ample calving years ahead of them.
“How do I find these Maxwell brothers?”
“On a ranch a few miles northeast of here. Other side of Limon.”
Northeast was the wrong direction for going home, but he would have to do it. Rudy’s intentions were clear, and Abbie needed prodding to take action. She would run herself ragged trying to take care of all those animals by herself, and for no purpose. Rudy was not coming back.
Willem braced to lift the roll of wire. “Come on. We need to finish our quota early today.”
The Maxwell ranch was farther out of Limon than what Willem would have called a few miles, but by the time he realized Johnny’s estimate had fallen short, Willem had invested too much time to turn back. His stomach grumbled for a late supper by the time he found the ranch and sorted out which building to approach.
“I hear you might be interested in some dairy cows,” he said to Jason Maxwell.
“Maybe. How many?”
“Eight. And a calf.”
“The only one of your people who has that many dairy cows is Rudy Stutzman, and you’re not him.”
Willem resisted the urge to point out that Jason Maxwell might not know as much about the Amish as he thought he did—except he was right on this point.
“Those are the cows I’m talking about. I am inquiring on behalf of Mr. Stutzman.”
“We don’t pay agent fees.”
“I’m not asking for anything. Mr. Stutzman is a friend.”
“We looked at his cows once.” Jason narrowed his gaze. “He turned us down.”
“Circumstances have changed.”
Jason’s eyes perked up. Willem held his tongue. He would say nothing that might compromise the value of Rudy’s livestock.
“I’ll tell you what,” Jason said. “We’ll come and have a look. Tomorrow before supper.”
Willem nodded. “We’ll be ready.”
“You’d better not be wasting our time.”
Abbie sighed and turned away when she saw Willem’s stallion through the open barn door on Rudy’s farm the next afternoon. She sat on a three-legged stool with her skirt arranged for clear access to the cow’s udder and leaned her head into the animal’s side. Only two minutes into the milking, and still not as fast as her brothers, she calculated she could keep her head down and her eyes averted for twenty minutes. If Willem had not left by then, she would move on to the next cow.
“Abbie,” he said.
She did not answer.
“You can ignore me if you want to, but it won’t change what is about to happen.”
Abbie bit her lip in determination not to speak.
Willem picked up an empty bucket in one hand and a stool in the other. Abbie glanced out of the side of her eye and saw him inspecting the cows to determine which ones still needed to be milked.
“I made some inquiries.” Willem situated himself beside a cow. “Jason Maxwell and his brother are coming in a few minutes to look at Rudy’s livestock.”
Abbie flared. “It’s none of your business.”
“Rudy wants you to sell. I am going to make sure you get the best value.”
“I didn’t ask you to find a buyer. Neither did Rudy.” She listened to the rapid rhythmic squirts of Willem’s efforts against the metal bucket.
Willem named a number. “If they offer you at least that much just for the cows, I think you should take it. Don’t let them try to get you to throw in the horses.”
“You’re not listening, Willem. It’s none of your business.”
Squirt. Squirt. Squirt.
“When I heard you were going to marry Rudy,” Willem said, “I thought I could accept that you were none of my business. But that has changed, hasn’t it?”
“I’m not giving up on Rudy.”
“Abigail.”
Squirt. Squirt. Squirt. She was nearly keeping pace with him now.
“I just need time to find him. Eventually he’ll go home to his parents. To his home district.”
“He asked you not to look for him.”
“I should never have let you read that letter.”
“But you did. We can’t undo what’s done. Rudy is gone.”
Abbie leaned her head harder into the cow’s side, though her hands slowed. Underneath the rhythm of Willem’s steady milking, she heard the hoofbeats. Two horses.
“They’re here,” Willem said softly. “I’ll bring them in. We’ll start with the cows and then see about the horses.”
Willem had been surprisingly accurate in the number the Maxwell brothers would eventually offer for the cows, including the calf. Abbie met the gazes of the Maxwells with an unflinching lack of expression.
“We are mighty curious about why we are not dealing with Mr. Stutzman.” Jason picked at his teeth with one finger.
“The reason does not matter,” Willem said. “Miss Weaver is a legal agent for the sale.”
“Maybe so,” Jason said. “But if you want our full price offer, we’ll need some proof of that.”
Abbie looked at Willem and took a deep breath before she relented and got up to retrieve Rudy’s document from the house, leaving the three men leaning over the fence watching the horses in the pasture. When she went back outside, she took a lantern with her and dutifully held it above the paper while Jason perused the details in Rudy’s handwriting.
“Are you sure the livestock are not securing any debt?” Jason asked.
Abbie had no idea. She turned her face toward Willem.
“He bought them free and clear,” Willem said. “One at a time when he had the cash.”
“He is a good businessman.” Jason handed the papers back to Abbie. “It’s getting too dark to inspect the horses tonight. We’ll come back tomorrow. My offer on the cows is good until then.”
Abbie waited until they rode away before she spoke. “I haven’t decided to sell. You can’t force me.”
“I’m not trying to force you.” Willem took the lantern from her. “I’m trying to help you do something I know is impossibly difficult for you to do.”
“I know how much a good cow is worth.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
Abbie turned toward the pasture gate. “I should get the horses in and finish up for the night.”
“I’ll take care of that.” Willem reached for her arm. “What matters is you.”
She was relieved it was too dark for him to see her face.
“This is hard,” he said, “but you don’t have to do it alone. Isn’t that what a church is all about?”
Her chest heaved.
“I believe Rudy loves you,” Willem said, “but he couldn’t stay here. He only stayed as long as he did because of you. But I’m here.”
She spun to face him. “And you’re going to the Mennonites!”
“Come with me.” He tilted the lantern to shine on her face. “I want you to come with me. There’s a service a week from Sunday.”
The light cast its circle on Willem as well, and she saw the ache in his eyes. Heat gathered in the tears she restrained in her own eyes stung. Abbie refused to blink. In a miniscule movement, Willem leaned toward her.
She stepped away. “I suppose I have no choice but to sell the livestoc
k.”
Jason Maxwell brought three trailers and four ranch hands when he arrived on Tuesday for all the animals, including the chickens. He paid Abbie in cash, accepted the receipt she wrote out for him, shook her hand, and pulled out of Rudy’s farm before supper. Abbie stood in the nearly soundless barnyard—only her own horse was there to scrape a hoof through the dirt—and turned in a slow circle before going into the house for one last desolate look around.
Rudy had not left under desperate or urgent circumstances. He easily could have taken more personal belongings or made arrangements on his own. Abbie felt the wound of his departure freshen. Rudy had left in smooth, silent stealth because of her, because she would have tried to talk him out of it. Now she held the value of his livestock in her hands, more cash than she had ever known, and she did not want it.
Someday, she resolved, she would find Rudy and send it to him. Someday she would find a way to wish him well. In the meantime, if she could not support herself in this wilderness of a settlement, she certainly was not going to live off the money of the man who had left her. She would have to write to the bishop in Ordway, but she could not do it yet.
There was no more reason to stay in Rudy’s house or walk through his barn. Abbie closed the front door and drove home to the stark solitude of the Weaver farm, where she latched the door and climbed the stairs. If she paused long enough to drink a cup of coffee or scramble an egg, she would forfeit her resilience. Instead, she willed herself into an immediate deep, hard sleep of resistance.
On Wednesday morning, she rose, washed, dressed, and drove to the Woods’ without breakfast. She played chess, read aloud, declined Louise’s offer of tea, listened to Fin prattle about life on the ranch, and forced herself to eat enough lunch to be polite. Sufficient clues surfaced to reveal Willem was occupied in the far reaches of the ranch, for which Abbie was grateful. If he had come by her house on his way home, she would have sent him away.
Thursday and Friday repeated this pattern, though each day Abbie ate more. Saturday passed with minimal activity. She let the horse out to the pasture, intending not to call her back before dark, and collected the few eggs to be found in the coop that had once held dozens of chickens. During the day, if she felt the urge to doze, she did, fighting off the racing futile internal protest of her circumstances.
Sunday came. The Sabbath. The day of the week Abbie had always felt most keenly the lack of church services or even meal gatherings. She gathered the eggs and calculated that she had enough in the crates to be worth a trip into Limon to trade for foodstuffs that would bring variety to her diet. The flour bin was depleting, and while she could drop away from delivering bread to Willem, and he would not comment under the circumstances, the widower Samuels still relied on her. But even if she could bring herself to go to Limon on the Sabbath, Gates Mercantile would not be open.
Finished with the chickens, Abbie splashed water on her face and decided to go visit the Millers. Mary had acted so oddly the last time. If Little Abe had been ill, Abbie wanted to assure herself that he was recovered. She hitched up the buggy and drove down the road.
When she approached the turnoff, the Miller buggy threw arrows of dust from its spinning wheels as it came out of the lane that led to their house and turned in the opposite direction. Abbie pulled on the reins, put her head in one hand, and exhaled. Her only hope for friendship was swaying behind a cantering dappled horse.
Abbie sat up straight. It was unusual for Albert and Mary to leave their farm on a Sunday morning. Abbie, Ruthanna, and Mary had often found Sabbath rest and refreshment in each other’s company on a day when they could release most of their obligations. She raised the reins again and followed.
As the Millers drove straight through the turns that might have taken them to the Mullets’ or Troyers’, Abbie’s heart collected speed as well.
The Millers were going to Limon.
Willem stood outside the house where Jake lived. He had arrived early because of both eagerness and anxiety. While he felt the first service a month ago had stirred his soul and made him hunger for more, he could not be sure everyone else felt the same. He was stunned to find Moses Troyer and his wife looking for the house and delighted to be able to point them to the right place. Nothing Moses had ever said to Willem suggested they would visit the Mennonite service. Willem remained outside, watching for others who might be seeking the church meeting.
When he saw the Millers’ buggy ease in beside his, he allowed himself a satisfying breath. As soon as Little Abe’s feet steadied on the ground, the boy pumped his legs toward Willem and wrapped his short arms around Willem’s calf.
Mary hurried behind her son. “Abraham Miller, you behave yourself!” She pried him off of Willem, lifted him, and fenced the child in on one hip with both her arms.
“I’m always glad to see Little Abe,” Willem said. “I’m very glad to see all the Millers today. Thank you for coming back.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can put Abbie off,” Mary said. “I don’t want to be dishonest, but it would break her heart if she knew we were here. Every time I see her, I get weaker.”
“Maybe we can talk to her together,” Willem said. “You and Albert and me.”
“I’m sure that would be easier for me.” Mary set her son on the ground again but held his hand firmly.
Albert joined her. “We didn’t tell anyone we came last time,” he said.
“Go on in,” Willem said. “Jake is waiting for you.”
Willem turned his eyes back to the street, hoping to see James and Julia Graves, who were likely to walk the few blocks from their own home, or Theresa Sutton. Instead, another Amish buggy clattered down the street, causing Willem to mentally run down the list of households who remained in the settlement and speculate who would be arriving. For a moment he was so surprised to see a fourth Amish buggy that he did not focus on the horse he knew very well.
Abbie’s horse. The mare. The only one Ananias did not sell before the Weavers boarded a train. He sucked in his breath and strode toward the approaching rig.
“Good morning, Abbie.”
Her narrowed eyes flashed from him to the house and then to three parked buggies. “What’s going on, Willem?”
“We are having a worship service this morning. I hope you will join us.”
“I followed the Millers,” she said.
“Yes, the Millers are here.” Willem winced. The confrontation Mary was leery of was unfolding on the side of the street.
“I see.” Abbie pressed her lips together and smoothed her skirt. “Now I understand Mary’s reluctance to speak to me. And of course I am not surprised to see you here. But there’s another buggy.”
“Come inside, Abbie. See for yourself.”
Abbie had not even gotten out of the buggy. Willem expected she would click her tongue and get the mare moving again.
Instead, she met his gaze. “Where shall I park?”
With a strangling knot in her neck, Abbie followed Willem inside the house and into the room where Jake had pushed the furniture around.
Mary Miller jumped up from the sofa. “Abbie!”
Abbie gave a wan smile. “You never expected to see me here.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
The Troyers stood. “Thank you for coming,” Moses said.
Abbie nodded in the smallest gesture she could manage. She had not exactly come. She had followed Mary, first out of curiosity, then confusion, then aggravation. Entering the house was simply more provocation to see for herself what the row of buggies outside meant. Her mind’s eye saw two more squares in her quilt fade into frayed fragments of the beauty she intended.
The Mullets, the Yoders, Martin Samuels, the Nissleys, and Abbie. Of twelve households, only four remained. Abbie could not count herself a household. The place where she lay her head at night might belong to someone else by next week. She was in no position to bear the expense of running a farm or to manage the physical labor on her
own.
Jake crossed the room. “Welcome, Abbie. Let us worship our God together.”
“I’m sorry,” Abbie mumbled. She bumped into Willem when she turned around and immediately pushed past him and hurtled herself toward the outside air.
She stood, planted, outside the house. Inside was an unimaginable compromise. Outside failure slapped her in the face.
“Abbie.”
She should have known Willem would follow her out. “No, Willem.”
“I have not asked a question,” he said. “Yet.”
He stood near enough that her breath drew in his comfortable, familiar scent. Every muscle in her body wanted to surrender, to drink in the assurance of this man.
“You’re here,” Willem said. “Your friends are here. Would it be so terrible to come inside?”
She wavered. “There’s no point.”
“There is every point,” Willem countered. “These are people who seek God’s face, and we will worship together. We will sing hymns you love and pray. Jake will teach us from God’s Word. These are people who care for you and want to share their lives together. Is that not the church you seek?”
She raised her face to his, then ducked down again. “Ruthanna. My family. Rudy. You. I’ve lost one thing after another. Now you ask me to lose my church as well.”
“You never lost me, Abigail.”
“You’re trying to profit from the loss of others. The man I loved would not do that.” She choked on using the past tense.
Willem crossed his wrists in front of him. “Of late I have realized the ingratitude in my heart. I am choosing to receive the abundance God has already given me. I’d like your help in keeping me on my path.”
“You have Mr. Heatwole.” She hardened. “You chose the Mennonites.”
“I chose church, Abbie. I chose worship. I chose the same thing you’ve been fighting for all these months.”
She bit her bottom lip. “But what if my father and the others are right? What if this is not truly a church?”
“Isn’t that for God to judge? What if you are starving your soul for nothing while the blessing you crave is right here?”
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