Amanda Weds a Good Man

by Naomi King

  Wyman gazed at them all, his face alight with emotions Amanda wasn’t sure how to interpret. “I believe God is telling us to move ahead with our lives, even as He leads us in directions we hadn’t anticipated before the storm,” he said earnestly. “So let’s bow for a word with Him, asking for His blessing and insights as to how each of us is to follow His plan in the coming days.”

  As Amanda closed her eyes, her thoughts felt anything but prayerful. What on Earth is Wyman thinking to do? Will he just keep hinting about his new ideas, or will he reveal his thoughts to us? I’m not so sure I can handle yet another move in another direction . . . another new thing.

  The kids looked curious, too, but as they headed to their rooms they murmured among themselves rather than asking their dat to explain his remarks. Amanda tucked the twins and Alice Ann into their beds. Simon was so tired from the day’s work that he didn’t demand a story before his head hit the pillow. After she wished the four older kids good night, she started downstairs to assist Jemima, and met Jerome going to his room.

  “And what do you know about Wyman’s mysterious frame of mind?” she asked. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

  “Me?” her nephew teased. “What would I know about anything?”

  “Puh! You’ve been working with him these past few days—”

  “And I respect a man’s right to keep his own counsel until he’s gut and ready to say what’s on his mind, too.” Jerome squeezed her shoulder. “Patience is a virtue, Aunt.”

  “Jah, you’re a fine one to talk of patience. Gut night, you,” she murmured as she swatted his backside.

  “Denki for those hot dinners you’ve been sending with us,” he added. “The food stays plenty warm, the way you pack the pans into the cooler with towels. I’ve never thought of doing that.”

  “You’re welcome, dear.” Jerome’s compliment was his way of ducking the subject of Wyman’s plans, but she appreciated it anyway. Amanda suspected her nephew had enjoyed living without two women bossing him, yet he seemed genuinely pleased to have the Brubaker bunch with him for a while.

  As Amanda emerged from Jemima’s dawdi haus apartment, the silence of the main house enfolded her. Only the ticking of the mantel clock and the whistle of the wind filled the shadowy front room. She noticed the lamp was still lit in the kitchen, and found Wyman there at the table, stirring two mugs of cocoa.

  “Tired as you looked at dinner, I thought you’d be turning in early,” Amanda remarked as she sat down beside him. “But it’s gut to spend some quiet time with you after our busy day.”

  Wyman gazed at her over the rim of his mug. “What would I do without you, sweet wife?” he murmured. “You take such gut care of me, I’ve forgotten all about the emptiness that followed Viola’s death . . . the way I worked like a man possessed to forget my loneliness. We have a lot to talk about, Amanda.”

  Her heart stood still. Was he going to discuss the Lord’s new direction, or was something else bothering him? “All right. I’m listening,” she whispered.

  “Ah, but I need your opinion.” His words came out in a rush as he grasped her hand. “These past few days, my mind has been whirling like those winds that plucked up our trees and dropped them on the house. I want to run some ideas past you before I mention them to another soul. And I might just burst if I don’t talk about them right now.”

  Amanda’s eyes widened. Wyman was getting very excited, yet he appeared apprehensive—driven to make her understand. He had saved his ideas to share with her first, and she felt honored. “And this is about the new thing the Lord has been prodding you with?”

  “Jah, I— What would you think if I sold my house and my land? To the Fishers!”

  Amanda’s mug thunked against the tabletop and her cocoa sloshed out. “Wyman, what are you— Why would you do such a thing?” she asked in a hushed voice. Her heart was beating like a frightened rabbit’s, yet her man’s enthusiasm was contagious.

  “Hear me out,” he insisted. “Tell me if my logic’s cockeyed, or if you think I’m barking up the wrong tree altogether. I believe God’s telling me to move on—and to move here for a fresh start. Think about it,” he urged her.

  Amanda stared at him in the flickering lamplight. His handsome face was alight with energy and he looked anything but weary now. “I’m listening,” she repeated. “I’m amazed and—and I’m shaking, too, but I want to know how you came to this decision. You’re not a man who jumps to half-baked conclusions.”

  He exhaled loudly, composing his thoughts. “I suppose this idea took root when Trevor asked about renting the pasture for his dairy herd,” he explained. “He and Ray went to the auction today to buy those other cows, and— Well, Trev’s so excited about getting established—”

  “Sally says he’s taking his instruction to join their church. Which means he’s got a girl in mind to marry, most likely.”

  “—and I couldn’t help thinking that if the Fishers bought my farm, they could all keep living along the same road, and—” Wyman paused to slow himself down. “I recall being that excited about life when I was Trevor’s age, and I want to feel that way with you, Amanda. But the bishop’s ruined it for me. Twice I’ve been stung by his sanctimonious commands, and I’ve had enough.”

  Amanda’s breath caught in her throat. “You’d sell out because of Uriah?”

  “I’m selling out for you, my love.” His whispered words shimmered in the stillness of the kitchen. “Don’t you see it? We’ll never satisfy that man. And I can’t believe, in my heart of hearts, that the Lord expects me to sacrifice my peace of mind—and my family’s happiness—just to remain in Uriah’s district.”

  Wyman grasped her hands, entreating her with his bottomless brown eyes. “When I came home from your church service yesterday, it hit me like a ton of bricks. We have no reason to remain in Clearwater, being miserable, when we can live right here. Is that all right with you, Amanda?”

  Her mouth dropped open but no sound came out. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, and her heart began dancing so fast she could barely breathe. “Of course it’s all right, Wyman! But—but what about your elevator? We talked before about how your business would keep us in Clearwater—”

  “When Jerome showed me around your farm, he pointed out that the same railroad tracks—the same trains—cross your property half an hour before they reach mine,” he explained. “If I sell my farm, I’ll have more than enough money to build a new grain elevator. Bloomingdale’s a gut place for one, too.”

  Amanda stared at him, trying to harness the questions that raced through her mind. “But what about your partnership with Ray? I can’t think he’ll want to buy out your share of—”

  “He won’t have to. We can remain partners and expand our business!” Wyman gushed. “Instead of one facility, we’ll have two. I can still work close to home, and he and Tyler can remain in Clearwater, so—”

  “But how will you justify getting the electricity? And how will you install the computers that keep you up to date on grain market transactions?” she asked cautiously. “Lamar Lapp allowed me to make pottery to support my family, but he’s dead set against modern technology.”

  Wyman smiled. He’d obviously thought about all these angles. “We can share Tyler between the two elevators, and if he has a laptop it’s not like we’ll have his computer on the premises all the time. He’ll enjoy setting up the new system and—”

  “But what if Ray and his boys say no?” Amanda murmured. “What if they can’t afford to buy your farm . . . or they don’t want to?”

  Wyman’s breath left him like the air leaking from a balloon. “Jah, a lot depends on them saying yes,” he admitted. “But I’m prepared to sell my land at less than its current market value, if his family wants it. Ray’s more than my partner. He’s been my best friend all my life. And in many ways, he’s a better businessman than I.”


  A grin twitched on Wyman’s lips then, as though he’d been saving the punch line of the best joke he’d ever heard. “And can’t you just imagine the look on Uriah’s face when he learns we’ve sold out to Mennonites?”

  Amanda laughed so loudly she clapped her hands over her mouth to keep from waking the children. “Oh, but, Wyman, you’re pinning your hopes on a mighty big yes,” she pointed out. “And you know Uriah will rant and rail against you. He’ll accuse you of running from your responsibilities to your district—and to God.”

  Her husband’s expression grew serious again. “There was a time I would’ve followed that logic—that absolute black-and-white Uriah demands of the faithful,” he said somberly. “But we have every right to live on your land, in your district, Amanda.

  “And truth be told,” he continued, leaning closer to her, “when Eddie told me he didn’t want to join the church because of Uriah’s attitude, that’s all I needed to hear. I don’t want to lose my son because the bishop has turned him against the Old Order faith. And Pete would be jumping the fence right behind him.”

  “Jah, I can see that happening.” Amanda sipped her cocoa, wondering what other stumbling blocks she should point up, even as she felt ecstatic about Wyman’s ideas. Who could have believed he would leave the land that had belonged to his family for so many generations? “So . . . if the Fishers don’t want your farm, what will you do?”

  “Well, since Ray owns the parcel the elevator’s on, I’ll give him the opportunity to buy the pasture for Trevor’s cows—and whatever else he might want, since it adjoins his property,” he reasoned aloud. “Then I’ll put the rest of the place up for sale at full value—which is very high, considering the rise in real estate prices these past few years. And if English buy it, so be it. God is still at work in all our lives.”

  In her mind, Amanda had been accounting for each section of Brubaker property as he’d mentioned it. “But what about the house? It’s going to cost a pretty penny for the repairs—”

  “Those Coblentz fellows from Cedar Creek are to come out tomorrow afternoon, to work up a bid. I wanted you to be there for that, Amanda—to have your say about the kitchen, especially,” he explained as he clasped her hands. “But then it hit me: what if the Fishers did buy the place? Trevor and his bride might have a different idea of what they want in a house, so why shouldn’t they decide about the remodeling? I’d lower the price of the place to allow for their additional expense.”

  “Oh, my,” Amanda murmured. “I’ve never had the chance to choose kitchen cabinets or—and—and I don’t need to! I love the kitchen here just as it is,” she blurted. “Maybe letting Trevor—or whoever buys your farm—decide on the remodeling would sweeten the deal for them. I think that’s a gut idea on your part.”

  As Wyman studied her in the lamplight, Amanda wished she’d thought before she’d spoken so hastily. It sounded selfish to point out that she’d never had a say about how her rooms were arranged. How many women did she know who had remodeled their homes?

  Yet her husband kept hold of her hands, smiling gently. “You, dear wife, deserve far more than new cabinets. Every time I pass through this house, I see improvements I want to make for you—and if we stay here, I will. But let’s deal with one situation at a time.”

  “Jah, you’ve got a lot on your plate right now.” Amanda gazed at the large, work-worn hands that enveloped hers, grateful that Wyman was so patient. Come to think of it, hadn’t he changed his entire mind-set? There was a time when he would never have allowed Brubaker land to pass into other hands—he would have been more likely to insist they sell her farm. This unexpected conversation was indeed turning up fresh soil, like a horse-drawn plow tilling the land to ready it for planting new seed.

  Amanda closed her eyes, settling her thoughts. “So what’s your plan for tomorrow? If you want me to go along, I will.”

  “I married such a wise, accommodating woman. Best thing I’ve ever done, too.” Wyman thought for a moment. “How about if I talk with Ray and Trevor first thing? They’ll need to put pencil to paper and pray on such a major decision—but I want Amos and his son to look the place over so they can put their pencils to paper, too. No matter who buys the place, I’ll either need to complete the rebuilding or figure that cost into my selling price. Does that make sense?”

  “Jah. And I think you should deal with the Fishers and the carpenters man-to-man,” she said. “Your discussions will be freer that way. Less complicated.”

  Wyman raised her hands to his lips and kissed them tenderly. “You’re probably right, Amanda. Never let me forget that, will you?”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  When Wyman sat down to breakfast Tuesday morning, he felt like a new man. He hadn’t gotten much rest, and his muscles still ached from cleaning up storm debris, yet sharing his thoughts with Amanda had changed his life. Far into the night, they had whispered ideas and shared opinions as they cuddled in bed. . . .

  Yet as he watched his wife turn the bacon that crackled in the cast-iron skillet, Wyman grinned over a fresh secret. Was there no end to the surprises that fell into place, once he’d decided to sell his land—for her, mostly? He felt joyful and boyish, as though springs of hope and fresh enthusiasm were bubbling to the surface after being submerged for most of his life.

  While Jemima and Vera placed bowls of hash browns, simmered peppers and onions, cheese sauce, and other makings for breakfast haystacks on the table, the rest of the kids and Jerome took their seats. Wyman winked at Vera and she smiled back.

  Simon’s eyes widened as he surveyed the table. “Wow, this is a feast!”

  Wyman ruffled his boy’s thick brown hair. “You’re right, son. We’re lucky to be living with women who’re such gut cooks. So let’s say grace before it gets cold.”

  As he bowed his head, Wyman asked God for good timing and the right words. He and Amanda weren’t telling anyone of their decision to stay in Bloomingdale until the Fishers responded to his offer. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have some fun making other changes.

  “I’ll be heading to Clearwater by myself today,” he announced as he spread a layer of hash browns on his plate. “What with cleaning up all the debris, I’d forgotten that Ray and I have a grain shipment going out this morning. So, while I tend to elevator business, you get a break from working at the house.”

  “My prayers are answered,” Eddie murmured. Then he looked up from the biscuits that would make the base of his haystack. “No disrespect intended, understand.”

  “And none taken. You’ve worked mighty hard these past few days, son.” Wyman fought a grin as he spooned peppers and onions over his potatoes. “A little bird tells me, however, that your mamm would like the inside of this house painted before winter. I thought you might be interested in doing that instead of any more work in Clearwater.”

  Eddie’s eyebrows shot up, but not nearly as high as his wife’s did.

  “Oh, but that would be a wonderful-gut—” Amanda looked down the table. “I don’t suppose you were that little bird, Vera?”

  Their eldest daughter chuckled, and beside her, Lizzie’s face lit up. “And now my prayers are answered,” she said. “What do you think, Vera? Yellow for our room again, or cream? Or how about pale blue?”

  “I want leapfrog green!” Simon declared.

  “Pink!” Cora cried out.

  “Pink like our favorite dresses,” Dora agreed.

  “Pink! Pink! Pink!” Alice Ann crowed as she kicked in her high chair.

  The kitchen rang with an amazed silence as everyone gazed at the littlest Brubaker. Amanda let out an excited sob. “And what did you just say, missy?” she whispered as she rose to lift Alice Ann to her shoulder.

  Wyman sat speechless. Never mind that Amish folks tended toward white or pale yellow walls to lighten their homes. If Alice Ann was talking at last, he would paint her room any color sh
e wanted as a way to celebrate this long-awaited event. “My prayers are answered, too,” he murmured. “Thanks be to God.”

  Alice Ann, aware she was the center of attention, giggled as she wrapped her chubby arms around Amanda’s arms. “Pink,” she repeated in the sweetest little voice. “I wuv pink. And I wuv you, too, Mamma.”

  Wyman didn’t bother to blink back his tears as he drank in the sight of his precious toddler clinging to his new wife. He stood to place a hand on her tiny back, awash in the giddy wonder that—for whatever reason—Alice Ann had finally found words. The shock of losing her birth mother had apparently lifted like fog from a pond. Was it because they had moved into a house she didn’t associate with Viola?

  “Well, now,” Jemima said as she swiped at her eyes. “Not even half-finished with our breakfast and we’ve witnessed a miracle. It’s been quite a day already.”

  As the meal resumed, the other kids took turns talking to Alice Ann until she had said every one of their names. Her sudden speech defied logic . . . and suggested that she’d been practicing words when no one could hear. To Wyman it was yet another sign that God was at work in their lives—and that He was favoring them here, in this home, for a reason.

  And Wyman knew better than to ignore such a gift. After a few moments, he turned to Eddie again. “Well, son, your littlest sister stole our thunder—”

  “Girls are gut at that,” Pete remarked. He piled scrambled eggs on his hash browns and then drowned them with cheese sauce.

  “—but what do you think about painting for us?” Wyman continued. “You did a fine job at the other house. And if you want helpers—”