by Mary Ellis
OTHER BOOKS BY MARY ELLIS
Standalone Novels
Sarah’s Christmas Miracle
An Amish Family Reunion
The New Beginnings Series
Living in Harmony
Love Comes to Paradise
A Little Bit of Charm
The Miller Family Series
A Widow’s Hope
Never Far from Home
The Way to a Man’s Heart
The Wayne County Series
Abigail’s New Hope
A Marriage for Meghan
The Civil War Heroines Series
The Quaker and the Rebel
The Lady and the Officer
Angel of Mercy
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
All Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota
Cover photos © Chris Garborg; Bigstock / ewenger
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A PLAIN MAN
Copyright © 2014 by Mary Ellis
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ellis, Mary
A plain man / Mary Ellis.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-7369-4980-4 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-7369-4982-8 (eBook)
1. Amish—Fiction. 2. Bachelors—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3626.E36P53 2014
813'.6—dc23
2013031966
All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Carol Lee Shevlin for providing my home away from home, Simple Pleasures Bed and Breakfast in Winesburg, and for opening many doors in the Amish community. I will be forever grateful.
Thanks to Joanna, Kathryn, Rosanna, Esther, and members of the Old Order Amish districts of Wayne and Holmes Counties. A special thanks to Rosanna Coblentz for her delicious recipes.
Thanks to my agent, Mary Sue Seymour; my lovely proofreader, Joycelyn Sullivan; my publicist Jeane Wynn of Wynn-Wynn Media; my editor, Kim Moore, and the wonderful staff at Harvest House Publishers.
Thanks to my husband, Ken, construction superintendent extraordinaire, for building the house that shelters me and answering my endless questions about construction and labor disputes.
Thanks to my former pastor, Reverend Bob Petruccio, for leading me into a reedy, fish-infested, muddy-bottomed lake to baptize me. You changed my life forever.
Finally, thanks be to God. All things in this world are by His hand.
The boots of the warrior
and the uniforms bloodstained by war
will all be burned.
They will be fuel for the fire.
For a child is born to us,
a son is given to us.
The government will rest on his shoulders.
And he will be called:
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
His government and its peace
will never end.
He will rule with fairness and justice from
the throne of his ancestor David for all eternity.
ISAIAH 9:5-7
COME, THOU FOUNT OF EVERY BLESSING
Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.
Sorrowing I shall be in spirit,
Till released from flesh and sin,
Yet from what I do inherit,
Here Thy praises I’ll begin;
Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Here by Thy great help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood;
How His kindness yet pursues me
Mortal tongue can never tell,
Clothed in flesh, till death shall loose me
I cannot proclaim it well.
O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.
O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Clothed then in blood washed linen
How I’ll sing Thy sovereign grace;
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;
Send thine angels now to carry
Me to realms of endless day.
CONTENTS
Other Books by Mary Ellis
Acknowledgments
Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Josie’s Secret Recipe Four-Bean Salad
Rosie’s Favorite Breakfast Casserole
Apple Betty Bars
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Sarah’s Christmas Miracle
Ready to Discover More?
1
Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace
FREDERICKSBURG, OHIO
MARCH
Caleb Beachy pulled the wagon up to the door and carried two buckets brimming with sap into the barn. Careful not to spill the sticky liquid, he struggled up the stepladder and dumped one and then the other into the sap evaporator.
“How many does that make, Cal?” Pushing up the brim of his hat, James Weaver peered up from his crouched position in front of the woodburner.
“These are seventy-seven and seventy-eight for today, one-forty-two including yesterday’s for the weekend. But who’s counting?” Caleb winked to let his friend know he was teasing. Then he returned
to the wagon for the rest of the sap—his eighth load of the day and by no means his last. Other friends and neighbors were collecting buckets from Weaver maple trees spread over two hundred acres of wooded hills. The trees had been planted by James’s grossdawdi many years ago. The other workers would combine half-buckets together and set them in rows at the collection point on the trail. Caleb and James’s daed each drove a team of Belgian draft horses to the Weaver sugarhouse, a veritable beehive of activity every January, February, and March.
Maple syrup, along with sugar candy in a variety of shapes, was the cash crop for the Weaver family. Plenty of people preferred real maple syrup on their pancakes and waffles instead of the less expensive cane syrup. And judging by the joyous expression on his face, James would still enjoy producing syrup when he was a grossdawdi himself.
As for Caleb, he couldn’t wait to take a hot shower and wash away any remaining amber goop. “How many trees did you tap this year?” he asked good-naturedly. As much as he disliked the work, he liked James. And friends within the district were few in number since he’d moved back from Cleveland.
“Over two thousand.” James straightened to his full height of barely five and a half feet. “That’s a record for us.” Tugging off his gloves, he drained his water bottle in a few swallows. “If prices stay as high as last year’s, we should have plenty to pay taxes and fatten the medical expense fund.” His bright pink cheeks and curly red hair gave him a boyish appearance. James couldn’t wait to find a wife so he could grow a beard, insisting he would then look his age of twenty-five.
“Well, I plan to stay until your last tree runs dry.” Caleb offered his most authentic smile. “Without a job, working here for free was the best offer I got.” They both chuckled.
“Don’t forget we give you lunch. Plus you’ll take home a year’s supply of syrup.” James followed Caleb out to the wagon instead of feeding more wood into the evaporator. “Say, are you going to the big pancake breakfast in Shreve in two weeks? They hold it on both Saturday and Sunday, so it won’t interfere with preaching services.”
Caleb fastened the top button on his coat before the wind cut him in half. “I hadn’t planned on it. My mamm fixes pancakes all the time. Why would I pay money for them? Besides, it’ll be nothing but a bunch of Englisch tourists there.” He lifted two buckets from the wagon, spilling some on his leather boots.
“Nope, lots of Amish folk attend the annual event, especially if it’s a nice day.” James stepped closer to whisper conspiratorially. “Plenty of Plain women will be there too.”
Caleb almost swallowed his tongue trying not to laugh. From his inflection, it sounded like James considered females as rare as gold or silver. “Gosh, I’m not sure I’ve seen one of them before.” He strode toward the barn, trying to keep his buckets evenly weighted.
James followed at his heels and took no offense from Caleb’s teasing. “Will you get serious? Here we are—almost a quarter of a century old and still no wives. If we don’t get moving, all the young and pretty ones will be snatched up.”
Caleb climbed the stepladder, thinking his friend might climb up behind him. “What will that leave us—bald-headed grannies in their seventies? At least they should be great cooks by that age.” He leaned back from the heat while emptying his sap into the evaporator.
James peered up from ground level. “Maybe Emma Wengard will come, or Dot Raber. Then we could—”
“Are you allowing this fire to go out?” Ben Weaver appeared in the doorway of the sugarhouse, abruptly curtailing his son’s romantic plans. Although his father sounded stern, his blue eyes twinkled with amusement.
“Nein, I’m just discussing something with our best employee.” James sprinted to the wagon for an armload of split firewood.
“Employee implies a person gets a paycheck. I’ve only got ham sandwiches with hot coffee for you boys.” Ben set down a cloth-covered basket and thermos and returned to his own tasks. No idle hands during sugar season.
James washed his hands in a bucket of soapy water. “At least think about going to the breakfast. You need to get off the farm more. Aren’t you bored since coming back from the city?”
Caleb rolled up his sleeves, picked up the bar of soap, and scrubbed off the dried-on sap. Seldom did anyone bring up his five-year venture into the Englisch world. Most Amish people preferred to forget the life he led since leaving home. “Bored? Nah, I’m not bored. I have a roof over my head without a rent payment to worry about. I eat three square meals a day from the second best cook in Wayne County. I have clothes on my back and not one, but two hats to my name.” Caleb pulled on his suspenders. “And I get to barrel down the road at eight miles an hour as long as it’s not snowing or raining too hard.”
James wasn’t sure how to take the sarcasm. “Are you thinking about moving back to the city?”
Caleb met James’s eye. “Absolutely not. The Englisch world isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. When my car broke down, I couldn’t afford to repair the junk-heap. After I could finally afford to buy a truck, it got towed because I parked in the wrong spot. By the time I figured out where they towed it, the impound fees and fines were more than the truck was worth. Without a vehicle I couldn’t get to work on time, so I got fired.”
James seemed to sort the details in his mind. “Wasn’t there public transportation or a coworker to give you a lift?”
“Even if I caught a ride to the union hall, I usually sat around twiddling my thumbs. Construction was slow, and I’m not just talking about winter. Without a paycheck a man doesn’t eat. I don’t know if you ever tried it, but going hungry is no fun.”
James dried his hands and dug their lunch from the basket. “There must have been something you liked up north. You stayed away for five years.” He handed Caleb two sandwiches.
Caleb slouched down against a post. “Plenty at first, when I had wheels and a good job. But money management didn’t turn out to be my strong suit.”
His friend’s confusion only seemed to deepen.
Caleb didn’t know how much to reveal about his past. Could he admit he’d hung out in bars until closing time and bought drinks for people he’d never met before? Should he talk about sleeping with women who were little more than acquaintances? How about the fact that he’d attended church only once during his entire time in Cleveland? Unless he counted church basements that operated as free soup kitchens. No, none of that would help him reconnect with his few friends in the district.
“Let’s just say it’s harder to be successful in the Englisch world. And if a man’s not successful, he’s not going to be happy.” Caleb lifted the top slice of homemade bread to inspect the sandwich. It was almost an inch of honey-smoked ham and Swiss cheese with fresh lettuce, tomatoes, red onions, and bread-and-butter pickles. “Do you know how much a sandwich like this would cost in the city?”
Shaking his head, James took another bite of lunch.
“Eight or nine dollars. All I have to do here is put in ten hours of hard labor.”
The two laughed in camaraderie before returning to their assigned tasks—James tending the evaporator and stoking the fire; Caleb ferrying endless buckets of sap to the sugarhouse. But when Caleb climbed into his buggy to head home that night, he felt tired but content. He had helped a neighbor and filled his hours with muscle-building work instead of spirit-draining mental activity. Each day the sun grew warmer and the hours of daylight longer. Caleb had even spotted a robin that morning—a sure sign that spring was around the corner.
Spring would definitely help his disposition. He needed to get out of the house. A man could only sweep the barn or restack hay bales so many times. Once the land dried out, they could start plowing and planting. Outdoors with the sun on his face and the wind in his hair, he felt free.
And less like a prisoner.
His homecoming on Christmas Eve had been sweeter than he imagined it would be, surely better than any prodigal son deserved. His mother had fawned over him for days—cooking
his favorite foods and baking extra sweets. His three sisters welcomed him with unabashed affection. Sarah made no mention of his empty refrigerator in a deplorable apartment. She greeted him with a smile each morning, always ready to help smooth his transition from Englisch back to Plain.
Caleb didn’t mind owning few clothes. Or the fact that his mamm cut his hair to look like every other Amish man in town. He didn’t even mind his slow mode of transportation. But must his father watch his every move like a prowling dog near the henhouse? Couldn’t he give him the benefit of the doubt? Why did Eli Beachy treat him like a shirttail relative dropping by on his way to a family reunion?
He had come home, but his father refused to believe it.
Eli watched his firstborn kick off his boots from the kitchen window. His face looked smudged with soot and raw from the wind while his chore coat was dirty beyond belief. It would take Elizabeth every trick in her laundry book to get the coat clean again.
As Caleb swept open the door, Eli let the curtain drop back in place. “Leave that jacket on the porch, son. It’s filthy. What’s the matter with you?” An icy blast filled the room.
“Nothing is wrong with me. It’s cold outside.” Shrugging off the garment, Caleb tossed it onto the glider. Once inside, he headed straight for the bathroom.
“Your mamm’s been holding supper for you. The rest of us are starving. Do you know what time it is?”
Caleb halted halfway across the kitchen and peered at the battery wall clock. “It’s six thirty. Sorry, Mamm. James wanted all the buckets down to the sugarhouse before dark.” Caleb spoke to Elizabeth over his shoulder. “You’ve got no idea what critters come down from the hills to make a feast...or a mess if we leave them out. Animals can smell something sweet a mile away. Mind if I shower before I eat?”
“I can just imagine.” Elizabeth lifted pans from the oven with her mitts. “No problem. Nothing bad will happen if the meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and butter beans sit for ten more minutes. You go ahead.”
Caleb shut the bathroom door behind him without acknowledging his father. A sign of disrespect, thought Eli, joining his fraa at the stove. “That boy spends more time down the road than he does at home. It’s as though we don’t have enough chores to keep him busy.”