“And he never married,” Annie said softly.
“Well, not yet.” One side of Sophie’s mouth twisted in a smile as she glanced at Annie. “Now there’s you.”
Annie stacked three writing pads with the largest on the bottom. It would be up to Rufus to decide what to tell his family when the wedding they had come to expect did not happen. “I’m so glad to know your family, Sophie. You all teach me so much. I hope we’ll always be friends.”
“Of course we will. Why wouldn’t we?” Sophie set the white card down and dipped her rag in furniture polish and scrubbed again. “You’re going to be baptized. After you join the church, you and Rufus will be together, and no one can object.”
“One thing at a time,” Annie said. “I have a feeling the bishop would like my German to be better.”
“I’ll help you. We can study any afternoon you like.”
“Thank you, Sophie.”
“We can even start today, if you like.”
Annie traced her fingers over the drawer’s neatness. Sophie laid the folded white card on top of the other papers before picking up the drawer.
“Whatever happened in the past doesn’t matter,” Sophie said. “I judge Rufus by the man he is now, and I’m proud to call him my brother.” She put her fingers to her lips. “Oops. Hochmut. But it’s true. I only hope I find a man like Rufus some day.”
“You will,” Annie said. “And he’d better deserve you.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Sophie slid the drawer into its proper space. “And don’t you pay any attention to Beth Stutzman.”
“What do you mean?”
“She acts like she knows something about Rufus.”
“Really?”
“I don’t think she does, though. She’s just out of sorts because Rufus chose you.”
Had he chosen her?
Fifty
May 1804
Step back, Johann.” Jacob gestured away from the rifle barrel held in place by the vise.
“Daed, that’s too much gunpowder.”
“You sound like your mother,” Jacob said. “She’s been telling me to be careful for thirty years.”
“You should be careful.”
Jacob shook his head. Johann, the only Byler child to be born in North Carolina, was twenty-two. He had a solid understanding of gunpowder manufacturing. He had been helping Jacob for years. But he was his mother’s son.
Jacob stuffed the barrel, tied a string to the trigger, and stepped back into his son’s caution zone. He pulled the string, and the rifle splintered the air.
Jacob laughed heartily as he moved in to reload. “It’s getting faster. It’s almost ready.”
“Almost ready?” Johann challenged. “Daed, you’re using more saltpeter in the mix, and stuffing more mix into the barrel.”
“That’s the point. A faster shot will take down a deer that much more quickly, and at greater range.”
“Your customers will like that.”
Katie appeared behind them, pausing to lean against the stone structure Jacob used for a workshop.
“I’m sorry to bother the two of you,” she said, “but I could use some help moving crates of preserves from the cellar up to the kitchen.”
“I’ll help you.”
Johann kissed his mother’s cheek, a gesture that always made Jacob smile.
“I’m sorry you had to come all the way down here to ask for help,” Jacob said. “I’ve kept Johann too long.”
“It’s no problem. The day calls for a walk.”
“It’s a fine day,” Jacob agreed.
Katie turned to go. “Be careful.”
Jacob smiled and said, “I love you, too, Katie Byler.”
Jacob watched mother and son traverse the gentle slope between his workshop and the house and garden. The years in North Carolina had brought them adventure and prosperity. Johann was born in their new state—just barely. The older children grew to adulthood, married, and embraced their own adventures, some of them moving west to Tennessee and Missouri. Katie was gray haired, as was he, and less nimble than in their youth. Nevertheless her beauty startled him in ordinary moments. Now she raised one hand and laid it on their tall son’s back as she bent her head in to attend his words.
Jacob sifted silky gunpowder through his fingers. This was perhaps the smoothest batch he had ever ground. The saltpeter had crystallized perfectly, the brimstone softened in the lye flawlessly. Perhaps he could stuff in a few more granules than he had only moments ago.
The sound that preceded the blast told him a fraction of a second too late that he had pressed his ambition too far.
Magdalena cradled the babe in her arms. As long as she kept moving, the child slept.
Magdalena’s daughter Sally, her firstborn, slept in the house, exhausted from caring for a colicky babe who was happy only while in motion. Constant indulgence would not teach the boppli to sleep, but Magdalena claimed a grandmother’s privilege. she had walked the miles of Lancaster County since she was young, and now in her midforties, she did not complain. She still covered miles every day. It was no trouble to carry the tiny girl as she roamed through the brisk afternoon air.
The now contented child molded to Magdalena’s chest. This was her first grandchild. Seven years of waiting for Nathan had found fulfillment in seven children and more than two decades together. Magdalena gave thanks every day for the life she had lost hope for.
She expected many more kinner would follow, and she intended to savor every moment with each one.
The years with Nathanael were not always bright. When his mind muddled, she kept the children quiet and prayed for patience. As the house filled with kinner, though, his heart filled with joy. He never spoke of the years they lost, and Magdalena long ago ceased wondering about them.
On this day, in this place, she held her joy in her arms and watched the child sleep. And that was enough.
Magdalena turned her steps toward her father’s farm, where her daughter napped. She did not want to surrender her grandchild any sooner than she must, but the afternoon waned, and the task of preparing a meal at her own hearth awaited.
Christian heard the gentle steps on the porch and knew Magdalena had returned from her afternoon walk. He looked up from his book beside the fire as she padded into the room.
“Is Sally still sleeping?” Magdalena’s voice was a low coo. The baby waved an arm once but did not wake.
“Soundly.” Christian had raised enough children to know how to manage his voice in the presence of a sleeping infant.
“I hate to wake her.”
“Let her sleep a few more minutes.” Christian gestured to the chair across from him and was glad to see Magdalena settle into it without protest. The marvel she held in her arms was his greatgrandchild, and he would not soon tire of watching tiny gestures and the shifting faces of sleep.
“I’ve brought your mail.” Magdalena reached under her shawl and pulled out a bundle of envelopes.
“Anything interesting?” Christian took the packet and began flipping through it.
“I did not peruse. It is your mail.”
The child squeaked, and both Christian and Magdalena startled slightly. Christian lowered his voice further.
“Here’s something from your aunti Katie.”
“Aunti Katie? Doesn’t Onkel Jacob usually write?”
“I haven’t heard from him in almost five years.” Christian stiffened and slit the envelope. He pulled a single sheath, unfolded it, and read quickly. He gasped. He had not known this particular grief would sit so heavily on his chest, making it impossible to breathe.
“He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Six weeks ago. An accident at his gunpowder mill.”
“I’m sorry, Daed,” Magdalena said softly.
“I am, too.” Christian’s fingers lost their grip on the sheet of coarse paper, and it fell to the floor. His spine softened, and he slumped in his chair. “Oh, Jacobli.
”
Fifty-One
Annie pedaled home well before suppertime. She could have stayed—she required neither invitation nor reason to be at the Beilers’. At any moment, Rufus could enter the family home and she would feel the pressure building in her chest while she waited to see if he would speak to her. The vigilance of expecting the worst wore her down, and she wanted to go home.
Annie did not pedal especially hard. When the incline challenged her balance at such a slow speed, she got off and walked the bike up the hill, taking the seat again only when she knew she could coast the rest of the way home as long as she circled the pedals a couple of times every thirty seconds.
Home—her narrow, green-shingled house with irises and daylilies, cornflowers and primroses splashed across the front. Annie leaned the bike against the side of the house, as she always did. Rufus was always after her to use the kickstand, but it was such a beat-up old bicycle to begin with that she did not see the point of worrying about scratching it. She gently kicked a pedal and watched the mechanism spin, supposing that now that Rufus was keeping his distance she would not have to concern herself with his opinions on her bicycle.
She followed the path of dilapidated concrete steps around to the front of the house and knelt to inspect the flowers. In them she saw the hope she craved. Her bulbs and flowers came from neighbors and Amish friends dividing their bounty. It was too soon to know whether they would survive the winter and burst out of the ground again next spring—green bubbles struggling to burst through earth and unbend themselves, nascent stems of promised beauty. The billowy hem of her skirt settled in the dirt as she examined bits of green and pink and violet for reassurance of her hope.
Sighing, Annie rose and circled around the house to the vegetable plot in the back. Rufus, Joel, and Jacob had dug the plot and transferred seeds from the starter plants Sophie had grown in the Beiler kitchen. Soon she would have summer squash and swiss chard and green beans. In the fall she would have sweet corn, potatoes, pumpkin, and winter squash.
And she would be proud of what she had accomplished.
No, not proud. Demut.
She would not be ashamed. Perhaps, she thought, that was not the same as being proud. A peaceful, simple life that helped her understand God’s ways more clearly was all she wanted. If only she could learn to regard people with kindness and dignity, rather than competition and suspicion.
It was because of Rufus. Even if she did not become his wife, he had left his mark on her, and she would always be grateful for that. He was the one who challenged her to see the world—and her own life—from a new angle. Because of Rufus Beiler, she could not simply go back to Colorado Springs, accept a lucrative offer from Liam-Ryder Industries, and resume a life of determined winning.
Annie swallowed the lump in her throat and looked at her garage. Could it be made over into a small stable for a horse and small buggy? Perhaps it could be fortified, or perhaps it should be torn down and she should start over. She should have asked Rufus’s opinion long ago. She still could, Annie reminded herself. Rufus Beiler had not died; he simply was not choosing her. He could still be her carpenter of choice, starting with building a back porch that did not threaten to collapse every time she stepped on it.
Annie pushed open the back door and went into her house. In the kitchen she pulled open a drawer and pulled out two items, the latest letter from Liam-Ryder Industries with a twenty percent increase in the financial offer, and a business card bearing Randy Sawyer’s contact information. She ripped them both to shreds. No matter what Rufus decided, these documents had nothing to do with anything anymore. She would not continue her baptism classes with these temptations hidden in her kitchen.
The knock startled Annie. On her sofa, she roused from dozing and pushed off the light afghan. Licking her lips, she tested her coiled hair to be sure it held its form. The knock came again, sounding insistent this time. Annie leaned forward enough to see out the front window.
Dolly was there, with the buggy. Rufus’s buggy.
In two seconds, she was at the door, pulling it open.
“Hello, Rufus.”
“Hello, Annalise.” He seemed not to know what to do with his hands and finally settled on clasping them together in front of him. “I thought we should talk.”
Annie squelched the instinct to ask if he would like to come in. He would decline, as he always did when they were alone. Instead, she closed the door behind her, smoothed her skirt, and sat on the top step. When Rufus lowered his lanky form to sit beside her, her heart lurched into overdrive and she had to force herself to breathe. At least sitting side by side, he could not see the color seeping out of her face.
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me the other day.” Rufus leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
Annie waited. Even if she had wanted to speak, she could not have.
“That took courage,” he said. “I’ve always admired that trait in you.”
He had? All this time Annie had thought Rufus regarded her as impetuous and out of control.
“You did not have to say anything. I don’t think I ever would have asked.”
Annie held her breath.
“There was a young woman,” he began, nerves rattling in his timbre, “in Pennsylvania. I was about Joel’s age. Everyone thought we would be the perfect couple. We became adept at finding ways to be alone.” He shifted his weight to one foot and then the other. “I am not as pure as you think me to be, either.”
“Rufus—”
He held up a hand. “I need to say more.”
She nodded, stunned.
“After we had…well, we realized we had let our curiosity get the better of us, and that’s all it was. My parents were devastated when we told them. Her parents insisted we had to marry. I felt guilty enough that I would have done it, but she refused.”
In the silence that engulfed them, Annie found her voice. “Did you care for her at all?”
Slowly he shook his head. “I learned the hard way to be circumspect in all things. To avoid temptation and gossip, I even stopped going to singings.”
Annie did the mental math. “But that must have been more than twelve years ago.”
He nodded.
“And since then? No one?”
“No one. Ike Stutzman is not the first man with daughters to get ideas, but I did not want to make that mistake again.”
“You wouldn’t, Rufus,” Annie said. “You understand second chances—you give other people a second chance all the time.”
“I had a letter from her a few months ago,” Rufus said quietly, looking away. “She never married, either.”
The white card. The feminine writing. The way Sophie tactfully took the card from Annie and reminded her she should not read it.
The question blurted out before Annie could stop it. “Does she want to marry you now? After all this time?”
Rufus shook his head. “She just wanted me to know she is happy, just the way she is. She heard that I never married and hoped it was not because of her.”
“And was it?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been waiting to feel about someone the way I feel about you. When I finally felt something…”
Annie giggled. “I turned out to be English.” She tilted her head, and her prayer kapp slid off.
Rufus snatched the kapp before it hit the sidewalk. “If you had any idea how often I’ve wanted to kiss you…”
Annie chuckled. “Not nearly as many times as I’ve wanted you to kiss me.”
“I don’t think of you as English anymore.” Rufus shuffled his feet. He turned to look at her. “You are just Annalise, with the sharp mind God gave you and the earnest heart God has been shaping in you this last year.”
“You have been the one to show me that heart, Rufus.”
“You are beautiful, Annalise Friesen, inside and out. If you’ll still have me, I hope and pray we can have many years together.”
Annie’s face split into a
grin. “I still have to be baptized.”
He nodded.
“I promise not to run out on my baptism. I am going to do this.”
“I have no doubt. And then we’ll marry. I will do my best to make your parents know this is the best thing for you.”
Annie glanced around the quiet street. Dolly nickered and shook a fetlock. Otherwise the neighborhood was clear of observers.
“Do you want to kiss me now?” Annie asked. “Because I really want you to.”
“Without regret?”
“Without regret.”
She put a hand on his chest and leaned in to him. His arms went around her as his mouth found her lips.
Annie moaned. Now this was the kind of kiss she had been waiting for.
Author’s Note
When I started the Valley of Choice series, I began the journey of imagining the lives of my own ancestors. I have bits and pieces of information about where they lived, what property they owned, when or how they died. On these hooks I hang my story. Jacob Byler, son of pioneer Jakob Beyeler, is my ancestor. When I learned that he died in 1804 in a gunpowder mill explosion, it made all the sense in the world to me that he should be absorbed in making gunpowder for the Revolutionary War. His son Abraham was my grandfather’s grandfather.
I find myself taking liberties with the real town of Westcliffe, Colorado, and for that I ask the indulgence of the people of Custer County. The setting of the series has taken on a personality of its own, but that does not mean that the true town is populated by people who are any less fine.
I find the mysterious blend of an imagined past, a possible present, and a place of so many prospects to be the perfect wrapping to hold my story of people who stand on a line that can change their futures and dare to step over it.
Olivia Newport’s novels twist through time to find where faith and passions meet. Her husband and two twenty-something children provide welcome distraction from the people stomping through her head on their way into her books. She chases joy in stunning Colorado at the foot of the Rockies, where daylilies grow as tall as she is.
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