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An Amish Holiday Wedding
Carrie Lighte
A business arrangement…or a Christmas proposal?Anything’s possible with Amish Country CourtshipsOn the brink of losing her bakery, the last thing Faith Yoder’s interested in is courting—until Hunter Schwartz returns to Willow Creek. After hiring him to deliver her treats to a Christmas festival, Faith’s determined their relationship will stay strictly professional.But despite a secret that’s kept her single, Faith can’t help but wish she and Hunter could become husband and wife.


A business arrangement…or a Christmas proposal?
Anything’s possible with Amish Country Courtships
On the brink of losing her bakery, the last thing Faith Yoder’s interested in is courting—until Hunter Schwartz returns to Willow Creek. After hiring him to deliver her treats to a Christmas festival, Faith’s determined their relationship will stay strictly professional. But despite a secret that’s kept her single, Faith can’t help but wish she and Hunter could become husband and wife.
CARRIE LIGHTE lives in Massachusetts, where her neighbors include several Mennonite farming families. She loves traveling and first learned about Amish culture when she visited Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, as a young girl. When she isn’t writing or reading, she enjoys baking bread, playing word games and hiking, but her all-time favorite activity is bodyboarding with her loved ones when the surf’s up at Coast Guard Beach on Cape Cod.
Also By Carrie Lighte (#uf757c358-3d44-59ec-91ca-0e82019d15db)
Amish Country Courtships
Amish Triplets for Christmas
Anna’s Forgotten Fiancé
An Amish Holiday Wedding
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An Amish Holiday Wedding
Carrie Lighte


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08619-6
AN AMISH HOLIDAY WEDDING
© 2018 Carrie Lighte
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
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“Ant Faith doesn’t want to get married.
She told Mamm she’s not ’mantically interested in—”
“Look!” Faith interrupted, taking her nephew by the hand and distracting Hunter. “Here comes your daed. He’s been searching for you.”
When his father walked through the throng of wedding guests, he didn’t scold the boy. “One of the challenges of being a daed is knowing when to show grace and when to stand firm,” he explained.
“Being a daed is a weighty responsibility, for sure,” Hunter said. “But I’m told it’s one of life’s greatest blessings.”
The words stung Faith. Until then she hadn’t realized her affection for him. Hadn’t realized she secretly imagined walking out with him. Imagined they would grow from business partners and friends to much more.
But they were just silly daydreams. Hunter had made it clear he wouldn’t court anyone he didn’t intend to marry. And now she knew he could never marry her.
So why did she still wish this was their wedding celebration?
Dear Reader (#uf757c358-3d44-59ec-91ca-0e82019d15db),
My favorite summer job during college was working at a bakery. Unlike Faith, I didn’t have a tandem bike, but I did cycle to work in the wee hours of the morning. I loved being the only one on the road that early, and although I frequently sampled the pastries, all my pedaling kept me from gaining weight.
I still enjoy baking, and while I was writing this book I experimented with several new Amish recipes as part of my research. At the same time, I tried to begin a diet. You can probably guess how that went! I’m blessed to have people in my life who support me through my “failures,” and who encourage me to lean on Christ instead of depending solely on my own efforts for success.
I’m grateful God can use our so-called weaknesses, no matter how big or small, for His glory and our good, aren’t you?
Blessings,
Carrie Lighte
And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.
—2 Corinthians 12:9
For those who are strong enough to share their vulnerabilities.
With continued thanks to my agent, Pam Hopkins, and my editor, Shana Asaro.
Contents
Cover (#uce0398e0-03d2-5a22-9716-1bd984a36961)
Back Cover Text (#u0433676b-97ff-55de-aef4-182b3b3bbdc6)
About the Author (#uf90a6d57-d5d1-5578-a058-0f3dd8768e12)
Booklist (#u1eff48e1-c340-5193-85bf-6fb0b7c06f41)
Title Page (#u2ab4981c-b5d4-5631-b924-0ec1da31d2c7)
Copyright (#ub6e47013-b8a9-5127-9640-c4ff5a241d27)
Introduction (#u7f7788fd-b34b-5232-8a1a-62b8ae63e682)
Dear Reader (#ufc65c1f7-2132-5208-aa2a-641f67f86aa0)
Bible Verse (#udf8dc884-b450-557d-a9e8-c740948f957c)
Dedication (#u687a9fd7-54ac-5e26-aaa8-af3424a43906)
Chapter One (#uc1c9f74c-6976-53f9-8a3a-3ffb0db7ca8a)
Chapter Two (#u4f226898-c938-516f-9c86-2b606550c71b)
Chapter Three (#uec5bb27b-201b-5ba6-8406-7172d71f0ce7)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#uf757c358-3d44-59ec-91ca-0e82019d15db)
Faith Yoder secured her shawl tightly around her shoulders, climbed onto the front seat of the bicycle built for two and began pedaling toward Main Street. It wasn’t quite five o’clock in the morning and her brothers hadn’t yet risen to do the milking. Her headlight cast a weak glow, barely illuminating the empty lane in front of her. The rest of Willow Creek, Pennsylvania, was still asleep and the November moon was her only companion.
Or almost her only companion. As she made a wide turn onto the primary stretch of road leading into town, she spied a lone figure lumbering beneath the streetlamp a few yards ahead of her.
“Watch out!” she warned as her downhill momentum propelled her closer.
The man lifted his head but didn’t move from her path, so she quickly swerved onto the shoulder to avoid hitting him. Her front wheel wobbled off the road and into the shallow ditch, causing her to lose her balance.
“My oier!” she shouted and jumped clear of the heavy bicycle, which clattered on its side. The cargo she’d been carrying in a crate strapped onto the backseat—two dozen eggs—smashed against the pavement. “My oier are ruined and now my cupcakes will be, too!”
“You ought to be as concerned about hitting pedestrians as you are about making cupcakes,” the man replied in Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch as he hobbled to where she was searching the ground for any unbroken eggs.
“I didn’t hit you, so you can quit that limping,” she contended and peered at him under the dim circle of light cast by the streetlamp.
Although the young man’s hair was mostly hidden by his hat, a few dark brown curls sprang from beneath the brim. He wore no beard, which meant he’d never been married. He was average height, but his shoulders seemed unusually broad beneath his wool coat. She didn’t recognize him as being from Willow Creek. Most Amish women in their district wouldn’t have argued with a stranger on a deserted road in the wee hours of the morning, but Faith Yoder wasn’t most Amish women. Having grown up with six brothers, she knew how to hold her own.
“If you’re so worried about getting hit,” she continued, “you could exercise common sense and walk on the side of the road, not in the middle of the lane.”
The man seemed at a temporary loss for words. He gave her a once-over before replying, “It seems strange you’re lecturing me on common sense, when you’re the one riding a tandem bicycle pell-mell through the pitch-dark with a basket of oier strapped to the backseat. You might consider getting a headlamp.”
“For one thing, it’s not pitch-dark—there’s a full moon out. And for another, I have a headlamp,” Faith retorted, setting her bike upright and extending the kickstand.
But noting the sickly glow waning from the light on her handlebars, she recognized she probably bore the responsibility for their near-collision. Chagrinned, she added, “It does seem I need to replace my battery. I hadn’t noticed. I travel this road so often I probably could make the trip blindfolded. My name is Faith Yoder. What’s yours?”
She couldn’t tell whether it was a smile or a grimace that flickered across the man’s face. “I’m Hunter Schwartz, Ruth Graber’s great-nephew.”
Hunter Schwartz, of course. Faith had heard Hunter was bringing his mother from their home in Parkersville, Indiana, to care for Ruth. The elderly woman had broken her ankle and severely sprained her wrist after falling from a stepladder in the little cannery she owned across the street from Faith’s bakery.
Faith should have recognized Hunter from his childhood visits. If it hadn’t been so dark, she undoubtedly would have spotted the cleft in his chin and remembered his earnest brown eyes. Coupled with a valiant personality, his boyish brawniness had caused many of the young meed todream of being courted by him the autumn he was sixteen.
“I’m sorry,” Faith apologized. “I didn’t recognize you. It’s been a long time.”
If Faith remembered correctly, the last time he’d been in Willow Creek was the year his great-uncle died. After the funeral, Hunter stayed for several months to fix Ruth’s roof and help with other household repairs. It was during harvest season, when many of the leit, or Amish people in the district, were tending their crops, and Hunter frequently helped out on the Yoders’ farm, as well as attended singings and other social events with Faith’s brothers. The following year, he’d gotten a full-time job in Indiana working for the Englisch, who limited his holiday breaks. From then on, Ruth said it made more sense for her to visit Hunter’s family in Indiana than for them to travel to Willow Creek, and he hadn’t been back since.
“Jah, about eight years,” he answered. “I didn’t recognize you either. You’ve, er, you’ve really grown.”
She’d really grown? Faith knew what that meant, and she smoothed her skirt over her stomach. There was no denying she’d put on weight since she was a scrawny, flat-as-a-washboard tomboy, but she rather appreciated the womanly curves she once wondered if she’d ever develop. Well, she mostly appreciated them, anyway. She’d lost all but fifteen of the pounds she’d gained after Lawrence Miller broke off their courtship. Now she was down to the weight she was while she and Lawrence were courting. She didn’t consider herself fat, but she wasn’t thin by any standard. Still, she thought it was impolite for Hunter to draw attention to her size; he used to be so well mannered. But, reminding herself vanity was a sin, she shrugged off his observation.
“I suppose it was my fault I nearly ran into you. I’m grateful it’s only my oier and not your legs that are cracked,” she conceded amicably.
Hunter again looked taken aback, almost as if she’d insulted him instead of apologized. He paused before saying, “I’m sorry about your oier, too, but at least they were only intended for dessert instead of for breakfast. Most people can do without cupcakes, but not without a meal.”
Now Faith couldn’t deny feeling insulted. Who did Hunter think he was, assuming she was making the cupcakes as a mere indulgence for herself, just because she was a bit...a bit round?
“For your information, I own a bakery in town and the oier were for cupcakes I need to make for an Englisch customer,” she sputtered as she mounted her bike. “The customer’s daed is turning seventy-five and this special birthday treat is as important to their family as your breakfast apparently is to you, so I’d better be on my way to remedy the situation. Mach’s gut, Hunter. Enjoy your morning meal.”
Without another word, she sped away as quickly as she could pedal.
* * *
Hunter rubbed his jaw, watching Faith disappear into the dark. His bewilderment about her hasty departure temporarily distracted him from the pain coursing through his lower back and legs. Had his jest about her bike riding offended her? Or was it that she expected him to have known she was a business owner? If anything, he figured he should have been insulted by her remarks. Was she trying to be funny, chastising him not to limp? And what about her remark about being grateful his legs weren’t cracked? Considering his physical condition, that was nothing short of cruel.
But as he trudged back toward his aunt’s home, Hunter realized that however unnerving Faith’s comments were, she must have made them in complete ignorance. His aunt undoubtedly told the leit in Willow Creek about the accident that took his father’s life, but she wouldn’t have necessarily told them about Hunter’s ongoing recovery from his own injuries, especially since he concealed his pain from everyone, even his family members. Besides, from what Hunter recalled, Faith Yoder simply didn’t have a cruel bone in her body. She was tough, yes. Outspoken, definitely. But Hunter remembered that as a young girl, she went out of her way to demonstrate compassion and generosity, especially toward anyone who was mistreated, ill or otherwise suffering.
Granted, Faith was no longer a young girl. It had been too dark to get more than a glimpse of her, but he’d noticed the sharp angles of her girlish face had been replaced with a becoming, feminine softness. Gone was the rash of freckles splashed across her nose; her skin appeared as lustrous and unblemished as the moon. Hunter wouldn’t have believed the same scrappy girl he’d known from his youth had blossomed into the stately young woman he encountered on the road that morning if she hadn’t told him her name: Faith Yoder. Yoder—that meant she was still unmarried, although Hunter assumed she was being courted, perhaps was even betrothed.
Imagining Faith’s suitors reminded him of Justine, the woman he’d walked out with in Indiana. She was devastated when Hunter ended their relationship after his accident a little more than a year ago. It pained him to cause her heartache, but breaking up was in her best interest: Hunter wouldn’t seriously court a woman he didn’t intend to marry, and he wouldn’t marry a woman if he couldn’t be a good provider for their family. After all, the accident cost him his job at the Englisch RV factory and it had severely limited his mobility. At the time Hunter broke up with Justine, there was no telling whether he’d even be able to walk again.
Eventually, Justine accepted another man’s offer of courtship, and now she’d be getting married in two weeks. It was exactly what Hunter prayed would happen for her, but he was still relieved he wouldn’t be in Indiana to attend her wedding. While he no longer cared for Justine the way he once did, witnessing her getting married would have emphasized how much his life had changed since they were courting. Shivering, he forced thoughts of the past from his mind.
The frosty air intensified the ache clenching his lower spine. He stopped and waited for it to pass. The long van ride from Parkersville had wreaked havoc on his body. Walking into town didn’t help much, but it was better than lying in bed, waiting for the minutes to pass and the pain to subside.
“Guder mariye,” he greeted his mother when he returned, startled to see her out of bed. For years, her rheumatoid arthritis manifested itself in periods of extreme fatigue and sore, swollen joints, and ever since Hunter’s father died, her flare-ups were more frequent and intense. “You’re up early.”
“Jah, and your Ant Ruth is awake, too,” his mother replied. “I’m fixing her something to eat. She was asking after you, since she was asleep when we arrived last night. Would you keep her company while I make breakfast?”
Hunter tentatively approached the parlor where his aunt was reclining on the sofa with her leg propped on a stool. Her skin was pale and she wore a white cast on her foot, as well as a sling on her arm, but her eyes were lively.
“There he is, my favorite nephew!” she squealed.
Despite his pain, Hunter chuckled at their old joke; he was Ruth’s only nephew. After giving her a careful embrace, he asked, “How are you feeling, Ant Ruth?”
“I’m madder than a wet hen!” she exclaimed. “You probably know better than anyone how frustrating it is to be confined to bed when you’re used to being out and about.”
Hunter clenched his jaw. “That I do.”
“But it’s worth it if it means I get to see you and your mamm’s faces again,” Ruth said, her voice softening. “I wish I could see your daed’s face again, too.”
Hunter shared the same wish. The last time he’d seen his father’s face was the evening of the accident, some fifteen months ago. They were returning home from work when a truck driver lost his brakes, sideswiped their buggy and rammed into the wall of an overpass, where he perished in the fiery crash. Hunter and his father were trapped beneath their mangled, overturned buggy, unable to help him or themselves.
“Hunter, if Gott spares your life, promise you’ll take gut care of your mamm,” his father pleaded while he lay dying. After Hunter agreed, his father whispered, “Two of my greatest blessings in this lifetime were being a husband to your mamm and a daed to you. I couldn’t have asked the Lord for a better wife or suh.”
“Nor I for a better daed,” Hunter echoed before passing out. By the time he was cognizant enough to speak again, Hunter learned he was in the hospital and his father had already been buried for three days.
Remembering, Hunter shuddered and shifted in his chair. To his relief, his aunt changed the subject.
“Mmm, that smells good. What is your mamm making for breakfast?”
“Oier, I think,” Hunter guessed. Then he launched into a narrative of his roadside encounter with Faith.
“Ach!” Ruth exclaimed. “What a fiasco! You must collect oier from the henhouse and deliver them to Faith after breakfast. She’ll need them to fill her customers’ orders.”
“I’m the last person she wants to see again today,” Hunter protested.
More to the point, he didn’t want to see her again today. In fact, he didn’t wish to see—or to be seen—by anyone in Willow Creek just yet. The questions about his circumstances would come soon enough; he’d rather field them after he recovered from the tiresome journey.
“Nonsense! Take the buggy if you’d like, but it’s the right thing to do, even if Faith was at fault. She’ll be so glad to see you coming she might even treat you to one of her appenditlich cream-filled doughnuts. The trip will be worth your while.”
“Okay,” Hunter agreed. He knew better than to argue with his aunt once she’d made up her mind, but he’d made up his mind, too. He’d drop the eggs off, but he wasn’t going to hang around Faith’s bakery eating doughnuts, no matter how delicious Ruth claimed they were.
* * *
Of all days to have an egg mishap, Faith was dismayed it happened on a Saturday, the busiest day of the week and the same day she had a special order to fill. When she arrived at the bakery, she surveyed the glass display case, taking inventory.
The honey bars would stay moist through Monday. There were plenty of fresh whoopee pies and molasses cookies, but she’d have to move the cinnamon rolls to the day-old shelf. She had intended to start a few batches of her renowned cream-filled doughnuts before the bakery opened at seven, but now she wouldn’t have enough eggs. When her only employee, Pearl Hostetler, arrived, she’d ask her to whisk over to the mercantile, which didn’t open until eight thirty, to purchase more. Meanwhile, the egg shortage would put them behind schedule on all their baking for the day.
Faith sighed. First things first. She set about mixing yeast with hot water. Although she preferred baking more elaborate goodies, several of her Englisch customers depended on her for homemade bread. Every purchase counted if she was going to meet her financial goal by the first of the year, which was only a month and a half away.
That was the deadline the Englisch landlord required for the down payment on next year’s lease. In addition to the small storefront and kitchen, Faith would also rent the one-room apartment above the shop, since the current tenant was moving out. He was the third resident to leave in four years, and with each turnover, there had been a three-or four-month delay before a new resident moved in. Disgruntled by the gap in revenue, the landlord was adamant that from now on, the apartment and building space were to be a package deal. Faith either had to rent both or lose the bakery to Seth Helmuth, who wanted to set up a leather shop in the prime location downstairs and use the upstairs apartment for storage and supplies. But Faith had first dibs, and although the down payment amount was more than she had saved, she was arduously working to earn the total sum.
“Won’t you be lonely, living all by yourself?” Pearl asked when she discovered Faith would be moving into the apartment.
Living alone wasn’t something most Amish women voluntarily chose to do, and as someone who dearly missed her three children who moved out of state, Pearl couldn’t fathom why the opportunity might appeal to Faith.
“I won’t have time to be lonely,” Faith responded. “I’ll wake up and kumme right down here, where I’ll have the privilege of working with you and visiting our neighbors and serving our customers. I’ll spend the better part of Sundays and holidays with my family and with the church. The only difference is I won’t have to ride my brothers’ old hand-me-down tandem bicycle to get here each day.”
Faith’s sister-in-law Henrietta was even more dismayed about Faith’s decision.
“You can’t allow her to separate herself from the family like this,” she once told Faith’s oldest brother, Reuben.
“The Ordnung doesn’t forbid it, so neither do I,” Reuben replied. “Faith is a thoughtful person. I trust she prayed about this decision and is aware of the challenges.”
As the eldest son, Reuben became the head of the family when their daed died five years earlier, since their mamm had passed away five years before then. Reuben and Henrietta lived in the large Yoder farmhouse with their three young sons, Faith and four of her five other brothers. The fifth brother, Noah, lived with his wife, Lovina, and their children in a small adjoining daadi haus. Faith knew she’d always have a place and purpose within her family, but given how cramped their dwelling was, she couldn’t understand why Henrietta objected to her moving.
“If you live alone, you’ll appear uncooperative or proud. You’ve already got one significant reason a man wouldn’t wish to marry you—do you want to make it even more difficult to find a mate?” her sister-in-law asked her.
While Faith knew Henrietta had her best interests at heart, her words stung. The “significant reason” a man wouldn’t wish to marry her was Faith’s most intimate secret, something only family members knew. Well, only family members and Lawrence Miller. Faith felt compelled to confide in her former suitor after he asked her to marry him two years ago.
She vigorously kneaded a lump of dough as she recalled the afternoon she disclosed her secret to him. She’d been so nervous she hadn’t eaten for two days, and when she finally worked up the courage to tell him, she was uncharacteristically tearful.
“There’s a possibility I might not be able to bear kinner,” she confessed, chewing her lip to keep herself from weeping.
The color drained from Lawrence’s long, thin face as he slowly shook his head. That’s what Faith remembered most clearly—his shaking his head without saying a word.
She was too modest to explain that the year she turned seventeen, she had surgery to remove dozens of cysts from her ovaries. The cysts were benign, but the doctor warned the surgery caused scarring that could result in infertility. At the time, her relief over not having the kind of cancer that claimed her mother’s life outweighed any concern Faith had about not bearing children. She hadn’t fully appreciated the repercussions of the surgery until she and Lawrence began walking out and planning a future together.
“I know how upsetting this must be to hear,” she consoled him. “But if it turns out I can’t become, well, you know... We might consider adopting—”
She may as well have suggested flying an Englisch rocket to the moon to retrieve a child there for how preposterous Lawrence claimed her idea was. Adoption took too much time, he said, and it was too costly to adopt one child, much less the six or eight he was hoping to have.
“The doctor said there’s a possibility I won’t be able to have kinner,” Faith emphasized in between the sobs she no longer tried to stifle. “It’s only a possibility.”
“I’m sorry, Faith, but that’s not good enough for me,” he said.
She knew he meant she wasn’t good enough for him. She was damaged. Scarred. Less than a woman. She understood then that she’d probably never marry—at least, not until she was much older, or unless a widower with children of his own sought to court her. And since she wouldn’t marry, there was no sense courting, either. But Faith didn’t mind because it meant she’d never have to tell any man her secret ever again. The rejection and the shame of disclosing her condition were more than she could bear a second time.
She clapped the flour from her hands as if to banish the memory of Lawrence from her mind. Regardless of what Henrietta or anyone else said, she didn’t need a mate to take care of her. With God’s grace, she’d take care of herself just fine. As for living alone, she was looking forward to it.
For the moment, she had six dozen lemon cupcakes with lemon buttercream frosting to prepare for the Englischer who’d pick them up at eleven o’clock. She started mixing the ingredients, using every egg that wasn’t required for the egg wash for the bread. She’d have to forgo making doughnuts until later, but her customers would just have to settle for something else.
We don’t always get what we want, she thought as she mixed the batter into a smooth, creamy texture. But we can make the most of the options we have.
Which was exactly what she intended to do herself. No matter what anyone thought about her decision to live alone, Faith was determined not to lose the bakery. A few cracked eggs or critical remarks weren’t going to keep her from accomplishing her goal. Nor was a future without a husband going to keep her from being happy.
* * *
During breakfast, Hunter’s aunt asked if he’d assist her with a significant undertaking.
“Of course I’ll help you, Ant Ruth. That’s why I’m here. I’m happy to make house repairs and tend to the yard and stable. Do you need me to take you to your doctor’s appointments, as well?”
“Jah, I have appointments coming up soon. But what I really need you to do is oversee my shop. It’s been closed for the past week, and Thanksgiving and Grischtdaag are just around the bend. They’re my busiest seasons.”
Hunter took a large bite of biscuit so his mouth was too full to respond. His uncle owned a furniture restoration business, with his main workshop at home and a smaller storefront in town. After he died, Ruth converted the space in town into a cannery, where she sold jams, relishes, fruits and chow chow. Hunter knew nothing about canning, and he didn’t particularly care to learn.
As if reading his mind, Ruth explained, “You wouldn’t be expected to do the canning. I’ve put up plenty of jars for now, and harvest season is over. If the shelves run low, your mamm has agreed to help with the canning, although she’ll have to use store-bought produce for the ingredients, which is what I sometimes do in the winter.”
“You want me to serve customers?” Hunter questioned. “I wouldn’t be able to distinguish pickled beets from raspberry preserves!”
“Neh. My employee, Ivy Sutter, waits on customers. She knows everything there is to know about the products. But she has a special way of learning, so when she’s ringing up purchases, she needs supervision—and protection. She’s such an innocent maedel. Our regular customers are fine people, Englisch and Amish alike, but I’m concerned some of the tourists might take advantage or make demands.”
Hunter set down his fork. He was familiar with his aunt’s compassion for anyone who struggled with a difference of ability or who didn’t fit in as well as others did. But Ruth was gifted; she had a way with people. He didn’t. At least, he didn’t anymore. Most days, his pain was so intense it took all of his resolve not to snarl at his own mother. How would he tolerate demanding customers or keep his patience with a girl who had learning difficulties?
“You wouldn’t just be supervising Ivy. You’d also restock the shelves and keep the books. Of course, I’d pay you fairly,” Ruth concluded.
“He wouldn’t think of accepting payment, would you, Hunter?” his mother, Iris, interjected.
Hunter’s ears felt inflamed. He knew it was a sin to be prideful, but his aunt’s offer of a salary wounded his ego—primarily because he was in such desperate need of an income. It had been so long since he’d had full-time employment, he forgot what it felt like to receive an honest day’s wage. Since his accident, he’d taken as many odd jobs as he could get, but they were few and far in between. The leit in his district helped with a significant portion of his hospital bills, but his rehabilitation was ongoing. In fact, he’d prematurely quit physical therapy because he knew they could no longer afford the sessions and pay for his mother’s medical costs. He didn’t want to keep imposing on the church, especially since others’ needs seemed greater than his own.
Most humiliating of all, right before they left for Willow Creek, he’d received a notice from the bank stating they were on the brink of losing the house if they were delinquent with another mortgage payment. To the Amish, making a payment late was considered almost akin to stealing, since it denied the payee their fair due on time. While the payments were very small, Hunter still had difficulty scraping together enough to cover the mortgage. He shielded his mother from their financial woes, but he was so overwhelmed he was tempted to accept a lawyer’s offer to sue the trucking company that employed the driver who hit them. Thankfully, the temptation left him almost as soon as it struck: it was unthinkable for the Amish to engage in a lawsuit for financial gain.
Swallowing the last of his coffee, Hunter decided although he might not be able to provide for a wife and he was floundering in caring for his mother, the least he could do was manage his aunt’s shop without accepting a cent for it. He’d always had an interest in bookkeeping; perhaps the experience would afford him new skills he could use in Indiana.
“We’re family and we’re here to help, Ant Ruth,” he finally stated. “Provided there’s absolutely no more talk of payment, I’ll be glad to oversee your cannery.”
Yet as he hitched his horse to the post in town, he was anything but glad. Rather, his legs were so sore and stiff they felt like two planks nailed to his hips. He tottered down Main Street with a basket of eggs, hoping he didn’t appear as conspicuous as he felt.
Stopping beneath the simply carved sign that read Yoder’s Bakery, Hunter noticed a smaller cardboard sign propped in the window. “Early morning delivery person URGENTLY needed. November 27‒December 24. Willow Creek to Piney Hill. Inquire within,” it said. He wondered how “early” was early. Could he make the deliveries and still return to Willow Creek in time to open the cannery? Would Faith even consider him for the job, given their interaction that morning?
Hunter squinted through the spotless glass window. The bakery contained five or six small tables with chairs. Beyond the cozy dining space was a pastry case and behind that Faith was stacking bread on a shelf. Hunter noticed what had been too dim to see earlier: the fiery red hair of her youth had faded to a richer, subdued shade of auburn.
“Do you see something in there you think you’d like?” a woman behind him asked. “Everything we make is excellent.”
Embarrassed, Hunter turned and stuttered, “You—you work there?”
“I do. My name is Pearl Hostetler. But wait—aren’t you Hunter, Ruth’s nephew?” the tall, thin, silver-haired woman asked.
“I am,” he answered sheepishly. “It’s gut to see you again.”
“It’s wunderbaar to see you, Hunter,” Pearl said, placing her hand on his arm. “Ruth told me about your daed. I was very sorry to hear what happened.”
“Denki.” He coughed, surprised by the emotion Pearl’s sincere sympathy elicited. He extended the basket of eggs. “I brought these for Faith. Hers broke this morning when she was cycling into town. Also, I’m... I’m interested in hearing more about the delivery job.”
Hunter hoped Pearl would simply receive the basket and provide him details about the job, but she pushed the door open and announced, “Look who’s here, Faith. Hunter brought you oier and he wants to be your deliveryman, as well!”
Noticing Faith’s eyes narrow, Hunter didn’t wish to appear too eager. He clarified, “I’d like to hear more about the job, that is.”
“It’s pretty straightforward,” Faith replied, brushing her hands against her apron. “I need someone unfailingly dependable to deliver my baked goods to an Englisch booth at the Piney Hill Festival between seven and seven thirty every morning, Monday through Saturday. The festival begins in less than two weeks, on the day after Thanksgiving, and runs until the day before Grischtdaag. The delivery person would have to commit for the duration of the festival in order to make it worth my while to rent booth space.”
Mentally calculating the distance between the bakery and Piney Hill, Hunter was certain he could complete the deliveries, return the horse and buggy to his aunt’s home and walk to town with a good fifteen minutes to spare before the cannery opened at nine o’clock. And when Pearl blurted out the sum he’d earn for each delivery, Hunter was confident the arrangement was an answer to his prayers.
Looking Faith in the eye, he said, “Beginning Monday, I’ll be managing Ruth’s shop from nine until five o’clock, but I’d be available in the early morning to make deliveries for the duration of the festival.”
Faith nodded slowly. “Jah, I’d appreciate that. The job is yours,” she confirmed. She paused as a mischievous grin crossed her face. “But I do hope you’re more careful about where you steer than you are about where you walk. My sales are very important to me.”
“Your sales will be fine, provided you bake better than you bike,” Hunter retorted, giving her an equally rascally smirk before setting the eggs on a table and exiting the store.
As he stepped into the brightening day, he realized Ruth was right: the trip had been worth his while. Being a part-time deliveryman for Faith Yoder might not have been his first choice for employment, but it was a steady, paying job, and that was all that mattered to him.
Chapter Two (#uf757c358-3d44-59ec-91ca-0e82019d15db)
After the door closed behind Hunter, Pearl dramatically clasped her hands together. “Ach! What a relief that is! I was beginning to think we weren’t going to be able to sell our goods at the festival.”
Hosted by a neighboring town right off the main interstate, the Piney Hill Christmas Festival was an enormous, commercial Englisch endeavor attracting thousands of passersby shopping for Christmas. Part of its appeal was the “Christmas Kingdom”—an elaborate prefabricated “Santa’s Workshop” where children could have their photos taken with Santa. The bishop didn’t prohibit the Amish leit from selling their goods at the festival, as long as they only rented space at booths hosted by the Englisch and didn’t staff the booths themselves.
“Jah,” Faith said, tentatively optimistic. “Although there’s no guarantee we’ll sell enough at the festival to make the down payment, without it, we wouldn’t have stood a chance.”
“It’s a gut thing Hunter is in town again, both for Ruth and for us,” Pearl gushed, hanging her shawl on a peg inside the hall leading to the kitchen. “Hasn’t he grown into a fine, strapping young man?”
Although Hunter’s mature physique hadn’t escaped Faith’s notice, she didn’t know quite what to make of his personality. He definitely seemed more personable just now than he’d been on the road earlier that morning, and bringing her eggs was a nice gesture, but that might have been at Ruth’s urging. Before Faith could respond, the phone rang and Pearl grabbed the receiver. “Yoder’s Bakery, how may I help you?”
Landlines and electricity weren’t allowed in Amish homes, but the Ordnung permitted them to be used for business purposes in their district, provided the buildings were owned by the Englisch. The bakery utilized both electricity and a phone, but neither service would be continued in the overhead apartment once the current tenant moved out, making it permissible for Faith to live there.
After hanging up, Pearl waved a slip of paper. “Another pie order for Thanksgiving! Two apple and one sawdust. If this keeps up, you’ll have to start turning down orders.”
“Not if I want to keep the bakery, I won’t. I’ll bake every night until midnight if I have to.”
Although one of her chores growing up included baking for her family, Faith hadn’t always enjoyed the responsibility. But while she was recovering from surgery, she began experimenting with dessert recipes. She soon discovered that even among the Amish she possessed an unusual talent for making goodies, and she reveled in the process of creating savory treats. That autumn, she made cakes for her second-oldest brother Noah’s wedding to Lovina that were so scrumptious several guests requested she bake for their special occasions, too. Faith’s business was born.
Sharing a kitchen with Henrietta proved to be impractical for both of them, however, so eventually Faith rented her current space. The bakery was the one good thing that resulted from her surgery, and she had no intention of letting it go without doing everything she could to raise the income for the down payment for her lease. So, when an Englisch customer called to say he couldn’t pick up his large, unpaid order by the time the bakery closed at five, Faith continued to make pies to freeze for Thanksgiving until he showed up. It was six thirty by the time she finally locked the door behind her.
A frosty gust nearly blew her outer bonnet off her head as she pedaled uphill in the dark toward the big farmhouse. She meant to purchase a new battery at the mercantile during her dinner break, but she’d been so busy she didn’t stop for an afternoon meal. Ravenous, she hoped her family hadn’t worried about her when she missed supper.
“There you are,” Henrietta said when Faith entered the kitchen. Her cheek was smudged with flour and she was jostling her youngest son on her hip. Utensils and ingredients were spread in disarray across the table. “Didn’t you remember you were going to help make the bread for dinner tomorrow?”
The following day was their Sunday to host church worship services and they would need to serve a light dinner to everyone in attendance. Henrietta usually provided the traditional after-church meal of bread with “church peanut butter,” homemade bologna, cheese, pickles and pickled beets. An assortment of desserts were supplied by other women in the district.
“Ach! I forgot,” admitted Faith.
“You mustn’t put earning money before the needs of the church,” Henrietta scolded.
Faith hung her head. She wouldn’t have stayed so late waiting for the customer if she’d remembered she promised to help bake bread after supper. Still, the fact that she’d forgotten indicated her priorities were on her business, not on the church.
“I’m sorry,” she earnestly apologized. “I’ll make the bread as soon as I’ve had something to eat.”
“Something to eat? Your ant works in a bakery all day and she expects us to believe she hasn’t had anything to eat,” Henrietta cooed to the infant, who drooled when she tickled the fold of skin beneath his chin. “Do you believe that? Do you?”
Unsure whether her sister-in-law was joking or not, Faith ignored her comment. She opened the icebox and removed a bowl of chicken casserole to eat cold, along with a serving of homemade applesauce.
“Did I tell you my sister is visiting for Thanksgiving?” Henrietta asked while Faith devoured her supper. “My mamm and daed can’t make the long journey, but I haven’t seen Willa for so long that I pleaded with her to kumme anyway. She’ll have to travel alone, which is difficult for her. She’s not as...strong-minded as you are, but she misses me, too, so she’s willing to make the effort. It will be wunderbaar to have another woman in the house, someone I can talk to.”
Maybe she was overly tired, but Henrietta’s comments nettled Faith and she had to work to temper her response. “That’s nice. I’m sure we’ll make room for her somewhere.”
Then she washed, dried and put away her dish and utensils before rolling up her sleeves to prepare the dough. It would be midnight before she finished baking after all.
* * *
Although Hunter felt his lower back seize up as he lifted Ruth into the buggy on Sunday, he met the challenge without a word of complaint. The Amish only missed church in cases of severe illness or extreme circumstances, and according to Ruth, her injuries weren’t going to keep her from worshipping on the Sabbath.
“Do you remember the way to the Yoders’ farm?” she asked. “It’s their turn to host.”
Hunter hadn’t forgotten. He’d spent many Sunday afternoons fishing in the creek behind their property with Noah and Mason Yoder when he was a youth. As the horse pulled their buggy over the familiar hills and alongside the pastures and farmlands on the rural end of Willow Creek, he was flooded with remembrances of more carefree times.
After church service, men whose names he’d forgotten but whose faces were etched in his memory affably welcomed Hunter to the men’s dinner table. By then, his legs were throbbing from sitting on the cold, hard benches in the drafty barn the Yoders used for a gathering room. He ate even quicker than the other men, who were all aware someone else was waiting for a turn at the table and hurried to vacate their places. Hunter wanted to return to Ruth’s home and warm himself in front of the woodstove, but he didn’t see his aunt and mother anywhere. Undoubtedly, Ruth was chatting with friends while his mother helped the other women clear tables and clean dishes.
Figuring if he couldn’t warm his aching legs, he could at least stretch them, he slipped away from the men conversing in small clusters and awkwardly navigated the uneven terrain leading to the creek a few acres behind the Yoders’ house.
He didn’t notice until too late that a woman was already there, leaning against a willow, pitching stones sidearm into the current. He couldn’t turn around without being rude and he couldn’t keep moving without drawing attention to his unsteady gait, so he came to an abrupt standstill.
“Guder nammidaag, Hunter,” she called when she noticed him, dropping the stones.
It was Faith. Hunter had no option but to continue in her direction and hope she didn’t notice his unusual stride. He didn’t want her to doubt his abilities and regret hiring him.
“Guder nammidaag,” he replied and motioned toward the water. “The creek is shallower than I remember. I suppose everything probably seemed bigger when I was a kind.”
“We had a dry summer, so it’s been running low,” she acknowledged. “Do you really still remember the creek?”
“How could I forget?” Hunter asked as he positioned himself next to her. “The year I was twelve, Noah, Mason and I tried to build a footbridge over it and it collapsed. Don’t you remember? You were there, too.”
A smile capered from Faith’s lips up to her eyes, and for an instant her expression reminded Hunter of the spunky young girl who used to tag along on her brothers’ adventures. “You boys sent me across the bridge first to test whether it would hold,” she recalled.
Hunter reminisced, “Jah, but you were only a little wisp of a thing, so of course it withstood your weight. I don’t know what we were thinking, for the three of us boys to join you on it, with none of us knowing how to swim. It was a gut thing your daed heard our cries and ran to give us his hand.”
Now a shadow troubled Faith’s countenance. “Sometimes I wish my daed would still kumme running to give me his hand, even though I’m no longer a kind and it’s been five years since he died,” she lamented.
Hunter hadn’t meant to stir up sad memories. “I’m sorry about your daed. I have fond memories of him,” he said. He was quiet before adding, “My own daed died a little over a year ago, so I understand why you miss yours.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, too, Hunter,” Faith murmured, her hazel eyes welling with empathy. “I should have said as much yesterday. My brothers were especially grieved to hear about the accident. Ruth mentioned you were hurt in it as well, but I’m grateful to see Gott answered all our prayers by healing you.”
Not wishing to admit he wasn’t fully recovered, Hunter blew on his fingers and then changed the subject. “A lot has changed since we were kinner. Who would have expected little Faith Yoder would grow up to own a bakery?”
A furrow momentarily creased Faith’s brow before she straightened her posture and asked, “And what about you? Do you still work at the RV factory?”
Pushing his hat up, Hunter massaged his forehead. The crick in his spine seemed to be traveling upward, giving him a headache. He didn’t want to be dishonest with Faith, but he was concerned if people knew about his job loss, he might become the object of gossip. Or worse, the object of pity.
“I—I—” he stuttered.
His sentence was cut short by Mason calling out, “Faith! Hunter! We’ve been looking for you!”
Faith’s brother traipsed down the hill in their direction, and Lawrence Miller ambled a few paces behind. They were followed by two young women. Hunter sensed the questions he’d been dreading had only just begun.
* * *
As she watched her peers approach, Faith felt uncharacteristically peevish.
Ordinarily, she relished the time she spent chatting with the other women during Sabbath dinner cleanup, but today Lawrence’s fiancée, Penelope Lapp—an eighteen-year-old deacon’s daughter who lived in a neighboring town—was visiting her relatives in Willow Creek. After church, Faith overheard Penelope fawning over Henrietta’s infant, claiming she hoped God would bless her with a baby by this time next year.
Although Faith no longer felt any romantic attachment to Lawrence, it distressed her to be reminded of why they’d broken up. She escaped to the creek to gather her composure, only to be discovered by Hunter, who pointed out what a “little wisp of a thing” she used to be and made her sentimental by calling to mind a long-forgotten memory of her departed father.
If all that weren’t unsettling enough, now she was going to have to exchange pleasantries with Lawrence!
“Hunter, how gut it is to see you,” Mason said, clapping him on the back.
Lawrence did the same and Hunter responded in kind.
“Please meet Katie Fisher,” Faith’s brother said. “She’s the schoolteacher here.”
“And this is Penelope Lapp,” Lawrence stated. “My intended.”
“Your intended?” Hunter repeated.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Lawrence ribbed him. “I’m twenty-two, almost twenty-three. It’s past time for me to marry and start a family.”
Faith winced, supposing if it weren’t for the time he lost courting her, Lawrence wouldn’t feel his marriage and family plans were behind schedule.
“How about you, Hunter?” Penelope asked. “Are you betrothed or walking out with someone?”
“Neh,” was all he said.
“Neh? That’s a surprise,” Lawrence replied. To Penelope, he explained, “Hunter lived here for a while when he was sixteen and he was so sought after, he had his choice of meed. He could have courted anyone he wanted.”
Faith’s irritation was becoming more difficult to suppress—it sounded as if Lawrence were describing horses at an auction, not young women.
“Did you want him to court you, Faith?” Penelope asked.
“I was only thirteen!” Faith exclaimed. “Despite what some people may think, not every maedel’s sole dream is to get married as soon as she possibly can.”
She was appalled by Penelope’s nerve. Even if Faith had developed a crush on someone as a schoolgirl, it wasn’t something she’d discuss, especially not in front of male acquaintances. Courtships and romance among the Amish tended to be private matters.
“He didn’t court or even favor anyone, if I recall,” Lawrence said. “He claimed he didn’t believe in courting unless he intended to marry, and since he was only sixteen and lived in Indiana, there was no point in walking out with anyone here. He was probably the only person who actually attended our singings just for the singing.”
Penelope sniggled but Katie asserted, “I attended singings in my district primarily for the singing when I was a youth. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Faith smiled at the stout, dark-haired woman. She always appreciated Katie’s forthright manner, and she was glad Mason was walking out with her. When Faith glanced at Hunter, she noticed he was shifting his weight from foot to foot, as if embarrassed by the conversation. She couldn’t blame him and she quickly switched topics.
“Speaking of youth, Hunter and I were just talking about how you boys used to spend time down here at the creek,” she said to Mason. “Do you remember the footbridge?”
“Jah, of course.” Mason regaled the others with the anecdote about their footbridge disaster and subsequent submersion in the creek.
“After your daed pulled us out, he promised if you finished the fieldwork early the following week, he’d help us build a sturdier bridge,” Hunter recalled.
“Jah, and you were so excited that after working all day for Ruth, you’d come and help us every evening in the fields and on Saturday, as well,” Mason reminisced, shaking his head. “My daed frequently commented about what a strong, dedicated worker you were. I often had to ask Gott to forgive my envy.”
“He’s still strong—look at those shoulders,” Lawrence observed, lightly punching Hunter’s arm.
Faith wasn’t certain if she imagined it, but Hunter’s face seemed to go gray. Was it modesty or the cold wind that caused him to set his jaw like that? Although as a boy, he was as congenial as could be, there was something stilted about his posture now that gave him an air of aloofness. Ordinarily, Faith would have been put off by an unsociable demeanor, but she sensed Hunter was uncomfortable with the attention, and she wanted to spare him further uneasiness.
“The bridge is still standing,” she informed Hunter. “This past summer I brought my nephew down to the water so he could cross it.”
Hunter visibly relaxed his shoulders. “I’m not surprised,” he said, looking directly at Faith as he smiled. “Your daed made sure it was durable.”
“I’d like to see it,” Penelope suggested. “Why don’t the men lead the way?”
Faith had never taken Lawrence to the bridge before, and she didn’t want him visiting it now. The bridge belonged to another part of her life; it belonged to her dad and brothers and nephews—and even to Hunter. But not to Lawrence. “I really ought to return to the house—” she started to say.
“There’s no need to hurry back,” insisted Penelope. “If you’re hungry, there will still be leftovers in another hour. And it’s not as if you need to dash to the evening singing to meet a suitor, is it?”
Faith huffed. She never mentioned wanting to eat, and she didn’t appreciate Penelope’s digging for information about whether she was being courted. “Actually, my concern is that I ought to be helping clean up.”
“But who knows when I’ll be back here again?” Penelope sounded like a wheedling child. “Please, Faith?”
“Alright,” Faith agreed, “kumme along.” She had no idea why it was so important to Penelope to see the footbridge, but she gave in since the young woman was a guest in their district. As a member of the host family, it was up to Faith to be especially hospitable to her. But that didn’t mean she was going to let the men take the lead.
* * *
Although Faith courteously accommodated Penelope’s request, as she pivoted toward the woods Hunter noticed the spark in her eyes. What put it there? Why did she suddenly say she needed to get back to the house? Was it really that she wanted to help clean up, or did Faith have a suitor waiting after church for her? Hunter didn’t know why the possibility caused him to experience a twinge of disappointment now, when only yesterday he assumed she was being courted. But perhaps that wasn’t the reason she wanted to leave at all. Maybe Faith was simply tiring of Penelope’s intrusive inquiries.
Hunter sure was. He gladly would have returned to the house, too, but the only thing he wanted to do less than hike along the creek was to explain why he didn’t want to hike along the creek. He intended to avoid discussing his injuries as long as he could. After all, what would Lawrence say once he knew Hunter developed such broad shoulders from months of turning the wheels of a wheelchair and hoisting himself along the parallel bars at the clinic? Would Mason think Hunter was less of a hard worker when he found out he’d lost his job because he wasn’t mobile enough to meet the assembly quota at the RV factory? Would it suddenly dawn on all of them why he was no longer “sought after” as a bachelor? What might Faith—not just as his employer, but as a woman near his age—think of him then?
It wasn’t that Hunter believed any of them would be unsympathetic if they found out about his injuries; it was that he didn’t want their sympathy in the first place. He worked too hard at recovering to have to answer personal questions about his condition from the likes of Penelope Lapp. So he bit his lip and tried to match his stride to Mason’s and Katie’s, while Faith marched up ahead and Penelope and Lawrence lagged behind.
“How long will you be visiting Willow Creek?” Katie questioned conversationally.
“Until my ant’s leg heals, probably sometime after the first of the year. I’m managing her store until she’s better.” Hunter pushed a branch out of his way, holding it to the side so it wouldn’t spring back and hit Penelope.
“What do you do for employment at home?” Penelope questioned.
“He works in an RV factory, isn’t that right?” Lawrence replied before Hunter had a chance to answer. “You must have accrued a lot of time off to take such a long leave. That’s one gut thing about working for the Englisch. It’s not like a farmer’s work, which is never done.”
While Hunter contemplated how best to respond, Penelope swatted at Lawrence with the end of her shawl. “I’ve heard it said that it’s a farmer’s wife’s work that is never done,” she taunted.
“That, too,” Lawrence allowed.
“Business owners don’t exactly sit around twiddling their thumbs, and Katie has her hands full as a schoolteacher, too,” Faith countered over her shoulder. Hunter chortled inwardly in appreciation of her feisty tone. She was never one to let her brothers claim their work was more important or difficult than anyone else’s, including hers, when they were kids.
“Jah, that’s probably true,” Penelope concurred. “Oh! Speaking of business owners, I almost forgot. Lawrence and I want you to make the cakes for our wedding, don’t we, Lawrence?”
“Jah, if she’s willing.”
“Of course I’m willing, but please give me your exact order ten days in advance. I know Lawrence prefers everything to be just so, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint him,” Faith said without slowing or turning to face them. Did Hunter detect a note of sarcasm in her reply?
“I will,” Penelope agreed happily. “Hunter, you must attend our wedding, too. All of the leit from Lawrence’s church are invited. We’ll match you up with a—”
“There’s the bridge,” Faith interrupted, and Hunter was thankful she’d saved him from embarrassment once again. She scampered down the rocky embankment, and the others followed.
Each step seemed to jar Hunter’s hip bones against their sockets as he descended the slope. The small bridge was weathered and a few boards were missing, but it rose in a functional arc above the shallow current, just as he’d remembered.
“It’s as good as new,” Mason jested, confidently crossing it to the other side. He held out his hand for Katie to join him.
Katie stalled reluctantly. “I don’t know... I might be too heavy for a kinner’s bridge.”
“Don’t you trust my workmanship?” Mason teased, so she darted across the planks.
Penelope took her turn, and then Lawrence stepped onto the structure. “You call this durable?” he gibed, stomping on the bridge with the heel of his boot. “This board here feels a little loose.”
After Lawrence crossed, Hunter waited for Faith, who seemed to be dillydallying. “Ladies first,” he uttered patiently.
Faith hesitated before placing one foot onto the bridge. As she lifted her back foot from the shore, the waterlogged board beneath her front foot gave way.
From the parallel embankment, Katie shrieked, “Help her!”
It happened so suddenly and his joints were so stiff, Hunter wasn’t able to spring forward quickly enough to prevent Faith from falling. Her front leg wedged through the crack into the creek while her upper torso lurched forward onto the bridge.
Mason and Lawrence raced down the opposite bank while Hunter bolted into the icy current from his side of the water. With one foot dangling in the creek, Faith was using her dry, bent leg and her arms to try to crawl onto the bridge.
“Are you hurt?” Mason asked.
“I’m stuck!” she yelped, red-faced. “Stop pulling me! You’re making it worse.”
“I’ve got her,” Hunter said authoritatively. “I’ll lift her up so you can free her leg. Be careful. Here, Faith, lean back against me.”
From behind, he gently wrapped his arms around her waist and clasped her to his chest until Lawrence and Mason eased her leg from between the planks. Then he carried her to the embankment. Her stocking was torn and her leg was scraped from her ankle to her knee, but it didn’t appear to be seriously injured.
Kneeling before her, Hunter hesitated. He feared his legs would lock up on him, but he offered, “If it hurts your ankle to walk on it, I can carry you back to the house.”
“Neh,” she snapped and what seemed like a look of disgust clouded her face. He didn’t blame her; he might as well have pushed her into the creek for as slowly as he’d moved to prevent her from falling in.
Then she quietly added, “Denki, but my foot is fine. It’s just very cold, so I’m going to hurry up ahead.”
Katie, who had waded over to be sure Faith was alright, said, “My feet are wet and cold, too, so I’ll go with you.” She linked her arm through Faith’s for support and they scuttled away.
Stranded on the opposite bank without a bridge to cross, Penelope called, “What about me? Lawrence, help!” until Lawrence waded across the water, hefted her to his shoulder as easily as a sack of grain and waded back, setting her down next to Mason and Hunter.
The four of them walked in silence the rest of the way, too chilled to speak. In fact, until Katie mentioned her feet were wet, Hunter hadn’t realized his legs were, too. The icy water had made them so numb that for once he wasn’t aware they’d ever been hurt at all. Wishing the same could be said of his self-esteem, Hunter kept his chin tucked to his chest as he tramped against the wind.
Chapter Three (#uf757c358-3d44-59ec-91ca-0e82019d15db)
On Sunday night, Faith rose so many times to don her prayer kapp and kneel beside her bed that she feared she’d wake her two nephews, ages three and five, who slept on the other side of the divider in the tiny room she shared with them. Each time she finished praying, she was certain she’d thought her final uncharitable thought, but another one would come to mind as soon as she slid back under the quilt and she’d have to ask the Lord to forgive her all over again.
Much of her resentment was directed at Lawrence, whom she blamed for her clumsy plunge into the creek. If he hadn’t deliberately trampled over the bridge like a big ox, the board wouldn’t have broken when it was her turn to cross. She was equally piqued by Penelope’s constant chatter and references to her upcoming wedding. Faith understood the young woman was barely eighteen, but it seemed she could have exercised a bit more discretion.
Yet oddly, it was Hunter’s conduct that ruffled her most. Rationally, she knew he was being helpful, but she was utterly mortified when he wrapped his arms around her midsection and held her above the water. Not to mention how embarrassed she was by the pained expression on his face right before he offered to carry her home. He couldn’t have appeared more daunted if he’d volunteered to shoulder a dairy cow!
She admitted she was overweight, but she wasn’t that overweight. Wasn’t Hunter supposed to possess extraordinary strength, anyway? Wasn’t that what Mason and Lawrence claimed? She remembered his youthful vitality, too, just like she remembered how popular he was. But what good did either of those qualities do him now, if he couldn’t be gracious enough to overlook the fact she was no longer “a little wisp of a thing”? Not that she wanted his assistance, but he didn’t have to pull such a face when he offered it—especially in front of Lawrence and his skinny fiancée, Penelope.
Faith socked her pillow. With the exception of the afternoon she confided her secret to Lawrence, she’d never felt so unfeminine and humiliated as she’d felt that afternoon. By the time she drifted to sleep, she wasn’t certain whether her leg ached from falling through the bridge or from kneeling so long, praying for God to forgive her pride and anger.
When she awoke on Monday, her indignation had faded, but as she bicycled through the dark, her leg burned with each painful rotation of the pedals. Feeling cranky, she hoped she’d have a few minutes alone before Pearl arrived. Usually, the older woman didn’t come in until seven thirty or eight, but this week she planned to work longer hours to help fill the Thanksgiving pie orders.
Faith sighed. Thanksgiving was ten days away and they were behind schedule as it was. They’d received so many orders that Faith resorted to limiting the number of fresh-baked pies she’d sell during the half week before the holiday. Instead, she offered customers the option of buying unbaked, frozen pies, which they could pick up anytime. Many Englischers said they’d be glad to experience the fragrant aroma of “homemade” pies baking in their ovens. Some brought in their own pie plates, and Faith inferred they might intend to take credit for making the pies themselves, but she didn’t mind one bit; each order brought her closer to making her down payment.
But exactly how much closer was she? The surge in orders was generating more income, but since she was also spending more on ingredients and paying Pearl for extended hours, Faith wasn’t sure how the figures would balance out. Bookkeeping wasn’t her strength, but she planned to review her financial records as soon as things slowed down in the bakery.
“Guder mariye,” Pearl cheerfully greeted Faith. “You’re limping! What happened to your leg? Were you romping through the woods with those darling nephews of yours again? You dote on them. You’ll make a fine mother someday—”
“It’s nothing,” Faith cut in. She was edgy enough without being reminded she probably wouldn’t make a fine mother someday. “You’re here even earlier than I am. Did you start a pot of kaffi?”
“I just put it on.”
They took turns making and rolling pie dough and peeling and slicing apples until it was time to flip the sign on the door to Open.
“Guess who’s up bright and early this morning?” Pearl chirped, returning from the task. “Hunter Schwartz. I spotted him in the shop.”
Her cheeks burning at the mention of Hunter’s name, Faith only mumbled, “Hmm.”
“The cannery doesn’t open until nine. He must be an especially hard worker.”
First Pearl called him a fine, strapping young man and now she was praising his industriousness. Faith knew the older woman well enough to suspect her comments were a prelude to matchmaking.
“Jah,” Faith carefully concurred. “Diligence was always one of Hunter’s admirable attributes, even when we were kinner.” Then, so Pearl wouldn’t read any personal interest into Faith’s admission, she added, “That’s one of the reasons I didn’t hesitate to hire him.”
“We should extend a personal invitation for him to join us for his afternoon meal, the way Ivy and Ruth always do. You could go over there before the customers start arriving and—”
Now Faith felt positive Pearl was laying the groundwork for a match between her and Hunter. “Neh!” she refused more adamantly than she intended.
Pearl put her hand to her throat as if wounded. “Oh,” she apologized meekly. “I just thought it would be a neighborly thing to do.”
Faith realized she may have misinterpreted Pearl’s intentions and regretted her decision hurt Pearl’s feelings, but she didn’t back down. “It’s a lovely thought, Pearl. But we’re so busy filling orders I don’t foresee myself taking proper dinner breaks. It wouldn’t be polite for me to personally invite him and then not join all of you once he got here.”
“Neh, of course not, I understand,” Pearl said. “Work comes first.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Faith clarified. “I only meant...”
The bell jangled on the door and one of the Englisch regulars stopped in for his morning coffee and honey bar. Faith was relieved she didn’t have to confess the real reasons she couldn’t possibly sit down and eat dinner with Hunter Schwartz. For one thing, even though he was already well aware of the size of her waist, she didn’t want him to know how much she ate and judge her for it. For another, there was something about seeing him again as an adult that made her doubt she could swallow two bites in front of him. The feeling wasn’t merely the awkwardness over broken eggs or broken bridges, nor was it necessarily an unpleasant sensation, but it was unsettling all the same. Once Faith became accustomed to working with him, perhaps she’d feel different. For now, she hoped she wouldn’t see much of Hunter until after Thanksgiving, when he began making deliveries. Perhaps by then, she’d even lose a couple of pounds.
* * *
Hunter wiped his palms against his trousers. On Saturday he’d mopped the floor, and he’d come into the cannery early this morning to restock the shelves so that everything was exactly where it should be. Rather, everything except one very important person: Ivy. It was ten minutes before nine o’clock. The shop opened at nine on weekdays, and Ivy was nowhere to be seen.
Hunter was afraid this might happen. Ivy lived alone with her grandfather, Mervin Sutter, who introduced Ivy to Hunter and Iris after church on Sunday. The blonde, petite, sixteen-year-old girl wouldn’t look Hunter in the eye as she mumbled a barely audible greeting. He attributed her shyness to his own appearance, assuming she was intimidated because he was twice her size. Also, his pants were dripping from walking into the creek and he was shaking with cold. To her, he probably looked like a crazed bear, which was a bit how he felt at that particular moment.
Glancing through the window toward the bakery, he wondered how Faith’s leg was this morning. He knew from experience pain had a way of getting worse as the day wore on. As he uttered a quick prayer this wouldn’t be the case for Faith, he caught sight of her approaching a table toward the front of her shop. She disposed of a napkin and paper cup and scrubbed the table in swift circles with a cloth. To his surprise, when she was done she lifted her hand in acknowledgment. Pleased she seemed to have put his shortcomings during yesterday’s incident behind her, he waved back.
Then he realized she wasn’t waving to him, but to Ivy, who was passing on the sidewalk in front of the cannery. She pulled the door open just as the clock began to chime on the hour.
“Ruth Graber turns the sign to Open at nine o’clock,” Ivy stated in a monotone.
Hunter was startled speechless by her greeting. Then he recalled Ruth advising him that habits were very important to Ivy and he mustn’t disrupt her routine.
“Of course, denki for the reminder, Ivy,” he said as he flipped the sign on the door.
For the rest of the morning, Ivy didn’t say a word unless asked. But she led the customers to any item they requested and she could quote the jars’ contents and prices by heart. However, Hunter quickly discovered that while her recitation skills were excellent, Ivy had no ability to add or multiply figures. So, he used the cash register to create receipts while she bagged the customers’ purchases.
Virtually all of the customers were Englischers, but at midmorning, a slightly built, bespectacled Amish man, Joseph Schrock, paid a visit to introduce himself. Joseph’s father, Daniel Schrock, owned Schrock’s Shop, which featured Amish-made crafts and goods that were especially appealing to tourists, and the store turned a healthy profit.
“It’s gut to meet another businessman,” Joseph said. “Sometimes I catch grief because I’m not a carpenter or a farmer, but I knew from the time I was a kind I had a head for figures, not a body for a farm. Gott gives us all different talents, right?”
“Jah,” Hunter agreed, although he wasn’t sure if Joseph’s comment made him feel better or worse about not being able to do the physical labor he’d been accustomed to doing. What if his physical strength was his only God-given gift? What if he didn’t have a “head for figures”?
He didn’t have time to dwell on the thought, though, because customers were lining up. Soon, Ivy declared, “It’s quarter to one. Ruth Graber and I take our dinner break with Faith Yoder and Pearl Hostetler at one o’clock. Ruth Graber turns the sign to Closed.”
Hunter didn’t mind if Ivy went to Faith’s bakery for her dinner break, but he had no intention of going with her. During the working day on Main Street, his association with Faith was strictly professional, not social. “You’ve done such a gut job teaching me how to serve customers, Ivy, that I’ll keep the shop open and stay here while you take your break.”
The girl’s face puckered in confusion. “You won’t eat with us?”
“I’ll eat my dinner now in the back room. If any customers kumme in and you need help, call me. I’ll be done before one o’clock,” Hunter assured her.
In the sterile back room where Ruth did her canning, Hunter leaned against a stool. Standing all morning caused his hips and lower spine to burn with pain, but if he’d been sitting all morning, he would have claimed the same discomfort. The fact was, there was little that didn’t cause his back and legs to hurt and even less that helped them to feel better.
He listened for customers arriving as he downed his cold mincemeat pie. After church, Henrietta Yoder sent a pie home with them, saying Faith made the pie especially for Ruth the evening before, once she finished baking bread for the church meal. Hunter, his aunt and his mother enjoyed it for supper, and he was pleased there were leftovers he could bring to work for dinner. If the rest of Faith’s baking was as good as her pie, Hunter figured it was no wonder her business was flourishing.
He returned to the main room with four minutes to spare. The door was left open and Ivy was gone.
“Ach!” he said aloud. “She must have gone to Faith’s already.”
Yet it troubled him that she’d left the door ajar. Also, she was so time-conscious that it seemed unlikely she would have left before the clock chimed. However reluctant he was to face Faith again after his ineptness at the creek, Hunter wouldn’t be satisfied until he made certain Ivy was at the bakery. He put on his coat and hat and crossed the street.
“Guder nammidaag!” Pearl exclaimed when he stepped inside, where a tantalizing aroma filled the air. “Faith, look who’s joining us for his dinner break.”
“Oh?” Faith’s neutral response was difficult to interpret as she bent to slide a tray of apple fry pies into the display case.
“Actually, I already ate my dinner,” Hunter explained. “I’m here to check on Ivy. She left without letting me know she was going.”
Faith abruptly popped up from behind the counter, her eyes wide. “Ivy’s not here. She never steps foot in the door until the clock strikes. How long has she been missing?”
“Missing? I don’t think she’s missing,” Hunter faltered as a wave of panic washed over him. “She’s just not at the shop, that’s all.”
* * *
Noticing Hunter’s ashen complexion, Faith felt almost as much concern for him as she did for Ivy.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” Faith promised. “When exactly was she last in the store?”
Hunter stammered, “She—she was just there fifteen minutes ago. It was quarter to one. I told her I’d eat my dinner in the back room and when I was finished she could kumme here to take her dinner break with you.”
Faith immediately knew what the problem was, but she didn’t have time to explain it to Hunter. She glanced at Pearl, who was already tying her winter bonnet beneath her chin.
“I’ll check the other Main Street shops for her, but meanwhile you’d better get to the pond,” Pearl advised. “She has a fifteen-minute head start.”
Grabbing her shawl, Faith asked Hunter if he’d brought his buggy into town.
“Neh. I walked.”
“Follow me, then,” she urged and led him through the kitchen and out the back door. She wheeled her tandem bicycle away from the wall it was leaning against.
“You can take the backseat, I’ll steer,” she instructed. Although the pond was situated right down the hill from his aunt’s house, Hunter was so dazed Faith wasn’t sure he’d remember where to turn off the main road.
“We’re going to ride the bike?” Hunter asked. He seemed to be moving in slow motion and Faith wondered what was wrong with him. Was he in shock?
“Jah, now hop on,” Faith ordered, hoping her no-nonsense attitude would bring him to his senses. “I’ll tell you more as we ride, but for now I need you to pedal as hard as you can.”
They wobbled a bit as they started down the secondary road running parallel to busy Main Street, but after three or four rotations, Faith felt the bicycle surge forward and suddenly they were sailing. She immediately recognized Hunter’s reputation for stamina was well earned: the heavy bike never glided so briskly when Faith rode it alone. If she weren’t so distraught about Ivy, she might have enjoyed the rush of nippy November air against her cheeks as they cruised along together.
“Where are we going?” Hunter shouted.
“Wheeler’s Bridge,” Faith spoke loudly over her shoulder.
The covered bridge spanned the far end of Willow Creek, which wound its way through much of the farmland in the area, including the Yoders’ property. As a small, single-lane structure, the bridge was mostly used by Amish buggies or by tourists taking photos. It was situated just before the point where the current pooled into a deep and sizable pond.
Faith noticed an immediate lag in their speed as Hunter gasped. “Do you think Ivy might have jumped off the bridge?”
“Neh, neh! Of course not. Ach, I’m so sorry, I should have explained.” Faith panted. She felt terrible to have alarmed him, but she was winded from talking and pedaling. “When Ivy gets upset, she goes to the pond and hides under the bridge. No one knows why. Usually, she crouches on the embankment underneath it, where she’s relatively safe. Our fear is she might slip and fall into the water. Like most Amish in Willow Creek, she can’t swim.”
The bike jerked forward as Hunter rapidly increased his pedaling again.
Touched by his unspoken concern, Faith promised, “It’s going to be alright, Hunter.”
“I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight,” he lamented. “There weren’t any customers in the store. They were the ones I thought I had to watch. I never thought Ivy would leave.”
“I know it’s upsetting, but it’s not your fault,” Faith tried to comfort him as they rounded the final bend. “It happens so often Pearl gave her the nickname Wandering Ivy.”
“Look! Under there!” Hunter whooped. “I see bright blue. It’s her dress. Steer right, Faith, right!”
“I’m steering, I’m steering!” Faith declared, giddy with relief as she angled the handlebars to the right.
It didn’t take long to coax Ivy from beneath the bridge. For one thing, the girl had neglected to put on her shawl before leaving, and the air was bitterly cold. For another, Faith promised they’d share a cream-filled doughnut when they returned, warning Ivy they’d have to hurry back before the sweets were sold out.
“Hunter Schwartz didn’t want to eat dinner with Faith Yoder,” Ivy mumbled as Faith took off her own shawl and wound it around Ivy’s shoulders.
“That’s okay,” Faith patiently explained. “Men don’t always like to eat dinner with women, especially if they aren’t well acquainted with them. Maybe Hunter will join us one day for a special occasion after he gets to know us better. And when Ruth returns to the shop, she’ll eat with us again. Until then, you may kumme to the bakery by yourself for your dinner break.”
This compromise seemed to be acceptable to Ivy, who nodded and repeated the phrase, “Men don’t always like to eat dinner with women.”
“Here,” Hunter said to Faith. He slipped off his coat and placed it over her shoulders. It was still warm from his body, and as she snuggled it tightly around her, she felt as if she’d received an affectionate embrace. Such a silly thought! she told herself. It’s no different from me letting Ivy use my shawl.
Since Ivy didn’t know how to ride a bicycle and it seemed unwise for Faith to leave her alone with Hunter since she’d just been so upset by him, the three of them sauntered back to town together. With Faith limping, Hunter pushing the bicycle and Ivy stopping every five yards to adjust her borrowed shawl, it took them over an hour to return. But at least Ivy was happy: there was one—and only one—cream-filled doughnut left in the display case.
“Denki,” Faith mouthed to Pearl, who undoubtedly saved the doughnut, knowing Faith would have used it as leverage to bring Ivy back. They’d been down this road before.
Faith sighed as she heard the clock strike three. She’d have to stay at the bakery past supper time again if she was going to catch up with the baking, and Henrietta undoubtedly would have something to say about her tardiness. Still, Faith had missed dinner and she was so hungry that the apprehension she felt about eating in front of Hunter was all but forgotten.
When he came in from stowing her bike in the back, she asked, “Would you like a hot cup of kaffi? A little dessert after our long walk, perhaps?”
“That’s kind of you to offer, but I’ve got to get back to the shop,” he said. “I’ve been away from it too long. Who knows how many sales I already lost?”
As if that’s my fault! Faith bristled inwardly, noticing he was standing in that wooden manner of his again, as if on guard against her friendliness, and the tenderness she’d felt toward him on their bike ride vanished.
“Well, don’t let me keep you,” she replied, lifting his coat from her shoulders. “And don’t forget to take this.”
I hardly need a man’s coat wrapped around me anyway, she thought. The ovens in my bakery will keep me plenty warm.
* * *
Faith turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen before Hunter had the opportunity to thank her for her help. He stood by the table where Ivy was eating her doughnut, awkwardly holding his hat in front of him, unsure whether to wait until she finished or to leave without her.
“If you’d like, I’ll see to it Ivy returns when she’s finished,” Pearl suggested.
“I’d appreciate that,” Hunter said. He glanced toward the kitchen, wondering if Faith might reappear. When she didn’t, he requested, “Would you please tell Faith I said denki for—”
He was going to say, for helping me find Ivy, but the young girl seemed to be absorbing his every word as she licked chocolate from the top of her treat. He didn’t want to offend her by drawing attention to the fact she’d run away.
“Please tell her I said denki for the bicycle ride. I appreciated it that she knew where to—er, that she showed me the pond,” he finished, and Pearl winked at him above Ivy’s head.

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