A Summer Amish Courtship (Love Inspired) Page 2

  “I don’t like that scarf,” June fussed, trying to push her daughter’s hands away as Abigail wrapped it neatly around her mother’s head, covering her hair. For modesty’s sake, no one but a woman’s husband was supposed to see her bare head.

  “I want the pink one,” June fussed.

  “We don’t wear pink scarves, Mam.” Abigail deftly tied the scarf at the nape of her mother’s neck. “There you go.” She smiled as she smoothed the fabric at her mother’s forehead. “All done.”

  June King was a small woman, frail in appearance. But even though she was seventy years old, she was as strong as an ox, especially when she took a notion to put up a fight. Which was happening with more frequency, in Abigail’s opinion. Her father, however, disagreed. He either downplayed his wife’s inappropriate behavior and speech or denied it altogether. Abigail knew that deep in her father’s heart, he must know his wife of fifty years was showing signs of dementia, but she suspected he wasn’t yet ready to face the truth.

  “Who’s here, Babby?” June asked, as excited as a young girl going to her first singing. “Do you think it’s the bishop?”

  “I don’t know who it is. Maybe a neighbor,” Abigail responded.

  “I think it’s the bishop.”

  “Ne, I think not.” Abigail walked back across the kitchen to turn down the apple butter simmering on the stove. She’d found some apples no longer in their prime in the cellar and decided to do something with them before they spoiled. “Bishop Simon’s driving horse is black.”

  Outside, Abigail’s father’s dog, Boots, began to bark. He was an old border collie, mostly deaf and suffering from arthritis, but he still managed to stand watch over the farm. When her parents had moved to Delaware the previous fall and taken the dog with them, Abigail’s son had missed him dearly. When she and Jamie had arrived in Delaware, Jamie had been as excited to see the dog as his grandparents.

  “Oh, my! It’s that handsome schoolmaster!” June declared, clapping her hands. She pushed open the screen door and walked out onto the back porch, leaving the door wide open.

  “The schoolmaster?” Immediately concerned, Abigail dropped the wooden spoon she’d been using to stir the apple butter onto the counter. It fell so hard that it bounced. “What’s he doing here?” She glanced at the round, black-and-white battery-powered clock on the kitchen wall. It was only two forty-five. School wasn’t out for another fifteen minutes.

  Abigail hustled to the open back door, her heart fluttering in her chest. It had to be Jamie. Was he ill? Had he been injured? She fought the panic rising in her chest as she went down the porch steps and into the driveway, walking past her mother.

  “Schoolteacher!” June greeted, waving eagerly. “So glad you could stop by. Come in for coffee and apple streusel! My daughter makes a fine streusel!”

  “Mam, shush,” Abigail murmured. “It’s not proper calling out to a man like that.”

  Now that the buggy was closer, Abigail could see that it was indeed the schoolmaster. And her Jamie. She could see her little boy through the buggy’s windshield. He didn’t look ill, or injured, but why else would the teacher be bringing him home in his buggy? And early, no less.

  Abigail hurried out into the middle of the driveway, catching the pretty mare’s halter as the buggy rolled to a stop. Boots barked and ran in circles around the conveyance.

  Abigail went straightaway to the passenger’s side and slid open the door. “Jamie? Are you all right?” she asked, trying as best she could to hide her alarm. “What’s wrong, sohn?” She reached out to him to take him in her arms. He was really too big for her to carry anymore, or even hold in her lap. And he didn’t like it. But Jamie was her baby boy, her only child. A mother couldn’t be criticized for caring about her child, could she?

  “I’m all right,” Jamie said, pushing his mother away. “I’m fine. I can get down myself.”

  Abigail clasped his cheeks between her hands, looking into his brown eyes. He looked fine. Not sick at all. “Not hurt?” she asked.

  “Not hurt or sick,” the schoolmaster said dryly, pulling the brake on the buggy.

  His name was Ethan Miller. Abigail had met him several times. They were part of the same church district. The schoolmaster had also stopped by the house a couple of times as he walked home from school—to complain about her son’s behavior. She didn’t care for Ethan Miller. He was grumpy and he expected too much of Jamie too soon. The poor boy had just moved halfway across the country. His life had been turned upside down like an apple cart: leaving his friends in Wisconsin, living with his grandparents, joining a new community. Who could expect there wouldn’t be a few bumps in the road?

  The schoolmaster got out of the buggy and walked around to Abigail. He was a tall man, slender, with blond hair, brown eyes and a carefully trimmed beard. Some might have thought him handsome, and maybe in other circumstances, she might have, too.

  The border collie sniffed at the schoolmaster’s heels and then wandered away.

  “I brought Jamie home because we had a problem at school today,” the schoolmaster said. “Again.”

  Abigail looked down at her son who was now standing beside her. “Go into the house with your grossmami,” she told him, stroking his shoulder. “She’ll find you a snack.”

  Jamie smiled up at her. “Ya, Mam.”

  “I’m not making him a snack, Babby,” her mother put in. She was standing on the far side of the driveway, but she had heard every word. Abigail’s father was losing his hearing but her mother’s was as good as her own and it seemed as if she never missed a thing. “Jamie’s been naughty. I don’t make snacks for naughty boys.”

  The schoolmaster glanced June’s way and then returned his gaze to Abigail. “Actually, I’d like Jamie to stay here. And tell you for himself what he did.”

  Abigail looked at her son, then at the schoolmaster. “I don’t understand.”

  When the teacher didn’t say anything, she turned her stare back to Jamie. “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t mean to, Mam,” Jamie said, pouting. “I’m very hungry. Could I have my snack?”

  “Tell her,” the schoolmaster said, using a tone of voice that Abigail didn’t much care for. Who did he think he was, speaking to a young boy so harshly?

  “Please, Mam?” Jamie whined. “I’m so hungry.” He touched his forehead. “I’m feeling dizzy.”

  “Tell her,” the schoolmaster repeated, lowering his voice until it was little more than a rumble.

  “Tell her, you naughty boy!” June called from the other side of the driveway.

  Jamie’s eyes filled with tears. “I tried to tip over the girls’ outhouse. I just wanted to see if I could do it.” The words tumbled out of his mouth. “I was trying to use a lever. Like Grossdadi taught me. I didn’t know Elsie was inside! I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

  Abigail’s eyes widened. “You tried to tip over an outhouse? With someone inside?”

  He grabbed the hem of her apron. “I didn’t mean to, Mam!”

  “There, there,” Abigail soothed, stroking his blond curly head. “It’s all right.”

  “It’s not all right,” the schoolmaster said. Now he was taking on a tone with her. “It was dangerous, what he did. Then he lied to me and when he finally did admit what he’d done, he wasn’t even apologetic.”

  “I am sorry, Mam! I am,” her son cried into her apron.

  “He says he sorry,” Abigail returned stiffly, meeting the schoolmaster’s gaze.

  “He’s not sorry he did it. He’s sorry he got caught.” The schoolmaster brought his hand to his neatly trimmed beard and stroked it. “And that’s not good enough, Abigail.”

  “Oh it isn’t, Ethan? For whom?” She let go of Jamie to take a step closer to the schoolmaster. Her irritation was rising by the second. Her father had always said her quick temper was her worst trait, but
sometimes she thought maybe it was her best. Life had been hard as a single woman since her husband’s death and it had been her experience that sometimes standing up to men got things done when nothing else would.

  “That’s bad, tipping over outhouses,” June put in from the far side of the driveway.

  Ethan stood there in front of Abigail for a moment. He glanced away, then back at her. Maybe he had realized that she wasn’t a weak-minded woman who could be pushed around by any man who wanted to give her advice on how to raise her son.

  “This is the fourth time I’ve had to speak with you about Jamie’s behavior at school,” Ethan intoned, “and I’m ready to just ex—” He took a breath and glanced at her son. “Go with your grandmother,” he said quietly.

  Jamie took off for the house and Ethan met Abigail’s gaze.

  For some reason, his soft tone made her angrier than if he had just raised his voice to her. And who did he think he was to be ordering her son around after school hours? “You’re ready to just what?” she demanded.

  “Expel him,” he answered flatly.

  “Expel? Expel him?” Abigail sputtered.

  “In my day, boys were paddled,” June called. “That’s what my dat did when my brothers were bad. A good switching is what this boy needs, Babby.”

  Abigail whipped around to her mother. “Mam, please see to your grandson. Inside.” She turned back to the schoolmaster.

  “You’ve left me with little other choice. If Jamie’s behavior doesn’t improve, he’s out,” Ethan said. “I’ve asked you repeatedly to rein your son in and so far, I’ve seen no improvement. He doesn’t turn in his schoolwork, or when he does it’s not complete. He doesn’t listen,” Ethan said, ticking off on his fingers. “He’s disruptive, disrespectful and out of control.”

  “Out of control? He’s nine years old!” Abigail pointed toward the house in the direction Jamie had just gone. “And what does that say of you, Ethan?” She placed her hands on her hips. “A teacher who can’t control one little mischievous boy?”

  “Mischievous?” Ethan flared. “Ne, his behavior is beyond mischievous. What about last week when he cut the strings off Martha’s prayer kapp with scissors? What of the cow pie he put in Johnny Fisher’s bologna sandwich? What about—”

  “You know what I have a mind to do, Ethan Miller,” Abigail interrupted, gritting her teeth.

  Ethan rested his hands on his hips. “What?” he demanded.

  “I have a mind to go to the school board and have you dismissed.”

  He laughed, which made her even angrier. If that was possible.

  “Dismissed under what grounds?” Ethan scoffed.

  “On your lack of control in the classroom,” she told him. She folded her arms over her chest. “What kind of teacher are you that little boys can get away with such things? It’s clear to me that you are unable to control your students and that...that you should be replaced immediately because you—” she pointed at him “—are obviously not doing your job.”

  “My job is not to teach your child how to behave.” He pointed back at her. “That is your job. It’s obvious the boy needs discipline at home.”

  Abigail drew back, dropping her arms to her sides. Somewhere in the very back of her mind, she knew he had a point, but he had made her so angry that she couldn’t think straight.

  Ethan walked away. “Get your son under control or I’m expelling him,” he warned.

  “I certainly hope you don’t speak to your wife with that tone,” she flung back at him.

  Without another word, the schoolmaster got into his buggy, turned around in the driveway and headed out the way he’d come. Abigail watched him until he was halfway down the lane and then marched toward the house. Who did Ethan Miller think he was? How dare he threaten to expel her son! She passed her mother who was still standing there beside the driveway.

  June watched her daughter walk by. “What do you think of the schoolteacher, Babby?” she asked brightly. “Me?” She broke into a broad smile, not giving Abigail a chance to respond. “I like him.”

  Chapter Two

  Ethan took his time seeing to Butterscotch, leading her to the water trough and then giving her a good brushing until her coat gleamed. Afterward, he fed her a scoop of oats and set her loose in the pasture to graze until sunset when he’d put her up in the barn for the night. He knew it was foolish, but the time he spent with the mare made him feel closer to his wife, more than five years gone now. Closer to her in memory at least. How she’d loved the mare, their little farm in upstate New York, their quiet life. How she had loved him.

  He’d been so lost after her unexpected death that he thought he might die of his grief. He didn’t, of course, just as his wise father had predicted. And as the days turned into months, then years, though he hadn’t stopped loving her, the pain was no longer so sharp. Now, after so much time had passed, more often than not, he smiled when he thought her, rather than cried.

  Ethan stood beside the gate and watched Butterscotch wander off to graze in a bed of fresh, flowering clover. Then, his hands deep in his pockets, he walked down the lane toward the harness shop in search of his father. He was still mulling over his conversation with Abigail Stolz. He was hoping to talk with his father about Jamie and the boy’s mother. Maybe he could offer a different perspective.

  Ethan took his time walking, taking in the two-hundred-acre farm, its fields that were now turning green, white fencing, barns and outbuildings. In the two years since the family had moved to Hickory Grove from New York, Millers’ shop had flourished. Despite the local competition of Troyer’s just three miles away, his father had found ways to provide goods and services to both Amish and Englisher customers. Not only did he repair and make nearly any kind of leatherwork, but he also sold the type of supplies a man with livestock needed: liniments, wormers, fly and pest control traps and sprays, you name it. And that wasn’t all he was selling these days.

  A year ago, Ethan’s stepsister Bay Laurel, who they called Bay, had started selling jams and jellies, fresh eggs, preserves, and baked goods. Her single shelf had turned into an entire aisle and his father was considering expanding the size of the store to keep up with the women’s side of the business. Then there was Ethan’s brother Joshua, newly wed, who had built a greenhouse over the winter and was about to open a business selling seedlings, flowers and vegetable plants.

  All that, and Benjamin, his father, was still dreaming of expanding his business inside the huge dairy barn he’d remodeled. He wanted to go into buggy making. Ethan wasn’t much for working in the harness shop. That was why he had taken the job of schoolmaster when the position had become vacant. But buggy making was quickly becoming a passion of his. He still had a lot to learn, but he liked using his hands to make a wheel, a door, a padded seat. Alone in the shop, or even working beside his father, he loved the peacefulness of it. No little girls squirming in their seats, no little boys bringing toads into the schoolhouse. No Jamie Stoltz trying to tip over an outhouse.

  Ethan’s annoyance with the boy came back in a single breath. Which turned to near anger toward the mother. He felt sorry for Abigail, a widow alone trying to raise a boy without a father, but surely she understood that it was her duty to control the boy’s behavior. Ethan couldn’t help thinking that if Jamie was bad at school, it was likely he wasn’t all that well behaved at home either. He got that impression from the grandmother. He couldn’t remember her name, though they’d been introduced at church. Daniel King, Abigail’s father, and his wife had been in the harness shop a couple of times and they’d bumped into each other at a dinner celebrating Epiphany back in January. That was just before Abigail and her son had arrived in Hickory Grove. He had heard from his stepsister Ginger that she was widowed three or four years ago, though Ginger hadn’t known any of the details. That fact alone gave him good reason not to judge the woman so quickly, but—

&nbs
p; “Ethan? You okay?”

  He looked up. He’d been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t seen or even heard his sister-in-law, Phoebe, approaching.

  “I thought you were going to walk right by me.” She met his gaze with a smile. She was wearing a blue scarf tied around her head and the denim coat one of his stepsisters had commandeered. Ordinarily, Amish women didn’t wear men’s denim barn coats, even around their house, but there was nothing ordinary about his stepmother’s girls. Or his brother Joshua’s new wife.

  “Uh, sorry, just thinking. Ya, I’m fine,” he said. He liked Phoebe. She’d come from a hard life, bringing a little boy with her, but she’d managed to make a new life there in Hickory Grove. She was sweet and kind and fun, but the thing Ethan liked most about her was her resilience. He admired her ability to see beyond her troubles and find the goodness in the world God provided. He was beginning to think maybe he needed to take a page from her book. As much as he hated to admit that his father and stepmother, Rosemary, were right, it was time to move on with his life. He knew it was what his Mary would want. But he just... So far, he just hadn’t been able to get there.

  “Been down to the mailbox,” Phoebe said. She held up a bundle of flyers and envelopes. “Something here for you. A bank statement, I think.” She stopped in front of him, sifting through the pile in her arms. With a family their size—his father and stepmother, his stepsisters, stepbrothers, and brothers still living at home, as well as Phoebe and her son—they numbered fifteen at the supper table. And that was if his stepsister Lovey and her family didn’t join them. They received a lot of mail.

  “It’s here somewhere,” she said, still thumbing through the stack.

  “Just leave it on the counter,” he told her, turning so he was still facing her, backing down the driveway, hands deep in his pants pockets. “Have you seen my dat?”

  “In the shop. In the back, I think. I stopped to see Ginger on the way to the mailbox. She’s working the register.”

  He nodded, turned and continued on his way.