A Marriage for Meghan (23 page)

“I’ll only be a minute,” Meghan called, running toward Mr. Yoder. The dark-haired man stood stock-still, staring at the blaze as though hypnotized.

“Mr. Yoder, I’m so sorry about your market,” Meghan said when she reached his side.

He turned as though sleepwalking. “Don’t get too close, young lady. Sparks are flying. I don’t want any to land on you.” He shooed her back as the firemen aimed hoses at the inferno. “There’s not much they can do but keep the fire from spreading to other buildings.” Mr. Yoder sounded sadly resigned. “And that could happen if the wind picks up.” He glanced nervously at his large livestock barn.

The two watched as roof timbers began to fall in, sending sparks shooting toward the sky. “Shall I tell my
daed
? Do you wish him to come tonight?” she asked.

“No, Meghan. I’ve already sent Glen to your house to tell the bishop. I thought it best, considering the sheriff arrived right after the first fire truck. One of our English neighbors spotted the flames and phoned it in.” Mr. Yoder coughed into a handkerchief, and then he took Meghan’s arm to walk her toward their buggy. “You go on home, child. Tell the bishop I’ll see him Sunday at preaching and we can talk then.”

“We’ll see you at the Millers’,” called Catherine. Meghan climbed back into the buggy and took the reins. The two sisters drove home in silence. The high spirits shared at suppertime had vanished. Each woman mulled over the latest disaster to hit the community as fear gripped their hearts and began to grow.

Gideon patted his belly after his
fraa
’s satisfying dinner, and then he decided he would hike to the barn and stretch his legs. He wanted to see if his sons needed help with the evening chores before settling into his easy chair with his Bible and notepad. But he didn’t get halfway to the barn before the next calamity arrived on his doorstep. Glen, a lanky young man from the far end of the district, raced up on horseback instead of opting for a more dignified horse and buggy.

“What is it, young man? Do you have news for James and John that won’t keep?” The bishop stepped back from the hooves of the prancing horse.

“No, Bishop. I came to speak to you.” Glen slid from the Thoroughbred’s back. “Something has happened…again. This time to our produce stand.”

Gideon knew that the Yoders’ stand was one of the best in the county—large and airy, with plentiful tables to sell fruit, vegetables, and baked goods, as well as jams and preserves. It was well situated on a main highway with a paved parking lot. Amish folk brought quilts, birdhouses, and other crafts to sell on consignment. Glen’s family kept the stand open eight months out of the year. “What happened?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“Burned down, Bishop. Somebody burned our market to the ground. My
grossdawdi
built it forty years ago with my
daed
.”

Gideon saw tears in the Glen’s eyes.
What is happening to our community? Am I capable of leading my flock through these tribulations?
The bishop tried to comfort the young man as best he could, yet his words seemed to ring hollow.

After Glen departed, Gideon headed to the house instead of the barn. He reviewed his notes for Sunday’s sermon and then read Scripture until his eyes began to close. Yet once in bed, he tossed and turned for an hour, overwrought with self-doubts. “Lord, I give this up to You. Guide me so I might serve and lead our district. May we ever honor You.” And then he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The ride to the Millers’, the family hosting the preaching service, seemed interminably long. Gideon’s sons had hitched up their largest buggy and rode to church with the family instead of in their own two-seater. Perhaps it was the cool rain that made them squeeze in with their sisters, but Gideon suspected the young men sought answers—answers he didn’t have.

“Do you think the same men who jumped us also started the fire?” asked James.

“What will the Yoder family do now? Plenty of other folks’ quilts and crafts burned up along with the stand.” John had stuck his head in between his sisters to state the obvious. He was sitting cross-legged behind the second bench.

“Do you think the sheriff will catch the arsonists?” asked James, from his position next to Catherine.

Following his third “I don’t know,” Gideon lost patience. “And you have no knowledge that this was arson, James, so I suggest you not speculate. The fire could have started accidentally from an overturned kerosene lamp or something combustible left too close to the woodstove.”

James leaned forward on the bench seat. “Glen’s family uses solar panels on the roof to power lights and a small electric heater. It provides enough heat for spring and fall. They have too many cats running around to trust kerosene lanterns in the market.”

“Let’s speak on another subject.” Gideon didn’t want his sons drawing premature conclusions. “This is the Lord’s Day. Let’s leave judgment up to Him. The sheriff’s work is not our concern.”

Apparently no other topic came to mind as the Yost family rode the remaining distance in silence. Gideon greeted the ministerial brethren in the outbuilding where most of the long benches had already been set up. They had learned of the fire only that morning. “We’ll have much to discuss at the congregational meeting,” he said to the somber threesome. “Should we let folks eat a bite of lunch before we begin?”

“As you wish, Bishop,” said Paul. “
Kinner
especially will be hungry by the time service ends.”

While people filed in and took seats on the long benches, the four elders decided who would preach which sermon and who would read Scripture. As a light rain beat against the metal roof, the district lifted their voices in songs. Hearts might be heavy, but their sweet words of praise offered hope to the faithful.

After the service Ruth helped Mrs. Miller set out cold cuts, sliced cheese, and fresh bread for sandwiches, along with potato and cucumber salads. Dessert would wait until district business had been settled. Because the majority ruled in Amish districts, Gideon and the elders would abide by the consensus of the people. After everyone had eaten, they filed back into the barn to their same spots on the benches.

Gideon uttered a silent prayer for guidance while waiting for chatter to die down. “By now you’ve heard the news of the fire last night at Glen Yoder’s farm,” he said. “Because they don’t use lanterns or a woodstove in the building, a person might assume that someone intentionally set the blaze.”

Gasps and groans rose up among the congregation.

“Who would do such a thing?” was the common question called out.

Gideon allowed the congregation to discuss the matter for a few minutes, and then he cleared his throat and looked to his ministers.

“Glen, could there be any other explanation for the fire?” asked Stephen. “What do you remember?”

Glen Yoder Sr. stood, looking drawn and pale. “My sons and I had been cleaning and painting in preparation for opening the stand within the next two weeks. We left solvents, thinners, and rags behind, but nobody had been smoking or burning candles or anything else like that—there was no source of flame. The sheriff said it appeared to have been deliberately set.”

“Who summoned the sheriff?” came a voice from the back.

Glen wasted no time answering. “He investigates anytime the fire department is dispatched. The English neighbors across the street called nine-one-one.”

One elderly woman stood shakily. “I live next door, and I saw a van arrive with news reporters and cameramen. It will be on the
Englischers’
television sets that there’s trouble in our community.”

“There
is
trouble in our district,” said Gideon, pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles higher on his nose. “There’s no denying it.”

“
Jah
, true, but we don’t want newspaper reporters and TV coverage making it worse. They blow everything out of proportion to sell more papers.” Paul’s usually soft, raspy voice could be heard in the rafters.

The bishop couldn’t disagree with Paul’s assessment. “I abhor the idea of outside attention, but unless we cooperate with the English police, these criminal acts could easily continue and even escalate.”

The other elders stared at him with confusion. “What do you mean by cooperate?” asked Paul.

“The sheriff needs signed complaints by the wronged parties—someone to press charges for them to pursue the matter further,” explained the bishop.

One frail member struggled to his feet, helped by his grandson. “Would Glen want that on his conscience, when the fire could have been caused by a lightning strike?” He leaned his weight on his cane.

“A lightning strike?” asked the bishop. “There was no thunderstorm Friday evening. It’s not even April yet. Too early in the season.”

Paul cleared his throat. “We’ve both lived long enough, Bishop, to witness strange occurrences in nature. God consults no calendar when He orchestrates the events shaping our lives.”

Again, Gideon couldn’t disagree. In the past he had seen odd flashes of lightning across the sky without the usual accompanying thunderstorm. He bobbed his head to the senior minister and then turned back to his flock. “I believe someone or some group has chosen our community to focus their hostility.”

“Who would do such a thing?” sang out a voice.

“Why would they target us in such a way?” asked another.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s some
Englischer
we have offended or snubbed in some fashion.”

“We shouldn’t act rashly based on maybes,” interjected Paul. Many heads in the congregation nodded in agreement.

In the end a vote was taken on whether or not the Millers and the Yoders should sign official complaints with English law enforcement. But Gideon didn’t need to tally the votes to know that he stood with the minority.

M
eghan had promised Catherine she would think about returning to singings. Truth was, she hardly thought about anything else once the fervor over the Yoder fire died down. Each time she remembered the look on Mr. Yoder’s face she felt terrible. A family legacy had gone up in smoke and ash, no different than last year’s leaves and branches thrown on a bonfire. Whether caused by a malicious person or an act of God, the end result was the same. She took comfort in knowing the district would soon rally together to rebuild the structure, at least erasing the daily reminder of the family’s loss.

At breakfast that morning, Catherine casually mentioned there would be a singing this Sunday in the neighborhood. She even agreed to attend, as her engagement wouldn’t be announced until the fall. Was it time Meghan faced her fears and rejoined folks her own age? Surely Jacob would be there. He seldom missed an event involving a full dessert buffet. But what would she say to him when their paths crossed?