An Amish Family Reunion (34 page)

“And I understand your bargain basement price for the sorrel.”

“That elderly couple couldn’t afford much in the way of horseflesh. They only need a small horse to pull their
kinskinner
’s pony cart on the back lane between two farms. No long distances or hilly roads for that old gal. The folks are real animal lovers too. I’ve talked to the man at socials many times. My sorrel got a fine new home after leaving the Miller Family Horse Sanctuary.” Henry grinned, proud of the moniker assigned by their father.

“Nothing wrong with loving horses. You know I do too. Dad just wants your business to show some profit at the end of the year.”

Henry scratched his clean-shaven jaw. “
Jah
, I know how expensive grain is when our pasture gets eaten down, but I can’t leave behind horses in the kill pen that have any chance for rehabilitation.”

Matthew pulled on the reins and applied the brake as the wagon picked up speed on the downside of a hill. “I understand that, Henry, but you can’t keep all of them. You have to heal or retrain and then sell them. Set a limit on the herd and don’t go near the Sugar Creek auction until you’ve sold down to that number. And you could start hiring out your services as a trainer to other folks. That could bring in cash to support the sanctuary part of your enterprise.”

“I’d love to do that, but I can’t be everywhere at once. Dad keeps me busy with chores besides my rehab work. I’ve been meaning to post fliers around town to advertise my services, but there are only so many hours in a day.”

“Let’s get started on those fliers tonight. No time like the present.” Matthew turned into their driveway and headed toward the barn. “Why don’t you unload these grain sacks and rub down the team. I’ll join you in a bit. First I want to see if Martha and my
kinner
are back yet from the Hostetlers.”

“Missing the little wife, are ya? That’s real sweet.” Henry bit back his smile.

“That woman’s been gone to her
mamm
’s more than she’s been home with me. I can’t remember if I married a blonde or a redhead. You’ll understand one of these days once you find the right gal.” Matthew jumped down and began unhitching the Percherons.

“Oh, I’ve met her already. It’s summoning enough courage to ask her out that has me flummoxed. All I’ve managed are a few buggy rides and small talk after singings.”

“Be brave, Henry. If you can handle some of those mean-tempered nags out in the pasture, you can handle one little woman.”

“Go on now,” ordered his brother. “Look for your wife. I’ll rub this pair down and make short work out of those feed sacks. You two are supposed to be on your second honeymoon.”

Matthew dusted off his palms as he headed for the house. He and Martha never really had a first honeymoon, unless you counted the journey between Ohio and upper New York State. And he knew she surely wouldn’t count that. Things had been tense since the showdown in the barn a few nights ago. He hadn’t appreciated being dressed down in front of James Davis, but he had chosen not to bring it up later that night or the next day. He thought Martha would forget the matter because the harsh words had come at the end of a tiring day. But instead she’d spent almost every waking moment with her family across the street.

Matthew met up with his mother on the path to the house from the clothesline. “How was life in Mount Eaton?” she asked. “Still hopping as usual?”

“They’ll need a noise ordinance soon if all that excitement keeps up.” Matthew joined the ongoing joke. Only one place on earth was sleepier than Winesburg, and that was Mount Eaton.

“Where are Noah and Mary? I though you and Martha would let this gray-haired
grossmammi
have some time with those two. Mary Hostetler has been getting the larger share of that pie.”

He chuckled at the way his mother turned everything into a food or barnyard comparison. But he wasn’t amused by the reason for her analogy. Martha was spending too much time at her former home and his family had noticed. “I’ll remind her to be evenhanded with the two
grossmammi
s.”
If she’s here long enough to talk to her
.

True to form, Martha wandered in midway through supper. “Good evening,” she greeted, leading Noah by the hand. She had tucked Mary into the crook of her elbow.

“Pull up a chair. We have meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and fresh-sliced tomatoes.” Emma angled her brightest smile at her sister-in-law.

Martha didn’t meet Matthew’s gaze. “
Danki
, but I ate at
mamm
’s. Noah was hungry, so I thought we’d get dinner over with. Well, I’d better bathe Mary and put her down for the night. She’ll fuss if I wake her up later.” In a flash she dragged the children into the bathroom without another word.

Matthew glared at his second helping of supper, his appetite vanishing as quickly as his wife’s backside. Leah and Emma peered in his direction, while his mother continued to frown at the closed door.

“What’s Mary Hostetler cooking that’s better than our meat loaf and mashed potatoes?” muttered Julia.

“Maybe she made some of that fillit-mig-non and asparagus with holiday sauce,” said Simon.

“Asparagus is out of season. Canned wouldn’t taste the same, holiday sauce or no.” Julia’s comment had been directed to her husband, but her focus remained on the bathroom door. “Noah wouldn’t like that kind of nonsense food anyway.”

“Noah doesn’t know about your secret recipe for gravy, otherwise he would have screamed to come home.” Leah patted her mother’s hand.

Matthew rose to his feet and threw his napkin down on the table. “Excuse me a minute,” he said, pushing back his chair.

This time Leah grabbed his arm. “Why don’t you wait? Talk to her after the children are in bed.”

He stared at his sister, speechless. Did everyone know about the trouble in his household? And did everyone have some marital advice to offer? “Thanks for supper,
mamm
. It was delicious.” Matthew grabbed his hat from the peg and strode from his childhood home. He would go for a long ride through the woodland trails, up into the hills, and not come back until his horse was lathered and he was cooled off.

Two hours later, he rubbed down his gelding until the horse’s coat shone like a show contender. Yet the hard ride had done nothing to improve his mood.

He crept into the house through the seldom-used front door to avoid his family. He didn’t need any more advice. He needed a heart-to-heart with his wife. Martha was sitting by the open window in his former bedroom, brushing out her hair. Mary was asleep in the handmade crib, while Noah snoozed on one twin bed.

She looked up when he closed the door behind him. “Where have you been?” she asked. “I didn’t know where you had gone.”

Matthew crossed his arms and leaned back against the door. The room grew hotter and stuffier by the minute. “I went for a ride into the hills. Where have
you
been?”

The hairbrush stopped mid-stroke through her thick mane. “What do you mean?”

“You’re never here, Martha. You’re always across the street with the Hostetlers.”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “They’re my parents and my sisters.”

“And I am your husband, but you’ve been avoiding me since we got home.”

“Your home. Your family.” She stared out the window into inky darkness. Her lower lip trembled but she didn’t cry.

“That’s right. My parents, who would like to spend a little time with their grandchildren, if you think you can stay here for a day or two.”

“No, I promised
mamm
I would help her wash windows tomorrow.” Martha resumed brushing her hair as two large tears ran down her flushed face.

“
Ach!
” One word summed up his frustration as the walls of their small bedroom closed in on him. Matthew stomped out of the room, down the steps, and into the cooler night air. After considering his choices, he opted to sleep in the back porch hammock next to Henry’s cot, swatting at mosquitoes while trying to find a comfortable position.

“Stop scratching,” ordered Hannah. “You’ll spread the rash and make things worse.”

“I can’t help it,
mamm
. It itches.” Phoebe scratched the line of red welts down her calf until they started to bleed. Both of her legs looked awful because she couldn’t leave them alone.

“Where did you come in contact with poison ivy? I thought you knew what it looked like.” Hannah bent to inspect her ankles without getting too close.

“I veered off the path coming home from Uncle Simon’s a few nights ago. I was in a hurry and didn’t watch where I stepped.”

“Put on some more calamine lotion and do something to take your mind off the itch. Go get the mail, for one thing.” Hannah offered her most exasperated expression. “Stop moping around the kitchen.”

Phoebe complied, first with the chalky, pink ointment and then with the stroll down to the road.
Don’t scratch. Don’t scratch
. She chanted the words mentally until she reached the mailbox and withdrew the contents. Sorting through the stack of bills and fliers, her fingers landed on an envelope with a return address that made her stomach feel funny. Riehl and Son Swine and Beef. “Oh, my,” she said, and began scratching at new bumps on her forearm. Phoebe set the other mail down in the tall weeds and tore open the letter.

Dear Phoebe
,

I regret dumping everything on you all at once at your uncle’s cookout. If you’ve had a chance to mull over what I said, I think you’ll see my logic. Why would we wish to compete with money-obsessed
Englischers
vying for the limited number of publishing contracts? Having no easy access to computers, printers, e-mail, and a phone—things other writers take for granted—would surely doom our chances. Instead, we could sit on my front porch or yours eating ham sandwiches and waiting for cicadas to emerge from their cocoons. The quality of life lies in the small, satisfying details. In that vein, I’d like to invite you to a bonfire and s’mores roast at the Barnhart farm this Saturday. We could fondly reminisce about the mighty Niagara River or—dare I dream?—plan an equally awe-inspiring future. No pressure
.

Eli had drawn a smiley face to punctuate his sentence. Anxiety gnawed at her insides, recognizing the thinly veiled meaning of his letter. She forced herself to continue reading as the itching ratcheted up a notch.

We could watch the flames dance, count the stars blazing across the heavens, or take a walk in the moonlight. Anything you like, as long as we’re together. I’ll take you home afterward. Get word to me if Henry isn’t planning to attend and I’ll pick you up too. Either way, I’m counting the days until Saturday
.

Eli

Several conflicting emotions fought for control in her mind. His attention flattered her, making her feel like a sought-after woman. Yet his leap from friends and partners to friends about to plan forever scared her to the bone. Tears pricked at the backs of her eyes. She had not changed. She was still Phoebe Miller, a girl who loved solitude, horses, her artwork, and her family. But a girl who also loathed chopping onions, picking slugs off cabbages, and scrubbing the henhouse floor. She thought back to the one pig-slaughtering work bee she had attended. The sounds and smells had her running for the house. Could she ever marry a hog farmer? Could she picture herself as
any
man’s wife?

Eli Riehl with his charm and flowery words could quickly snare her in his web. Nothing was quite as appealing as another person’s adoration. But falling in love and getting married were the last things she wanted to do. Once babies started to arrive, she would get caught up in the grind of daily life and fade into the invisible role of an Amish wife and mother. Her time to sketch in the high pasture would vanish, along with any chance of becoming a published illustrator. All because of decisions made solely by Eli.

Phoebe grabbed the mail from the roadside weeds and marched to the house with renewed determination. Just because he had succumbed to family pressure didn’t mean she would surrender her dream. After dumping the mail on the counter, she pulled pen and paper from a kitchen drawer to write a response before she lost her nerve.

Dear Eli
,

I understand your reason for changing your mind about our book partnership, but I’m not ready to give up on our plan. Becoming an artist is the only thing I’ve ever wanted. You seem to be seeking a person I am not, so I’d better skip the bonfire at Barnharts’ this weekend. I have no desire to give you the wrong idea
.