At Home in Pleasant Valley (31 page)

For a moment she couldn't answer.
Widowed not even a year.
The words sank into her heart. Soon it would be a year since the morning
Ezra had driven off in Gideon's buggy. Would things be better once that terrible landmark passed? She didn't know.

But Isaac was still waiting for an answer.

She cleared her throat, so that she could reply gently, quietly, as was the Amish way. “I don't think anyone could complain about my behavior in trying to support my children as best I can.”

“Not that, for sure, but in such a public place, among all them English.”

“I was well-chaperoned by Aaron and Lovina, if that's what you're thinking.” She reminded herself that Isaac meant well.

“They're gut folks, but they're not family. You should be relying on family just now.”

“Isaac, I do. You should know how much I rely on you and the rest of the family.” Was he thinking that it was a slight to him that she turned to others? “The children and I couldn't get along without your help, that's certain sure. You know how much we appreciate all that you do, don't you?”

“Ach, there's no need for thanks.” He patted her hand. “Now, I won't talk business on the Sabbath, but I want to be sure you're thinking about my offer.”

There it was, just the subject she didn't want to discuss. “You're right, Isaac. We shouldn't talk business on the Sabbath.”

He looked a little disconcerted at having his words turned back to him that way. “I see your mamm and daad coming to collect you for the meal, so I won't say more. Just . . . don't let this business with your little greenhouse affect your decision.”

Sure enough, her mother and father approached, Mary awake but clinging to her grossdaadi's hand. If Rachel asked them, they'd no doubt agree with Isaac and take the opportunity to urge her to move back home with them.

No one, it seemed, thought her plan at all reasonable. Well, except maybe Gideon, and Gideon was convinced, no matter what he said to the contrary, that she should do what Ezra would want.

Guide me, Lord.
Her heart whispered the prayer as Mary rushed to grab her skirt.
I need to know what is right to do.

•   •   •

It
had been two days since that Sabbath meal, but Rachel still struggled with the opinions that had buffeted her. Most of all, she hadn't been able to reconcile herself to Leah's negative reaction.

Was Leah's approval really that important to her? Apparently so.

She'd been trying not to think about it, but this quiet moment at the end of the day, cleaning up the kitchen as she glanced through the window over the sink at the slow settling of dusk on the farm, seemed to let the concern slip back in.

She'd turned that conversation every which way in her mind. She'd told herself that Leah had just been tired, or was feeling overly cautious because of her pregnancy.

But the end result was the same. Leah didn't support her plan. She didn't think Rachel was capable of doing it.

Rachel hung the dishcloth on the drying rack and then grasped the edge of the sink with both hands, bowing her head in the stillness. She could hear the children's voices, coming softly from upstairs as Becky helped Mary get ready for bed. Otherwise, the farmhouse was quiet with the end-of-day serenity.

Dear Father, I confess that I have been annoyed with Sister Leah over her lack of support for my plans. Please, Lord, if she is right about this, help me to see that clearly. And if she is wrong, if this is the right step for me and the children, please help me to rid myself of these feelings.

She seemed to be praying the same prayer over and over these days, first for her feelings toward Gideon, now for those she harbored toward Leah. The advice Bishop Mose had given her was harder to follow than she'd thought it would be.

The soft voices from upstairs were suddenly no longer so quiet. She straightened, appalled to hear Becky practically shouting at her little sister. Hurrying toward the stairs, she tried to quell the frustration that rose in her.

Ezra used to joke that this was the time of day when even gut children turned into little monsters. How she missed his steady hand with them!

She reached the door of the bedroom Becky and Mary shared to find Mary sitting on her bed in her white nightgown, tears running down her cheeks. Becky stood in the center of the hooked rug between the beds, her hands clenched and her face red.

Joseph, who'd probably been drawn by the noise, slipped past Rachel and out of the room, obviously having no desire to get into this, whatever it was.

“Hush, Mary, hush.” First things first. Rachel sat down on the bed and drew the little one into her arms. “Quietly, now. It's all right. Mammi is here.”

Mary clung to her, burying her face in Rachel's shoulder, her sobs lessening already. Rachel stroked her, murmuring softly, until they calmed into little hiccupping sounds.

“Now, then.” She kept her voice low as she focused on Becky. “Tell me what has Mary so upset. And you also, I think.”

For a moment Becky didn't speak. Her fists were clenched tightly against her apron, and strong emotion twisted her lips.

“She doesn't remember!” The words exploded from her. “Mary says she doesn't remember what Daadi looks like!”

That brought a fresh outburst of tears from Mary. Rachel held her close, murmuring to her, patting her back. Poor Mary, who probably didn't even understand what was happening, only that Becky was angry with her.

And poor Becky, too. Rachel understood what Becky felt, because her own heart was sore at just hearing the words.

Could Mary have forgotten Ezra so soon? If so, it was her fault. She should have talked about him more, made sure his image was fresh in the children's minds. Without photographs, words and memories were all they had.

“Hush, little girl.” As Mary's sobs lessened again, she tilted the small face up so that she could see it. It was blotched red with tears, and just the look of it wrenched her heart. “It's all right. You remember Daadi. You remember how he used to lift you high in the air, so high that you touched the ceiling, and you loved it. You'd say, ‘Again, again!' to him.”

Mary nodded, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand.

She must tell the child more, say the words that would bring Ezra clearly back into her memories. But panic swept through her like a cold wind. Ezra's image, his dear face, the sound of his laugh, the look in his eyes—they were fading, all fading.

Rachel was terrified at the thought of losing him, but even more terrified at letting the children know how she felt.

Please, help me, dear Father.

“His beard tickled you and made you laugh.” Somehow the words came, as if the Lord had heard. “And his eyes were so blue—just as blue as yours are. He was strong, so strong he could lift all three of you children up at the same time. Remember? Remember how he'd make a Mary sandwich, with you in the middle?”

“I remember.” Mary smiled at that, the tears banished. “I remember Daadi.”

“Of course you do.” She put Mary down on the bed, pulling her quilt up and tucking it around her. “You remember, and if you start to forget, we'll all help you remember.”

She glanced at Becky. “Come and kiss your baby sister, and tell her how sorry you are that you made her cry.”

Becky, looking on the verge of tears herself, crawled up on the bed and wrapped her arms around Mary, kissing her cheek. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I love you.”

Mary clutched her in a throttling embrace. “I love you, Becky.”

“Now is time for sleep.” Rachel kissed Mary, holding her close for a moment. “Good night, my little one.”

Mary snuggled down under the quilt, turning her face to the side as she always did for sleep. Rachel slid off the bed and put one hand on Becky's shoulder to shepherd her out of the room. She pulled the door to, leaving it a few inches ajar as she always did, so that she could hear if one of them cried in the night.

“Komm,” she said to Becky. “Sit down here on the steps and let's talk.”

She sat on the top step, trying to push away the weariness and the tears that would come too easily if she let them. Becky sat down next to her, her face downcast, the nape of her neck so exposed and vulnerable-looking that Rachel's heart twisted again.

“Mary is still a boppli in some ways, ja?” She put her arm around Becky. “She was only two when Daadi went to Heaven. She doesn't have as many memories as you do of Daadi, because she didn't get to be with him as long.”

Becky nodded. “I'm sorry, Mammi,” she whispered.

“It's forgiven and forgotten.” She hugged her close. “We will keep Daadi alive in Mary's heart by our love for him and by our stories about him. Ja?”

“Ja, we will.” Becky tilted her head up so that Rachel could see her face. The tears still lingered in her eyes, but she was smiling.

Rachel pressed a kiss to her forehead. If only she could always solve her children's problems with a little talk and a lot of love.

“Why don't you read for a bit before bedtime,” she suggested. “I'd best see to Joseph.”

Becky, nodding, went down the steps. Her book would be tucked under the cushion of the small rocking chair that her grossdaadi had made for her, and she'd lose herself in the story for a while.

The door to Joseph's room stood open, but he was not there. Rachel glanced quickly into her bedroom and the spare room before hurrying down the stairs, hand running along the wood rubbed smooth by generations.

She glanced into the living room, where Becky had lit one of the lamps. “Have you seen your brother?”

“No, Mammi.” Becky slid off the chair, her finger marking her place in the book. “Do you want me to look for him?”

“I'll do it.” She walked through the dining room, peeked into the pantry. Empty.

The kitchen had grown dark since she'd been upstairs. She lit the ceiling lamp that hung over the table, its yellow glow banishing the shadows. “Joseph?”

No answer, but the back door stood open. Hurrying, a nameless fear clutching her, she rushed onto the porch.

All was still quiet. But the barn door, which should have been closed, was open, a yawning dark rectangle. Before she could gather breath to call again, a massive dark shape erupted from the barn.

R
achel's
heart nearly failed her until she heard Joseph's panicked voice.

“Mammi! Wo bist du?”

“Here! I'm here, Joseph!” She jumped down the steps and ran toward the sound of his voice. “Are you all right?”

Joseph barreled into her, and she clutched him, torn between thanks and fear.

“Was ist letz? What's the matter?”

“The draft horses—one of them got out.” He sounded close to tears. “I'm sorry, Mammi. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do it.”

“We'll talk about it later.” Her eyes were adjusting to the light now, and she could see his face—a pale, anxious oval. She grasped his hand. “You must stay up here on the porch, you understand? Don't come off the porch.”

She waited for his nod, and then she patted his shoulder. “It will be all right. Just let me get the lantern, and then I'll put the horse back in the stall.”

He nodded again, which she hoped meant she sounded more confident than she felt. She reached inside the door for the battery lantern that hung there on a hook. Lighting it, she managed a smile that seemed to chase the worry from Joseph's face.

“Stay here,” she repeated, and stepped off the porch.

Luckily the horse didn't seem to have any immediate plan to run off—Ben, she saw now, the more skittish of the two. He'd dropped his head and was cropping the grass next to the lilac bush. If he went a little farther, he'd be munching on her tulips.

Well, he wouldn't have the chance. She went forward, repressing the butterflies that danced in her stomach. Stupid, to be so nervous of the animal. If only it were Brownie, her buggy mare—Brownie would come right to her when called. The big geldings were another story.

“There now, Ben.” She spoke as soothingly as if she were talking to one of the children. “This isn't where you belong. What are you doing out here at night?”

And why on earth had Joseph let him out? That seemed to be what he had been saying, but it made no sense.

“Let's get you back in the barn where you belong.” She was almost to the animal. She reached out gingerly for his halter.

Ben flung up his head and danced away from her, his eyes rolling so nervously that she could see the whites even in the glow of the lantern.

The lantern—that must be what had frightened him. She set it on the grass. She didn't really need the light it provided. The western sky was still streaked with purple, and night hadn't quite claimed the farm yet.

She had to quiet her own nerves before she could proceed. She tried to picture Ezra in this situation. He would probably walk right up to the gelding and grasp the halter, wouldn't he? Then that was what she should do.

Except that Ezra seemed very far away, and she did not feel very brave.
Please, Father.

Ben had settled back to his eating. She moved closer, reached out, and patted his shoulder. His skin rippled as if she were a pesky fly, but he didn't move. More confident, she reached for the halter. She almost had him—

The door banged, the sound like a shot in the still night. Ben shied away from her. He wheeled, his huge hooves coming dangerously close to her legs, and ran straight for the road.

She spared one quick glance toward the house as she ran after him. Becky had come onto the porch, probably looking for them. Her mouth was a round O of surprise.

“Stay there!” Rachel ordered, sprinting after the animal. “Stay there.”

They would obey, wouldn't they? The last thing she needed was to have them to worry about, in addition to the horse. If Ben got out onto the road—

She didn't want to think of that. Too often animals were hit, and a car or pickup coming fast along the narrow road wouldn't have a chance of stopping in time.

That pair of Belgian draft horses were one of the farm's biggest assets. She couldn't afford to lose Ben.

She pressed her hand against the stitch in her side and ran on down the lane. How far would he go? Surely, after he got over his initial fright, he'd stop to eat the lush grass along the side of the lane, wouldn't he?

But Ezra always said that horses were not the most sensible creatures, as apt to take fright at a blowing paper as at an oncoming freight truck.

Rachel rounded the slight bend in the lane. She could see the road now. Could see, too, the pair of headlights that pierced the darkness. A car was coming. If the horse ran out onto the road, what was the chance the driver would be able to stop?

She forced herself on, too breathless to cry out, not that it would have helped her anyway.
Please, God, please, God.
The words kept time with her running feet.

A dark shape loomed ahead of her on the lane. Then, coming closer, it separated itself, and she could see. The gelding, not free any longer, plodded toward her, his halter in the hand of a man who also led a horse pulling a buggy. Something about the size and shape of the lanky figure identified him.

“William! You caught him.”

“Ja.”

William was close enough now that she could see his grin. All the tension went out of her in a whoosh of relief.

“G-gut thing I was on my way home chust n-n-now.”

“A very gut thing.” Thankfulness swept over her. “I was afraid he'd run onto the road and be hit.” The car swept past the lane, accentuating her words.

“He's s-safe now.” William fell into step with her. “Don't you worry.”

“Denke, William. I don't know what I'd do without you.” She seemed to be saying that too often lately.

“I'll p-put him in the barn.”

Nodding, she took the buggy horse from him, leading it to the hitching rail as William led the gelding on toward the barn.

She tied his horse to the rail, thankful that William hadn't repeated what he'd said the last time she'd had cause to be grateful to him. Maybe he realized that his words then had made her uncomfortable.

She crossed to the porch, almost too tired to put one foot in front of the other. When she sank down on the step, Joseph and Becky threw their arms around her.

“There, now, it's all right.” Somehow she found the strength to comfort them. “Uncle William is putting foolish Ben back in the stall where he belongs. There's no need for tears.”

Although she had to admit, she felt like shedding a few herself.

“I'm sorry, Mammi. I shouldn't have slammed the door.” Becky hugged her, arms tight around her neck.

“It's no matter.” Rachel turned to her son. “Joseph, how did this happen? How did Ben get out?”

Joseph sniffled a little. “I went to check Dolly, because she was bawling. She must have tipped her water bowl over, 'cause it was empty, and I filled it before supper, I really did.”

“I'm sure you did.” Joseph would no more neglect his precious goat than miss his own supper. “Why did you go in the barn?”

“I heard something moving inside. I could tell it was one of the draft horses, 'cause it was so loud. It sounded like he was out of his stall, so I thought I'd better check.” He hung his head. “I should have come to tell you.”

“Ja, you should.” She ruffled his hair. “You will next time. So Ben was out of his stall?”

He nodded. “When I opened the door, he ran right out the barn door. I couldn't stop him. I'm sorry, Mammi.”

“I know you are.” She drew him closer, a chill running through her. If he hadn't gotten out of the way of the animal—

She suppressed that line of thought, looking up as William approached.

He stopped at the foot of the steps. “Everything else is all r-right.”

“Ser gut. But how did he get out of the stall?”

William glanced at Joseph. “J-Joseph d-d-didn't let him out?”

“No!” Joseph looked up at his uncle. “Honest, Onkel William, I didn't. He was already out when I opened the barn door.”

William shrugged. “Don't know. He was in and s-settled when I l-left.”

It was troublesome, to say the least. Rachel couldn't doubt William's word. He wasn't careless. But Joseph's story had the ring of truth, too.

“No harm was done, thanks to you.” She smiled at William, giving the children another hug. “Now I must get my little schnickelfritzes to bed. Say good night to Onkel William.”

She kept a calm smile pinned to her face while the children bade William good night. It wouldn't do to let them know she was worried.

But how had the horse gotten out? She'd give a gut deal to know the answer to that.

•   •   •

Gideon
stood back, hands on his hips, to survey the panel of glass he'd just set into place. He was close to putting the finishing touches to the greenhouse.

Rachel must surely be itching to move her plants in as soon as he pronounced it done. The chilly weather of the past couple of days had reminded everyone that the valleys of central Pennsylvania couldn't count on frost-free nights until about the middle of May, at least.

Some folks put their plants in early, if they felt reckless, but then ended up having to cover them or lose them.

Truth to tell, he'd be sorry when the day came that he'd be finished. He wouldn't have a reason then to come to Rachel's as often, and he'd have to think of some other way to help Ezra's family.

Rachel would continue going to market, surely. Aaron and Lovina would do their best to see to that. The problem might be to keep Lovina from being too enthusiastic in her pushing.

Joseph came running across the yard toward him, and Gideon's face relaxed into a smile. One of the best things about being here every day was getting to know Ezra's small son. He'd come to count on the boy rushing to help him the moment he got home from school. Nothing compared with working together to build a bond between them.

“You put the first glass in!” Joseph skidded to a halt. “Can I help? Can I?”

“Sure thing. I'm planning on you holding the panels for me while I put the putty in already.”

“I
told
Mammi you'd need me to help you.”

Gideon paused in lifting the next pane. “You're not skipping other chores to do this, are you? That wouldn't be right, with your mammi counting on you and all.”

Joseph shook his head, his fine blond hair bouncing on his rounded forehead. “I have some watering to do, but Mammi said I can do it later.”

“Gut.” He lifted the pane of glass into place, letting the boy steady it while he tapped in the metal glazing points that would hold the pane even without Joseph's small hands on the glass.

This was how children learned to do the things they'd eventually need to do as adults. He hadn't given that much thought before he'd begun coming here. Joseph, with his father gone, would absorb what it meant to be an Amish man from his grandfather, his uncles, and maybe even a little from him, if the gut Lord willed.

“Did Mammi tell you about the horse getting out last night?” Joseph frowned at the pane, his palms flat against it.

“No, she didn't.” He glanced toward the house. He hadn't seen much of Rachel today, as a matter of fact.

Joseph stared fixedly at the pane. “I didn't mean to let it happen.”

“I'm sure you didn't.” He smoothed the putty into place, his voice calm.

“I was checking on Dolly. I could hear that one of the horses was out of his stall. You know how their hooves go clump-clump on the boards?”

He nodded. The sound was different, more hollow when it wasn't muffled by the straw in the stall.

“I thought I could get him back in by myself.” Joseph's voice trembled a little.

“You wanted to help Mammi.” He certainly understood that feeling. He wanted to help Rachel, too. “Which horse was it?”

“Ben. He's the big draft horse. He ran right out when I opened the door.”

“That must have been scary.” And dangerous, but he figured Rachel had already pointed that out to the boy.

“Ja.” His eyes met Gideon's then, and Gideon saw how troubled the boy was. “I wanted to help, but Mammi said to stay on the porch with Becky. And then Ben ran toward the road, and Mammi ran after him.”

Joseph didn't need to say how frightening that had been. It was written on his face.

“You did what your mother said?”

He nodded.

“Well, then, you did the right thing.”

“I wanted to help,” he repeated, his voice shaking. “But Mammi couldn't get him either. Gut thing that Uncle William came by then. He brought him back.”

“That was fortunate.” William was a kindhearted lad, obviously willing to do anything he could for Rachel. Or maybe more accurately, anything that Isaac would let him do. “And you did the right thing by listening.”

Joseph nodded again, but his forehead was still knotted with worry. Gideon thought he knew why. Joseph was trying hard to fill his father's shoes. That was natural enough, but those shoes were much too big for any six-year-old boy.

All three of the children had to be affected by the loss of their father. Mary seemed the least bothered, young as she was.

As for Becky—well, at the moment Becky had been dispatched to take the clothes down from the clothesline. Instead, the basket lay forgotten on the grass while Becky shinnied up the clothes pole.

He had to smile. Ezra had been like that as a boy—always willing to try anything, and like as not, leading Gideon into trouble, too. Ezra would know how to deal with that tendency in his daughter, having been that way himself. Gideon wasn't sure that Rachel did.

But here came Rachel now, crossing the lawn toward Becky, the breeze sending the strings of her prayer covering streaming out behind her. She said something to Becky—he couldn't hear what—and Becky slid down the pole and picked up the basket.

Rachel glanced his way, hesitated a moment, and then came toward
him, pressing the skirt of her dress down with one hand when it flapped in the wind.