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Authors: Charlotte Hubbard

Tags: #Fiction, #Religious, #Christian, #Romance, #Amish & Mennonite

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BOOK: Autumn Winds
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Hiram looked ready to knock Rebecca’s computer off the countertop. Instead, he became very, very calm.
“No two ways about it,” Tom joined in quietly. “Ya just told Miriam all the pitfalls of advertisin’ on the computer, and meanwhile you’ve been lookin’ right at the camera—right at the folks you wanna sell your horses and your stud service to. And that’s wrong, Hiram. It’s just wrong.”
Miriam’s temples pounded. At the sound of the girls coming to place orders, Naomi excused herself from their gathering. Thank goodness someone was running the café while this very serious matter was being discussed in the kitchen. Rebecca squirmed slightly, but she knew better than to leave that stool. Miriam suspected her English-raised daughter might have hoped for just such a reckoning all along, even before she had come here this morning.
Hiram remained silent, waiting for others to say what they would. Miriam knew this was not the time for her to express her objection to the way their bishop had gone against the age-old rules of the
Ordnung
. He must have thought none of his members would see his photograph because they didn’t own computers.
Gabe cleared his throat. “I see no way for you to sidestep the same sort of discipline ya ordered for Miriam a couple months ago, when she confessed at a members’ meetin’. And that was just a matter of reunitin’ with her daughter, the way any mother would, and makin’ a livin’ now that Jesse’s gone,” he added in a voice that shook with anger. “Preachin’ will be at the Kanagy place in a couple weeks. If the members say you’re to be shunned—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hiram snapped. “I’ll have my webmaster remove the photo—”
“But it’s been there for all the world to see. And now we’ve seen it, too.” Ben stepped away from the group, his face somber. “And the
gut
Lord knows what your intentions were when ya stood in front of that camera, Hiram. It’s not like ya were puttin’ your hand in front of your face, or gettin’ snapped by an English tourist who didn’t know our ways.” His brow clouded over as he controlled his rising anger. “It’s mighty hard to respect a bishop who punishes folks for their sins—makes them go through the confessin’ and repentin’ in public—when he acts as though the
Ordnung
doesn’t apply to him, too.”
Miriam’s heart hammered. Hiram would no doubt retaliate for the way Ben had said that, and for the way her daughter had gotten him in trouble.
Their bishop looked out into the dining area, which seemed awfully quiet considering how many folks were out there eating breakfast. Rachel, Rhoda, and the Brenneman boys, along with Nate and Bram Kanagy, were looking toward the kitchen, wondering what was going on.
“This is not the time or the place for such a discussion,” Hiram said to Tom and Gabe. “We’ll take it up later in my office. And Miriam,” he added, narrowing his eyes, “you should question this man Hooley about his past dealings with other women who have found him . . . irresistible. He has quite a list of them in his wagon.” With that, the bishop strode purposefully from the kitchen and out the back door.
He doesn’t want to answer to the folks out front. And he’s nailin’ a checkered past on Ben Hooley, to make himself look better after Ben criticized him
, Miriam thought.
Tom Hostetler let out the breath he’d been holding. “So where’s that leave us? If the bishop’s to be shunned, right before Miriam’s girl gets married—”
“We’ll talk with the bishops in New Haven and Morning Star,” Gabe replied. “It’s not Hiram’s place to do that, and most likely he’ll wiggle out of it if we leave this up to him. And that’s a sorry, sorry thing to say about the fella God chose to lead us.”
Tom let out a snort. “Seems Hiram left without payin’, too. I’ll pick up his meal and—”
“You’ll do no such thing, Tom.” Miriam grabbed a towel to wipe her hands. “I’ll go out front and ring you fellas up. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know about the wedding situation, too—especially if we need another bishop to perform Rachel and Micah’s ceremony.”
“I’ll do that, Miriam.” Tom nodded, and he and the older preacher went back through the dining room with her.
She hated it that Hiram had cast suspicion on Ben Hooley’s past and what was inside his big traveling wagon . . . but Tom would give her an honest answer. “So . . . do ya suppose Hiram was blowin’ smoke about a list of women in Ben’s past?” she murmured. “It’s not my place to go pokin’ around in his private life—although Hiram obviously has. That wagon’s his home on the road.”
Tom shrugged as he fished out his money. “While I’ve never known an Amish fella to run the roads the way Ben has, he seems like a truly nice man—sincerely interested in Willow Ridge and in you, Miriam. Only way to know about that list is to ask him, now that Hiram’s tossed that idea out in front of everybody.”
“Seems you and your English daughter—and now Hooley—have brought on a lot of new situations we’ve never had to deal with in Willow Ridge,” Gabe remarked. His wrinkled face reflected concern, yet perhaps a touch of amusement, as well. “But it was Hiram fannin’ the flames when Rebecca came back to ya, and his own fault—not hers—that we’ve seen his advertisin’ now. Sorry this is all landin’ in your lap, Miriam. It’s easy for everybody—except Hiram—to see that ya want no part of him or his shenanigans.”
“Ya got that right, Gabe. Every day I pray that God’ll lead me out of this pinch I’m in.”
After she totaled up the two preachers’ meals, Miriam returned to the kitchen, hoping her dough wasn’t all dried out by now. Bless her, Naomi had rolled the pastry into a ball, wrapped it in a damp towel, and put it in the fridge. It was good to see the way Rebecca was talking so easily with Ben, as it gave her another chance to assess this man she knew so little about.
“Just out of curiosity,” he was saying as he looked at Rebecca’s computer screen, “is there a way to find out who designed Hiram’s website? I’m wonderin’ if Hiram could make that photograph disappear before the other bishops hereabouts see it.”
Rebecca moved the screen very quickly past that photo of Hiram and more shots of the stables and his horses, to a little note in small print. “I know this guy,” she remarked as she pointed to the little wishing well beside the copyright notice. “Tristin Wells does the design work for a lot of businesses in Chillicothe and St. Joe. He’d be the one to take that photograph off the site—unless Hiram’s more web savvy than he’s letting on.”
She smiled ruefully at Miriam then. “Mamma, I didn’t come here to cause
you
problems, and if you don’t want a website, I’ll design one for another place for my class project. The last thing I want is more trouble for you with Hiram.”
“Don’t you go worryin’ about that, honey-bug.” Miriam slung her arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “Thanks for thinkin’ about me and the café, but maybe now’s not a
gut
time to do that website. Maybe after Rachel’s wedding, when things settle down a bit. I like it that ya asked me first instead of just doin’ it, too.”
Ben smiled, looking from Miriam to Rebecca. “It was a real pleasure to meet ya, Rebecca. I’d best be gettin’ over to the Schrock place for that weldin’ work Zeb wants.”
Miriam brightened. “Schrocks! Ya could design a website for the quilt shop next door, Rebecca! Those gals are Mennonites—you know the ones. Ya met them at your birthday party.”
As she folded her computer shut, Rebecca grinned. “I like the way you’re thinking, Mamma. I’ll ask them. And when you feel better about this whole thing, we’ll see if Dad wants to put up a website for the two businesses in his building. Hiram couldn’t say a thing about that, ain’t so?”
Her exaggeration of that Amish phrase made them all chuckle. “I like the way you’re thinkin’, too, Rebecca.” Miriam glanced toward her two other girls as they cleared tables out front. “How about ya come to supper, Rebecca? And you, too, Ben, so we can make our final preparations for the wedding.”
“I’d love to come, Mamma! What with my college classes taking so much time, it’s been too long since I saw everybody.”
“Can we do it tomorrow night? It’d be
gut
to have everybody around the table,” Miriam said with a smile for Ben. “And you’ll be shoein’ our horses one of these days, so it’s only fair for me to feed ya.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. It’ll be a real pleasure to be there with your family.”
As Ben strode from the kitchen to fetch his hat in the dining room, Rebecca let out a low chuckle. “Now, Mamma, who is that, really?” she teased.
Miriam fetched her pastry dough from the fridge, considering her answer. This daughter had friends who were a little rough around the edges, so Tiffany Oliveri was wiser to the ways of the world than Rachel and Rhoda—and what a blessing, that her Rebecca had gotten past all that black hair dye and heavy makeup, and that she kept her tattoo covered now.
“Ben Hooley blew in with the wind the other day, when a tree limb took out one of the café’s front windows,” Miriam replied, her eyebrows rising. “And it seems he’s been whippin’ up a storm here in Willow Ridge ever since.”
“For sure and for certain he has.” Rhoda smiled at Rebecca, a hint of mischief on her lips. “Ben’s just the sort of fella I’ve always wanted to latch on to . . . but when he said he was thirty-five—”
“No way!” Rebecca blurted.
“—I decided to let Mamma have him.”
Rebecca’s eyes were wide as she considered this information. “Well then, you did me a big favor by telling me, sister, because I was thinking Ben was
my
type. I might have followed him home like a puppy and made a fool of myself.”
An expectant silence filled the kitchen—until Rachel started giggling. Once again the laughter they loved to share was contagious. Oh, but Miriam felt relieved that Rhoda was laughing the loudest of them all . . . except it meant her feelings for Ben would be open for discussion, or speculation, from here on out. But she could live with that.
Rebecca snickered, kissing Miriam on the cheek. “You’re so cute when you get that kitty-cat grin on your face, Mamma. And Ben Hooley, he’s cute
all
the time, ain’t so?”
Miriam laughed. She watched Rebecca stop out in the dining room to chat with the strapping young Brenneman and Kanagy brothers before she left.
It’s another case of how I have to trust Ya, Lord, to lead me to the things I need to know—and to the truth about Ben—just the way Ya did when we found out about Rebecca bein’ alive and raised English. Ya made me a promise, and I know You’ll keep it.
Chapter 14
Later that day, when Ben had finished welding Zeb Schrock’s hay baler, he drove past Hiram Knepp’s place. The barns looked immaculate, as did the bishop’s home, perched on a rise—the “ridge” in the name on his website, no doubt.
He grinned. It seemed pluck, love, and justice ran in the Lantz family, and he couldn’t wait to hear the whole story of Rebecca’s miraculous return. For a moment though, he slowed Pharaoh for a closer look at the barns, the corrals, and the other outbuildings. From all appearances, Hiram Knepp was the most prosperous man in Willow Ridge—not that there was anything wrong with making a good living from the talents God had given him. It just seemed that Hiram Knepp basked in his own glory more than other bishops he’d met during his travels.
But maybe ya think that because he’s after Miriam. And it makes ya mad, the way he treats her—and the way he hints to her about your way with the ladies and your shadowy past.
Ben clapped the reins lightly on his Percheron’s broad black back. Even without his red wagon he was a marked man here because he preferred a different breed of horse than Hiram bred and sold—not that most farmers in Willow Ridge could afford the bishop’s purebred champions. Ben clattered down the road and turned onto the blacktop, toward the Sweet Seasons. Miriam should be closing up by now . . .
And as he compared her place to Hiram’s, a smile warmed his face. Here, the garden plots took up every available space along the lane and beyond the house, and the bakery and the smithy shone in the afternoon sun. Miriam’s apple trees swayed in the breeze as he recalled his walk with her . . . those kisses he’d been so eager for. Ben hoped that whatever had come over Miriam Lantz when he’d heedlessly sat in her husband’s chair was behind them now. He prayed for a way to prove that his feelings for her were sincere. And permanent.
Only one way to do that.
Ben pulled in between the café building and the smithy. He unhitched the wagon and tethered Pharaoh to a big sweet gum tree so the horse could graze in the shade. Then, on inspiration, he opened the hinged doors on the back of his wagon. He stepped past his farrier equipment to the chest of drawers where he kept his clothes and belongings, and took out the notebook. Oh, but it galled him to think Hiram Knepp had snooped inside his wagon while he’d been shoeing the bishop’s Belgians!
He left the wagon, peeked in through the kitchen’s back window, and tapped on the glass when he saw Miriam draping wet towels over a drying rack.
Her smile made his stomach turn somersaults. “Come on in, Ben!” she called.
He opened her door, enveloped by the sweetness of fruit pies and the lingering aromas of the lunches they’d served. “Still here?” he mused aloud. “What’s this make ya, a twelve-hour day? And ya start and end it alone?”
Miriam chuckled. “That’s my own choice, ya know. The quiet before and after a day in the café helps me settle myself. And meanwhile my girls are doin’ the laundry and reddin’ up the house—and cookin’ my dinner!” she added happily. “Can’t ask for better than that.”
Ben spied a pie box on the counter. And, always astute, Miriam read his thoughts. “That’s the peach pie Hiram ordered, so we’ll leave it be,” she remarked as she opened the closest fridge. “But I’ve got a slice or two left from lunch. Blackberry, there is . . . and cherry . . . and apple with a streusel toppin’.”
“Pick one and share it with me.”
Miriam’s eyes widened. That playful look he loved returned to her face, and for that Ben was grateful. “First, though, have a look at that list of women Hiram was talkin’ about. I can understand how that might make ya wonder about me—which was his intention, of course.”
Miriam frowned. “So that means he dug around in your wagon while ya were workin’ for him?”
Ben nodded, turning to the page of phone numbers he kept in his notebook. “And he’s right: it’s mostly women’s names ya see, because it’s mostly women who answer the phone.” He ran his finger along the column of names as he read them. “Jerusalem and Nazareth Hooley are those aunts I’ve told ya about, and below that are my older brothers and their wives—”
“Ben.” Miriam stilled his hand with hers. “I don’t need to see them. I feel horrible that Hiram’s tryin’ to dig up dirt on ya when he’s got secrets of his own.”
Ben gazed into her doe-like brown eyes. It scared him, how much he wanted this woman to trust him—how much he wanted to make a home with her. She was still vulnerable, still feeling the presence of her husband and maybe missing Jesse Lantz more than she realized. And maybe he would never measure up to Jesse, in Miriam’s eyes. “I hope ya didn’t feel like I was pushin’ that mill idea past ya before—I didn’t intend to get ya all upset by sittin’ in Jesse’s chair, and—”
“And now that I’ve had a chance to think it through, I’m back to our original plan, Ben.” Miriam came toward him with a glass pie pan that held a slice of the apple streusel and a slice of cherry. She plucked two forks from the silverware drawer. “I think we should call Derek Shotwell at the bank and get things started on this end, while ya call to see if your brothers are willin’ to pull up stakes to get that mill goin’. If those three fellas think it’s a
gut
idea, I’m all for it, Ben. Partly because it means ya might stick around Willow Ridge awhile.”
Two somersaults and a handspring his stomach did, while she stuck the pie in a toaster oven. Yet while he was ecstatic that Miriam had worked her way past last night’s vision of Jesse, these plans would indeed mean he needed to stick around Willow Ridge. For the first time, he wondered how he would handle that. Would putting down roots be confining, compared to the freer life he was used to?
“That’s the idea,
jah
.” He sat on the tall stool beside the one Miriam perched on and took the fork she offered. Her face looked damp from working in the steam of the dishwasher, yet this rosiness showed him how she must have looked when she was Rachel and Rhoda’s age.
Before he could cut into the apple pie, Miriam sneaked her fork beneath his to section off a large part of its tip. Ben laughed—and then opened his mouth to accept that first big bite from her. “So what did ya think of my Rebecca?” she asked.
“I like her a lot.” He chewed that bite of warm pie, closing his eyes over the cinnamon and buttery crumb of the topping . . . sweet-tart apples and a moist crust. “And I’m glad she’s come back to ya and wants to be your daughter. Could’ve happened a lot different, I suspect.”
“Oh, she looked like a ghoulie-girl that first day! Witchy-black hair spiked like a porcupine. Black-painted fingernails and little chains between her wrists and her finger rings.” Miriam shook her head as she opened her mouth for the bite of cherry pie he’d forked up for her. “She got Hiram and Gabe all stirred up, comin’ here—but after her English
mamm
passed, she’d found the little Plain pink dress she was wearin’ the day she washed away. She wanted to know where it came from . . . what sort of family she was born into.”
She paused to take another bite of pie from Ben’s fork. “And then, at the girls’ twenty-first birthday party in August, she wanted to dress like Rachel and Rhoda! Oh, it was a sight for this mother’s eyes to see my three girls together in their new blue dresses and fresh kapps, so happy to be sisters.”
Ben’s eyes misted as he listened. He took a bite of cherry from her fork this time, and then cut a bite of the apple for Miriam. What a treat it was to sit so close to her, holding a pie plate between them, talking about things that fulfilled them. It seemed the best form of forgiveness, having Miriam share herself with him again.
“Luke and Ira are that way. Not twins, but they’re real close because they came along later than the rest of us,” he reflected. “They gave our
mamm
and
dat
fits as they were growin’ up, but this chance to start fresh where there’s
gut
land will help the folks accept their settlin’ so far from home.”
“And they’ll be with their brother Ben. Who also left home at a young age.”
“But none of us left the faith.” Ben playfully snatched up the last bite of their pie and held it a little way from Miriam’s mouth. “And we never lost faith in followin’ our own talents, doin’ what we believed was the Lord’s work.”
She fixed her huge brown eyes on him. “And is it the Lord’s work you’re doin’, teasin’ me with that last bite, Ben? Well, I’ll have ya know, I don’t want it! It’s yours.”
“Nope. I can tell the cherry’s your favorite, so it’s yours, perty girl.” He leaned in as close as he dared, craving the way her lips would taste right now, all sweet and moist and fruity.
The loud jangle of a phone made them both jump. Miriam laughed and waved it off, saying, “We’ve got the phone wired so when it rings in the shanty we can hear it in here over the sound of the dishwasher and exhaust fan. Most likely it’s—”
“You’d better answer it. Could be orders for ya.”
“—Lydia Zook or somebody else wantin’ pies, but the message machine’ll catch it. Or Eva, next door at the quilt shop, will get it.”
Ben nodded, but when the phone stopped ringing and then rang again, their moment of closeness was lost, anyway. “I’ll wait at the wagon while ya take that call,” he suggested. “After Hiram’s remarks today, I thought ya might be curious about my home on wheels but too polite to ask about it.”
Miriam hurried out the back door to answer the phone behind the building. Ben ran some water in the pie plate, gazing around the kitchen . . . the world where Miriam and Naomi Brenneman and the Lantz girls had made a new life for themselves after Jesse passed. Good, solid women, they were. Their love for their work showed in every pie, every pancake that got plated here each day.
Ben sighed, pulled in different directions: if he got the itch to move along again, after he settled his brothers into their mill business—or even when he finished his two weeks’ worth of work in Willow Ridge—Miriam would have a fine life without him hanging around to complicate it for her.
He ambled out past the shanty toward his wagon. Why now, when he’d run across such a wonderful opportunity to settle down like any good Amish fellow would, was he having doubts about wanting to stay? Ben shook his head. He went to his wagon and sat on the back end of it, waiting for Miriam to finish her call.
 
 
Miriam gripped the receiver, closing her eyes as the female voice on the other end chattered on.
“. . . so when my bishop, John Knepp, called me to say Ben Hooley was there in Missouri, and gave me this phone number, I—I just wanted to call and say hello!”
“And what did ya say your name was again?” Miriam murmured. She watched out the shanty’s window as handsome Ben walked to his wagon.
“Polly Hershberger—Polly Petersheim Hershberger,” she replied brightly. “And isn’t that somethin’, that your bishop’s name is Knepp, too? But then, there must be a hundred John Knepps here in Pennsylvania alone, so it’s really not such a coincidence, but . . .”
Miriam’s head was spinning. Had Hiram really called a bishop—named Knepp—in Lancaster County? And how had he known that Polly was Ben’s former fiancée? With Polly talking her ear off, it was difficult to think about such connections, and as she saw the way Ben was looking at her, waiting for her, Miriam’s heart felt like it was beating out of rhythm. “So tell me this, Polly,” she began, sensing it was an impertinent question, but necessary. “When ya married your husband all those years ago, instead of hitchin’ up with Ben Hooley—”
“Oh, that was all Dat’s doin’, ya know. He insisted Ben wouldn’t settle down—would never amount to much on account of how he was travelin’ around with his blacksmith work instead of lookin’ for land and a house. So he told me I was to marry Homer Hershberger instead.”
Miriam blinked. Maybe it was best to play along with this chatty woman who was so free with her talk. “And how did that work out? Ya don’t hear so much about arranged marriages nowadays.”
Polly sighed. “Homer passed about a year ago—he was quite a lot older than I, ya know. The two daughters who’ve survived—I lost four little babies over the years—are joinin’ the church so’s they can get hitched by the end of November. What I’m gonna do in this house all by myself is beyond me—”
“I—I’m sorry about your husband. I’ve lost mine, too, and it takes some gettin’ used to,” Miriam replied quietly. Oh, but her heart was beating hard. The rise in Polly’s voice could only be leading to one thing.
“So, is Ben still workin’ there in Willow Ridge?” she asked. “Sure would like to talk to him—catch up on what-all he’s been doin’, and whether he’s still travelin’ around shoein’ horses, or—”
“
Jah
, he’s still doin’ that.”
“Would ya tell him I called? Here’s my number—got a pencil?”
Miriam pressed her lips together to keep from screaming. “
Jah
,” she rasped—but she copied the number, figuring it might come in handy. “Okay, I got it, Polly. I’ll tell Ben ya called.”
The click on the line ended the call, but it was just the beginning of the race her imagination was about to run—unless she told Ben what had just happened, and watched how he reacted. Hiram Knepp had set this ball to rolling, but his insinuations might well be her saving grace, when it came to answering questions about who Ben Hooley was . . . and what sort of husband material he’d make.
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