The Way to a Man's Heart (The Miller Family 3) (7 page)

She did as instructed, but Leah didn’t stop perspiring during the entire drive back to the diner, despite the truck’s air-conditioning being on full blast.

Emma wouldn’t get used to the Davis family kitchen if she lived there another ten years. So many unnecessary gadgets and appliances. Her mother-in-law owned a food processor, a bread machine, and a coffee grinder. Emma could chop up a head of cabbage for coleslaw in less time than it took to clean the processor. The bread machine was just plain silly unless your hands were too crippled to knead the dough, like her
mamm’s.
Her own hands were strong and flexible. And the coffee grinder? Whole beans cost more than coffee already ground up and sold in a can. Why would people pay more for extra work when she couldn’t tell any difference in the taste?

Barbara Davis was very patient and kind to Emma, but she preferred to run her own kitchen…unless she was assigned extra hours at the hospital where she worked as a nurse. Then she would merrily announce at breakfast, “It’s Emma’s turn to cook tonight. We’re in for a treat!” But Mrs. Davis usually had a pot of something she’d prepared over the weekend and then frozen. Emma’s specialty had become heating things up, tossing salads, and steaming vegetables. She had no competition in the kitchen from James’ sister. Lily had little interest in cooking, even when she was home from vet school on break.

Emma loved being married because she loved her husband so much. If he could give up his English clothes and truck, she could adjust to living with his parents until he saved enough to build their own house. Mr. Davis had paid a surveyor to stake off ten acres of farmland for their wedding gift. Some day she would have her own home, and it would contain a minimum of electrical appliances.

One gadget allowed in New Order districts that she did like was a cell phone. With a farm as large as Hollyhock, you couldn’t very well holler out the window when it was time to eat. James had bought her a matching phone for her birthday. As long as she remembered to put it in the cradle to charge overnight, it truly was a blessing. Unfortunately, she forgot to charge it most of the time.

With Barbara Davis at work, it fell to Emma to fix lunch for James and his dad. She boiled eggs and potatoes for cold potato salad and decided on turkey sandwiches under the shady elms. The men preferred to stay outdoors until day’s end, when they could shuck off dirty coveralls and leave work boots in the mudroom.

After Emma made the salad, she boiled a kettle of water for iced tea and started fixing their sandwiches. She thought tea tasted better made the old-fashioned way rather than as sun tea. When the sandwiches were finished, she walked outside to look for her husband. She spotted him on his tractor moving hay bales into the pasture containing Black Angus steers. She hiked up to the fence and waved her arms in the air to get his attention.

“Hey, Emma!” he shouted, lifting his straw hat like a rodeo rider. “I’ll just be another ten minutes.”

Emma climbed onto the fence rail to enjoy the view. Hollyhock Farm was a busy, thriving business with workers scurrying in all directions. Horses, sheep, beef cattle, a variety of crops, an orchard, and even a berry patch made this a far more diversified operation than most English farms. Only during two winter months were things quiet—after the final harvest and before spring birthing. Yet even then planning and budgeting took up any idle time.

James parked his tractor near the pasture gate and strode toward her. “Couldn’t stand to be away from me that long?” He planted a kiss squarely on her mouth.

“Stop that before someone sees us,” scolded a blushing Emma. “You are still so bold.”

“I noticed you waited till the kiss was over to yell at me.” He slipped his arm around her shoulder.

“Never you mind. Are you ready for lunch?”

“I’ve been hungry for an hour. How about under those trees?”

“That’s what I thought. Why don’t you find your
daed,
and I’ll carry it outside on a tray.”

“You’ve gotta deal.” He tugged one of her
kapp
strings and then headed toward the farm office at the back of the indoor arena.

Emma offered a silent prayer of thanks to God for His grace. Seldom did falling in love with an
Englischer
turn out so well. She grinned all the way up the porch steps, right up until she pulled open the back door.

A horrible acrid smell struck her like a blow. She reeled back, filled with dread. It wasn’t wood smoke like she’d smelled the night of the barn fire, but something metallic and toxic. Covering her mouth with her handkerchief, she ran into the kitchen, where smoke and noxious fumes had filled the room. She began coughing and choking while her eyes stung and ran with tears.

In an instant, she knew what had happened. Before leaving the kitchen to call James, she had set their lunch plates on the stove—the plastic plate liners directly atop the electric cooktop. The plastic had melted, and solidified into a mess of red-and-yellow goo. “Oh, no,” she cried and quickly turned off the burners. She tried to open every kitchen window but began to gag from the smell.

“Emma, come on out of there!” James demanded from the doorway.

She ran to him and sobbed. “I ruined your
mamm’s
kitchen! She’ll never speak to me after this. I’m so sorry.”

They stepped onto the porch, leaving the door open. “Are you all right?” he asked, scanning her from head to toe. “What happened?”

“I forgot to turn the burners off and they were still hot. I set our plates down to move them off the counter. I am the world’s stupidest person.”

He pulled her head down to his shoulder and hugged tightly. “No, dear heart. You’re not, not even close. Think of all the people living in jungles and backwoods that nobody knows about.”

“Oh, James!” She smacked him lightly on the chest. “Is the stove ruined? Should I buy your
mamm
another from my wool money?”

“No, I’ll scrape off the plastic later. It might need new electric coils, but like my gram says, never cry over melted plastic.”

Emma dabbed at her eyes. “I’ll bet she never said that,” she murmured, but she felt a little better. Being within his embrace tended to do that.

“She would have, given the chance.” James placed a string of kisses across her forehead. “I’m going out tomorrow to buy a propane stove. We’ll install it in the mudroom, and then we’ll move it to our own house someday. I should have thought of that long ago.”

“Danki,”
she whispered. Her tears were no longer because of smoke.

And he was a man of his word. Emma never had to cook on an electric stove again.

Leah rocked slowly back and forth in the porch swing, the first time she’d been able to relax all day. Supper dishes were washed and dried. The week’s baking was finished and hidden away until tomorrow, safe from goats, insects, or her brothers’ insatiable appetites. Her tiredness was the good kind—born of hard work that she loved. She no longer suffered the tedium of one day blending into the next, with nothing to look forward to but a work frolic months away or a visit from Emma. Her job divided her week into four days of excitement, two days of catch-up and preparation, and one day to thank the Lord for leading her to that dusty parking lot.

Though the year’s longest day was still a month away, plenty of daylight remained. When she rose to get some lemonade, she spotted her best friend coming around the barn. Rachel Hostetler lived across the street from Aunt Hannah, whose farm adjoined the Millers’ along the back property line. A well-trodden trail through meadow, woodlot, and around the beaver pond connected the two families. Considering all the wild creatures and bugs that lived in that bog, besides a cornucopia of weeds, Leah never set foot on that path. She would walk the road or hitch up the buggy even if it took twice as long.

“Hey, Leah,” Rachel said as she climbed the porch steps. The girl stood barely five feet tall and was well rounded with apple-red cheeks and pretty green eyes. She was almost always smiling. “Since you’ve been too busy to see old friends, I’ve come to see you. I chanced crossing paths with coyotes along the way, but it’s a lovely evening.” She plopped down on the swing and then scooted back until her feet didn’t touch the floor.

“I appreciate your risking your life. I’m happy to see you,” Leah said. “How about some lemonade?”

“Good idea. I’m parched dry.” Rachel set her flashlight down on the table, slipped off the swing, and followed her inside.

While Leah filled glasses, Rachel rattled off an update of Hostetler news. Leah stored it away like a squirrel with nuts so she could pass it along to her mother.

Once back on the swing, away from eavesdropping siblings, Rachel changed the subject. “Tell me about your new job at the diner. Martha says all the menfolk love the place and can’t stay away. And it’s not because of your Blackberry Cheesecake pie, either.”

Leah shook her head. “Since your sister has such a vivid imagination, she should write novels in her spare time and not sell eggs and produce from a farm stand.”

“She would have to write under the covers with a flashlight.
Daed
says she has too many romantic notions the way it is.” The girls enjoyed a good laugh until Rachel returned to her subject. “So you’re saying the customers aren’t all men?”

“Not all of them, no. Women stop in, especially English women.”

“Ah ha! Martha was right for a change.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it. My boss runs a fair-priced diner with good food. Most Amish gals pack their lunch if they’ll be gone for the day. They’re too practical to stop in a restaurant unless it’s for a special occasion.”

“Ah ha!” Rachel repeated. The emphasis and tone indicated disbelief.

“Will you please stop saying that?” Leah hadn’t seen her friend in a while and didn’t want to argue. “I met some new people today who live two roads over. They have a huge dairy farm and make all these fancy cheeses. The son—his name’s Jonah—has a diesel generator to run the milking equipment so he can keep a herd of over two hundred head. If diesel fuel weren’t so expensive, he’d be able to sell his milk grade A. Instead they make a yogurt cheese that I’m dying to try in cheesecake. You know, that would cut down on the calories,” she murmured more to herself. “Jonah says his
mamm
also makes artisan cheeses in her processing room.” Leah paused long enough to sip her drink. “I can’t wait to try this aged cheddar we bought. The next time I see—”

Leah allowed her sentence to hang in midair. Her best friend was staring at her strangely.

“I can see why you changed the subject from what’s cooking at the diner,” Rachel said.

“What do you mean?” Leah finished her lemonade with an undignified slurp of ice cubes.

“I mean, who would want to discuss meatloaf and mashed potatoes when one could talk about this Jonah person?” Rachel finished her drink noisily too.

“Be careful. You’re starting to sound like Martha. And that’s not a good thing.” Leah gazed at a spiderweb on the trellis, the hanging basket of fuchsia, and then the distant hills bathed in golden light—anywhere but at Rachel. “I’m just curious about cheese-making, that’s all. I happen to enjoy a slice every day on my sandwich.”

Rachel’s laughter sounded more like the bray from
dawdi’
s old mule. “If you were really curious about cheese-making, you would get in line with all the
Englischers
and take a factory tour in Walnut Creek. I think you’re a lot more interested in Jonah. And I can’t wait to see him and figure out why.”