With Winter's First Frost Page 4

  “It’s not our place to judge others.” By the same token, because others chose to part from the basic tenets of their forefathers’ beliefs, that didn’t mean Ivan and the grandsons should do the same. “We need to tend to our own business and our own faith.”

  “What Karen did was no different than Bess courting Aidan after only a year of being a widow.”

  “Maybe not, but she’s still here. They both are. They didn’t abandon family and friends for a factory.” Two years after her first husband’s death, Bess married Aidan Graber and settled down a few miles from her first father-in-law and his new bride. “Aidan is a chicken and hog farmer. He works the land the same as his daed did. You must tell them no. Money and material goods are not the goal. Staying close to Gott’s earth, family, and faith—those are the important things.”

  Ivan scrubbed at his face with the back of a callused hand. “Food on the table and clothes on the kinner’s backs are important too.”

  “We share what we have. We grow what we need. We make our clothes.”

  “Those were different times. Surely you remember what it was like to chomp at the bit to make your own way.”

  Zechariah still chomped at the bit. Why couldn’t Ivan see that? “What happens if the Englisch economy falls apart again and those factories start closing? All the Plain men will lose their jobs.”

  “It’s a chance they’re willing to take. They can always come home.”

  That they could. Zechariah didn’t wish that sort of failure on his grandsons. “Have you talked to Freeman about it?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to let you know first. Then I’ll talk to Freeman, Solomon, and Cyrus.”

  A small bow to Zechariah’s place as the family patriarch ahead of the bishop and the other elders. Ivan would know how much that meant to him. “To tell me or to ask me?”

  “They didn’t ask me. They told me.”

  “At least let me try talking to them.”

  “You can try.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “They respect your opinion but—”

  “They think I’m too stuck in the old ways. Horse power.” The blazing summer sun on his face as Zechariah guided the team of horses through the fields touched his cheeks again for a second. It felt good. Work felt good. “They forget I’m the one who went up to the Horse Progress Days every summer, wherever it was that year, to find new ways to repair our plows and make our equipment work better and improve our harvests.”

  “They haven’t forgotten, but better equipment isn’t enough anymore. The megafarms are taking over.”

  “Small farms support the local community. Jamesport will always be a farming town.”

  “We have more folks working in tourists’ stores than on farms.” His expression grim despite his placating tone, Ivan leaned forward and poked at the logs in the fireplace. The flames leaped. “Jamesport is a tourist town now as much as a farming town. Do you know how much horse-worked farms are going for these days? I read an article that said a farm in Lancaster County is going for $8,900 an acre, depending on where the land is. The average price for a farm is $334,876.”

  “We’re not buying a farm in Lancaster County.” Zechariah steepled his fingers, keeping them steady in his lap. “That Dunleavy property off Granite Road sold for $4,677 an acre. Way cheaper.”

  “The total sell price was almost a million-three for 320 acres. We don’t have that kind of money, but the folks who are coming west looking for cheaper land do.”

  “Cheap is a relative term.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “My point is I’d like to talk to them before they pack up and move across the country.”

  “I get your point.” Ivan stood. “I have to get back. We’re celebrating Kimberly’s birthday on Saturday. Someone will come by for you.”

  Ivan’s granddaughter was a shy little thing. Still, what little girl didn’t like a birthday party? “It’s your birthday too. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

  “At my age, I’d like to forget. Like I said, someone will come for you.”

  “I can drive myself.”

  “We’ve had this talk.”

  Take away a man’s buggy and any semblance of independence disappeared with it. Memories bright as blue jays assailed Zechariah. He had been eight. He hitched his Shetland pony to a small wagon and hopped in. He and Carmel carried the wicker basket to the field. Ham sandwiches, fresh peaches, cookies as big as his hand, mason jars filled with lukewarm lemonade. He sat on the back of the hay wagon, dirty bare feet swinging as he ate two sandwiches.

  “You are a growing boy.” Daed clapped him on the back and handed him the cookies. “Mudder knows oatmeal raisin is your favorite.”

  “She sent peanut butter pecan for you.”

  He smelled horse manure and fresh-cut hay. His daed’s sweat. Flies buzzed in his ears.

  “Daed? Daed!” Ivan’s face filled with concern as the memory faded into the night. “You should go to bed. You’re tired.”

  “I wish people would stop telling me what I should do and how I feel.”

  “I made tea.” A brown ceramic mug in each hand, Laura bustled into the room. The fragrance of chamomile and honey sweetened the air, mingling with the hickory of the fireplace. “I added honey, but I couldn’t find any lemon.”

  “I’m sure he’ll find fault with that too.” Ivan brushed past her. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on the livestock.”

  “No need. I can—”

  “Take care of it.” Laura and Ivan spoke in unison. Another person teamed up against him.

  Ivan tugged the brim of his hat forward. “Let’s not argue. See you tomorrow.”

  He was gone.

  “Don’t you love how fresh chamomile smells? It reminds me that spring will come again.” Laura held out the tea mug. “I guess you don’t need any lemon. You’re sour enough.”

  Trying to come up with a retort that didn’t sound childish, Zechariah sputtered, “Am not.”

  She sipped from her mug and swallowed. “Hmmm. Are too.”

  At least she sounded as childish as he did.

  FIVE

  TAKING CARE OF SMALL CHILDREN WAS NOT FOR THE faint of heart. Laura rubbed her eyes and settled her glasses back on her nose. She grabbed the coffeepot from the stove, poured the fragrant, steaming liquid into an oversized mug, and took a sip. She needed straight fuel after her first night alone with the Stutzman children. As if two trips to the bathroom with Delia hadn’t been enough, Samuel’s cries had sent her scurrying down the hall at three a.m. Poor thing had a nightmare. Something about a bear and a wolf fighting over him. She would rethink the bedtime stories tonight. Poor baby had been shaking.

  The interruptions hadn’t really been interruptions. She spent most of the night staring at the dark above her and listening to the tree branches blow in the wind. The sound soothed her and reminded her of Eli. At night, in the dark, everything reminded her of Eli. Whether in the dawdy haus, whether awake or asleep, she thought of him. And relived old memories. The elderly seemed destined to do that. Relive old memories instead of making new ones.

  The day she married Eli. Sitting at the eck during the reception, filled with a kind of anticipation like no other. The day she gave birth to her firstborn son, Luke. The day she and Eli buried him. Parents should always go first. A whole life lived. Yet she lingered. Surely, God had His reasons. He still had something for her to do. Otherwise, why leave her on this earth?

  She was being prideful. What made her think God had some grand task for her to do? His plan was His plan. A small task, perhaps, in the bigger scheme of things. Something to make life more livable. Something far beyond anything her pea brain could fathom.

  She blew on her coffee and took another sip. Heavenly.

  The thought made her smile. Would there be coffee in heaven? Would there be pineapple upside-down cake? Watermelon? Chocolate chip ice cream? Mary Katherine’s spice cake? If Laura had her way, she’d bake the
m all and her fingers would work again so she could sew to her heart’s content. Scripture said there would be no pain in heaven. She could hop, skip, jump, and run again. Skate on the iced-over pond in the winter and swim in the summer.

  The image of her old body peeling away to reveal the young, healthy body of her youth like a butterfly from its cocoon made her chuckle aloud. She should become a writer like Mary Katherine.

  Such foolish thoughts came from interrupted sleep. Bacon sizzled in the pan. The aroma made her mouth water. The fluffy scrambled eggs were ready. Warm up the biscuits or make toast?

  She trudged to the counter. Biscuits with butter and sorghum sounded good on a frosty December morning. She took another sip of coffee and glanced out the window. Yesterday’s sleet mixed with snow was gone, but not the chill in the air. Movement caught her gaze. A visitor so early in the morning? No. Zechariah wielded an ax next to the barn. Chopping wood. The ax wavered over his head, then slammed onto the chopping block. The log splintered and pieces fell to the ground.

  He stopped, teetered, grabbed one log, and managed to toss it onto the wood stack.

  No cooking, no driving a buggy. Surely no chopping wood had been on the list as well. Laura moved the bacon from the flame and put a lid over the skillet. She grabbed her wool coat from the peg by the door and wrapped it around her as she headed out. The fresh, crisp air welcomed her on the back-porch steps. She raised her face to the sun. What a beautiful day. Even at a distance, Zechariah’s scowl was evident. What a pain in her side.

  “The woodpile is plenty big.” Laura halted a few feet from Zechariah. Despite the wintry breeze, drops of sweat adorned his forehead. He grunted and smacked the ax into the wood. “Christopher brought in a stack last night.”

  “Won’t last more than a day. The temperatures have been dropping all week. Thermometer said twenty-two when I got up this morning. And that’s without the wind chill.” He wiggled the ax until it broke free of the oak. “Besides, Christopher is too small to be cutting wood. He’ll chop his foot off.”

  Some might say the same of Zechariah. He wasn’t a big man and time had whittled his shoulders into a slump. His arms and legs were toothpicks. His pants hung down around his hips despite his suspenders. Even his hat seemed to sit loosely on his bald head.

  However, he seemed to have become the resident weatherman. “The sun is shining. It’ll be forty by noon.”

  “You have some kind of pipeline to the gut Lord?”

  “Nee, but I have eyes that can see and a body that can feel the glorious warmth of the sun.” If a man could argue about the weather, he could argue about anything. “I’ll carry some wood in.”

  “I can do it.” Zechariah buried the ax’s head in a huge log. “Shouldn’t you be making breakfast for the kinner?”

  “It’s made. Come eat. Do you prefer biscuits or toast with your eggs?”

  “I’m not hungry. Should you leave those little ones alone in the house?”

  So now he would get on his high horse and tell her how to care for the children. “Samuel is helping Delia get dressed. They’ll be waiting in the kitchen.” Laura breathed, the warm air white puffs in the chilly wind. One, two, three, four, five . . . They were good children, well trained by their mother. Not nearly as contrary as Zechariah. “You have to eat.”

  He shook his head. “You’re not my mudder or my fraa.”

  The image of Zechariah sitting by her fireplace while she darned his holey socks assailed her for one fleeting second—long enough to make her thankful for forty-five years with Eli. He was no saint, but at least he had a sense of humor. “Gott is gut.”

  Zechariah stomped over to his puny pile of wood, knelt, and scooped up a few logs. “Very funny.”

  It was funny to think they’d known each other since first grade, lived in the same community all their lives, and now couldn’t exchange a few sentences without arguing like an old married couple. “I could make oatmeal if that would suit your stomach better.”

  “I don’t like oatmeal.”

  She had no way of knowing what he liked or didn’t like. That was part of getting to know a person. Something he didn’t seem to have any desire to do. Perhaps he believed he didn’t need more friends. He and Abel Danner huddled together at most meetings and frolics. They’d been best friends as far back as Laura could remember.

  ’Course Abel still had his wife, Jessica. He couldn’t always be running around with Zechariah. A sad state of affairs. When a man’s wife was gone and his children grown-up, he could use a load of friends. Like she could depend on Jennie or Bess when Mary Katherine was caught up in the bookstore or Mary Katherine when Jennie couldn’t get away from the Combination Store. Zechariah seemed more suited to hanging around Laura’s great-grandson Jasper when he had the grumblies. Only not as cute or cuddly.

  Although Zechariah did have a certain something in those rich russet eyes when he wasn’t frowning. That same “don’t-mess-with-me-unless-I-say-so” something Eli used to have when she got in his way in the barn.

  Get a grip, woman.

  Zechariah stood, teetered, righted himself, and took a step. A second later he lost the battle and keeled over backward. His arms flailed. His hat flew off. His head smacked the woodpile.

  “Ach!” Laura rushed to his side and knelt. He wouldn’t want her help. He wouldn’t want her to see him like this. She would feel the same if she fell in broad daylight in front of a man. Regardless, the helper in her heart couldn’t turn her back on a hurting human being. “Let me see your head. Are you dizzy?”

  “Get away from me.” One hand on his neck, he rolled to his side, his back to her. “Just get away. Get away.”

  “Let me help you up.”

  “Nee. I don’t need your help.”

  “It’s not a shame to need help.”

  “I don’t need your pity either.”

  “Who says I pity you? I’m more irritated than anything.” He would prefer irritation to pity. Laura could at least give him that. The way he rubbed his head said he was hurting. He still had a thick fringe of curly gray hair along the bottom, but a red knot stuck out above it. His fingers touched the spot and withdrew. A half-stifled groan followed.

  Laura gripped both hands in her lap to keep from comforting him. He wasn’t Eli. He wasn’t one of her sons or grandsons or great-grandsons. He was a man who didn’t want her help. “It’s hard to find and accept our limits as we grow older. Gott knows that.”

  No answer.

  Teeth gritted, he struggled to sit upright. Laura stood and anchored her hands on her hips to keep from helping him. He rolled over to his knees and crawled to the woodpile. There, he crept to his feet. Leaves and dried, dead grass decorated the back of his coat and his pants. Mud stained his knees and his coat sleeves. Unable to help herself, she scooped up his hat. “Here.”

  His face red with fury and exertion, he turned and faced her. He accepted her offering. “Danki.” The two syllables seeped through clenched teeth. “Go now.”

  “You hit your head. Come inside and warm up. I’ll take a look.”

  “Are you deaf?”

  The soft, weary tone of the previous evening had disappeared, replaced with a thunderous shout filled with the same emotions that kept Laura awake at night.

  Shame at her weakness, anger at her loss, bitterness, loneliness, bewilderment, confusion.

  All the emotions she’d experienced when God took Eli home and left her to carry on after forty-five years of often-joyful, occasionally painful, but always shared marriage. “My hearing’s fine. I’m only trying to be helpful.”

  “I said I don’t need your help. Go inside. The kinner need you. Not me. I’m a grown man.”

  “As I said before, there’s no shame in needing help, grown-up or otherwise.”

  His hand went to his forehead. He closed his eyes. A second later, he opened them. “Biscuits. The kinner like them best.” The thunder had dissipated, replaced by soft contrition. “They’ll be starving by now. I’
ll be in to wash up in a minute.”

  Laura nodded. This man needed help in ways that had nothing to do with his disease. A person had to want help, though. It couldn’t be shoved on him willy-nilly. She trudged toward the house.

  The familiar toot-toot-toot of a horn filled the air. Laura looked toward the muddy dirt road that led to the house. Her favorite driver’s powder-blue-and-rust minivan lumbered toward them, its engine whining. Ben.

  The babies.

  SIX

  LAURA WAVED AS THE VAN PULLED INTO THE YARD NEXT to the porch. Ben waved in return and exited the passenger side as soon as Dineen stopped the minivan. Everyone moved double-time, yet the minutes seemed to drag by. Good news, Gott, please good news.

  Ben spoke first. “Where’s Christopher? He should be doing the chores.”

  “He’s feeding the horses.” Zechariah spoke up. “And Rosalie?”

  Ben’s craggy face contorted. The van’s engine ticked in the pause that followed. “I only came for a change of clothes.”

  “What happened?” Laura moved closer. Feeling unsteady herself, she stuck her hands on the van’s warm hood and let it hold her up. “The boplin?”

  “The boplin are fine. Two beautiful girls born at five thirty-eight and five forty yesterday.” His voice cracked, but he managed a smile. “Mia and Mary. They’re small, but the doctor says they’re healthy. They’re giving them oxygen.”

  “And your fraa?”

  Ben’s gaze bounced over Laura’s shoulder to the house. He rubbed his gloved hands together as if to warm them. He had his grandfather’s brown eyes, like his father, but also Zechariah’s slight build and small stature. “There were complications. They did a caesarian section. There was bleeding and her blood pressure dropped.”

  His lips trembled. “It was touch and go for a while.” His voice dropped to a whisper. He swiped at his face with his coat sleeve. “I thought we might lose her.”

  “But she’s okay?” Zechariah’s hand came up as if he would touch his grandson, then dropped. “She’ll be all right?”

  Ben cleared his throat. “She’s better this morning. She was awake and talking to me. Asking for the boplin. She wanted to hold them and feed them, but she has a lot of pain. We took her in a wheelchair to the NICU—that’s where they keep the new babies with problems—so she could see them.”