Amanda Weds a Good Man (29 page)

Wyman checked his urge to lash out. The bishop was like a dog who would never release this meaty bone of contention. So Wyman would be the one to let go.

“God is love,” he said softly. As he stepped away, he wondered why he'd bothered to come in person when he could have written a note or left a message on the bishop's answering machine. Yet it had felt like the honorable way to—

“Never heard that your land was even up for sale, Brubaker,” Uriah remarked. “Who'd you sell out to?”

Wyman bit back a grin. “Ray Fisher and his son.”

“Mennonites?
Mennonites?
Of all the—”

Wham!
The slamming of the door announced the end to his membership in the Clearwater church district, where generations of his family had followed their faith. Wyman regretted this deeply, yet he believed his father and grandfathers wouldn't have tolerated such treatment from the bishops of their day, either.

With his most difficult task behind him, Wyman climbed into his rig and clucked to his horse. He couldn't wait to get home to Amanda, to tell her and their family of the wonderful changes coming their way.

A
manda caught herself looking out the window every five minutes as she helped the boys put the front room to rights after the cream-colored walls had dried. “The downstairs looks so pretty and clean, Eddie,” she said as he was carrying his drop cloths to the porch. “Denki ever so much for helping this old house look its Sunday best again.”

He shot her a lopsided smile. “It was tough seeing the other house in such a wreck, and finding our clothes and broken furniture in the mess we were hauling off,” he admitted. “I'd lots rather be working here.”

“I'm sorry you had that awful job,” Amanda murmured. “But this, too, shall pass. We're all in it together.”

At last a
clip-clop! clip-clop!
in the lane announced Wyman's arrival. Amanda hurried outside to greet him, but of course she was followed by the twins and Simon, all clamoring for their dat's explanation of today's delivery. She lifted Alice Ann to her shoulder, nuzzling the toddler's dewy cheek as she waited to catch her husband's eye.

And when Wyman looked at her from the huddle of the three little kids who had captured him at thigh-level, her heart held still. That glimmer in his eyes could mean only one thing—and since his news was much more important than her curiosity about the kiln and the wheel, she merely returned his smile.

“Supper's nearly ready,” she announced. “You girls can help Lizzie set the table, and, Simon, it's time to feed and water Wags. We'll give your dat a chance to catch his breath after a busy day, jah?”

As the children scattered to do their chores, Wyman slipped up to kiss Amanda's cheek and then Alice Ann's. “See there? Already they're listening to you and behaving so much better.”

“And
you
need to behave, as well,” she teased. “It seems we got a delivery today, and your name was on it, Wyman. And—and denki ever so much for the kiln and the wheel,” she added in a voice that quavered. “But whatever were you thinking when you ordered them? What if Lamar Lapp sees no reason for me to take up my pottery again, now that my husband supplies all my needs? What about—”

“Do I, Amanda? That's gut to hear,” he whispered. Then he grinned. “Consider them gifts. And Lamar sends you his blessings to make your dishes again, but perhaps with more . . . subdued colors.”

A laugh escaped her. “You've spoken to him?”

“Just full of surprises, aren't I?” Wyman teased. “You'll have to wait for supper to hear the rest of the details. But they're gut, Amanda. It's all gut now, my love.”

Somehow she contained her excitement as the older girls set on the bowls of creamed chicken, noodles, peas and carrots, and apples simmered with cinnamon Red Hots. After they prayed, Wyman held up his hand before the kids could start in with their questions.

“It's a historic day for the Brubaker family,” he said in a resonating voice that filled the kitchen. “And while I tell you of things to come, please hear me out. Then you may ask your questions and express any doubts you have. But with God's guidance, and considering the entire family's welfare, I have made my decision. And I will not—cannot—change my mind.”

Amanda's heart beat faster. The children's expressions bespoke the solemnity of this moment, yet their eyes were wide with eager curiosity. Bowls of food were being passed, but all eyes were on Wyman.

“After much prayer and soul-searching,” he said, pausing to look at everyone around the table, “I have sold the farm in Clearwater to Ray and Trevor Fisher. Which means we will be living
here
now.”

A tight silence filled the kitchen.

“Holy cow,” Jerome murmured. “That's
huge
.”

“‘Bless the Lord, oh my soul,'” Jemima intoned. “Yet another miracle this week.”

“But—but what about our stuff at the other house?” Vera whispered.

“And what happens to all the hay we baled?” Pete asked. “There's not enough put by for the livestock here, what with Jerome's horses and mules—”

“That's all being worked out.” As Wyman smiled, his rugged face glowed with the relief of sharing this news at last. “Trevor and his dat have been approved for their loan, and they'll take on the rebuilding of the house after we move out our belongings. Meanwhile Ray and I will remain partners at the Clearwater elevator, and we'll build a new elevator here—down the road by the railroad tracks,” he added in a rising voice. “We have a lot of work to do, but God has brought us this far and He'll give us the strength to meet our obligations . . . and to deal with this major change.”

After another moment of tense silence, pandemonium broke out around the table.

“We're
home
!” Lizzie crowed as she grabbed for Cora and Dora.

“So that's why you're having me paint these walls—”

“But, Dat, that's been our home
forever
!” Pete protested.

“And what about the pieces that belonged to Mamm? Where will we put them here in Amanda's house?”

“Pink! I want my woom pink
now
!”

“You knew this all along, Mamma! And you didn't tell
me
!”

When Simon's exclamation rang out above all those of his siblings, Amanda had to laugh. Bless his heart, he was calling her
Mamma
now, and his chocolate brown eyes bore into hers to demand her answer.

“Well, until just this minute I didn't know how it would all turn out,” she explained. “Your dat and I have talked and prayed all week long—”

“And, Simon, when you said no one would be happy unless your mamma was happy? You hit the nail on the head,” Wyman said. “After those unfortunate incidents with the Schmuckers, it made perfect sense for this farm to be our new home. It was as though God dropped that answer into my head and brought all the pieces and players together, just like that.” He snapped his fingers to illustrate his point, smiling at each of them.

“Uriah will be hopping mad when he hears about
this
,” Pete remarked.

“Matter of fact, I spoke with the bishop this afternoon. And with all due
respect
,” Wyman said emphatically, “I've not seen anyone do a better imitation of a whistling, overheated teakettle. When he found out I'd sold our place to Mennonites, well . . . he slammed the door in my face.”

“Oh, Wyman,” Amanda murmured, grabbing his hand. “I'm sorry.”

“I wasn't happy about it, either,” he admitted as he squeezed her fingers. “It's serious business to part ways with the bishop God chose for us . . . and, as Jesus taught us, we should pray for those who persecute us. As much as he's provoked us, Uriah needs our prayers.”

When Wyman paused, Amanda saw how their children were listening intently . . . processing their father's wisdom. Even Alice Ann sat absolutely still in her high chair, as though she fully understood the magnitude of what her dat was sharing with them, and the higher road he was leading them on.

“I want you kids to know that first and foremost, I left our home district because I believe that if we are to follow God, we can no longer follow Uriah,” Wyman stated. “He accused me of loving Amanda too much, to the point that I loved our Lord less than I should.”

Wyman gazed intently at her. Amanda's heart beat steadily even as she held her breath, awaiting whatever her husband said next.

“But the way I see it,” he continued earnestly, “if I love your mother and take gut care of her—love you kids and everyone under my roof—then I am in fact living out my faith, reflecting the heavenly Father's love. If I give my family my very best, am I not loving God with my whole heart at the same time?”

Amanda slowly let out the breath she'd been holding. Here in this clean, cozy kitchen, surrounded by those she loved most in this world, it seemed they were sharing a holy moment—the beginning of a whole new life as a family. The frustrations of her first weeks as a Brubaker faded away as she basked in the glow of her husband's love.

“You're such a gut man, Wyman. A fine example to us all,” she murmured. “Truly, none of us could ask for more.”

 

 

For an excerpt from the next story by Naomi King

 

 

 

Emma Blooms at Last

One Big Happy Family

 

 

 

about the blended Lambright and Brubaker families, which some are calling an Amish Brady Bunch, coming November 2014 in print and e-book,read on. . . .

T
his is what a Monday morning should look like,
Amanda mused. Her kitchen was thrumming with activity as her family finished breakfast—and everyone looked happily intent on getting where they needed to go next. In the six weeks since she'd married Wyman Brubaker, they'd known some rough moments, yet it seemed that their eight kids and the four adults had finally figured out a morning routine that worked. Today they'd all been dressed and ready to eat on time, without any squabbling or drama. It was a minor miracle.

“What a wonderful-gut meal,” Wyman said as he rose from his place at the head of the table. “The haystack casserole had all my favorite things in it. Lots of sausage and onions and green peppers—”

“And
cheese
,” five-year-old Simon piped up. “So much cheese the hash browns were really gooey and really,
really
gut.”

“And what are you three fellows doing this morning?” Wyman asked. He rumpled Simon's dark hair, looking from Eddie to Jerome. “Did I hear you say we might have baby mules by the end of the day?”

“That's my best guess,” Jerome replied as he, too, stood up. “Eddie and Simon are going with me to get some feed supplement. Let's hit the road, boys, so we'll be back in time if the mammas need our help with their birthings.”

“I'm already outta here!” Simon sprang from his chair and shot through the kitchen door, slamming it behind him.

Eddie, his fifteen-year-old brother, headed toward the jackets and hats that hung on wall pegs. “Well, there's the speed of light and the speed of sound—and the speed of Simon,” he remarked as he grabbed his youngest brother's coat along with his own. “At this rate, we'll be to Cedar Creek and back before those mammas can turn twice in their stalls.”

“Enthusiasm is a gut thing,” Jerome replied as he came over to hug Amanda. “Anything you need from the mercantile, Aunt? Maybe a big bag of raisins for my favorite kind of pie?”

Amanda laughed as her nephew wagged his eyebrows at her. The money from Jerome's mule business had seen her through some tight times after her first husband had died, leaving her to raise three young daughters. Now that she'd remarried, Jerome was taking to Wyman's boys with a sense of fun and responsibility that was once again a big help to her. “Bring whatever you think will taste gut,” she replied.

“Raisin-filled cookies,” Wyman hinted wistfully. “And with that luscious thought, I'll head to the barn. Reece Weaver's supposed to call me with a progress report on my new grain elevator.”

Amanda felt a rush of goose bumps when Wyman smiled at her. With his dark hair and a thick, silky beard framing his face, he was such a handsome man—and a wonderful provider for her and their children, as well. “Jemima and I plan to get some baking done today to stay ahead of you fellows with your bottomless stomachs,” she said. “So it can't hurt to sweet-talk the cooks.”

“I'm going to kiss this cook instead,” Wyman murmured. He quickly brushed her lips with his and then waved Eddie and Jerome out the door ahead of him. “You ladies have a gut rest of your morning. Oh—and you, too, Pete!” he teased as he playfully clapped his middle son on the back. “See you and Lizzie after school.”

As the three fellows left the kitchen, Amanda joined Pete and Lizzie at the counter, where they were closing the lids of their coolers. “Denki to you both for packing your lunches,” she said as she slung an arm around each of them. “You've really smoothed out my morning doing that.”

“And it's the easiest way to get exactly what we want to eat,” Lizzie pointed out. She elbowed her new brother. “Pete made
three
ham sandwiches—”

“Well, I for sure didn't want any of your stinky tuna salad,” he insisted. “The barn cats will probably follow us to school, yowling for your lunch.”

As the two thirteen-year-olds donned their winter coats and hats, Amanda noted that they resembled each other enough to be twins, even though Pete was a Brubaker and her Lizzie was a Lambright. “Make it a gut day,” she said as they started out the door, “and we'll see you this afternoon.”

“Bye, Mamma,” Lizzie replied while Pete gave her a wave.

As Amanda turned back toward the long kitchen table, she was pleased to see that Vera, Wyman's eldest, had been putting away the breakfast leftovers while Amanda's four-year-old twins, Cora and Dora, had scraped and stacked everyone's plates. “Well, now that it's just us girls, the real work can get done!” Amanda teased as she lifted Alice Ann from the wooden high chair.

“I be the helper!” the toddler crowed. “Me—Alice Ann!”

Amanda felt a surge of sweetness and love as the little blonde hugged her. “Jah, and you're everyone's blessing, too, punkin,” she murmured.

“We're going to start on the laundry,” Vera joined in. At seventeen, she was tall and slender—and she'd become well versed on running a household after her mother had died. “Alice Ann's going to help me sort the clothes by colors, and then hand me the clothespins when we hang everything out to dry.”

“A never-ending job, the laundry,” Amanda remarked as she lowered the toddler to the floor. “And while you start the dough for the bread and pie crusts, Jemima, the twins and I will fetch the morning's eggs.”

Her mother-in-law from her first marriage nodded as she ran hot dishwater into the sink. “Better you than me. These cold mornings make my legs ache, so I'm happy to stay inside.”

“And when we come back from the henhouse, can we make cookies, Mamma?” Dora asked eagerly. “Chocolate chip ones?”

“And a pan of butterscotch brownies?
Please?
” Cora chimed in. “You know how we don't like raisin-filled cookies—”

“But we were too polite to say so when Dat asked for them,” her twin finished the sentence.

Amanda laughed, hugging her look-alike daughters. How could she refuse them when they brightened her days—and had already started calling Wyman their dat? They were just at the age to wear their hair twisted into rolls and tucked into a bun . . . growing up so fast. “If you think you can do all the measuring—”

“Jah, we can do that!” they said together.

“—we can make your goodies
after
we redd up your room and Simon's,” Amanda replied. “So let's get out to the henhouse. The sooner we finish our work, the sooner we can play.”

As her girls scurried ahead of her to the low-slung building that adjoined the barn, Amanda felt a deep sense of satisfaction. A few weeks ago, her mornings at the Brubaker place had been chaotic and stressful, but when Wyman had decided they would move to her farm in Bloomingdale, everything had fallen into place as though God had intended for them to be here all along. She marveled at how the first light of this fine autumn morning made the frost sparkle. The maple and sweet gum trees glistened with bursts of red, orange, and gold to form a glorious backdrop behind the white gambrel-roofed barn, and as the horses and mules in the corral whickered at the twins, she couldn't help but smile. Her life was so good now. . . .

•   •   •

W
yman paused in the unlit barn, watching the wall phone's red message light blink. Had Reece called while he'd been outside seeing Jerome and the boys off? Or had someone else left a message? What with Jerome running his mule-breeding business here, it might be a good idea to get a new message machine that allowed callers to leave their voice mails for specific businesses and family members.

But then some districts' bishops spoke out against such an updated message system, saying it allowed for keeping secrets. In a lot of Amish towns, two or three families had shared a phone shanty alongside the road for generations.
You've gotten used to the phone being in your elevator office rather than in another fellow's barn,
Wyman realized.
This is just one more minor adjustment—like learning a new phone number after having the same one all your life.

Wyman pushed the
PLAY
button. If the message was for Jerome, he would jot the phone number or the caller's name on the pad of paper Amanda kept on the wooden bench beneath the phone. “You have one new message,” the voice on the recorder announced. “Monday, November sixteenth, at seven eighteen.”

“Jah, Wyman, this is Reece Weaver and we've gotta talk about some more up-front money,” the contractor said in a voice that rang around the barn's rafters. “Started digging your foundation and we're gonna have to blast through solid bedrock, which jacks the price way up from what I quoted you last week. Got some issues with EPA and OSHA regulations that'll cost a lot more, too, so that seven hundred thousand we figured on won't nearly cover building your elevator now. Better gimme a call real quick-like.”
Click.

Wyman's heart thudded. He'd left Reece's written estimate in the house—not that it would answer any of the questions spinning in his mind. Wouldn't a commercial contractor know about environmental and safety regulations—and the possibility of hitting bedrock—before he'd written up his estimate? And why on earth had Reece left a message about monetary details instead of waiting for him to call back? As Wyman glanced around the shadowy barn, he was relieved that only the horses and mules had heard the contractor's news. The seven hundred thousand dollars he'd spoken of—money from the sale of the Brubaker family farm as well as from the Clearwater elevator's bank account—was all he could spend on a new facility. He'd kept money back to see his family of eleven through the coming year until his Bloomingdale elevator was bringing in some money . . . but Reece's strident words made it sound as though he intended to demand a significant price increase.

Wyman pressed the number pads on the phone, hoping he and Reece could settle this matter immediately rather than playing cat-and-mouse with each other's calls. After assuring Amanda that he could support her, her mother-in-law, Jemima, and their eight kids, he did
not
want any more messages about money left on the phone where she might hear them and start to worry. Finally, on the fourth ring, someone picked up.

“Jah, Weaver Construction Company,” a woman answered.

“Wyman Brubaker here, and I need to speak with Reece about—”

“He's out on a job. I'll take your message.”

Wyman frowned. More than likely this was Reece's wife, because the company had been a small, family-owned business since Reece's dat had started it more than thirty years ago. “He just called me not five minutes ago, asking me to call right back,” Wyman replied. “I'd rather not discuss the details of my elevator with—”

“Oh, you're
that
Wyman Brubaker,” the woman interrupted. “I'll page him and he'll call you back as soon as he can.”
Click.

And what did she mean by snipping and snapping at him that way, as though he were an inconvenience rather than a customer? Wyman's stomach tightened around his breakfast as he hung up. There was nothing to do but wait for Reece to call back, even as every passing moment allowed him to think of things that didn't set right about this situation—

The phone rang and he grabbed it. “Jah? This is Wyman.”

“Reece Weaver. So you see where I'm coming from, far as your job costing more?” he asked. “How about if I stop by, say, around noon? Another hundred thousand should cover the blasting and the—”

“A hundred thousand dollars?”
Wyman closed his eyes and curled in around the phone, hoping his voice hadn't carried outside the barn. It took him a moment to corral his stampeding thoughts. “I don't understand why you didn't know—
before
you started digging—about that bedrock, and why you didn't call me—
before
you started digging—about maybe changing the location of the elevator,” he said in a low voice. “That's a huge difference from the price you quoted in your estimate.”