Amanda Weds a Good Man (30 page)

“Jah, well, the excavation crew I use is only available this week, before they've got jobs with other contractors,” Reece replied. “Can't get them again until middle of January, see, so I didn't think you'd want to wait that long.”

Middle of January?
Nobody poured concrete then, so his facility would be delayed by months if he waited that long. Wyman drew in a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “It seems to me that bedrock would be the ideal foundation for an elevator anyway,” he said. “It's not like I need a basement—or even a crawl space—under the silos or the office building.”

“Oh, jah, the new EPA regulations are making us do a lotta things different these days,” the contractor replied. “Nothing's as easy as it was when Pop put up your elevator in Clearwater. That
was
about twenty years ago, after all.”

Wyman blinked. Norbert Weaver's friendly, reliable service had been the main reason he and his partner, Ray Fisher, had wanted Weaver Construction to build their new facility, but it seemed that some of the family's values had died with the company's founder. Wyman heard the hum of equipment in the background. Could it be that Reece was being so pushy because he was focused on what was happening on a work site? And perhaps had several big projects going on at once? The younger man had acted quite accommodating and professional last week when they had discussed the plans for this new elevator . . . and Wyman realized that because he, too, was feeling pressured he wasn't handling these details well over the phone.

“Tell you what, Reece,” he said, trying to sound reasonable and relaxed. “I need to discuss this situation with my partner before we proceed. How about if I meet you at the elevator site tomorrow morning—”

“I'll be outta state on another big job. Won't be back around Bloomingdale until Friday.”

Wyman caught himself scowling yet again. But he would not be pushed into paying out more money until he'd talked with Ray about this new development. “What time on Friday, then?”

“You really want to wait? My excavation crew'll most likely be gone by then, or they'll charge me double time for squeezing your job in over the weekend,” the contractor replied. “You know what they say. Time is money.”

No, time is TIME, and this is MY money we're talking about
. Wyman let out the breath he'd been holding. “Three o'clock this afternoon, then. But don't come to the house,” he insisted. “Meet me at the elevator site so we can talk about our options.”

“See you then. With at least half of that hundred thousand bucks.”
Click.

Wyman sank onto the wooden bench near the phone. How had this opportunity for his future changed so radically? Just a few weeks ago, the details of his move to Bloomingdale had fallen effortlessly into place because, he believed, God was directing him to start a new life with his new blended family on Amanda's farm. He'd sold the Brubaker home place to the Fisher family for less than market value because he and Ray had been best friends since childhood, and so that Ray's son could have a place to expand his dairy operation when he got married.

The transaction had been seamless, on a handshake. Wyman had felt confident that he could afford a new facility—in addition to the elevator he and Ray had run since they'd been young and single—or he wouldn't have dreamed of stretching his family's finances. They had agreed that Weaver Construction would do the work because they wanted to support other Plain businesses in the area.

Had they made a mistake? Maybe they should've gotten a bid from another construction company . . . but it was too late for that now. They had already put down more than half the money up front.

Wyman punched in Ray's phone number, hoping his levelheaded Mennonite partner would offer him some advice. Because Ray had already borrowed a large amount to buy the Brubaker place, Wyman had insisted on financing the new elevator with the money from the sale and the Clearwater account, without expecting Ray to kick in any more. Out of sheer Amish tradition and principle, Wyman refused to get a loan from an English bank to make this deal work—or to feed his family. Generations of Brubaker men had remained staunchly self-sufficient, supporting one another rather than going to outside sources for funding.

The phone clicked in his ear. “Hullo?”

“Jah, Ray. How was your weekend?” Wyman relaxed, knowing he could trust his partner's feedback, his sense of perspective. “I suppose you and Sally and the boys are gearing up for Trevor's wedding. . . .”

•   •   •

O
n the other side of the barn wall, Amanda listened as her husband chatted with his partner. She and the twins had been gathering eggs in the adjoining chicken house, and when she'd heard Wyman holler,
“A hundred thousand dollars?”
she'd sent the girls outside to scatter feed. It wasn't Wyman's way to raise his voice. His calm demeanor and sensible approach to problems were two of the traits that had attracted her when they'd courted.

“Got a call from Reece Weaver this morning, and I don't know what to make of it,” Wyman was saying into the phone. “He's telling me he needs another hundred thousand dollars—half of it
today
—because he ran into bedrock and some other unexpected issues. . . . Jah, this is on top of the seven hundred thousand on his bid.”

Amanda sucked in her breath at such a large amount of money. Wyman was a careful planner, a solid businessman, and his rising voice said it all: he was
upset
about this new development. And very concerned about where so much additional money would come from.

“When we were going over the items on his bid, didn't you think Reece had covered all the angles?” Wyman asked. “I can't have him coming by the house or leaving any more phone messages about needing money, so I'm meeting him at the elevator site this afternoon. . . .”

Ah. So Wyman was protecting her from this situation, was he? Amanda understood that because like any Amish husband he believed it was his responsibility to support their family. But she knew firsthand about making the pennies stretch . . . about the fear that she might not be able to pay the propane bill or buy shoes for her three young daughters, when she'd been their sole support for four years after their dat had died.

Wyman sold his home place, left everything he'd loved all his life, so you could be happy here in Bloomingdale,
Amanda reminded herself.
You can't let him face this crisis alone . . . even if he won't tell you about it. He may be the head of this family, but YOU are in charge of keeping everyone fed and together, body and soul. Better get back to work!

Amanda stepped away from the wall as the twins bustled into the henhouse with the empty feed bucket. In the cold air, the wisps of their breath framed their precious faces. “Let's take the eggs to the house, girls. Maybe Vera or Mammi will help you bake your cookies,” she said gently as she stroked their pink cheeks. “Your mamma's going to start making her pottery again.”

Drawing upon her experiences in Jamesport, Missouri, the largest Old Order Amish community west of the Mississippi, longtime Missourian
Naomi King
writes of simpler times in her Home at Cedar Creek and One Big Happy Family series. When she's not writing, she loves to travel, try new recipes, crochet, and sew. Naomi now lives in Minnesota with her husband and their Border collie, Ramona. Write to her at: P.O. Box 18731, West St. Paul, MN 55150.