The Fiddler (10 page)

She looked down at her boots and dress. “Maybe I should go barefoot while I’m here.”

“Why not be comfortable? I’ll carry your boots for ya.”

She surveyed the road ahead. “On second thought, I’d better keep them on.”

“Afraid you’ll burn your feet?” He chuckled, surprising her. “When was the last time you walked on gravel without shoes?”

Surely she didn’t have to tell him that she always wore shoes outdoors. “I’m a city girl, remember.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” There was that same twinkle in his eye she’d seen at the cabin.

It was interesting that Michael was so relaxed again when he was soon heading into the thick of the fray. Was she giving him the support he needed? Was that it?

But his mood changed as he pointed out the one-room Amish schoolhouse. “Bishop John’s farmhouse is just beyond the playground and the boys’ outhouse. A long stone’s throw . . . and then you’ll see a sandstone house, built in the mid–eighteen hundreds. It’s a striking place—that’s our closest neighbor, Samuel Lapp. Believe me, there are oodles of Lapps round here, including Samuel and Rebecca’s sons, all married now.”

He sounded wound up. “Are you all right?” she blurted without thinking.

He gave her a sidewise look. “To be honest, it won’t be easy to say what I must to my father.”

Now Amelia felt guilty for urging him to return.

“But it’s not because I plan to talk to Daed. Not really,” he added quickly. “Don’t take this wrong, Amy. I’m just wonderin’ if I should’ve brought you here.”

“I hope I won’t get you in hotter water.”

He didn’t look at her. “It just might send the wrong message to my parents.”

It would to mine!
she thought. She felt like a tagalong. Maybe she really shouldn’t have come. “I’d hate to upset your parents or anyone who thinks we’re—”

“A couple?”

She blushed, shocked that he guessed what she was thinking. “Well, I’d hate to cause you further trouble.”

He seemed to contemplate that as he moved across the road to the shaded side, and she followed.

When they rounded the bend, the sandstone house came into view, and past that, she saw an equally stunning stone house. “Is that your house?” She pointed. “It’s gorgeous.”

“Jah, it’s been in the family for five generations.”

Five?

“My married brothers’ children are the fifth.”

“So your great-grandparents lived there?”

“They did.”

She wondered if he was supposed to have inherited the place, had he planned to stay Amish. She did not ask, aware that his hands had become clenched fists.

“Just about to the Kurtz farm. Joanna will enjoy showin’ you round the place . . . while I go and talk to my father.”

“Okay. Sounds good,” she said, looking forward to meeting the young woman he had spoken about last night.

“Say a prayer for me, will ya, Amy?”

“I can do that,” she agreed, sensing his distress—and wishing him well. But Michael had no idea how very few prayers she’d prayed lately.
If so, he might not ask me to pray at all!

They took their time getting to the treed area. Once there, she removed her boots and socks and savored the grassy coolness. It was then she noticed her boots were free of the caked-on mud. Michael must’ve cleaned them earlier this morning before she awakened. Marveling at this, she glanced up at him. “You’re full of surprises,” she said, pointing to her shoes. “Thanks for scraping the gunk off my boots.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he said comically as they made their way past his parents’ home, staying near the side of the road so Amelia wouldn’t have to walk on the gravel. And all the while, he carried her boots—one in each hand.

A swarm of bees buzzed overhead, and she wished for her slouchy hat. Then she thought better of it. “I hope I don’t look too out of place here,” she said softly.

Michael flashed a smile. “I think it’s a little late for that.”

“Well, whatever do you mean?” she teased.

He took the bait. “C’mon, when was the last time you saw an Amish girl with such a fancy dress or her hair all down, without a head covering?”

She’d almost forgotten they’d just met. Amelia poked his arm like she would a mischievous big brother. “Oh, you!” she said, all too convinced in that moment that Michael Hostetler was anything but a brother figure.

T
he sweeping spread of land that was the Kurtz dairy farm reminded Amelia of movies she’d seen set in fertile, lush river valleys. She didn’t recall the actual movie titles, though, and assumed Michael wouldn’t know them anyway. Besides, it really didn’t matter. She was enjoying the day immensely.

Walking farther down Hickory Lane, she spotted three teenage girls in matching green dresses and aprons, coming this way. They were clasping hands, talking in
Deitsch—
Pennsylvania Dutch—and smiling so cheerfully, Amelia was unable to take her eyes off them.

“Hullo!” Michael called to them.
“Wie bischt?”

Two of the girls smiled, but they didn’t reply, and one of the girls ducked her head as if she was too shy to meet an Englisher.

When they were out of earshot, Amelia asked, “Are they sisters?”

“No.” Michael explained that young women well into their twenties often held hands when walking. “Of course sisters do, but also cousins and close friends.”

Amelia was touched by such open affection.

“You’ll see that sort of fondness amongst most all the women. We’re close-knit here in Hickory Hollow. Might seem a little old-fashioned to you.” He laughed a little. “Those girls are more like ya than you’d think. They all have iPods—and so do their brothers who haven’t joined church yet.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Cell phones, too . . . some even have Facebook accounts. The bishops aren’t happy about it. The whole thing’s caused a ruckus, ’specially because most parents aren’t at all informed about social networking.”

“So do teens keep in touch with other Amish Facebook users, then?”

“Supposedly.” He paused and shrugged. “It’s not something I’ve gotten into just yet.”

She could hardly imagine this happening with the Ohio Amish teenagers up the road from her grandparents’ former farmhouse, but no doubt Michael knew more about it.

He motioned for her to follow him down the long lane that led to the big white clapboard farmhouse where the Kurtz family lived. “You’ll enjoy meeting Joanna Kurtz—she’s an Amish girl who toes the line. But very friendly to Englischers—you’ll see. She’s one of two daughters who still live at home.”

Amelia wondered if Michael had ever dated Joanna; he seemed so fond of her and her family. But then, he had a kindhearted way of speaking about nearly everyone.

“Joanna and her mother, Rhoda, take great pains to plan the flower beds each and every year.”

“With plenty of color and varieties, I see.” Amelia admired the pristine lawn and flower gardens with a profusion of purple and pink asters. There were yellow daisies, too, as well as white and pink ground cover, and roses scaled up a trellis along one whole side of the whitewashed front porch. The beds were so thick with color, she wished she could stand still and soak in the beauty.

“Some of the womenfolk boast that gardening is their way of being creative,” Michael said.

Creative yet controlled,
Amelia thought.

“That and quilting are a good way for the womenfolk to show off a little.”

Amelia noticed two gray cats scampering across the yard. “Oh, look at that, they must be twins!”

“I’m afraid Nate isn’t fond of cats. I won’t tell you what he does to control his feline population.”

Amelia grimaced. “Um . . . thanks for sparing me.”

“You have no idea how many dozens of them reside in our barns.”

“Couldn’t they be put up for adoption?”

Michael raised his hand in a wave to a middle-aged man wearing black trousers and a blue short-sleeved shirt, with tan suspenders and a straw hat identical to Michael’s. “There’s Nate now,” he said.

So much for the cats.
Amelia matched Michael’s pace as they rounded the house and followed the dirt lane all the way back to the barn.

“Is Joanna inside?” Michael pointed to the white two-story structure.

Nate nodded quickly and muttered something about getting back to the team of field mules.

“All right, then.” Michael handed the boots back to Amelia and suggested she put them on. “It could be, well, a bit messy in the barn, ya know.”

“Good idea, thanks!” she replied and quickly slipped on the boots.

“Joanna might have a pair of old work boots for you to wear, if you’d prefer,” he said, shoving open the barn door. Once they were inside, he took a moment to slide it shut again.

“Oh, I’m fine this way.” Yet again she was taken with the fact that he always seemed to be thinking ahead on her behalf.

“Nate’s got two new calves. You’ll see ’em—cute little critters,” he said, seemingly eager to give her a tour of his neighbors’ barn.

She wondered why Nate hadn’t stopped to greet them or shake hands like Michael seemed to enjoy doing.

Then, as if sensing the direction of her thoughts, Michael explained that Joanna’s father hardly talked. “Just so you know.”

So I won’t think he’s rude,
Amelia mused.

He mentioned that some area Amishmen were known to say very little. “Some scarcely ever crack a smile, either,” he went on. “They pass on their knowledge of farming and whatnot by simply doing. Even so, whether your father’s quiet or outspoken, there’s never any doubt about what to do or how to do it,” Michael added. “That’s true whether it’s farming or blacksmithing, welding or carpentry.”

Amelia wondered if he wished his own father were less blunt. She was thankful that her dad, for as much as he had pushed her in her career, had always had a patient, reassuring temperament.

They strolled past a double row of milking stanchions, and Michael paused to show her the new calves in their own small pen. Like twin babies, they slept nose to nose on a soft bed of hay.

“Oh, they
are
cute . . . and look how pretty their coats are.” She leaned down for a better look.

Michael crouched close to Amelia. His arm brushed against hers momentarily as he moved his hand slowly toward the calf nearest them. “Wouldn’t ya just love to have a pet like one of these?” he said, his eyes soft.

“Oh, would I ever. But I’m not sure where I’d keep a calf in my townhouse.”

“Ya mean, there’s no attached garage?”

She realized she was giggling but didn’t stop herself. When had she laughed like this?

One of the calves opened its enormous milky eyes and blinked at them.

“Hey, look at that,” he whispered. “God’s handiwork in front of our very noses.”

Amelia wondered if she’d signaled that she wanted to touch the calf, too, because before she realized what Michael was doing, he reached for her hand and placed it gently on the calf’s side, holding his own strong hand on top of hers for longer than necessary.

She hardly knew what to think, but she didn’t pull away. When she finally found her voice, she told him more about her grandparents’ farm. “I waited all year for summers, eager to visit them. Working alongside Papa and Grammy in their barn was a little slice of heaven on earth.”

Michael gave her an understanding smile. “Too bad your parents didn’t live nearby or right in the big farmhouse there, so you could all be together. Like we Amish tend to do.”

She nodded and choked back the lump in her throat.

Michael sensitively changed the subject. “I think you’ll find Joanna a delightful person. She’s closer in age to you than her younger sister, Cora Jane. Joanna used to attend the youth Singings, back when I was going, too. Her pretty soprano voice could be heard high above the others’.”

“I would like to meet her,” said Amelia, still recovering from Michael’s hand on hers.

“Follow me, then,” he said, leading her through the stable.

“And . . . if you don’t mind, when you introduce me, please tell her my name is Amelia Devries.” She paused, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Okay?”

He frowned. “Not . . . Amy Lee?”

“That’s just the name I use for country music circles.”

“Oh.” He scratched his head. “So . . . is there anything
else
you’d like me to know?”

She laughed, releasing the tension. “That’s it for now.”

“So there
is
more.” Now he was smiling, actually flirting.

“Well, what would you like to know?”

They walked a few more paces. “Since you asked . . .” Michael stopped walking and looked at her more earnestly. “How serious are you with your boyfriend back home?”

Wow, she hadn’t seen that coming! “Byron and I are nearly engaged,” Amelia said. After all, it was true.

“I see.”

“We’ve been dating for three years.” For some inexplicable reason, she wanted to reinforce that fact, although she knew it wasn’t necessary. Because as intriguing as Michael Hostetler was, there was no way he’d fall for a violinist with two very different lives. Even if she was interested in him.