The Rescue (7 page)

BOOK: The Rescue

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Rose Schrock turned the horse and buggy into the Bent N’ Dent’s parking lot and tied the reins to the hitching post. The late February sky was filling with lead-colored clouds, threatening to snow. Grabbing a basket by the door, she hurried down the aisle with her list in hand. She had run out of ground cinnamon and needed it for a cake for Sunday church, so she stopped by the spices. She felt distracted, preoccupied with the ongoing worry of trying to find a way to support her family. She’d been on the lookout for Plan B for days now, but nothing had happened; not even the tiniest glimmer of an idea or opportunity had appeared on the horizon.

An English lady with Sharpie pen eyebrows, a tuft of woodpecker red hair, and frosty orange lipstick ringing her big white teeth stood planted in front of the spices, oohing and aahing over the low prices.
“Look at this, Tony,” the lady called out. “Only fifty cents for a half pint of freshly ground pepper.”

Rose watched the lady load up her cart with spices and felt a spike of panic.
Please don’t take all
the cinnamon. Please, please, please . . .

An English man came down the aisle to join the lady. “I asked the clerk at the counter about places to stay in Stoney Ridge,” he told her. “She said there was nothing around here. No inn. No bed-and-breakfast. Said we’d need to head closer to Lancaster.” He was every bit as flamboyant looking as his wife, with a white walrus mustache under his substantial nose and pointed cowboy boots on his feet.

“That’s a shame,” the lady said, standing on her tiptoes to reach the top shelf of spices. “I wouldn’t mind spending more time in this town and mosey through the shops. It doesn’t feel as tourist-y as the other towns.”

Something started ticking in Rose’s head, a sound as real as a clock.

The man watched his wife fill up the cart with spices. “Do we really need all those spices? You don’t bake.”

“I can give them as gifts,” the lady answered. She pushed the cart up the aisle and the husband trotted behind.

Rose looked through what spices remained on the shelves: cardamom, cloves, curry. No cinnamon. Cleaned out. She sighed.

The man and the lady stood in line to pay for their groceries. Rose wheeled her cart behind them, debating if she should ask the lady if she would mind giving up one of the containers of cinnamon. Just one. “The weather’s turning real sour, Lois,” the man said, peering out the storefront window. “We should get on the road. Might take us awhile to find a place to stay and it’s getting late.”

Tick, tick, tick.
The sound in Rose’s head got louder.

“What are we going to do, Tony?” The lady’s voice took an anxious tone. “You know you can’t drive at night. And I’ve got a dreadful headache.”

Rose’s head jerked up. The ticking sound stopped in her head and a bell went off.

There
was
no place for visitors to stay in Stoney Ridge. Her mind started to spin. What if she started an inn at the farm? The basement of the farmhouse was finished off with drywall and had an exterior entrance. It was filled with her mother-in-law’s junk-that-Vera-called-heirlooms but it could be emptied out. And she could cook breakfast
for the guests. Rose was a good cook. Even Vera had said so, and she wasn’t a woman given to handing out compliments.

But would the bishop let tourists stay at the farm? Maybe there was a rule about this kind of thing. Maybe that’s why there weren’t any bed-and-breakfasts in Stoney Ridge. But then, she thought, maybe it’s better not to ask. It was always easier to apologize later. Besides, Bishop Elmo seemed like a kind man. Surely, he would understand a mother’s plight. The church had been good to them, generous and gracious, but she needed to find a way to take care of her family.

Would an inn bring in enough cash to solve her ongoing cash shortfall? She doubted it. But it would certainly help.

She paid for the groceries with the wad of bills wrapped in a rubber band that she kept in her dress pocket. As she picked up the bags, her heart felt lighter than it had in months. The best cure for sadness was doing something. Her eyes searched the skies, finding a small opening where the clouds parted and blue sky showed through. “Thank you,” she said, grinning ear to ear. “Thank you for Plan B.”

She ran over to the car where the man and the lady were loading groceries and invited them to stay at the farm.

Suzanne Woods Fisher
is the author of the bestselling Lancaster County Secrets and Seasons of Stoney Ridge series.
The Search
received a 2012 Carol Award and
The Waiting
was a finalist for the 2011 Christy Award. Suzanne’s grandfather was raised in the Old Order German Baptist Brethren Church in Franklin County, Pennsylvania. Her interest in living a simple, faith-filled life began with her Dunkard cousins. Suzanne is also the author of the bestselling
Amish Peace: Simple Wisdom for a
Complicated World
and
Amish Proverbs: Words of Wisdom from the
Simple Life
, both finalists for the ECPA Book of the Year award, and
Amish Values for Your Family: What We
Can Learn from the Simple Life
. She has an app, Amish Wisdom, to deliver a proverb a day to your iPhone, iPad, or Android. Visit her at
www.suzannewoodsfisher.com
to find out more.