Читать книгу The Amish Spinster's Courtship - Emma Miller - Страница 13

Marshall Byler stepped into the shade of the concrete block dairy barn that housed the new Miller harness shop and breathed a sigh of relief. The July sun was hot and the day was muggy, just what one would expect for midsummer in Kent County and sure to make the corn grow. He’d been cultivating his corn in his east field when a groundhog had startled Toby, the younger of his two horses, and he’d spooked.

Marshall had gotten the horses calmed down before they tore up more than a small portion of his crop. However, somewhere in the frantic shying of the team, Toby’s britchen strap, a section of harness that kept the horse from getting tangled in the traces, snapped. Marshall didn’t need the harness immediately, but he decided to go ahead and drop it off for repair right away, so it would be ready when he needed it again.

Miller’s Harness Shop would save him time because it was closer to his farm than the Troyer Harness Shop, which he usually frequented. And he also liked the idea of giving his business to the new place; there was enough leatherwork to be done in Hickory Grove to support both the Troyer and the Miller families. Besides, the shop was owned by his new friend Will’s father and it seemed only right to go there.

Marshall waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the shadowy shop with its massive overhead beams and concrete flooring. A section of the former milking stalls had been cordoned off from the rest of the barn, and the stanchions and feed trough was replaced with shelving, display space with an assortment of items for sale and a counter with a cash register.

“Hello! Anyone here?” he called. When he got no answer, he put two fingers to his lips and whistled.

Still no response.

When he and his brother had driven into the yard, they hadn’t seen anyone around. Yet the wooden sign beside the half-open Dutch door read Velcom Friends. It was long past the midday meal, so where was the proprietor? Glasses and a pitcher of lemonade stood by the cash register with a sign that read Refresh Your Thirst. Ice cubes, mint and lemon slices floated in the clear pitcher, a sight that made Marshall realize just how thirsty he was. Noticing a brass bell beside the cash register, he rang it before pouring himself a glass of the lemonade and taking a deep swallow.

Marshall gasped as the strong taste of sour lemon filled his mouth and made his eyes water. He grimaced and began to choke just as the door swung open to reveal a young Amish woman in a green dress and white kapp. He tried to clear his throat and coughed.

“Atch,” she said, and clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle. “You weren’t supposed to drink that yet.” She held up a pint jar of raw sugar in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. “I still need to add the sugar.”

“You’re telling me,” Marshall replied. Rather, he tried to reply, but his voice came out in a strangled croak and he began to cough again.

She pointed at him with her spoon and grimaced. “Sorry. Though my mam did teach me to make lemonade so you could taste the lemons.”

“Did she?” He laughed, then choked again. When he found his voice, he spoke, captivated by the pretty young woman’s eyes, her smile. “Your mam would approve of this batch for certain.” Marshall wanted to ask her how he was supposed to know there was no sugar in the lemonade yet, but he was enjoying the back and forth too much. Instead, he wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve. He spotted a smudge of topsoil and wished he’d taken the time to go to the house to change his shirt before coming to the shop. He also wished he’d worn his better straw hat; this one had a bite out of it, thanks to his brother’s pet goat.

The woman hurried past him, putting the service counter between them before depositing the jar of sugar beside the pitcher. “I am sorry,” she repeated. Then she giggled again.

Marshall watched her. “I can see I’ll have to be more careful about reading signs literally when I come in here.”

“Maybe you should.” She smiled to herself as she added the sugar to the pitcher and stirred with the spoon.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was sure they’d never met before because he would have remembered her, but there was something so familiar about her. It was like the taste of his favorite pie. All pies were different, but blueberry had its own special flavor. This girl wore the Amish clothing of every other local girl he knew, but there was something remarkably different, yet familiar, about her...as though he’d known her all his life. And suddenly he wanted to know her for the rest of his life.

Just this morning he and his grandmother, who lived with him and his little brother, were discussing his marriage prospects. Or lack of, in her eyes. For months she’d been talking about how it was time for him to start thinking about settling down and having a family of his own. He wondered what she would think if he walked back into the house this afternoon and told her he might have found the girl for him.

The woman regarded Marshall with shining almond-shaped eyes as green as spring grass. “What can I do for you?” She eyed the leather strap in his hand.

“I’m Marshall, Marshall Byler,” he told her, deliberately stalling in explaining his reason for coming. “I live just down the road. The farm with the old pear trees by the mailbox?”

She didn’t respond.

Marshall wasn’t in the least bit discouraged. He liked a bit of chase with a girl. “And you must be a Miller?”

She shook her head and continued to stir. “Ne.”

He took a step forward and inspected her closer. She was tall for a woman, perhaps taller than he was. And slender as a willow. She wasn’t a beauty in the usual sense, not tiny and softly rounded like his neighbor Faith King. But when this newcomer turned those intense green eyes on him, he found himself almost stunned. Not to mention slightly tongue-tied. She was sharp as a straight razor, this one, and direct in her speech, more outspoken than most of the girls around here. Deliciously tart...like her lemonade.

Marshall smiled at her, a practiced expression that had caused more than a few feminine hearts to flutter. Surely, this maedle behind the counter could see his charm and recognize him for the superior fellow he was? He held up the broken strap.

She seemed not to notice his smile. Instead, all business, she left the spoon in the pitcher of lemonade and put out her hand. “Let me see what we’re dealing with.”

“You’re not a Miller?” he ventured, determined to have her name.

She accepted the piece of leather from him and scrutinized it. “This damage looks fresh.”

“Ya,” he admitted. “My gelding’s young, still green in the harness. He shied at a groundhog and caused a bit of a panic with his teammate.”

“Neither animal harmed, I hope?” she asked.

Marshall warmed to the concern in her eyes and shook his head. “Ne, both fine.” He hesitated. “You asked about the horses, but not the man?”

She lifted her head and inspected him with a new interest, or so he hoped. “You look to be in one piece, Marshall Byler.”

Then she returned her attention to the harness. “This strap has given a lot of service and the leather is near worn through here and here.” She indicated two places on the leather. “It could be fixed, but you might be better off with a new one.”

“Let’s see, if you aren’t a Miller, you must be one of Rosemary’s daughters. I’ve met two of your sisters.” He eyed her. “You don’t favor any of them, which is why I didn’t make the connection. Why haven’t I seen you at any of the singings?”

“Mended or made new?” she asked. “What will it be?”

Marshall drew himself up to his full height, bringing his eyes level with those intriguing green ones. “What’s your name?”

Her lips tightened again, and flecks of gold tumbled in the green irises. “Lovage. Lovage Stutzman.”

He rapped his knuckles on the counter. “Ah, I knew you were one of Rosemary’s daughters. She was a Stutzman before she married Benjamin, right? My grandmother is distantly related to some New York Stutzmans. What kind of name is Lovage? I never knew an Amish girl called Lovage.”

She tied a yellow paper tag to one end of his harness strap. “My mother likes herbs,” she explained. “I’m Hannah Lovage, but I’ve never used Hannah.”

He removed his straw hat and used his handkerchief to wipe his forehead. It had seemed so much cooler in the harness shop than outside, but it was definitely heating up inside. “Rosemary’s eldest daughter, then. I know your stepbrother Will. You’re the one who stayed behind to see to the sale of your mother’s property.”

She nodded, inspecting him through dark, thick lashes.

What was it about those eyes? And now that he studied her close up, something was striking about her high cheekbones, the curve of her jawline, the way her soft brown hair framed her face. Ne, perhaps she wasn’t pretty by conventional standards, but she was handsome. She was what his grandmother would call a timeless beauty. A woman who would keep her looks over the years.

“And you live here now, right?” he asked. “Your stepbrother Will said everything was settled for your mother in upstate New York. He called you Lovey.”

“Just moved in. Have you made a decision about the strap?” She held it in the flat of her palm.

“What?” He’d been concentrating so much on her appearance that he hadn’t really heard what she’d said.

“Mended or replaced with new? Your britchen strap.” She raised her eyebrows. “The reason you came to my stepfather’s harness shop?”

“Um...whatever you think.” He pressed his hands on the counter, leaning closer to her, and on impulse asked, “Lovey, would you let me drive you home from the singing this Friday night? It’s going to be at Asa King’s.”

“It’s Lovage and I would not.” She wrote his name on the tag in small, perfect print. “Come back in five business days and this will be ready.” She wrote on a receipt pad on the counter and ripped off the page.

“Why won’t you let me take you home from the singing? Have you got a steady beau?”

“Ne, I don’t have a beau. I won’t go home with you from the singing because there is no singing at the Kings. It was canceled.”

He grinned. “Fair enough.” He thought fast, unwilling to walk away without some commitment from her. “Wait, there’s a softball game Saturday night. At the bishop’s farm. How about that? Men against the women. You do play, don’t you? You look like a pitcher.”

“Catcher,” she replied. She handed him the receipt.

“So...is that a maybe you’ll let me take you home Saturday night?”

She smiled sweetly. “Ne. It is not. Thank you for your business, Marshall Byler. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take this back to the workroom.”

“Will you at least think about riding home with me?” he called after her as she walked away.

She didn’t respond, but Marshall wasn’t in the least bit discouraged. She’d come around. He knew she would. The girls always did. “Nice meeting you, Lovey Stutzman. See you Saturday.” He rapped his knuckles on the wooden counter a final time.

“Lovage,” she called over her shoulder.

Marshall was still grinning when he walked out of the harness shop and back to the wagon, where Sam waited for him.

“What are you so happy about?” Sam asked, looking up at his big brother.

“I’m more than happy. I’m ecstatic, blissful, elated.” Marshall climbed up into the wagon and took the reins. “Because I’ve just met the woman I’m going to marry.”

* * *

In the workroom in the rear of Benjamin’s harness shop, Lovage stopped beside the worktable where one of her sisters was using an oversize treadle sewing machine to stitch a strap on a new halter. Ginger, twenty-three, was two years younger than Lovage and twin to Bay Laurel.

Ginger paused, glanced up at her and offered a teasing smile. “I see you met Marshall Byler.”

Lovage dropped the britchen strap on the long plank table. “It can be fixed, but you might be better off just making him a new one. Look at it and see what you think.”

Preferring harness-making to housework and minding children, Ginger had worked in Benjamin’s shop for the past three years, first in New York where they used to live and now in Hickory Grove. Her small hands were deft at fashioning leather into everything from bridles to belts to dog leashes. Ginger may have been a woman, but she’d quickly become Benjamin’s most skilled leather worker, surpassing even his sons.

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Ginger’s green eyes twinkled mischievously. “If I’d known that was him ringing the bell, I’d have waited on him myself.”

“You know him?”

“Every Amish girl of marrying age in the county knows Marshall Byler. Wishes he’d ask her out.”

“You, too?” Lovage asked, looking down at Ginger, who was seated on a wooden stool.

Ginger lowered her gaze to her work at hand. She lifted the foot of the sewing machine, adjusted the leather and dropped the foot again. “Are you going to let him take you home after the softball game?”

Lovage gazed at her sister.

Ginger was the prettiest of the Stutzman girls, blonde and green-eyed. And she was a flirt if there ever was such a thing among Old Order Amish. Back in New York, several mothers and a matchmaker had contacted their mother inquiring as to Ginger’s availability as a possible match for their sons. Apparently, half the young men in Cattaraugus County, New York, were smitten with her. Rosemary had declared her second daughter too young to marry yet and had then whisked her off to Delaware.

“You were eavesdropping on my conversation with Marshall Byler?” Lovage asked, not even a little bit surprised.

“Maybe.” Ginger nibbled on her lower lip. “From this stool, I hear all sorts of things in the front shop. Last week I heard that Mary Aaron Troyer is trying to match her twin boys with twin sisters from Kentucky.” She shrugged. “Not sure they’re keen on the idea. Are you going to the softball game?”

“You’re certainly interested in my comings and goings.” Lovage crossed her arms over her chest, pretending to be put out with the whole discussion. The truth was she was flattered by Marshall’s attention. Though she didn’t quite understand it. Not many boys expressed interest in her. She wasn’t pretty enough or flirty enough. If a boy wanted to walk out with a Stutzman girl, Ginger was his choice every time. “And no one invited me.”

Ginger ran the length of stitch and when the sewing machine was quiet again, she said, “It sounded to me as if Marshall Byler just invited you. Everyone’s invited, anyway. It’s a neighborhood game. We’ve gone before. Sometimes boys from Rose Valley even come.” She snipped off a bit of loose thread from the halter with a pair of homemade scissors. “We play at Bishop Simon’s house. He has a good field, even a backstop. He’s nice. Jolly. And not too long-winded on Sundays. You’ll love his wife, Annie. She’ll make chocolate whoopie pies with peanut butter filling for the snack table. Wait until you taste them.” Ginger took a breath and went on without waiting for Lovage to respond. “You should accept Marshall’s offer.”

“I certainly should not.” Now Lovage was slightly peeved with her favorite sister for listening to what should have been a private conversation. Or maybe embarrassed. “I don’t even know him—don’t care to.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if I ride home with him.” Ginger tilted her head and giggled. “Will you?”

“You’re impossible.” Lovage tried to sound vexed, but it was all she could do not to laugh at her sister’s boldness. She knew she should admonish Ginger for eavesdropping, but with four sisters, and now a houseful of brothers, who could expect privacy? It was impossible. And she could never be cross with one of her sisters for long. Certainly not over a boy. “You like all the single young men,” she reminded her.

“Most, but not all,” Ginger agreed. “Nothing wrong with liking the boys, so long as I remember everything Mam taught me about protecting my reputation.” Her sister’s amusement brought out her dimples. “I think Marshall is fun. Bay does, too. I know she’d ride home with him if he asked.”

“He thinks he’s so good-looking. Charming.” Lovage frowned, secretly wondering if she dared be so bold as to accept Marshall’s invitation. Then she asked herself, what would be the point? She wasn’t the kind of girl a boy like him would be interested in. She couldn’t fathom why he’d asked to take her home from the softball game. Was it a way to get in good with Ginger? But that made no sense, because Ginger already said she was interested in him. Marshall Byler probably knew he could get any girl in the country into his buggy.

“Marshall is good-looking. But also faithful.” Ginger carefully studied the halter she’d finished, found no flaws and set it aside. She looked up at her sister. “And you really aren’t interested in him?”

“Ne, I am not.” Lovage said it with more conviction than she felt. “I just arrived in Hickory Grove. I’m certainly not going to get involved with some fast-talking farmer my first week here. Especially not now when Mam needs my help more than ever.”

Ginger rolled the remaining thread onto the spool and tucked it into the drawer under the tabletop. “Probably just as well.” She wrinkled her nose. “Marshall’s not your type.”

“And who is my type?” Lovage rested on hand on her hip. “Ishmael Slabaugh?” she asked, referring to the young man she’d come close to becoming betrothed to.

Her sister shook her head so hard that her scarf slipped off the back of her head. “Ne, I didn’t care for him. Too serious. I’m glad you didn’t marry him. You can do better.” She removed the navy scarf and tied it over her hair again. Unruly tendrils of curly yellow hair framed her heart-shaped face, a face with a complexion like fresh cream, an unusually pretty face with practically no freckles and soft, dark brows that arched over thick lashes and large, intelligent eyes.

Envy was a sin, and only a wicked girl would be envious of a much-loved sister. But not resenting Ginger’s golden hair, rosebud lips and pert nose wasn’t easy when you were a brown-haired string bean with a too-full mouth and a firm German chin. Lovage had to remind herself to put it all into proper perspective. She, Ginger, Bay, Tara and Nettie had always been close, and having sisters that everyone called the catch of the county was her burden to bear. Aunt Jane, her dat’s older sister, hadn’t made it any easier, always pointing out that Lovage took after her plain, sensible father and not her mother with her pretty face and quirky ways.

“It’s probably just as well you don’t ride home with Marshall. You’re not suited for someone like him,” Ginger continued. “He’s looking for a fun girlfriend.”

“What? And I’m not fun?” Lovage frowned, opening her arms wide. “How can you say that? I’m fun. I like to do fun things.”

Ginger giggled. “You are a lot of things, but fun isn’t the first thing that comes to mind when I think of you. You’re strong and brave and caring. And you’re dependable. You’ve always been there for your family and anyone in need. But fun?” She wrinkled her nose. “Not so much.”

Lovage rolled her eyes.

“If anything,” Ginger went on, “you can be the opposite of fun. You never do anything that’s not comfortable for you. You never... What’s the Englisher phrase? Step out of your box? Bay and I are sure you’d have a better chance of finding a beau if you didn’t take yourself and life so seriously.”

“You’re wrong,” Lovage insisted. “I don’t have a beau because I don’t want one. And I certainly don’t want a husband. Not right now, at least.”

“Me, neither,” Ginger confided. She rose from her seat and carried the newly finished halter to a peg on the wall. “I want to go to frolics and enjoy myself for a few years. When I marry, it will be for life. Plenty of time to be serious then.”

“Mam thinks I should be looking for a husband,” Lovage mused. “Just last night when we were getting ready for bed, she reminded me that I have a birthday coming up.”

“You’ve got time. Twenty-five isn’t old age.” Ginger stood and perched on the edge of the worktable, crossing her legs at the knee and swinging a slim, bare foot. “And the sooner you marry, the sooner Mam will start thinking it’s time for Bay and me to make a match. And, like I told you, neither of us is in a hurry.”

“Goot. We agree on something.”

“But...” Ginger chuckled and shook her head. “Since you brought up the subject, I may as well have my say as chew on it like an old cow’s cud.”

“Say it then,” Lovage replied. “You know you will, anyway.”

“Okay, so maybe...” Ginger leaned forward and looked her straight in the eye. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so stubborn, and listen to someone once in a while. You know I love you more than gingerbread, and I only want what’s best for you.”

Lovage grimaced. “All right, all right. Say it and get it over with.”

“I’ve been talking to Bay and we agree. Our advice to you as the new girl is to make friends and go to the singings and the ball games and the frolics. Enjoy yourself before you settle down with a husband and babies. I’m going to the softball game. I think we all are. You should come with us. You’re a mean catcher, and we need one. Most of the girls are afraid of the ball.”

Lovage suddenly felt nervous. “What if this Marshall pesters me to ride home with him?”

Ginger shrugged. “I doubt he will.” She broke into a sassy grin. “Not when I give him my best smile.”

Lovage sighed and glanced away. A part of her wanted to go to the softball game, but this thing with Marshall suddenly seemed like so much pressure. “But what if he does?”

“Then you should go ride home with him. Like I said, you’re not his type, but it might be a good way to meet other boys. To be friendly with Marshall. He knows everyone in the county.”

Lovage crossed her arms over her chest. A part of her wanted to tell Marshall she’d ride home with him, just to prove to Ginger that she could be fun.

“Come on. I dare you to do it.” Still grinning, Ginger poked Lovage in the arm with her finger. “Tell you what, sister. If you ride home from the softball game with Marshall Byler Saturday night, I’ll take your turn at washing dishes for a whole week.”