Willow_Bride of Pennsylvania Page 4

  The cat replied with a tired yawn.

  A gust of wind kicked up in the yard. Autumn leaves rustled, a cow mooed, and the chickens clucked away, as if they were hosting a garden party. Willow grinned, kneading and shaping the bread dough, then folding it into a loaf pan so that it could rise a second time. With that done, she washed her hands using the pump in the kitchen sink, then crossed the room to stand in front of the stove.

  The stove radiated heat. Willow took a deep breath, staring at it while her inside flopped this way and that. She could tell by the pot of chicken stock, vegetables, and rice she’d set on top to make a soup that it wasn’t hot enough. Amos had lit it for her before leaving that morning, but in the two days prior, she’d let it go out before supper, casually explaining to Amos when he returned home that she hadn’t needed it for cooking and the weather was balmy enough that they didn’t need its heat. Now she couldn’t get away with that excuse. Between the bread and the soup and the sausage she planned to cook later, there was no escape. She needed to build the fire back up.

  “I can do this,” she said to herself as much as to the cat. “I can put coal on a kitchen fire without burning the house down. It’s not like leaving scraps of fabric too close to a lamp and...”

  Her stomach turned at the thought, at the memory of what she’d done. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then forced herself to do what she had to do.

  Reaching for a thick cloth, she opened the stove’s fire box. The blast of heat that radiated out wasn’t half of what it should be, but it still gave Willow pause. She swallowed, gathered her courage, then began shoveling coal onto the glowing embers, topping it with a few pieces of wood for good measure.

  Once that was done, she shut the door and stepped back, breathing a sigh of relief. No embers had escaped, no coals had fallen out, and the fire box door wasn’t about to fly off its hinges. So far, so good.

  It would take the oven a while to heat to the proper temperature. The bread needed to rise as well. That meant that for the next half hour or so, she could busy herself with something else.

  With a quick glance to the cat, Willow turned and headed for the kitchen door. “Are you coming with me?” she asked her new feline friend. She would have to come up with a name for the watchful creature. Maybe Dusty. “No?” she asked again as she crossed out to the porch without the cat following her. She shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s perfectly lovely out here.”

  She drew in a deep breath to prove her point, skipping down the stairs and over to the garden. Before he’d left that morning, Amos had brought Lily out of the barn and tied her to a large maple in the yard next to the garden where she could eat the clover that dotted the grass.

  “Good morning, Lily,” Willow waved to her. “I’m just going to see to the garden now. Wish me luck.”

  Lily whickered in response.

  Gardening was another thing that Willow knew nothing about. The kitchen garden looked as though someone had been taking care of it. A few tomato plants well past their prime sat at one end with bean stalks that had given up all their beans for the year against another side. Several spots in the garden were bare, as if whatever had been growing there had already been pulled up or plowed under. That left one patch closest to the house littered with what looked like gangly weeds.

  “Pulling weeds is something I can do,” Willow assured herself.

  She brushed her hands on her apron and knelt at the corner of the garden. Whatever the long, green leaves on the plants that she pulled up were, they smelled lovely. The wind continued to blow through the treetops above her, the chickens clucked even louder, as if encouraging her, and the sun skittered in and out of patchy clouds.

  She hadn’t been pulling up weeds for more than five minutes before everything fell apart. A short crack from the chicken coop was the only warning she had before the wind blew over part of the fence surrounding it. A dozen flapping, squawking birds made their bolt to freedom in a dozen different directions.

  “Oh!” Willow leapt up from the pile of weeds she’d made at the edge of the garden. She wiped her hands on her apron, then dashed for the nearest bird, which had wandered close to Lily under the maple.

  Halfway across the yard, her foot caught one of the maple’s roots. With a yelp, Willow flew forward, grabbing for Lily as she sprawled in the grass. The fall knocked the wind out of her, but more than that, it startled Lily. With an alarmed whinny, Lily reared, her pregnant belly showing, and jerked to the side. It was enough of a jerk to break whatever loose knot Amos had used to tether her to the tree.

  Like the chickens, as soon as Lily was free, she ran for it, clopping down the lane toward the road.

  “No, oh no,” Willow shouted, breathless from her fall. She leapt to her feet, intending to chase after Lily, but one step and a sharp pain cut through her ankle. She gasped and limped, changing directions to lean against the maple’s trunk.

  That wasn’t the end of it. Before she had taken two breaths, a loud crash sounded from the kitchen, followed by the gray tabby’s alarmed cry. It dashed out through the kitchen door, darting toward the barn.

  “What did you do?” Willow called, expecting the worst.

  She pushed away from the tree and hobbled toward the house. Her ankle was bad enough to make her wince, but not so bad that she couldn’t walk. She climbed the stairs to the kitchen gingerly, then stopped dead as soon as she made it to the door.

  “No!”

  The blasted cat must have jumped up on the counter as soon as Willow had her back turned. The slab of butter that had been sitting on a plate on the counter just minutes before was now splattered across the floor, the plate shattered. With a strangled moan, Willow limped to the sink. She ran a cloth under the pump, then crouched on the floor to see if she could salvage any of the butter.

  It was a total loss, as was the plate. The best she could do was to scrape it up and wipe the floor. She had no idea how to dispose of a shattered plate of butter, so as soon as the floor was clean, she stepped out onto the kitchen porch once more, looking for a place to dump the mess that she knew was all her fault.

  She was met by the sight of half a dozen chickens running rampant through the garden, pecking at the weeds she’d just pulled and some of the plants that were still growing.

  “No, no, what are you doing?”

  Her ankle was still sore, but she tore down the kitchen stairs and into the garden as fast as she could, using her apron to shoo the chickens. They didn’t know where they were going and scattered this way and that—none of them smart enough to head back to the chicken coop—as Willow waved at them.

  “Oh dear,” Willow panted, pressing a hand to her chest. The garden was a mess, one side of the chicken coop was still blown over and Lily was—

  She gasped. She’d forgotten entirely about Lily, and the poor animal was pregnant. Amos hadn’t said when he thought the foal would be born. What if it was now?

  “Lily!” With a frantic cry, Willow pushed her way around a pair of rebellious chickens and out into the yard. “Lily, come back. Lily—Oh!”

  She stopped short at the sight of a pretty Amish woman, about her same age, standing in the drive with a baby in one arm and a little girl clasping her hand. At some point in Willow’s frantic rushing around, the woman must have walked through one of the fields or up the path into the yard. She stood there now with a bright smile on her face.

  “Do you need some help?” she asked.

  Willow had never been more grateful for an offer from a stranger in her life. Near to tears, she said, “Yes. The chickens got out and Lily broke away from where Amos tied her.” After a moment of hesitation, she added, “And the garden is a mess, the cat knocked butter on the floor, and I’m not sure if I’m making the bread right.” It felt so much better to vent all of her problems to another woman.

  The woman laughed, good-natured and sure. “Let’s worry about Lily first. The chickens won’t go far. They know where their food is. And there’s as little
point in crying over spilt butter as spilt milk.”

  It was exactly what Willow needed to hear. “Thank you,” she said as the woman started down the path with her to where Lily had come to rest. Her flight hadn’t been much of a bid for freedom after all.

  “You’re welcome,” the Amish woman said. The white ribbons of her kapp fluttered in the breeze around her, even though they were tied at the very ends. “I’m Beth Lapp, by the way.”

  “And I’m Sarah,” the little girl added. She couldn’t have been more than four or five. “And that’s my little brother, Amos.”

  Willow stumbled, eyes going wide. She paused. “Amos? Really?”

  “Yes,” Beth answered. Her eyes held a knowing look, one that was full of modesty and regret as well.

  “Amos is my husband’s name,” Willow told little Sarah, continuing on down the lane.

  “And what’s your name?” Sarah asked, her smile fresh as only a child’s could be.

  “Willow. Willow Stoltzfus.” It was the first time she’d spoken her married name aloud, and it filled her with confidence.

  “Willow is a kind of tree,” Sarah said. She tilted her head to the side and continued with. “I like it.”

  Beth’s only comment was a smile. “Here. You hold Amos and I’ll coax Lily to come to me,” she said.

  Willow took the chubby little baby, her heart fluttering with happiness and hope. This. This tiny bundle of joy in her arms. This could be hers and Amos’s soon.

  That thought was pushed aside as Beth picked up her pace and jogged after Lily. With a baby of her own on the way, Lily wasn’t as interested in running away as she had been at first. Beth caught her without a problem and led her back to the shady maple. She showed Willow how to tie a knot that would keep her secure. Then together the two of them—with Sarah’s help—rounded up the chickens and shooed them back into the chicken house.

  “You’ll have to get Amos to fix the coop wire when he gets home,” Beth said, wiping her hands on her simple, black apron, then gesturing as she, Willow, and Sarah headed toward the house. “But it looks as though they’ve done some real damage to your herb garden.”

  “To my what?” Willow was in the process of handing little Amos back to Beth and didn’t see what she pointed at.

  “The herb garden,” Beth went on. “The chickens, or perhaps some other animal, have torn up all the sage and thyme.”

  This time when Willow looked, she saw clearly what Beth was indicating. The pile of weeds she’d pulled earlier. They weren’t weeds after all. “Oh dear.” She sighed, letting her shoulders drop. “That wasn’t a critter, that was me.”

  “You?” Beth’s brow rose.

  “I don’t know anything about gardens,” Willow explained. “I thought they were weeds. Oh, I’m hopeless.”

  Beth blinked, then all at once, she laughed. “Where did you come from, Willow Stoltzfus? Of course those are herbs.”

  Willow shook her head, laughing at herself now too. All of the challenges of her day didn’t seem as hard to deal with now that she had a friend by her side.

  And it was clear in an instant that Beth Lapp was her friend, as fast and true as Gillian, Emma, and Rose had been.

  “Never mind,” Beth continued to giggle as they climbed the stairs to the kitchen. “I can help you replant them. As long as the roots are intact, I bet they can be saved.”

  As soon as they stepped into the kitchen, the smell of scalded soup and the rush of heat coming from the stove caused Willow to yelp. But rather than rushing toward the hot stove and the roiling, bubbling pot sitting on top of it, she recoiled into the corner. “Oh no, oh no!”

  “What? What is it?” Beth hurried to the stove, baby balanced against her hip, reached for the thick cloth Willow had used earlier on the fire box door, and shifted the pot of soup to a cooler burner. “It’s just a little burnt. I’m sure you can save it.”

  Flashes of the night of the fire—of standing outside the factory, feeling the heat and watching the flames lick up the building’s brick sides—made Willow weak. She gulped and pushed herself to stand straight. The danger had passed, she told herself. Even if she had caused the factory fire, that was in the past. Amos’s stove was fine. She needed to tell herself several times.

  “Willow, you’ve gone white as a sheet,” Beth said, tossing the cloth aside and marching toward her. “Whatever is the matter?”

  With a hand pressed to her chest, Willow confessed. “It’s the fire. It scared me is all.”

  “I’m scared of the fire too,” Sarah told her, sliding over to give Willow a tight hug. “It’s okay.”

  That simple, kind gesture spilled relief through Willow. It also brought her near to tears. “I spent the last two years working at a garment factory in Massachusetts,” she explained to Beth, who looked on with amazing patience. “Last month, the factory burned down. I…I think I was the one who caused the fire.”

  Beth’s eyes flared wide, but just as quickly they narrowed in thought. “How did you do that?”

  “I don’t know. I must have left scraps of fabric too close to the lamp near my workstation.” She shrugged. “They must have caught after I went home for the day.”

  Beth pursed her lips, frowned, searched her thoughts for a moment, then asked. “Did you turn your lamp off before you left that night? Were there other people in the factory after you left?”

  “I—” Willow stopped with her mouth open. She didn’t remember either way.

  Beth shook her head, coming closer, bouncing baby Amos in her arms. “Never you mind about that. There’s no fire here. It looks like you could use a bit of help, though. That stove is much too hot for cooking.”

  Willow sighed, leaving the past in the past for the time being. “I was afraid of that. I don’t know anything about cooking or taking care of a house or a farm. But I want to learn,” she rushed on. “Amos has been so kind to me so far. He…he changed my life by marrying me, and I think I changed his. I want to be the best wife possible, I just don’t know how.”

  Beth studied her for several long moments. At last, she drew in a breath, squared her shoulders, and said, “Then it’s a good thing I disobeyed Mark and wandered through our woods to welcome you.” Her smile grew. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s all about how to take care of a house and a farm. And I would say that I’m a fine cook as well, except that that’s prideful.” She ended her statement with a wink.

  Willow let herself relax and joined Beth in a laugh. “I’m making bread,” she said. “I followed the recipe in the box I found in the pantry, but I’ve never made bread before. I don’t know if I’ve done it right. Can you tell?”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  For the next few hours, Beth Lapp busied herself in Willow’s kitchen. She determined that the bread would turn out well enough, but shared a few tips to make it even better. She showed Willow how to bring the stove to the right temperature for baking and for cooking soup and sausage. She helped Willow salvage the soup, even though parts of it were a bit charred, and planned a few simple meals that she could make in the next few days.

  With the bread baking away, filling the whole house and part of the yard with the most delicious scent, Beth took Willow outside and helped her to replant the herbs she’d torn up. She explained everything that was in the kitchen garden, everything that had been there and that would need to be planted next year, and what should be done about the garden for the winter.

  By the time Beth and Sarah and little Amos said their goodbyes, as the shadows grew long and a nip filled the air, and walked back over the hill, Willow felt more confident about her chances of becoming a good wife than she’d had since she stepped off the train in Strasburg. It meant the world to have a friend to turn to for help and advice. There was just one problem….

  “This is delicious,” Amos told her as he spread freshly churned butter across the new loaf of bread. Churning butter was the last thing Beth had showed her how to do before returning home. “Where
did you learn to be such a fine cook?”

  Willow’s cheeks burned bright red at the compliment. “There are a lot of things about me that you don’t know,” she answered, her voice small and hollow. It was true, but in that context, it felt too much like a lie.

  Amos didn’t notice. He smiled and reached out to close his hand over Willow’s as it rested on the tabletop. “Every day, I’ve considered myself more and more fortunate for the way God brought us together.”

  The beautiful, heartfelt compliment squeezed around Willow’s heart like an embrace…and like a vise. Would Amos feel the same way when he learned that Beth Lapp—the wife of his best friend and worst enemy—had been at the house, teaching her everything she knew?

  Chapter Four

  Dear Gillian, Emma, and Rose,

  Does it count as lying if I simply don’t tell Amos the whole truth about something? This week has gone from being exhilarating but strange to being wonderful and constructive, but I owe that all to my new neighbor, Beth Lapp. She is so helpful and patient, and she makes me feel like I can do anything. She has the most precious daughter, Sarah. I want to become friends with them the way that we became friends, but Amos…well, Amos has kept himself isolated for far too long. I want to help him to see that having friends is a good thing, and maybe I’ve been handed an opportunity to do just that….

  By the time Sunday rolled around, Amos was as pleased with life as he could be.

  “This looks delicious.” He smiled as Willow placed a heaping plate of scrambled eggs blended with herbs from the garden, thick bacon, and toast slathered in butter and raspberry jam on the kitchen table in front of him. “You’ve really outdone yourself. I had no idea I’d married such an excellent cook. You’re almost as good as B—”

  He cut himself off and cleared his throat, picking up his fork and digging in.

  “Thank you,” Willow mumbled pink-cheeked.

  For whatever reason, she wouldn’t meet his eyes. She whipped back to the counter where all of the breakfast things were laid out, including a plate she’d fixed for herself. In a tight whisper that Amos couldn’t quite make out, she murmured a list of instructions to herself, pointing at each of the pots and pans, the loaf of bread, and the jar of jam as she went. She then glanced up to the beams of the ceiling, counted something off on her fingers, and turned to nod to the stove. Only then did she let out a breath—her shoulders dropping with it—and bring her plate to join him at the breakfast table. They said a quick, silent prayer together over the food.