

AMISH HOPE

BY SICILY YODER

COPYRIGHT 2012 BY THE AMISH GARDEN

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form either written or electronically without the express permission of the author or publisher.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and are therefore used fictitiously. Any similarity or resemblance to the actual persons; living or dead, places or events are purely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or publisher.

Photo courtesy of Photo Bucket

Published on Smashwords

CHAPTER ONE

Bloomington, Indiana

Summer, 1917

Charlotte Miller sat across from the doctor and screamed, "Where are my brothers and my sisters?" Tell me now, Doctor!" Her peach complexion heated up to a deep red, her face grimacing with anger. What on earth was she doing in the doctor's office shivering under the hand-knitted baby blue shawl without anyone else from her family there at such a tragic time?

Seven siblings- seven to be exact, and she'd just claimed her mother and sister's bodies and she had to decide the future of the family farms and finances. Hadn't they been told about the accident? Did they even care?

Charlotte pouted, her face still reddened and her heart still heavy. She felt taken advantage of, neglected, and to be honest, she felt deserted by her siblings.

Nervously, she laced her hands and then popped her knuckles. Her stomach swiftly jiggled; the nausea was so strong that she wanted to die to get out of misery, and if the doctor had offered, she'd taken a bed in the back of the office after viewing the bodies. Now, four hours later, she was still in town crisscrossing from shop to shop to try to figure out how to plan and execute a proper funeral before ending back up where the bodies lay.

She gritted her teeth, quickly folded her arms, and flopped back into the couch. She was mad, and she had the right to throw a temper tantrum, and she knew it, so she carried on, lashing out at the doctor. "I will not have the funeral without them being here to make some of the decisions. It's pouring rain outside, and I feel like I'm coming down with a cold. I'm delicate, and they know that, and they need to get here and run those farms now. I'm not a farmer. I want to be a schoolteacher!"

Her siblings knew she'd been boxed up in the house for sixteen years with a mysterious illness. Why, she'd never touched a hoe or gathered water from the spring until the past few weeks, and that was because she could finally be outside. Besides, it had taken her forever to dig around the orchard grass and sheet tin to dig up the next to last hole of last year's preserved potatoes. How on earth could she bury a whole field of potatoes at the speed and accuracy that her mother Pearl had done? She couldn't, and she knew it.

She firmly bit her bottom lip and felt the stinging sensation caused by her sharp, white teeth. Pouting, she stewed for a couple of minutes before forcing her yellow curl-covered head up to study the handsome doctor's face. His eyes seemed sympathetic and compassionate. Her stomach continued to sway as she rubbed her left hand over it and hoped that she wouldn't vomit on the hardwood floor.

The Doctor broke her preoccupied pity, "They want no part in the farm. It's where you've lived all of your life, and to be bluntly, they don't think that you can survive out in the real world." The Town Doctor forced a smile and waited for her response. His sun-stroked face glowed under the hanging gold chandelier. He sat in a folding chair across from the couch, in which she was sitting, with a concerned look and an attentive ear. Old-framed awards and certificates of practice dotted the walls, and the room smelled of medicine and thick cherry cigar smoke from his pipe.

She lifted her light blue gloved right hand up to her face and wiped away the cold tears that freely flowed down her ruby red cheeks. "I suppose there is some truth to that since I spent my school years being taught by mother." She slid down into the couch and eyed her lap with great disappointment. Sixteen long years boarded up in one five-room house. How could she be a real lady, one with her own experiences, those that would mold her into an adult?

A sigh of restlessness blew through her perfectly-formed cherry-colored lips before they flattened and expanded into a smile. "I can understand, but it doesn't make it fair." She sighed and leaned up toward the doctor. "I'm just overwhelmed. I'm sorry that I gave such an immature outburst." She hung her head, her beautiful spirals of gold flowing over the bright blue hues that bordered the entire fancy garment's ocean of ruffles.

He nodded and leaned back into the chair to admire her beauty. Her peach-toned face wasn't sun-kissed, and her height wasn't even the height that he liked his ladies to be, but there was something about her whole body that made her remarkably beautiful, and he could feel that she didn't know it.  What a pity, he thought, for he knew that most ladies with that kind of attractiveness used it well to their advantage. She would not; she'd have to fight and fend for herself out in the real world.

Would he be doing her a favor by telling her that she was the most beautiful lady that he'd ever seen, so much that her beauty stunned him, took him by surprise? He smiled and concluded that it would do her a world of good to dance with the wolves: to have to run two busy farms, support herself without the financial help of any of the men folk, and to find a man that she loved for his heart and not for his money.

He hadn't seen a good, strong woman in a long time: the Proverbs 31 Woman. She would blend in well in Walnut Creek, and he knew it. Walnut Creek was full of hard-working Proverbs 31 women, and most of them were Amish. Charlotte was Amish, but as she sat there in front of him, she looked like a Broadway actress.  Why had she changed the look that the women in her family had worn for years? Had the bishop seen her yet? He doubted it as he ran his eyes down her sparkling evening dress.

He anxiously bit his bottom lip and thought more deeply. He was in Bloomington with very little Amish.  Why had her family wanted to settle here? No other families had followed after the first missionary flow there leaving very few Amish. Before practicing in Bloomington, he had practiced in Walnut Creek, and he thought it was the best place in the world to raise a family with the strong Christian values, hospitality, and compassion that the Old Order Amish showed everyone.

The baby blue umbrella tapped against the wooden floor as she thought about fighting. She'd been a quitter all of her life, and she knew it having been babied by family because of her mysterious illness. She had to be honest; this was only the eleventh time that she'd been outside their rural five-room farmhouse since she was an infant. Could she really make it on her own?

Her girdle brushed across her frozen chest as a couple of rib-hugging breaths forced their way into her lungs. Her eyes rolled. An emotional tug of war, which was painful, just as painful as her isolated life, stabbed her in the middle of her tightly-fitted lace-covered chest.

She searched the handsome doctor's face for empathy, "Isn't it ironic that I finally get healed from the strange disease six weeks before my Mother Pearl and Sister Lola are killed in the accident? God just yanks them up and snatches them away without asking me. Her left hand swept up in a snapping motion before she cleared her throat and continued, "He just plucked them from the earth as if he thought that I could survive down here without them."

"You can, Charlotte. I know it, God knows it, and so do you," The Doctor got up and extended his arm over her shoulder. "Just take care of yourself and remember to stay out of the sun. We don't know much about this disease, except that the sun triggers relapses. If you get a relapse, you may die."

"Yes, Sir," she softly nodded as a deep breath exited her chest. Closing the important meeting, her slender legs rose and her sweaty hand united with his for a brief but brisk handshake. She arched her back and squared her shoulders to try to gain confidence. Her long blonde hair's usual glow overpowered her now ivory face. Her stomach swayed, but she inhaled and exhaled some deep breaths to try not to lose her morning coffee on the Town Doctor's hardwood floor. "I can do it; goodbye."

The office door closed shut. The night wind and rain hurled coldness under her umbrella causing her knees to stiffen and her back to ache. Where was the buggy? Her head shook with disappointment and her body shivered; how had she forgotten that she had tied the horses at Hickman's Café instead of the doctor's place? She trekked the short block walk and thanked God that she had a good, heavy hair of head to properly protect her eyes from the cold snap. I don't want to get an earache; I am already coming down with a cold.

She untied the horses and got into the buggy. She thought about what to do as the horses trotted down the empty street. Laughter and loud music echoed out of the saloon as a man was thrown out. He stumbled in front of her buggy with a busted mouth and bleeding lips.

Alcohol strained through the air as the rain got harder. The reddened-faced man stumbled half way up and grabbed his stomach. His rough curly hair and fast talking made her nauseous, for he was her uncle, and he was the very reason that she had gotten the mysterious disease that had tucked her in her home for sixteen long, hard years. Why on earth had he lathered a "secret hair tonic" all over an infant knowing that infants touch every part of their body that they can reach and then aim for their mouths? She probably would have been okay if she hadn't ingested some of the chemicals that were in the hair tonic.

"Sorry Ma'am. I'm going back in there!" He finally stood all the way up and ran back into the saloon, and she shook her head wondering why he hadn't recognized her, for he lived in her old upstairs bedroom while he was in town.

"Don't sell anymore cans of that hair tonic!" Charlotte screamed, but he was already back into the bar. She sat and waited for him to be thrown out of the bar a second time, prepared to take him home, but the swinging wooden doors just swayed a little with the outside wind.

Should she go in and approach him? It wouldn't prove anything, but deep down, tucked away within her chest, was a flame of unforgiveness, one that any liquid couldn't quench, and she felt bad about having this grudge. In her Old Order Amish faith, forgiveness was a must. It wasn't that she didn't forgive him for the accident, but that she didn't forgive him for continuing to drink alcohol after the accident had occurred.

Her gut feelings told her that he hadn't learned anything from being drunk the night that he'd lathered the hair tonic on her and to her that meant that her life and the pain that he had inflicted on her didn't matter because she wasn't important.

She remembered nothing about the day that he'd come into town, for she was only a happy infant, at least that was how her mamm, or mother had told the story of the day that she'd gotten sick. The very same man that had just rolled, with blood and spinning dirt, in front of her buggy had been the one that had had a drinking problem with strong liquor from the time he'd left her close-knit Old Order Amish community at the age of sixteen.

It looked like nothing had changed for this uncle, and in a way, she felt sorry for him. How could she forgive a man that saturated her whole head with a "miracle hair grower" while she lay in her baby bed? What he had done was wrong, and her daed, or father was wrong too, but she never told him, and now that he'd been dead for a year, she'd never get to tell him. He'd wanted Uncle Graham to get saved and re-join their Christian community, so he put up with his wild recklessness during the visits that he'd make several times a year.

The Miller family had fought like tooth and nail to flee religious persecution in Europe, only to find that something far worse existed in The States: the power of gold. Americans seemed to treasure it, even dream of it, and even worship it. Would they have been killed if they had stayed in Europe? If they had gotten raided and tried to flee, would her mother be trapped on the other side of the barbed wire fence like Erma Yoder's grandmother?

She suddenly felt guilty about wearing the flowing evening gown, for the straight pins in her cape dress symbolized the loss of life and the price that was paid for freedom to America. She smiled and led the horses around the sharp right turn out of town. Wasn't Uncle Graham living the American dream? He'd built a home ailment and spice business from the dirt ground up, and he had worked hard at it; however, he'd drank hard, too, and it had shown in the letters that he'd written her father Earl.

Even after Earl's death, her mother Pearl had invited Graham in when he'd come to town twice a year and she had done that up to the day that she'd died. Charlotte knew that her mother didn't feel comfortable with him around with his loud tone and rough-housing with her siblings. He never rough-housed with Charlotte because he'd felt guilty about bringing about the strange disease, and the little bags of glowing red-striped and deep lavender-coated stick candy that he'd always spread out on the wooden kitchen table before them had offered a counter for his guilt.

The horses were rushed as they fled out of town. The storm intensified bending tree branches like strands of yarn. The smaller ones looked like they could snap at any time, and that scared her, for she'd stayed inside their tiny house for sixteen years because of her illness, and she'd never been in the storm. Truth be told, her whole life was a storm, and she knew it.

She jumped a little each time a strong rain current zipped across the buggy, for it felt odd against her face. She lifted her eyes to heaven, and although she couldn't see His Face, she talked to him, exactly like she'd talked to Him from the upstairs bedroom window, where she stayed all the time, except for mealtime and schooling, which were done at the wooden kitchen table that her father had made. "God, I want to leave right now and be with mamm and daed. I know that I don't know much about you because I never went to the other church members houses for Sunday services, but I do know that you loved and cared for my family."

She hadn't heard him answer, so she assumed that she'd have to find another way to get to heaven. She let go of the blue umbrella and watched it swirl into the storm's strong fury. The answer was in the sun, and she knew it. She would soon be in the comfort of heaven, but she didn't know how long it would take the sun to cause a relapse that would end her lonely life.
CHAPTER TWO

"Candy, Candy! Fresh peppermint sticks, straight from New York, and I even have the highest quality black licorice pastels from London England!" The man spun in front of her, annoying her, as most salesmen did, and he recognized her disapproval of street vendors right away, so he stepped back and waited for her to pass; she did not.

"Step in front of a lady." She rolled her eyes and threw her head back.

Her silky blonde hair was heavy, and it extended down her back to her curvy hips. Unlike the other passersby, she hadn't an umbrella to shield her fair complexion from the sun, and although she was trying to act a bit upper class, he knew that she was not, for all proper ladies had an umbrella on scorching hot summer days.

He studied her further to see if his assumptions of a lower class were correct. Her blue ruffled dress curved over her mature chest and clung to her tiny waist. Like a gala dress, the dress took on a new life at the hips, sprawling out like it wanted to be twirled by a gentleman like himself. "Am I making you angry, sweetheart? Don't worry; I travel the whole country, and I am from New York. You do not impress me at all. I know poverty when it's hidden. You can't afford my candy, and I know it. Move on, and I'm sorry that I almost tripped you."

Her attitude took a nosedive as she sighed and looked apologetic. "Sorry to be in your way. I'm a runaway." She pouted and then lifted her head up. "At least I feel like it since my mother died. I'm all alone and trying to decide whether I shall sell my farm."

He waved his hand for her to step away. "Nice talking to you. Are you buying candy today or not? There are paying customers behind you; two of my regular customers.

She turned and saw a rude-looking upper class lady. She had a matching pink umbrella and was clinging to her eager-eyed little boy's left hand. His straight black hair matched the long loose strands that framed his mother's face. The boy looked to be around seven years old and ready for first grade.

"Sorry Ma'am; I'm Charlotte Miller, and I'll be teaching school here in the fall." She smiled at the lady, but the lady didn't smile back.

Charlotte turned and walked onto the sidewalk in search of The General Store, in which she needed to pick up her teaching planner and school student list. She also needed to get her mail from the post office. Johnny had promised to write her when he'd gotten settled in on his makeshift camp site next to the railroad. She couldn't believe that he'd wanted to up and leave Nappanee for a job that might turn out to be temporary. Sure, the money was almost double what he'd been earning at the lumberyard, but he had nowhere to go. The only family that he knew in Sugarcreek was Linda Miller, and she didn't like hanging around boys, for she was a natural tree-climber tomboy, and she always had been. Would her brother ever learn?

"He was a little insulting, wasn't he Ma'am?" He tapped her shoulder, but she didn't turn to acknowledge him, for she knew his voice and she knew his intentions, and she didn't like them.

"Keep walking on. How rude!" His voice sadly lowered, and he got her attention.

She turned; her heavy dresses' bottom gently blew sideways with the brisk but dry summer breeze, its ends tapping against his legs. "I'm sorry Mr. Yoder. I am not feeling well. Did you follow me to town? Looks like you were eavesdropping on my conversation with the candy man."

"No Ma'am," he said, as he took her accusation as insulting, for he thought that it was very kind of him to look after her, to check up on her. "I was up with the chickens doing farm chores. Have you gathered your eggs yet? Mother is in The General Store selling our eggs for top dollar. This year has been our best year. I am sorry for your chickens." He grimaced and then continued, "I think that your brothers need to come back to the farm. You took the fence down from around the chicken barn. Did you see the wolf packs an hour ago? I'm sure they got your chickens."

She rolled her eyes and swung her blonde hair back, and then she got closer with tears welling in the corner of her eyes. "The chickens should be free to roam around the whole farm! I'm not going to mistreat any animal. They are gifts from God!"

Gasps of air and laughter floated down the busy Main Street sidewalk as mingling groups of socializers looked her way; they had been eavesdropping, which was a common activity among the townspeople, especially since the Beer Salon had opened.

"You said you're a schoolteacher?" The same snotty lady that had bumped her out of line at the candy man's mobile sales cart tugged at her child's hand and approached her. She looked her up and down, and then looked left and right to gain acclaim from the eager crowd, and she did it very well. "Schoolteachers aren't that dumb. I think that you must be Earl Miller's runt- that defective one that was locked inside all her life. What disgust to the town. Go to a home. There are many good ones in New York!"

"New York? She can't afford to go to New York! It cost fifteen percent of my budget to maintain an apartment there, and it's a small one compared to others since I'm always on the road." The Candy Man yelled as he scooted his mobile sales cart down Main Street. The bright sky blue swirled white confection that he held up in his hand looked good enough to crunch against her white teeth; her mouth watered as she imagined the fruity taste of the outside and the sweet, chalky texture of the white middle of the stick of candy.

The candy man continued his attention on the busy crowd and moved his mobile candy stand closer to The General Store, and Charlotte knew that Mr. Roberts, the store owner, probably didn't appreciate that, as he sold bulk candy from large wooden barrels and finer candy from glass jars that sat on the store counter.

"Didn't she inherit two farms? That's what Mrs. Smith just told me!" The snotty woman pointed to Mrs. Smith, who nodded in agreement. She then added, "She can sell them and use the money to pay her room and board for the rest of her life." "She'll need a job, for she can't teach my child.

The snotty lady jerked her gaze back to Charlotte. You're out for sure! Do you understand me little girl? You can't teach school. You're not real; you've been hoarded up in a shack all of your life. Teachers are ladies with the highest certifications!"

"How do I get these certifications that you talk about a teacher needing?" Charlotte's words sparked a chain reaction of on-lookers, and a large crowd had extended over the steps on both sides and onto the dirt street.

"Go to Ohio!" The Snotty Woman snapped, and then added, "Your people are there." She yanked her son's arm and made her way onto the street and around the crowd.

Charlotte looked at the candy man and asked, "Could I survive in Ohio? I have no relatives there, but I know that there are people of the same faith as me in Walnut Creek.

"It's also expensive. You don't even have weather protection, how are you going to pay an escort to drive you there?" The candy man shook his head and grabbed a lavender stick of candy and extended it to her. "Take this candy. It's broken so I can't sell it. I am sorry for the loss of your chickens."

"I shall hurry back to my farm. I don't want the candy," She politely denied the free offer and stepped down the sidewalk in search of her buggy.

As she drove the buggy out of town, the water of embarrassment and pain flowed freely down her face and over her pale skin. She'd already taken the Teacher's Certification, and in fact, she'd scored a perfect 100 percent on it just like the tests that her mother had always given her. She was hiding the fact because the snotty lady would surely give her trouble.

How could she teach in a town that found her to be incapable of running not just one farm, but two sprawling two-hundred acre farms: one was where she lived, and one was her neighbor's farm, not the noisy neighbor that was watching her and reporting all of her activities back to her eldest brother Samuel, but the quiet, reserved one that seemed to work silently in his field.

The quiet neighbor had a tall statue and the calmest silver hair. He spoke very little, and he kept deep tabs on his two sons. Being a widower, he'd settled in from the West, and none of the townspeople had ever made friends with him, for he'd never offered a cup of tea or a free dinner to anyone. Charlotte often wondered about this reserved man, and she would gaze out the upstairs bedroom window on snowy days to watch him help her daed shovel their way to the barns. Her father had always returned the nice gesture and had helped him shovel paths to his barns.

Her dry mouth tasted fear, and not of the approaching storm, for she now knew what it felt like to feel the rain drops against your skin, their coolness and refreshing ability to calm a stressed soul.  Why had her parents complained about the storms so much? She wiggled her brow and slacked up on the horses. The team cheerfully trotted along the dirt road. She looked up and felt the rain drops melt into her white skin, and she thought that it felt much better than the scorching heat wave that Bloomington had been having.

She thought that maybe her parents took the storm's wind, rain sprouts, and smelly earth for granted, whereas she'd dreamed of experiencing them. When one stands on the outside looking in ever since they learn to walk, they still can't believe that they are really in the storm. It's like a dream that's too good to be true, even after you feel the rain, and it saturates your hair and runs down your back, and you taste the flowing waterfall on the tip of your tongue, it's not real. She doubted that it would ever become real, or whether her teaching school would become a reality.

Reality needed to be her helping others like her mamm had helped her, the patience, the watchful eye, and most of all, the excitement when those that you're teaching learn something new or master a new skill. That's what Charlotte Miller wanted in life, and actually, that's all she needed.

The house, the dog, and the children: she didn't need any of it. She wanted to work long hours grading first grade papers, or stay after school to tutor the slower learners like she had been at homeschool. If that snotty lady would knock her out of teaching school in Bloomington, she'd let the whole school board know of a secret...one that only she knew, and one that she saw all from her bedroom window.
CHAPTER THREE

Roy Bender was tired of rude kids, so he decided to speak his mind. "Ma'am, your little girl just grabbed this quiet lady's peppermint stick. Could you buy her another one? He pointed to the shy, reserved lady who rested her orange fabric-covered umbrella against her right shoulder. Her orange calico dress was beautiful just like her shy ivory face, framed by thick, auburn hair.

"Why my child has manners. She must have been standing in my daughter's way. Besides, she's a farm girl." The mean lady jerked her eyes to the lady, her mouth drawn in horror and her gripping hand unbearable for her daughter.

"Mommy! Let go!" The little girl kicked her mother's legs, and then turned and grabbed two peppermint sticks from the candy box that hung around the salesman's neck. "We are rich and can afford anything that we want; can't we mommy?"

"Yes, sweetheart, that is correct!" The mean lady remarked before winking at the salesman. "My husband owns the lumber mill. I am from New York." She opened her black leather handbag and asked, "How much do I owe you?"

"You owe me nothing. Your husband is a good man. He's sent me many good customers." He smiled and cheerfully added, "I am also from New York." The salesman stated and gave a nod, and she politely nodded back before grabbing her daughter and walking away.

He turned to the quiet lady. "I handed you the peppermint stick but did not charge you for it yet. She had an escort." He pointed to the tall nicely dressed man that walked to her left. "I hadn't noticed the escort until she'd remarked that her husband owned the lumber yard. Immediately, I saw the escort walk closer to me, so I knew that she had to be the wife of someone important." He took the cloth and wiped the sweat from his brow. "I didn't want a confrontation today, and I thought you didn't need one either."

"We're all important, Sir. I'm a child of God, and my husband is very important."

"Really, which business is his?" He continued to blot the navy cloth across his handsome but businesslike face while glancing at her for an answer.

"He is the Minister. Here is a quarter. Buy a stick of candy for a couple of needy people today." She smiled and turned to walk away.

"That's mighty kind of you! I had a needy woman here earlier who couldn't even afford proper weather protection."

His words pierced her ears as she quickly turned and walked back to him. "She had no umbrella; is that what you said, Sir?"

"Yes, Ma'am, she had no protection from the sun and her beautiful face was red as a lobster," he told, and he really did find the poor lady gorgeous, and he knew that he would have asked her out for a cup of coffee and some pie if she hadn't been so lied about her social class; integrity was important to him and the Walnut Creek Amish community that he was a member of back home. "She acted a bit upper class, but I could tell deceit. I've been at this for years." He explained.

"That's that mental girl that's been locked up all of her life in a little shack. She's the only one that has no umbrellas. She must love the sun. Her parents were Amish, but her siblings are either deceased or have moved away. They have left it up to the city to see if she can fend for herself. She's got one more week before they are to ship her off to an institution for the rest of her life."

"The Amish don't do that," the man explained, and she disagreed, drawing a sudden frown.

"The Amish doesn't own her. The city does, and they appointed a man to take care of her, but he's a bit shady."

"Is he Amish?" He asked before handing her a little box of imported pastel-colored licorice. "That's on the house today. I'm sorry that you had to wait."

"The city man drinks a lot, and he just returned back from Ohio. I think that they may have an institution up there for her. Rumor has it that the owner of the institution is already down here to check her out."

"That's probably best for her." He smiled, and she smiled before walking away.

His mind returned to his carefree summers spent at his Old Order Amish grandma's sprawling farm in Walnut Creek. Although he was little, he missed helping Ben Troyer make cheese and baked snacks for tourists and Holmes County residents.

Truth be told, he loved his Plain heritage, but he also enjoyed being a traveling salesman, so he'd never really fit back into such a restricted environment if he had to live there seven days a week. Ever since his grandfather's sudden death and the secret journal that his grandma had found, of which contents she would not disclose, he'd gotten restless and a bit snappy at people, and as far as he could tell, these negative traits had gotten worse.

He wished the handicapped Amish girl the best; he'd add her to his Prayer Warrior List. He knew that God would take care of her like he'd taken care of him when he'd traveled hundreds of miles from his New York apartment. He thought for a moment about how beautifully smooth her sun-burnt face was and her sparkling baby blues. Should a well-off man like himself buy her an umbrella?  I never give hand-outs! She was so beautiful yet so poor, but maybe it's the Amish heart that I'm feeling, that connection, that warmth and courage that our women folk have back at Walnut Creek. He doubted that she'd ever be institutionalized if her heart and mind were as strong as he thought that they were, for she would stand against the tallest storm.

*****

"You have a letter from your Brother Johnny," the Postal Clerk announced as she got up to get Charlotte's mail from the sorted boxes. "I know that you've been waiting for it."

"Thank you," Charlotte replied, and she took the letter and smiled at the clerk.

Why had her brother decided to not be on the farm with her?  I need you Johnny, and I need you now; why have you deserted me? Previously, he'd needed a good, steady job, but now that her schweschder Lola and mamm were dead, there were two man's worth of work to be done on the farms. He hadn't even offered to help out for a week, and it hurt her feelings that he'd not asked.

Charlotte ducked and crossed the street in search of the saloon; she wanted to see if her uncle was there drinking. Had he found anything else out about the secret ingredients that were in the hair tonic that she's gotten in her mouth when she was an infant? Any information would be sent right away to the town doctor, and then to the medical specialist in New York.

Two men burst through the wooden swinging doors tumbling on the sidewalk, and fresh red blood oozed from their noses.

Charlotte got firing mad, her brow narrowing and her face heating up like a cast iron frying pan; one of the bloody men was her uncle Graham, and this hadn't been the first time that he'd come rolling out while she casually doing her Saturday shopping. "You're always in trouble, and it's the alcohol. I wish they'd ban alcohol!"

"They just might do that young lady!" A slender, well-dressed gentleman, who was standing on the sidewalk next to Trump's Confections, turned around and extended his hand. "I am Doctor Likens, and it is a pleasure to talk with you about this subject, Ma'am." His tone was very professional and attentive; his dark mustache had a dark molasses thickness as did his gazing eyes, but she was more concerned with looking through Trump's Confections to eye the potato candy in the glass dome that sat on the counter. Her palate could just taste a chocolate soda.

Her mouth watering and her mind returning to state a response, she turned her attention to him and smiled. "Nice to meet you Doctor Likens," She extended her hand, and he loosely shook it, and she felt his warmness and sensed that he wasn't a consumer of alcohol, which made her blush, for her uncle's behavior was humiliating and embarrassing. "Where are you from Doctor?"

"Columbus, Ohio. I have one of the highest, cutting-edge assistance facilities, and I am the proud owner and bookkeeper. We serve people like you."

"Stay away from him, NOW!" Uncle Graham wobbled over to her and wiped his bloody eyes and nose with his calloused hand, the gaze on his face like a mad man.

Charlotte had never seen her uncle act like this, so she stepped back from the doctor.

"He's no good. I've been fighting the city over you for months, and I refuse to let the city win! Now, come in the saloon and have a tall, cool glass of lemonade. It will make that sun burnt face feel better. Come on!"

"I'm not going into a saloon, and you know that Uncle Graham." She shook her head, and the scoop of wind that rolled down the sidewalk jiggled her locks of gold. The wind blew again, picking up speed, as if it was taking up for her, showing off her dazzling beauty to the doctor that had come to have her locked up in an mental institution.

"I forgot that you are a lady now," Uncle Graham winked, and she wiggled her mouth and arched his brow. "I still have to protect you."

"I do just fine on my own," She said, and she drew a grin as she watched Uncle Graham walk back into the saloon. She wondered how long it would take before he was slammed back out those wooden double doors.

The neatly dressed gentleman that had greeted her before her uncle had interrupted their conversation got closer and eyed her up and down. "You've been a good girl, haven't you?" His tone was of an odd demeaning character as he continued on, "The man that has been overseeing your affairs has been stricken with a terminal disease of the body, and I am sure that the news devastates you. Doesn't it, Ms. Miller?

Charlotte looked over the man's tailored shoulder and saw three men, of whom the man had been conversing with when she'd walked up, smiling at her. "

You're giggling, Ma'am," The gentleman smiled, as did the three men, and she blushed like a fresh rose in the sunlight's glow.

"My uncle seems glued to the bottle. He'll never stop guzzling alcohol." She bit her bottom lip and felt her burnt face sting. Guilt of accusing family slapped her face with the cool breeze that fanned her hot forehead. The earthy smell of rain followed it. She had to change course; she had to be a relative and not a stranger; she needed to confront her uncle.

In the Amish community, they looked after their own; they corrected their own, and she was now in the footsteps of her father and her mother.  Can I do this, Lord? I'm a weary lady who's been locked up most of my life sitting at my upstairs bedroom window. The wooden saloon doors hit her back. The marching steps of a young lady silenced the men at the bar, their eyes in awe of her squared shoulders and firm face: she was there to claim her uncle's soul and take him home. There would be no more free afternoon shots of whiskey bought by Graham Miller; he'd become a saved family man, and even the bartender knew it, and they could feel it. God had sent her there to rescue him before uncle Graham got his last call.

Four outlaws at a table looked up at her and snickered, but the man that was drawing his card from the heavy deck of cards reached over and slapped him across the face. "Be quiet. She's got family to deal with, and she doesn't need a cowboy's opinion."

"If she knew any better, she'd go right back out that door. Graham's got gambling debts. With a madman chasing him from The Windy City, I'm sure that's why he has to drink a lot. We seem to be on the run a lot, and that's why we drink," the man said as he rubbed his burnt face. "Smack me again and you're going out that door."

"Are you the one that throws people out the double doors?" Charlotte got closer.

"Enough Charlotte. I'm still your uncle. Leave now, before I have to take my belt off."

"You've never spanked me. You've always brought me candy."

The card players smiled, as if they were parents who had seen an embarrassed, truly remorseful daughter get in trouble. For a moment, if was as if the men were compassionate, hard-working family men.

"Don't let this be the first spanking young lady!" Uncle Graham walked over and grabbed her arm, leading her out the door. "Here's a dime. Go get some candy. I have already sold all of mine. Dixie Hanover is having a party, and we're invited. Now go home and get your farm chores down so that you can go to the party."

"Sure. When is it? We never had parties," she said, and he shook his head.

"It was because we were Amish. I see that you've left too." He glanced down at his niece's gala gown as if he hadn't seen her in years, although he'd arrived back from Ohio the night before and slept upstairs.

"There's a story behind the dresses," she assured, and he smiled. They were brought from the theater." He leaned down and pointed to the crowds of cheerful women and men socializing in their best clothes, their hair done perfectly for their weekly Saturday trip to town. "Look at all of these people. They live in a small world. It is a world that only people in Bloomington know, and that's a good thing, Charlotte." He winked and then scanned the streets again, his eyes sparkling like firecrackers. "They will spend their whole life wondering what beauty is all about; what lies east of the Indiana state border. You, young lady, are from the east, and don't let anyone tell you that you're not. You're a Bloomington farm girl, but when you put those dresses on, you become part of the team: Broadway, the Big Apple, glamour, a world all in its own right. Young lady, turn around and you'll feel it. You'll taste the excitement in your dry mouth, the creation of life out of one dress, a dress that tells a story."

"What story does this dress tell?' Charlotte asked as she looked down at the flowing ruffles and realized that she was beautiful, not from her outer appearance, but from her fabulous desire to dream like New Yorkers. "Do New Yorkers believe in miracles?" She bit her bottom lip and wiggled her brow. "Do you know if someone's life can be full again when they've lost so much? You know, when they feel like all they have left is God."

"New Yorkers live miracles, and they keep on keeping on when the tough times come, and they go to the theater because there is healing for one's soul in the world of imagination. The Bible tells us that what we think about is what we become. I've always believed that, and if it wasn't for my recklessness with the hair tonic, I would be right there in New York to see a good show tonight, but God has me here." He sighed and then said, "It's your story. Create anything that you want, and pretend that it will happen, and it will, as long as the Lord is willing."

"That's mighty inspirational, Uncle Graham; I bet you've dreamed a lot of dreams in your life." She smiled, and he nodded before turning to walk back through the saloon doors. 
CHAPTER FOUR

Charlotte tied the horses and headed into the house. Her wet black boots were kicked aside on the hand-woven rug that rest on the floor below the wall-mounted coat rack. Although one oil lamp rested on the kitchen counter next to the wood-burning stove, another was needed to adequately light up the kitchen for reading and writing. Writing her sister Ruth had been on the top of her to do list for the day.

Ruth was ten years her junior and a very opinionated woman, and Charlotte never enjoyed her debates since every little thing that could become a debate had ended up one when Ruth was living at home: how the chickens were arranged in the chicken house, the color of the sky, and even how potatoes were sliced could blossom into an hour long debate over the dinner table.

"She's creative!" her mamm had said about Ruth on several occasions.

"No! She's plain bored!" Charlotte had always replied, and her mamm had disagreed.

After doing ten extra chapter books and taking on the chores for the second farm, Ruth had finally found her match: Reuben Yoder and they both had bountiful energy to share, and they had ended up marrying and were still a very happy couple in Walnut Creek, Ohio. Ruth was the only reason that her daed had purchased the neighboring farm.

If only she had her sister's energy, she'd be able to avoid paying hired help. Sure, the quiet neighbor was living on the second farm, but he wasn't a tenant farmer. He had his own barn and his own patch of garden vegetables, but the rest of the farm and its upkeep fell on her.

The second oil lamp was grabbed and placed on the kitchen table. The light flickered and lit up the room just as the sunshine flowed through the window. "There's plenty of light now that I've already lit the second lamp," Charlotte laughed and then studied on what to eat for a late breakfast.

Should she fry up some thick cakes of sweet cornbread to take over to the quiet neighbor? His help would be needed to rebuild the fence to protect the chickens from the wild animals. She hadn't the courage to look over at the chicken yard in fear of seeing that they had been killed by pack of wolves that the overly chatty other neighbor had seen earlier that day.

A large black horizontal cloud lined the sky before it started circling in the air. Should she put breakfast on or wait until the storm had passed? She'd watched plenty of violent storms through her upstairs bedroom window right before her close-knit family would take shelter in the root cellar. Because she couldn't leave the house, she had to watch the storm from her bedroom window.

"It's not touching the ground. It shall be okay if it doesn't touch the ground," she soothed her worried mind, turned and poured some spring water into the heavy cooking pot and sat it on the stove. Reaching up above her head, she grabbed the cast iron skillet.

The taste of thick fried sweet potatoes laced her mouth, but she realized that she had used the last of the split and smaller potatoes from the feed bag the previous weekend. She'd have to go dig in the hole that lined the root cellar for more. All potatoes, sweet ones, Yukon ones, and red ones were buried in three-foot holes, holes that lined the root cellar, and this was done so that water would drain out of them during heavy downpours. Fresh orchard grass, wood, and sheet metal protected and preserved them throughout even the toughest winters.

A knock at the door startled her. She jumped back when she saw a tall, thin white man leaning to peek through the kitchen window. She didn't know him. She didn't want to know him. He looked strange, and he looked lost. She knew that he had come to the wrong farm.

She quickly took cover behind the door and then slid under the long black coats that rested on the wall-mounted coat rack. She'd purposely placed them there to hide if any stranger came knocking. Had he noticed her? Would he hurt her?

Her heart raced and a sharp fear entered her mind. She was small for her age and had been outside the wooden house only a few times; were there mean men that come looking for single ladies whom had no men folk to protect them?

"What are you doing? Step away from the door!" A man's loud voice rang from outside and was followed by fast gun shots. He was going to kill her. Her legs knocked together as she tiptoed in front of the door and leaned over to peek out the window. The quiet neighbor was lying on the ground and the intruder was standing over him reloading his gun.

"Daed's gun is in the bedroom!" Even after his death, her father's gun had stayed in her parents' bedroom. The woven throw rug almost made her bare feet slide out from under her, but she jumped and caught her balance as she leaped to the right corner of the room. The gun was there, on the gun rack, like it had been since she was a little girl.

Her eyes snapped shut as adrenaline stapled throughout her body; the gun was forbidden to be touched by the women folk, and she knew it, but she also knew that her father was no longer around to scold her. Her lips rolled under her shattering teeth: Her daed's was the protector, the runner of the household, and the sole decision maker. Could she fill his shoes?

A water of sadness unglued her eyes, her heart rate slowed down, and her mind become more rational: she would not use his gun. Her community was based on love, obedience, and a forgiveness that the world adored and she had to be quiet and not defend herself against the attacker, even if it meant losing her life.

Her hands still shook a little and the gun felt slick and delicate under both of her sweaty palms. The corner gun rack was higher than anticipated and even tiptoes made it difficult to put the gun back in the rack as it had been before she'd fetched it.

The kitchen door slammed open causing her to quickly swirl around, and the long gun accidentally fired as the intruder charged through the bedroom entrance; he'd been running for the gun. He'd known the layout of the house. He fell down and did not move, and red blood oozing out his head. His hand gun lay on the floor next to him. Was he dead? She would be in big trouble if he was, and she was right...

*****

Charlotte watched as the Coroner loaded the dead man's body into the back of the wooden hearse. He snapped the door shut, shook his head and looked at the town doctor, who was caring to the quiet neighbor's gunshot wound. The wind was a bitter cold, and the air a heavy wave of coolness that was unusual for rural Bloomington residents. The Sheriff's dark velvety eyes expressed worry; his tall, toned body kneeled next to the doctor studying the victim's bloody wounds.

Charlotte's throat convulsed and her ankles and knees ached as the cold snap blew around the bottom baby blue ruffles of her evening gown. At least she was dressed well to face the Sheriff and Coroner. She knew she'd let everyone down by grabbing the gun from the gun rack, especially the doctor, for his opinion of her mattered a lot, as he was her lifeline having traveled to New York to learn more about the mysterious disease that had plagued her body ever since she'd swallowed some of the hair tonic that her salesman uncle had lathered all over her infant head.

Truth be told, she wanted regular dresses, but all she had were fancy dresses that her mamm's Englisch friend Kathy had brought during her biannual trip to Bloomington. The evening gowns were from Manhattan, and Kathy was a well-known theater actress and a really good one, loving her job as much as her single, free life. They changed out costumes every so often, so she had always brought them to Charlotte to play with since she was homebound. Little did she know, now that her mother had passed away, she wore them on a daily basis. Her mother hadn't known about the dresses, for if she had known about them, she'd taken them away since they were "worldly."

Since she was a young tot, Charlotte had saved the frilly dresses in a wooden chest that rested in the loft wall. The hidden place had been there since they had bought the place when she was a baby. Another chest and a little box were hidden in there, but she'd always be scared that she'd get caught up in examining the contents and one of her siblings would find the hidden place.

She turned her attention back to the Sheriff, "The gun accidentally went off, Sheriff. I killed a man, and I take full responsibility," She looked to the Sheriff for understanding, and he leaned, drew a very narrow brow and stared at her.

He took his hat off and ran his hand through his short black hair. "You'll do time then."

"This man is dead too." The Doctor looked up at Charlotte and frowned. "You saved your own life, but two were taken. What were you thinking, Charlotte? You've never shot a gun. Why did you grab it?"

"My parents aren't here." Charlotte took some hasty breaths and blushed. "I admit. I got scared. He looked that cold, that evil."

"This dead man, who was your very quiet neighbor, is a US Marshall. He was in this area looking for a bank robber.  He was protecting you! You took down a Marshall. You'll spend the rest of your life in jail, Ms. Miller." The doctor explained. "I can tell that the shots came from your upstairs window; the window where you've hung out for sixteen years."

"Not when I was an infant. Mother had me in her bedroom, in a wooden crib." Charlotte became defensive, wanting to set the record straight.

"You're fibbing bigger than an elephant, Ms. Miller. Your crib was by the window. I was friends with your father before he caught my son stealing your country hams from the smokehouse. My son is a now a mighty fine man since he left the bottle alone; he's the school superintendent, and he just approved your teaching certificate," The Sheriff bragged.

"That was very kind of your son, but it looks like that I won't be teaching anytime soon. May I be put in jail somewhere else, where there is snow, and lots of it? I want somewhere different than here."

"I was not upstairs, I promise that, and God knows the truth; I would never hurt my neighbor." She wept as a cool snap of air splashed against her red face and made it return to a more normal peachy color. She closed her eyes and rested her chin of her praying hands.  Why Lord, why? God didn't answer; all she heard was the distant howling of wolves, many of them, and she sensed that this farm was soon been chaos all around.

Had her parents been wrong by gifting her both farms? What had they been thinking of by letting her out on her own, unleashing her into the sad, evil world of the Englisch? Could she grit her teeth and carry on, or should she sit out in the sun to let the strange disease take her life, all while bank robbers and made packs of wolves ravage her two farms?

Her mother's gentle face flashed before her, as her faithful words, "Don't worry. We'll make it. God is testing us, and we will stay strong."

"I'll stand strong in the Lord," she forced the words out, although she didn't understand what she'd just blurted out, but she knew that it would have been what her mother would have said, so she had said it.

Could she learn why her mother said these words when hard times come knocking? What was this relationship, built on Someone who you couldn't see? One thing was that she could feel that He was there, although she couldn't explain why she felt that way; she knew that she was not alone. God was by her side. Would it be possible to establish a strong relationship with God like her parent had established when she was little?

Would God allow heartache like he'd done before in order to open a new door for something better? Charlotte recalled the strange bug that had eaten away at the corn crop when she was eight years old. Many times her daed hadn't been at the dinner table to check on his kinner's homework because he'd been kneeling beside his bed praying for God to keep his crop untouched. After weeks of praying, the bug had finally come knocking, killing the whole year's crop. They had to use savings to buy more chickens in order to sell more eggs.

She remembered the fall that had followed the crop disaster. Her mamm had been an hour late schooling her because she had to walk to the outskirts of town to sell the eggs. Her mother had done everything to support her husband and family.

However, Charlotte had took up knitting and ended up selling hundreds of beautiful knitted mittens to friends and family, even donating some to the School for the Blind in Louisville, Kentucky. There were several students that wanted to give up at the school, and her handmade shawls and mittens cheered them up so much that they become close with her family, and Charlotte was still pen-pals with many of the students.

Had God allowed this tragic event for a reason? Surely He had a good reason, for she could face jail time. She'd been boxed up in the haus for sixteen years, and she didn't understand why God would toss her into a cold jail cell? A loving God wouldn't have the heart to do such a thing, so how could this be happening?

However, after the conceited candy man had said that she couldn't afford his candy, she wondered how much she could knit to earn the money to buy some umbrellas and matching dresses from New York City. Would this rude candy man notice that the umbrellas were from his city? He'd made her spitting mad, but there was something about this strong-willed, independent salesman that intrigued her. She wanted to prove him wrong, but in the same sense, she wanted to prove that she was a lady and not a little girl anymore. She wanted to leave a pleasant memory in his mind.

*****

"I may be coming back to get you!" The Sheriff leaned over the saloon bar and recalled his confident, business-like words. In over three decades of being sheriff, mainly because no one else was man enough to do it, he'd blurted those words to many a killer, and most of the time, he stood good by going back and arresting the killer, usually an outlaw.

The whiskey stung his eyes, and he added to the pain by deeply guzzling it down, shot after shot, letting it blaze down his nervous throat. A group of card players were unusually quiet, and even the regulars, who had their own bar stools, sat alone at a table for two. He nodded as the bartender slid another strong shot his way.

Was this what his town had become since the booming saloon had entered his town? He sighed and felt guilty for drinking so heavily, but the strong spirit of the drink seemed to somewhat numb his sad mood. Was this why these other men were in this very place, gulping drink after drink? What could they be doing for their families right now? There must be a garden to be tended to, a business transaction that could be won, or even a couple of chapters of a good book to read. The Bible...when did they read it, and did they read it at all? His throat convulsed. He refused the next drink that ran down the counter and splashed in front of him.

"Something wrong Sheriff?" The bartender took his hands and wiped them on his white bar apron and looked worriedly at the sheriff's glossy, blood-shot eyes. The sheriff never drank, and the whole town knew it.

"Yes, when Graham Miller comes in here, DON'T serve him an ounce of liquor. Tell him to report to my office right away, that it is a dire emergency!"

The bartender grinned and then leaned over the bar counter. "I know what you're up to, and that man can't handle that young girl, much less run two farms. He's my best client. I can't refuse to serve him. Your plan is flawed."

"Think of another way to earn money if this place closes down." The Sheriff snarled, swung off the stool, and briskly walked out the double doors, anger filling the air.

Alcohol in Bloomington had just met its number two obstacle: the town sheriff, and the number one obstacle was God, who had a big plan for not just Bloomington, but the whole country, and the news would later be blasted all over the front pages of black and white newspapers across the country: alcohol would be banned. Like the sheriff, many people in small towns across America would say that they had seen it coming.
CHAPTER FIVE

Her hands shook nervously as she added the wood to the hot black cooking stove. A good meal would be needed if she was sent to jail, for she didn't know if she'd be able to eat in such a scary place, where outlaws, con artists, and liars hung out.

She quoted part of her mamm's favorite scripture Roman's 8:31: "If God is for us, who can be against us?" Her breathing slowed as calmness flowed through her body. Like her mamm and her daed, and her other siblings, all but Josh, she would be a strong woman for the Lord, even if it took a lot of crying and pleading.

"God bless this home and my family, especially Josh," she uttered before grabbing a wooden bowl for the potatoes.

"I'm okay, little schweschder!" The words came from upstairs and startled her.

"Josh!" Her feet pattered hard as she briskly ran out of the house and to the chatty neighbor's house. Josh was her brother, but he'd left the Old Order Amish, and he'd declared that if he'd even stepped foot back in Bloomington, he'd be presumed a kidnapped man, for several men who had drinking and gambling debts had loaned him money, and one day when he least expected it, he knew they'd come looking for him. Had one of these loaners been a bank robber? The doctor had said that the shots had been fired from upstairs. Had the bank robber or another outlaw had her brother kidnapped up in the loft?

Breathing become short and labored and fear made the hair on the back of her neck stand straight up as she made the sharp turn around the chatty neighbor's fence. Must to her dismay, she saw the chatty neighbor leaning against a buggy chatting with the candy salesman. She flipped her left hand over the top of her head to make sure that it wasn't too fizzy; she wanted to look good in front of this salesman. I could have been killed, and my brother may be kidnapped, and I still care what this arrogant candy man thinks of me.

"What's with you?" The chatty neighbor asked, and she huffed and puffed as she bent over in front of him.

'Josh is upstairs, and I think the bank robber has him hostage," she said before massaging her aching throat.

The candy man spoke up, "Do what I do in New York; tell her to solve her own problems and call the sheriff." The candy man's tone was rude, but she had expected him to be rude.

"He's coming back for you isn't he?" The Chatty Neighbor said before returning his attention to the candy man.

"There they come right now. It doesn't look like he's kidnapped to me!" The candy salesman blurted before tapping her on the shoulder with a candy stick.

Although Charlotte felt the fancy candy resting against the top of her right arm, she was embarrassed to take it. She looked at her brother Josh as he walked hand-in-hand with a red-headed woman with a beautiful pink carnation-colored matching umbrella. Her dress was more casual than the evening gowns that Charlotte owned, and her skin a sun-kissed deep brown.

She spoke to the candy man, but she didn't look at him, for she was no match to this lovely, confident lady that was with her brother. "It looks like I was wrong. She has an umbrella and is prettier than me; she can afford your beautiful candy."

"Carry on. I'll see you at Christmas," the candy man threw the candy down on the ground, and returned to his conversation with the chatty neighbor.

He has so much candy that he can waste it. No wonder I looked so piteous standing in front of him without an umbrella. She wondered what color the stripes on the candy were, and she wondered what hidden flavor the stripes had, for each stick of candy had a different taste. Was it the grape-flavored lavender one or the hotter and spiced up deep red swirled one? Truth be told, she loved candy, but she couldn't see spending money of frivolous items. I'm in another league; I'm not fooling him into thinking that I'm a lady!

She pouted as she approached her brother and the nice-dressed lady coming around the corner of the farm entrance. Why was he here, and why did he have a lady with him? Had he gotten married? She knew that he hadn't written her about any fraa.

"This is my fiancée, and she's in a little trouble, but we'll be okay. We wanted to eat dinner with you, and then we'll be going to the next place," Josh smiled and spoke low to avoid being overheard.

"She's in a little trouble? How much trouble is she in?" Charlotte took the handkerchief out of her white apron pocket and patted it against her face. Her face still felt icky and firing hot and she had to admit that she wished that she was the owner of an ice house because she'd chip off a block or two to wrap in a clean cloth for her face. "It's been a very weird day: one minute there's bad storms approaching, and the next thing you see is a blistering ray of sun beating down on you."

The tanned woman quietly eyed her up and down, and this made Charlotte nervous. It was hard enough having accidentally killed a man, but to admit that her brother's fiancée was trouble was more than she wanted to hear, so she chose to be happy and block it all out.

"Mamm always told us children to not judge anyone, for you could not possibly know the whole story." Charlotte raised her head high and extended her hand to the tanned woman. "I am Charlotte, and it is a fine pleasure to meet my brother's fiancée for the first time, and your name is?"

The woman chuckled and then looked at Josh, and Josh grinned and teasingly said, "I told you she would believe anything. She's been locked up in the loft of the house for sixteen years, so she can't tell that you're a cowgirl!"

"I am Emilie Dotson, and I am from New York City, and my family is well off, but I like to roam," the tanned woman explained in an intriguing tone, and Charlotte found her immediately interesting.

"That is wonderful, Emilie, for I am in need to be styled like a New Yorker. I need to order some umbrellas to shield my face from the sun," Charlotte informed as she briefly locked warm hands with Emilie.

"My mother owns a clothing store, and money is no object; I can have them brought via one of our assistants. I can have them here in a week," Emilie smiled, and Charlotte's face become calm, for she now had a reason to order such luxury clothing accessories, and she now had someone to help her look like a lady.

"May we borrow your buggy to go into town to get supplies? I want to fix you dinner, New York style, and I always get my hostess a special sugary treat," Emilie was polite and friendly, and Josh threw his arm around her shoulder and smiled at his sister.

"You are such a happy couple. Go ahead, and I will get out a jar of canned watermelon rind for you to take on the road. I have an extra buggy on the farm; your welcome to it," Charlotte glanced over Emilie's petite shoulders and saw the two horses tied to the post. They had ridden to visit her without a buggy. "You can take my horses and buggy."

A cool whisk of moist air bobbled both ladies' bangs above their heads, but Charlotte's seemed heavier and less free-flowing than Emilie's red curls. Several wild birds spoke in code above the wooden fence where they stood, circling and circling until they got bored and formed a swaying line across the sky. In a way, that's how Charlotte felt, like she was in a circle of friendship and family, with a new addition, one with differences that would add spice to the family unit, a unit that had been shaken but not forsaken. Should she follow them in order to stay in a strong circle? Would they come looking for her if the judge decided that she was to be tried for murder? She felt pulled between what she wanted to do and what she knew to do, and at this point, she was acquiring a fast approaching headache, so she couldn't make her mind up at all.

She watched the loving couple hug on each other as they walked to the house. The sun's rays enveloped the couple, illuminating the strong red tones in their hair. They walked the same pace and giggled at the same time, truly they were meant for each other with so many similarities, and Charlotte was happy for them.

Josh had been one of the middle kinner, and he'd been grounded, so her parents had thought, until he had befriended John C. Brow, a loud, gambling man, one that had been tossed out of the local saloon more times than her uncle Graham.

"What ever happened to John C. Brow?" Charlotte asked, and the couple became silent.

Charlotte asked again as they approached the house, and she noticed that the loft window was open, which was unusual because she never slept up there since her mother and sister had died; it was where her uncle Graham slept while he was in town, and he hadn't been there for days. Could John C. Brow be the bank robber? Could he have made them lure her to the house? Something didn't feel right.

"Oops! I forgot the broken peppermint stick that the candy man offered. I'll be right back," Charlotte assured, and they nodded before entering the house. Why were they entering the house if they needed to quickly go to town? It didn't make sense.

She made her way back up the driveway to the chatty neighbor's place. The wind picked up speed and swayed the bottom ruffles of her pink Champagne-colored evening gown, and she turned and swirled around like a dancing princess in search of her price.  It's probably my nerves causing me to dance, as I've never danced before today.

"Beautiful! Beautiful!" The chatty neighbor cheered, and she returned a blushing smile.

The pouring sweat that had rolled down her neck fanned dry as she skipped and swirled up the driveway. Her blonde curls jingled against the back of her neck, and sun's rays tossed golden sparkles against her whole head. Her black boots tapped circles of dust into the wind around her, but the two men watching hadn't noticed, for her beauty had mesmerized them.

"I didn't know that Amish folk danced!" The Chatty Neighbor said before he extended his hand to shake her hand. "I never realized that you weren't a little girl anymore." He grinned as he loosely gripped her hand, and her brow wiggled before she burst out laughing.

"Ladies have matching umbrellas," the Candy Man boasted before he handed her the lavender-striped candy. It was not broken. "I know you've been eager for that, so enjoy the freebie. There will never be another one. That was quite a show."

She pouted, for his words hurt her feelings. It was "a show." He could tell that she really wasn't a lady. She sighed and handed back the candy. I don't want your candy; I'm not a spoiled girl that takes things from men for free. Besides, I'm going to jail soon."

"That is a lie!" The Candy Man said, and his words shocked her.

"Why am I not going to jail? I accidentally killed a man."

"The judge accepted the Sheriff's plea that it was an accident. You do know that the judge said that the sheriff said that you would agree to teach school in Amish Country?"

"I'm not really Amish anymore. Look at me; I am wearing an evening gown from New York City." She lifted both ends of her pink champagne- flowing gown up and searched his eyes for agreement, and he nodded.

"That's a stage consignment isn't it?"  Only the Opera or Broadway girls wear them. You didn't know that did you?" The Candy Man's mouth curved, and she bit her bottom lip and thought of how to respond.

"My mother's Englisch friend brought them to me when I was little, and I hid them from my parents."

He chuckled, "Really? So you're trying to pretend to be a New Yorker?"

She laughed and said, "Not really. I just wanted to wear them since I had collected them over the years."

"You'll never be a New Yorker!" His snarling attitude was back, and she had to admit that this sternness of his was what attracted her to him.

"No, but I will be a good teacher in Amish Country." She snapped at him and wanted a quick remark back, but she got none.

"It looks like everything is returning to normal at your place," the Chatty Neighbor pointed to the sheriff and another badged man riding up to the house. "That's a badged US Marshall."

Three more men with badges surrounded the house, their guns drawn. Within minutes, John C. Brow came walking backwards out of the house with his arms behind his head. He'd been a wanted man.

"John C. is the bank robber? Yes, we all knew that, but we had to keep quiet so that he would mess up and come out of hiding," the Candy Man arrogantly said, and she turned and frowned at him.

"You all stay here. I'll go over and see what's going on." The Chatty Neighbor shook his head and then walked past her.

She turned her attention to the candy man. "I think you're interesting, but I am only a girl, not a true lady that you'd be interested in. I just wanted you to know that I find you handsome."

"More free candy?" He asked as he tapped her right shoulder with a deep red peppermint stick.

"Candy isn't what I'm looking for right now. I'm looking at you. I would like to get to know you better."

"I know that you can be a lady before the Lord at sixteen. That's something that these Englisch men don't know, do they?"

She jerked and drew a frantic look. "You're Amish? You said that you have an apartment in New York?"

"Yes, I own a place in New York, and it was given to me by one of my regular customers. I use it to store my shipments of candy from abroad, but my real home, the one that I lay my head down in, is in Holmes County, Ohio, Walnut Creek to be exact, so I'm very familiar with how you're supposed to act and what you're supposed to wear in that culture. I am part of that culture. My cousin is the bishop."

Her cheeks drew a rose-colored red and she grinned. "I'd love to teach school in Walnut Creek. My brother lives there and it looks like the sheriff may send me there."

"You won't need the evening gowns. I may have noticed you, taken an interest in you, if you had a simple cape dress on and the proper kapp. Where is your kapp? First Corinthians Eleven has a message about the kapp. Why don't you read it before you jump in to teach other little girls? Teachers are role models."

She nodded and then opened the peppermint stick and found it pleased her palate. Life was suddenly looking up, and she looked forward to teaching at Walnut Creek, if she could get a job there. 
CHAPTER SIX

Two Weeks Later...

"You know that you're going to die, right?" The Doctor sat across from Charlotte, his words hesitant, his mood sad, and her mouth drew a downward curve too, her color quickly fading out of her once peach-colored face.

"The owner of the hair tonic, in which you accidentally shot, had been donating quite a sum of money towards the research to find a cure for your strange illness. His wife inherited all of his assets, and I doubt that she will continue to do so." He forced a tight smile and lowered his brow, "She's going through a lot losing her husband and all. I hope that you understand."

Charlotte shivered and her stomach clenched tight, and she was now a greyish pale, a color that the doctor was used to seeing in folks when he'd hand down a death sentence. This was the only thing that he hated about his job, and he kneeled before the Lord every night to pray for the strength to deal with such tragedy.

She swallowed a cold lump in her throat and slowly asked, "There are no treatments at all?"

The Doctor smiled and then reluctantly responded, "There is another possible treatment, but it's not guaranteed, and it has quite a hefty price tag: a thousand dollars per injection, and you need one every week for the first month, and then one every quarter. He knew that she hadn't that kind of money, and he felt sorry for her.

He could feel his nervous throat calling to be numbed by a shot or two of whiskey. He hadn't drunk since his wife had passed away, but he knew he'd have to have a couple over chatty conversation at the local saloon, and he thought that the bar regulars would get his mind of Charlotte Miller's plight.

Truth be told, his mind had been on Charlotte a lot lately, and he tried to ignore his daydreaming idea that he could fix her up with a good, wealthy man. He'd had his heart broken by several beautiful women, but none were as beautiful as her, and her humbleness and non-arrogance intrigued him.

He wasn't Amish, didn't want to be, nor was he interested in persuading a dazzling young lady to don pearls and fancy New York fashions; she already had her hands on glamorous stage gowns with matching hand-sewn umbrellas and gloves, and that was depressing enough. The cape dresses, black aprons, and white heart-shaped kapps reflected a community of faith, dedication, and a love that was stronger than any that he'd even seen, so why would she want to give up something so special, so genuine, just to fit in? Why is she wearing these gowns? Is it to get noticed by the wealthy men? He glanced down and seen how the top lace curved and lined her chest. There would be no way an Amish woman would wear such dress.

"I'll raise the money," She said as a little color resurfaced in her face, her eyes watery but sparkling.

"How are you going to raise the money?" He sighed, crossed his arms, and leaned back into the chair. Should he tell her, just this one time that she could go down to Harrison's Feed Store to mingle with the group of wealthy businessmen who had considered building an explosives operation here?

Several of the businessmen were single, and after many a beautiful girlfriend, they were still single. They could save her life, but they couldn't save her soul: only Jesus Christ could, and these men didn't know or want to know Jesus Christ. How many years could she gain? He thought maybe thirty, or even fifty years if she took good care of herself. She'd be able to have children, travel the world, as long as she had her umbrella for weather protection, and enjoy the world's finest food and drink.

"I'm going to knit!" Her response was quick and to the point, and it showed her hope in herself that she could pull herself up by her own boot strings and save her life. He shook his head and doubted her.

"Honey, what are you going to knit? You need your rest. Listen here, you're the most beautiful lady in Bloomington, and I can help you out." He stopped his words as guilt entered his mind, for he was falling for his manly desires because of her beauty, and that was not what she needed, and although he knew it, he so strongly wanted her to live; he was caught up in her story and wanted to be the prince."

She laughed. "You like me Doctor? I'm quite fragile and shy compared to the other ladies that I've seen in town. They know they are lovely, and that kind of turns me away from ever wanting to invite them over to my house to chat. I could teach them to knit, and I can even teach them how to uses spices and dried peaches and apples from my orchard to fix some good tasting friend pies.

She giggled, and then cupped her mouth with her right hand. "They are so sophisticated; I mean, they pay someone else to bring them the vegetables. They would never get dirty in a vegetable patch, or even butcher a chicken."

He smiled and extended his hand, "I've known you since you were young, and I've never properly introduced myself to you. I am Charles Bronson, and I have been a doctor in several communities, even Walnut Creek, where I learned how to heal with herbs. I have always admired your culture, especially your people's strong faith.

She shyly extended her hand and shook his, but he didn't let go of the grip. His hand was warm and much larger than hers, as he was twenty-years older than her. He reached over, gripped her hand tightly.

Her brow arched and her mouth flew open. She could feel that this was more than a friendship or business grip; he was attracted to her. What was he thinking? He was the town doctor, not a potential love interest, and besides, she couldn't be anyone's fraa because she just wasn't that type. For one, she wasn't as pretty as the other girls, and her siblings had told her that, that she's be at home for life. Secondly, no one would want someone with a disability, one that could kill them in a second, so why was he interested in her?

He forced back tears as sharp, darting pains stabbed his stomach. What he had just done was wrong, and he knew it, but he felt somewhat okay because his instincts had kicked in, and he didn't kiss her, even though he so badly wanted to feel her lips against his lips. He looked down at the locked hands and let go of her hand. "I'm too old for you." He smiled, and she smiled back and then giggled.

"That's okay doctor. You did the right thing. I'm impressed by your politeness and your honesty." She looked at him and studied his face. A doctor like him should not be lonely. Why hadn't he gotten remarried? He was handsome, genuine, and an all-around great man.

"There's a big age difference, and I can't act on my desire to date you because you're the prettiest woman in Bloomington; it's just not right. Roy Bender is you're a year older than you, and he's developed quite a business empire through peddling his Amish community's wares."

"That's interesting. Is he in Walnut Creek?"

"Yes, he is the candy man that brings the licorice from England and the nice, good quality homemade candy convections that his Amish community makes to sell."

Her mouth flew wide open, and her mouth popped an upward curve.  This is too good to be true! That's the man that is so rude that he's downright cute!"

"You like him?" The Doctor asked as he glanced down, scribbled on a piece of paper, and looked up and handed it to her. "There's the New York doctor that can save your life. He's the only one that can save you now."

"What if I sell the knitted mittens and scarves and give all the money to the Louisville School for the Blind?" She sternly looked at the doctor, passionate about what she'd just asked him, and he grew a puzzled look.

"Give it away?" He clarified, and she nodded and eyed his confused eyes.

"Then you will surely die." He uttered, still confused.

"Good. I want to prove a point. And it's not like this idea has suddenly developed, for I've wanted to test the God that my parents tested and prayed to when I was sitting in my upstairs bedroom. I watched everything out of my window, my pathway to the outside world. It's all that I have ever known, so when you speak of the fancy New York doctor being the only one that can save my life, you rule out the God that my parents cherished, had faith in, and prayed to for the sixteen years that I dwelled with them in the little house, the house that I now run."

"Honey, God is good, and He can do many things, but some things need real medicine. He blesses men like me with the training to heal his people."

"I'm sure that he does, but I am going with my gut-feeling, and something deep inside me says that He will heal me." She grimaced and her body shook, for this new faith in believing in the God that she personally didn't know was new to her, and although her parents had been blessed by His blessings, they knew Him; she did not know Him yet.

However, she wanted to, and partly because she'd seen how much he had cared for her family: during the great crop disease, he had provided food and cash donations from a total stranger, and during the fever outbreak, when her family was too sick to tend to the farms, He had sent some strangers from the next town over to tend the farms; the volunteers camped out in the barn, never got sick, and the crops blossomed.

"I've seen a lot from my upstairs bedroom window. This will be fun for me to get to know this God that protected my family during hard times. It will be fun to read the large family Bible that my mamm's Schweschder Esther gave to her for her new home."

"That's quite a challenge, but you will die," He frowned and extended his hand, and she hesitated but then offered hers and briskly shook his hand.

"I'll take that chance on God today." Her soft peach-toned cheeks lit up her white face, her eyes glistening like a fresh white snow. She truly was heartfelt about getting healing from a Higher Power, and although he didn't agree with her decision, he stood up and patted her on the back to wish her well.

The door closed and her black boots slushed through the small water puddles that the sudden downpour of rain had created moments earlier. A cool, crisp snap of wind, just want she needed to cool down, came zipping across her whole body, swaying her blonde hair like golden bubbles.

She was glad that she had brought the navy umbrella. She popped it open and wondered about the sun. Previously, she'd twirled the baby blue umbrella in the storm's fury on the night that her mother had died, for she didn't think that she could make it on her own. Here she was leaving another devastating meeting with Doctor Bronson, one where she'd been given a sure death sentence without the expensive medicine, and she was more upbeat than ever. She couldn't pinpoint it, but she knew God was there, and she knew everything would be okay. Sure, she was nervous, her stomach in knots, but that was to be expected since she was venturing into an unknown realm- believing in and developing a relationship with God.

"Young lady, where is your kapp?" She knew that it was him- the annoying candy man, and she chuckled, wanting to hear his rude voice again. She knew that there had to be a lovable person underneath the stern businessman.

She walked over and got into his buggy, leaning under his umbrella. "Hello. How are you? I just had counseling with the doctor, and to answer your question, my friend is sewing me some because mine were ruined in the muddy creek.'

"Be more responsible." He sighed and gave a warm, caring smile, and that shocked her.

"You're being nicer today. I see a wonderful smile. I knew you had some positive qualities under that harsh cowboy-type skin of yours; you're like leather, you know? It makes a young lady like I work harder to get to know you. I'm willing to do that."

He was quiet for a moment as she leaned against his chest. He raised the umbrella higher and slightly tilted it to shield her blonde curls from the rain. For once in his seventeen and a half years, he was able to open up and share his heart. Since the death of his baby brother and father, he'd been a traveler, restless, moving from city to city to keep busy. He now wondered if God had other plans for him. He glanced down at her wet umbrella and hoped that she'd forget it often so that he could share his umbrella.  All the ladies have them. He hoped that trend would change.

*****

Rule Number One: Business is Business. He recalled his sales training at a fancy seminar in New York City, one that he shouldn't have went to, for he was Amish, and he knew it. The client had paid for it and two nights lodging before he'd inherited the spacious New York City apartment. Don't ever give your stuff away; make them pay for it. He'd broken this one business rule and now he had a young lady attracted to him because of the sweet red-swirled peppermint stick.

The oil lamp flickered and glowed across the small bed and bedside table. He flopped down, sighed, and stretched his aching back across the bed. It had been aching all day, and he knew that his body was being pushed beyond its limits. Going back to regular farming was hard work, too, but it was relaxing, somewhat of a free reward for doing something that he was so passionate about, and just the thought of it excited him.

He leaned up and yawned before reaching down to take off his boots, one sore foot at a time. The bottom of his feet had calluses, and a slight arthritis had set up in his back making him less attractive than the other men of Walnut Creek, so he had thought. When she arrived in Walnut Creek, would one of the regular-looking men get her attention? She was a fine young lady, but independent she was not, and he actually had to admit that that was to his advantage.

The day had already started out badly when he'd found out that John C. Brow's half-sister was dating Josh Miller, Charlotte's brother, and the two of their acquaintances were just gunned down by US Marshalls on the south end of Indianapolis.

He rubbed his hand against his pounding head. He should have told her, but he hadn't the heart to do so and how could he? She's just been given a death sentence. Not that he was worried about the death sentence, for he had faith in God healing her, but she might not have as much experience with being down on her knees as he had had, so he didn't know if she was panicking inside or whether she was calm and faithful, letting God lead. He hoped that she was letting Him lead her.

A sudden knock on the door startled him. Approaching his front door, he heard a female sobbing. Swinging the door open, a dripping wet woman with long black hair stood weeping with a letter in her hand. She was the lady that sorted the mail.

"What's wrong? Come on in, young lady."

"No! No! This can't be happening!" Water spun from her long black strands as she leaned over the letter. "Oh God, please don't let this be true!" The girl fell onto her knees, reached her arms up to heaven, and screamed, "She's going to die, and we need a miracle, God. We need a wealthy man now, one that will love her enough to spend the thousands of dollars to save her life!"

He frowned and blurted, "She's going to die. Just face it. She's been like that ever since her husband died, and she's always telling me that my candy sticks aren't big enough for the high price that I charge. How can I help a woman who hates me? I'm sorry as coming off rude, but she guzzles strong drink since her husband's death? Who's to say that she won't use the money for alcohol instead of the much-needed treatments? I am a Christian, I will help, but I am sending the money to the doctor and not to her. I hope that you understand. Let me get my check book."

He'd been friends with Lizzie Hamilton's husband Ben right up to the day that he took his last breath, and he had promised him that if anything would ever happen to her, that he'd pay for her medicine and treatment. In the back of Ben's mind, he may have known that Lizzie had not been feeling well for a while, as he had arranged to have the talk with him about helping her a year before he found out that he had terminal heart disease.

"Thank you! Thank you! I give thanks to our Almighty Lord and Savior! I knew God would provide a miracle!" The girl laced her fingers together in beneath her bowing head and gave a heartfelt gratitude to God for saving this young lady's life.

"Okay. What's the doctor's name?" Come into my office, but be careful, for you might trip over something. I haven't had time to organize the client files or invoices. I am more organized in my other office." He carried the oil lamp into the office and sat it on his work desk. He sighed as his leaned his tall back against the desk chair. It had already been a long day, and now the day had gotten longer. The checkbook flipped open and he dipped the pen into the thick ink.

"Thank you, Sir. His name is Doctor Drummond, and he needs an $8,000 retainer, for he has to buy the solution for the injection in bulk. She will work for you in return; she's a good hand."

"She's a good hand by guzzling alcohol?" He shook his head. "Okay, but tell to her make sure she's sober, and I wanted her in front of the Lumber Mill at seven o'clock sharp because that's when the men folk come to town to get lumbar, and the school kids walk past there. I need to increase my client base, and starting with children is a good way to do it."

"We were switched at birth," He looked at her, knowing that the drunkard lady was twice her age. Had this young lady gotten a bad letter and decided to numb the feelings by taking up drinking. It seemed like a lot of the folks in Bloomington had done that, and once they had started, they never stopped. He shook his head again and wished that alcohol would be banned. He sent a silent prayer up requesting such from the Lord.

"Anyway, that's private information. You see, I just read it here in a letter from the doctor who used to be in Walnut Creek. He felt so guilty for allowing the swap that he followed the baby here to look after her. She was my twin sister." Her thick, dark hair hung over the left side of her shoulder as she talked; the lamp light glowed about her face, her compassion displayed through her eyes.

"We're talking about someone else? I misunderstood you. How old are you, and does this person live here, your twin that was swapped at birth? Where is the other child?"

"Yes, they reside her, and I'm not eighteen yet, but I think that I act like I am."

"That still didn't give me an age." He looked at her.

"The person asked for you to not know that she has gotten the money." She bit her bottom lip and looked at him for an answer.

"Well, she'll get the check when she starts working for me in the morning. Whoever she is, tell her to dress professionally, and to wear her Sunday best."

"But tomorrow is Saturday." Her brow wiggled and her face looked confused, and he shrugged.

"It's a sales job. You have to look your best!"

"Okay. Thank you!" The girl swung ice-cold water onto the desk as she quickly turned around to exit the room.
CHAPTER SEVEN

"Sunday best, please!" The postal clerk's words rang in Charlotte's ears and traveled to her eyes as she straightened the white kapp. She scrubbed and scrubbed to try to get all of the mud out, but it still had an off-white appearance. One at a time, she stuck a long straight pin into the front brim of it and pushed it through the material and some of her hair. Pulling the section next to the pin tight, she pushed the pin back up and slightly out of the material. She did the same with the other four silver pins. She stepped back from the mirror and wiggled her head to see if she'd done a good job; she had, and the off-white color didn't look as bad as she had thought that it would look.

"I hope this man is nice and doesn't want to kiss young girls like Doctor Bronson." She remembered how Doctor Bronson had impulsively wanted to use her beauty for his needs in exchange for his medical services and money for treatments. She was proud of him for not advancing further and for realizing that it was wrong. Would this man try to do the same thing? Being that he was a very wealthy man, he had to be the same age as the doctor. The thought of the new job made her nervous.

The black bonnet was grabbed and placed over her kapp, and the strings tied tautly. She turned sideways to see if her navy cape dress still fit properly around her hips and saw that it did. She stood in front of the mirror with her hands laced loosely against her in front of her waist.  This is where you want me Lord, isn't it? Mamm's Englisch friend Kathy was trying to make me become a worldly child, and it wasn't right. I should have told my mother about the dresses instead of keeping her secret."  She bowed her head in reverence and shame, "Please forgive me. I am burning everything in that secret hideaway in the wall."

Her ivory-toned hands lifted the edges of her dress up before she bent down to a crawling position. The secret door in the wall was opened, and one at a time, her fingers ran over the fancy evening gowns, feeling their rhinestones, costume gems, and woven pearl adornments. You can't touch the other chest and the little tin box; they are not yours, Charlotte! She knew that had once been true for the items had been there since she was a little girl, and although she often wondered what was inside them, she had never snooped. Now she could, and she felt a sense of accomplishment and ownership; the whole house was hers no with nothing being off limits.

Eagerly, her head ducked down as she crawled back to the chest and box. She grabbed them and carried them out of the secret hiding place. Lifting up, she grabbed them one at a time and sat them on the bed. Which one should she open first?

The chest opened and some handmade cape dresses and kapps, along with two black aprons, were neatly tucked in the box with a small piece of paper on top. The paper read:

Dear Charlotte:

By the time that you're brave enough to look in here without the fear of being caught, the Lord will have called me home. I didn't find out about my daughter's death until you were three months old. You real mother, Vonda Frank, had come knocking on my door asking if I had been the woman that was in emergency delivery at the same time that she was on that day. I was in a coma, and stayed in one for seven months. You're uncle Graham helped take care of you, and I know that you've heard about the hair tonic story, for the whole town has, and I know that I had told you about it when you started asking to go outside to play with the farm animals or to build a snowman.

The rest of this letter is hard for me to write because I, like all other people, have sinned, and I know that God has already erased this from his chalkboard. I hope you do the same...

Vonda Frank is her New York City stage name, and we all know her as Kathy. I knew that you had hidden the dresses in the secret wall, and you had the right to do so because it was how your real mother wanted you to dress. You only get to see her twice a year, and she wanted it that way because the glimmer and lights of New York City have a dark side, and it is no place for a young girl. Hopefully, when I pass on, you will be able to make a choice: the Plain way or the New York City way. Just in case, you chose my way, the way that I've raised you, here is your new clothes for adult life. I could have been a bit off on how tall you'd get or what your waist measurements would be, but I tried my best; I used your twin sister, Rachael Anne, as the guide for the measurements. If you choose your biological roots, you already have plenty of dresses.

In the smaller box, is the money that Kathy has saved for you to join her in New York City and the money to hire an employee or two for the farms. Per Kathy's request, we have kept you inside since the hair tonic accident because the doctor knew about the switch, as he followed us here. We didn't want for all of his attention to be on you, or to drive him to drinking, for alcohol causes more problems, as you can see in the saloon. The saloon just opened up last month, while I'm penning this letter, and four men have been shot and killed, and three men have left their wives. We women have bonded together in prayer to pray that one day alcohol will be forbidden. I hope that you pray too...

Please forgive me. I look forward to seeing you in heaven, so please choose to wear your kapp.

Love Always,

Pearl Clara Miller

Charlotte was in a solid state of shock. Was her mamm indicating that she wasn't sick, that she didn't have a strange disease? Her body shook all over, for it was too much for her to handle. Her eyes scanned the letter again and saw that her mother had mentioned the hair tonic accident, so it did happen, but had it caused her to become chronically ill?

She looked down at the open chest and saw the beautifully hand-sewn cape dresses. Closing her eyes, she lifted the navy one up to her chest and imagined feeling her mother's embrace, her love, and most of all her faith. Tears splattered on the new dress and she took her trembling fingers and tried to wipe them away. How could a woman so close to the Lord lie? How could a God-fearing man like her father go along with such a lie?

Sure, she expected the town doctor, Kathy, and her uncle Graham to lie, for they were of the world; her parents weren't in the world, for her close-knit Amish community had always protected them, kept them saved from straying, and kept them obedient to the rules of the church. Could it be that the world in which she knew was flawed, that being separate wasn't being separate at all? She reached down and closed the chest shut and reached to open the larger trunk. Pulling out a scarlet evening gown with matching gloves, hat, and umbrella, she turned and looking into the mirror, she closed her eyes and cried out to God, "God, you blessed them, so were the right? Tell me, God! Which shall I wear?"

******

It took forever to get into town, and she knew that it was because she was anxious to meet her new boss, one that was generous enough to pay for her treatments. The horses turned the sharp curve on the outskirts of town and made their way down Troyer's Lane. She remembered Rachael saying that it was past Troyer's house and to the right.

She waved at the Troyer children playing outside. It was good that they could absorb the sunshine. At this point, she had no clue whether the sun would kill her or not, or whether she was even sick at all, so she had the umbrella with her just in case her boss took her into town to get office supplies.

A large wooden cabin sat back off the right of the road behind a sparkling lake. Long stems of water lilies guarded the lake, and as far as one could see, the lake curved around and ran to the right of the little cabin. The wind's hand blew soft ripples across the end of the lake, and there was a wooden pier with two chairs.

Sitting at the lake, feeling the sun's rays beat down on her skin, while sipping a tall glass of lemonade, sounded like a vacation all in itself, until she remembered that the sun could kill her. She grimaced and become stressed. Had Uncle Graham lied? Whether he lied or not, she'd still love him, for he was family, and after reading her "second" mother Pearl's letter, she had to admit that alcohol was partly to blame.

She jerked loose of the leather that was gripping the horses and jumped in horror. The candy man was sitting on the front porch in a wooden rocker, his hands crossed across his chest, his playful eyes glistening. When would he start getting mean? He didn't look like himself; he actually looked nice and friendly. She shyly grinned and then ran her teeth across her bottom lip before her naturally peach face turned ruby red.  I have my kapp on young man!

"You can't work for me," he bluntly informed, the wind smacking across his face, swaying his delicate hair. "Go on home."

What? He wasn't going to invite her onto the porch to sit next to him in the spare wooden rocker that sat empty next to his right? Her feelings were hurt, but most of all, she felt bad for needing the money. Actually, for needing the money before she'd opened the tin box that her biological mother Kathy had left her. There were five thousand dollars in that tin box; her mother must have been a popular Broadway and Radio City star.

She'd overheard Kathy telling Pearl that she would sit and talk to the train Captain at night when she'd take the train cross-country to Los Angeles. Charlotte wanted to know more about her real mother.

"Don't come back here. I'm hiring one of Troyer's daughters," he snapped as he waved her away. His dark blue suspenders looked new as did the crisp baby blue shirt that he wore. He looked huggable, but she knew she shouldn't blurt that out, for his rudeness today was more than she expected. She would forget about him, cross him off her "Potential Courting List", and move on.

"Yes Sir; I'll never bother you again. I'm going back and put on my evening gown since you're not bragging about how I am dressed," she wiggled her head to feel it: her kapp was still on, and she could see her black bonnet strings jungle around her chin. I am so proud of myself for being dressed proper this time. Surely he'll brag on me.

Uncontrollable tears flowed down her eyes, but she didn't care, for she didn't have to ever speak to this rude man again. The least that he could have done was to brag on her for having her kapp on. She straightened up and turned the horses around before adding, "Have a good life Mr. Bender. I have lots of cousins that have married Benders."

He waved goodbye as she gave a quick glance back at the house and pier. He had done a good job of firing her on her first day, and he knew it.

What a rude man, and she almost fell for him. Greed and dominance were his main goals. Her main goals were to leave Kathy alone since she had never wanted her in the first place and to skip the New York trip all together. She needed to stay in her place, on the farm and not bother anyone. The snotty lady that she'd met at Mr. Bender's mobile candy stand had been right; she needed to go to a home. She didn't fit in, and the farms had too many memories, so she'd sell them and move on.

******

Roy Bender did something that he'd never done before: he cried, and he cried a lot. He was so angry at having to turn Charlotte Miller away, but he had to follow Rule #2: Those that leave the flock can't work for those in the flock. It was a strict rule that his community back in Walnut Creek followed, and he wouldn't get in trouble for breaking it. He had lost many clients, friends, and even family because of following the rules, and it never affected him at all. This time was different because he knew she would die without the money. Sad things happen to sad people. It was a fact of life. Just like the day that he'd saw her, the only girl in town without proper weather protection, he'd sensed her sad story, but he couldn't run a business based off pity; he was a hard businessman, a driven one, and it had earned him millions.

He picked his mind and remembered the perfume that she'd rubbed against his chest when she'd slid into his strong arms under the umbrella during the last storm. It was one of a lavender scent, probably passed to her from her uncle, as he sold different scents, spices, and other wares. He knew that she couldn't afford such luxuries, so when it was gone, it was gone, and he hoped that she enjoyed its light, crisp scent while she could; maybe she could put just a little drop on the sides of her neck instead of using it liberally, for it could last longer.

"WOW, Bender; you are caught up in this girl's plight!" He shook his head and watched the black cloud come from the east. His eyes rolled and anger entered him, for he had a lot of work to do, but he knew that she probably hadn't packed an umbrella since she was donning Amish attire. He jumped on his dark brown-coated horse and led it to the road. It only took a few minutes to find her leading the horses. Rain started to pour and the wind picked up fast; a bad storm was approaching as he rode up to the right of the buggy.

"Can you go back to my place, Ms. Miller? I've called you here to work for me, and to be honest, a bad storm has come out of nowhere. I don't want people to think I'm rude."

She turned and looked at him, her face a pale ivory and her eyes swollen. Lose strings of blonde hair swayed across her forehead. She did not speak. She looked down in a studying gaze and flicked her left thumb up to her teeth; she was biting her nails.

"I'm making you nervous. Go to Troyer's place then. There are several women there, but I wanted to suggest them because the little one has had a fever for a week, so I figured that they didn't need the stress of an uninvited guest."

Her hand went down in her lap but her head stayed down. "I'll be okay. I want to go home. I've got farm animals to tend to. If you see my Uncle Graham, please tell him that I need to see him right away. I have an umbrella in the buggy. I grabbed it last-minute just in case you had us going to town to get supplies. I wanted to be prepared. I thank you for being so kind to come back to make sure that I was safe from the storm. Goodbye."

"I trust your instincts young lady, goodbye." He nodded, and she stared at him and nodded back, "I'm staying in the house, where I've been for sixteen years. I'll never leave there. It was a mistake coming out of the house. I am a special needs girl, so I may be going to a home."

He shook his head. "You can't afford that Ma'am."

I am not going yet. I am going to knit beautiful scarves, shawls, and mittens for the ladies, and give my uncle a cut of the money."

"You might do it then. That's a smart plan. Good Luck." He nodded and then rode back towards his little cabin.
CHAPTER EIGHT

Three weeks later...

Her beautiful soprano voice filled the little house as the fire crackled in the fireplace that lined the middle of the right wall. Just above the fireplace was an adorable assortment of hanging mittens, red, yellow, blue, orange, and even pink, and all laced with white, they would make excellent gifts for any eager buyer. She'd knitted one-hundred mittens, one-hundred scarfs, and she was on her hundredth shawl. She smiled. She'd done it all by herself.

The front door swung open, and her uncle Graham came stumbling in. "It feels like Ole Jack Frost has come to see us early!" He chuckled and took off his straw hat and hung it on the hat rack to the right of the fireplace. "You know that you could condense the coats and hats together and hang some of your beautiful knitting work on the spare rack."

Alcohol didn't fill the air as he talked, and it had been like that for about a week, and Charlotte had wondered why. His face wasn't flushed and his eyes didn't have that burning redness to them. Had her prayers for God to deliver him from alcohol worked? Could a man that had drunk since the age of sixteen suddenly give it up? Charlotte pulled the yarn taunt through the last lavender and white shawl and sent up a prayer. "This makes one-hundred!"

Uncle Graham pulled up a chair and sat the second lantern on the table. "You fixed some mighty good kaffi, Charlotte!"

"Thank You. I drink a lot of it while I knit. Do you think I'll ever get married and move; you know: have my own man of the place and my own kinner?"

"Why are you in a hurry?" He sipped his coffee and then continued probing, "Any men in mind?"

"Well, you're not going to like this, but I think your competition is interesting."

"Roy Bender! How on earth did he spark your interest? What on earth do you see in such a quick-talking, bitter millionaire?"

"He challenges me. That's why I'm knitting." The lamp flickered, as did the hot logs in the open fireplace. She sipped her coffee and enjoyed the warm, robust taste and steaming hot, rich aroma. It soothed her sore throat.

"You have knitted three-hundred clothing accessories to satisfy a rich man?" He sighed, and she giggled. He had never known his niece to be interested in a man, and he was happy for her, but at the same time, he wanted her to be cautious and not get her heart broken. Roy Bender had never done anything mean, although some took his strict business-like behavior as being downright rude. The man double-tithed, didn't curse, and had never drunk a drop of strong drink. It looked like she was headed in the right direction, and he would give her his "courting game tips, because she'd need them with Roy."

She leaned toward the lamp's rays and looked at him. It was good to have company. Should she tell him about why she'd decided to close herself back up into the five-room box? She took a breath and sat her knitting yarn down on the table. "He hurt my feelings. I wanted to chat with him on the porch. I wanted to rock in the rocking chair next to him." She snickered, and he gave a quick nod of agreement, wondering why he had been so rude to his beautiful niece. A girl with a perfect figure, gold spirals of fine hair, the rare kind that glistened like a princess, and the most crystal blue baby blues that any man would enjoy; what was wrong with this man?

"He shared his umbrella with me when I was in town late one evening, and he let me lean on his chest, and it felt so warm, so comforting, and butterflies swirled inside me, and for once, I felt completely loved. It's hard to describe, but I want that feeling so badly, to feel that closeness, that energy flowing from a man's desire to hold me."

He giggled. "That's how the attraction of love starts, and that's what it's all about. Take my courting game, so what I say, and you'll get your man."

Hesitation grew in her voice as her brow wrinkled, "He's your only competitor; I can't do that to you Uncle Graham!"

"He's my best friend," he remarked, and her mouth flew wide open, her eyes gleamed. "I will invite him over to help me fix your fence tomorrow so that you can have proper shelter for your birds when they come in on Wednesday."

"Thank you. I don't want any more packs of wolves to gobble them up. I shall fix a good supper for you all. How does rhubarb-strawberry pie sound for dessert?" Her mouth turned upward and her eyes sparkled with excitement of the handsome guest. "If he gets a little cranky, that is okay. I feel like there's a wall that he's putting up between us." She knew that she'd like to get through his wall of protection and closer to his heart, but she didn't know exactly how she was going to do it.

"Okay. I'll invite him over after lunch, and we'll prepare to have him as a supper guest. He loves bean soup and fried potatoes and onions. I know that's one of your favorite meals too."

The chair scooted back, its wooden legs scraping across the wood floor, and she stood yawning. "I'll put some on to soak right now."

"I'll go invite him. I need to talk to Turner down at the saloon."

"Don't stay out long; I worry about you Uncle Graham. Should I go with you?" She knew that he wouldn't tarry long in the saloon and probably wouldn't stir up a fight if she was with him.

They walked out and got the horses ready to go into town. The late evening breeze blew a light, relaxing coolness that each of them needed, and both enjoyed each other's company. The stars twinkled, and she looked up, thinking about the intense excitement that she had for her uncle's best friend. Were they really close? How well did he know Roy Bender?

"How much shall I sell your mittens for, Charlotte?" He asked as the wagon wheel rocked over the rocky turn that led to the main dirt road to town.

He was proud of his niece's commitment to raise her own money for her treatments. Would she ever find out the truth? Ever since he'd split up from Kathy, mainly because of her busy show life on New York's Broadway center stage, he'd wanted to tell her the truth, that one of her parents had been there at the beginning of her life, the one that rocked her, held her, and when she wasn't growing a head full of hair like her twin sister, one that had attempted to grow her more hair. He puffed out a deep breath and let the night air fan his heated face.

"I'm sorry about the hair tonic. I didn't know that it had hurt you that badly. I wanted you to have a head full of beautiful hair, and that you do have, Charlotte."

"Uncle Graham, I forgive you, and I love my long hair, especially the curls. Thank you for doctoring me up." She leaned up and kissed his cheek. "I'm my uncle's favorite niece. I always have been, haven't I?"

Tears filled his eyes, for he knew that she was old enough to know the truth. How could he tell her that he was her real father, that he had been married to Kathy, and that the postal clerk, Rachael Anne, was her twin sister? He had sensed that Pearl had become attached to her and didn't want to give her up, and that's why she'd never let her meet her twin sister, for Rachael Anne knew the truth, and she had known since she was in first grade. His stomach churned, his palms turning to a sticky mess. He wanted a relationship with his daughter for so long, and he was determined to be close to her, be a part of her life, and be a good father, a sober one, and that's why he'd stopped drinking.

The horses trotted at a slower pace as they approached town. Doctor Bronson was leaning against Roy Bender's wagon leisurely talking, and several men sat on upside down candy barrels sipping beer outside the saloon.

"Their supposed to be inside drinking," Uncle Graham said as he pointed to them, and she looked over at them and shook her head.

"Hello Doctor Bronson and Mr. Bender!" Charlotte yelled and eagerly waved. They turned away from their conversation, smiled, and waved for them to come over, and they tied their horses and gladly accepted the invitation.

"Ms. Miller, Thank you for showing up for work, and I want you to have this for your efforts in bracing an approaching storm to come work for me." He handed her a five dollar bill before continuing in a nice, friendly tone, "Hiring and firing is always something that I've hated, but Lillie Troyer lives next door, and I've enjoyed having her over at my lake to help me with business proposals. She can write quite well."

A madness that turned to a bitter sadness ran throw her bones.  That was why he had two chairs there by the lake. How could she pursue a man was interested in hiring another member of her Amish community instead of her, and she hadn't even gotten the chance to rock with him on the front porch of the cabin. She would have never asked to have a spot by the lake; she knew she wasn't that attractive of a girl. She felt like a fool for wasting her time on a man that wouldn't care about her or even listen to her. This was a sure sign to move on.

"We thought it would be a good idea to have you two over for lunch tomorrow," Uncle Graham said in a hospitable tone, and the two men grew smiles of excitement and accepted. "I will pay you to help me rebuild her small fence for the new chickens that she'll be getting."

"I'll do it for free," Roy Bender blurted and eyed Charlotte's five dollar bill.

He already gave me five dollars and now he's going to help build a fence. He is upset, and as usual, it is all about money. She knew that she needed the money for her treatments, but she also knew that it wasn't right for her to accept it and then ask him to do manual work on her farm, so she graciously handed it back to him. "Take this back. It is very kind of you to offer to help with the fence."

"What about the Doctor?" He asked and shook his head toward him.

"I have five dollars at home for him too." I shall pay him tomorrow, and I promise that I am a woman of my word."

The Doctor smiled, "It's a pleasure doing business with you Ms. Miller. I see that you're in Amish attire now; are you joining the church?"

"Yes Sir, I am joining, and my instruction class starts next week. I will then be moving to Walnut Creek to shadow a schoolteacher to see if this is what I want to do." The night's wind blew her kapp strings as she spoke, and her dark brown cape dress fit snugly around her waist, and Roy Bender noticed that she still had her black apron tied snuggly too.

"Roy, could you stay out her with her while the Doctor and I go inside to handle business with Turner?" Uncle Graham asked as he looked at Roy, and Roy gave a nod.

The men walked in to the saloon and the two men that were sitting on the upside down candy barrels followed behind them, the wooden doors swaying as they entered. The sound of loud music floated out onto Main Street.

Charlotte remembered Uncle Graham's first rule for a lady catching a man: ask him out to a picnic along the countryside, and cook for him, for a man's stomach is the key to his heart.

"It's a nice night, isn't it?" Nervousness slid between her fingers, so she placed them on her hips. "The stars are beautiful. They sparkle like your eyes."

He grinned and made direct eye contact with her. He looked relaxed as the wind picked up and dangled the ends of his brown straw hat.

"Would you like to go on a picnic with me after you get done with your Saturday sales?" She titled her head, her blonde curls heavy but dangling over her neck. He smiled at her as he studied her curls. He so desperately wanted to take his thick fingers and run them through her golden hair, but he resisted the urge.

She got closer and leaned onto his chest, which is what Uncle Graham had instructed to do if one didn't get a quick respond to tactic one. She closed her eyes as she rested her head against his strong chest, and she could hear his heart beating. She extended her left arm around his neck and lightly and gave a hug. "Thank you for offering to help my uncle rebuild my fence. I enjoy gathering the eggs for the chickens. For sixteen years, I watched out my upstairs bedroom window, not allowed to ever leave my house, to feel the dirt ground against my feet, or to grab a fresh egg from its nest. It's something very special to me."

"Be a lady and stop hugging. People might see us," he whispered, and she hesitated.

Her eyes closed as she slid her head closer up his chest, feeling his suspenders and cotton shirt. He felt like a strong Amish man, one who shared the same culture and faith as her, and she liked that about him and didn't want to let him go. "I am a lady, and I am so intrigued by you, Roy Bender. Just hold me for a second longer, let the butterflies swim in my stomach. She sighed against his chest, "It's such a weird feeling."

"That's what Lillie Bender says!" He informed, knowing that it would make her spitting mad, but he had to tell the truth, that Lillie Bender had recently expresses interest in him. However, she hadn't invited him to a picnic like Charlotte had just done, and he wondered why.

She took a deep breath, remembering Uncle Graham's third rule for courting: Give the kiss! She reached up and lightly tapped her lips against his, and he leaned down and pressed his lips further into her lips.

Her heart raced, and she forgot about the swimming butterflies; her attention was on the electric feeling that made her toes wiggle, her finger tips press harder into the back of his head, his straw hat lay on his buggy seat. She jumped back and cupped her mouth. "I knocked your hat off. I am so sorry Mr. Bender."

His smile was so wide that he looked like a changed man, but she knew what was coming next: a rude remark, so she decided to take control and avoid a rude remark. "Let's walk over here to the side of the post office; I need to tell you something about Uncle Graham, and I don't want anyone eavesdropping. She'd told the truth, for she wanted to inquire about his drinking habits, for he had come home with no sense of alcohol on his person for a week, and she wondered why.

They walked over next to the side of the building, the darkness making it hard to see, but she didn't care. She looked up at him and said, "My uncle is no longer drinking?"

He nodded and looked at her. She looked through the night's darkness to try to examine his head full of hair, but it was too dark, so she tiptoed up and pressed her lips against his, and he threw his arms around her neck, under her long curls, and kissed her tightly.

She ran her hands through his hair, finding that it was thicker on top than she had thought. Absorbed in his lips, she took her hand, grabbed strands of her glistening hair and rubbed it against his face. He let go and gazed into her eyes. "You have beautiful curls, Charlotte."

"Go ahead and run your hands through my curls. They want you to, Roy. I know that you must be interested in how it would feel to feel my hair as much as I wanted to feel your hair. It felt very good; I want you to have that pleasure." She blushed, as she felt a little "worldly" for speaking like that, but she had spoken the truth. Surely he had the same desires as she had, and she couldn't deny them.

"Sure, I'd love to young lady," he uttered as he playfully dangled his fingertips through her tight curls. Unraveling one, he on each side of her face, he pulled the delicate gold up and over his shoulders and then rejoined his lips to hers. Slowly and reluctantly, he let go and uttered, "You have your date Charlotte!" Uncle Graham's plan had worked! She was so excited that she bounced out of his arms and almost jumped up and down like a jumping jack.

"Charlotte! Charlotte!" His increase in tone finally broke her excitement as she made eye contact.

"What?" Attentively, she leaned her head toward him and then walked into his arms. "I'm sorry; I was so excited. I've wanted you for some time now."

"Remember what I said about your wearing the Englisch clothes?" He glanced down, his eyes sparkling, but his attitude moving toward his rudeness, the rudeness that had attracted her to him. "I would have noticed you if you hadn't been trying to be something that you weren't. You know God doesn't like that sweetheart."

"I see. I understand. Well, I wanted to rock in one of the rocking chairs with you, to get to know you better."

"You may do that on Sunday after services at Troyer's haus," he replied before bending down and kissing her lips again. "I like your style."

She giggled, knowing that it wasn't her style; it was her uncle's style. Maybe traveling salesmen could read each other's minds, and maybe they courted the same way. She was very thankful for Uncle Graham. 
CHAPTER NINE

An unseasonably cool snap met Charlotte as she opened the front door. There were no birds in the sky or even the sound of the wind. Her brow rushed with uneasiness, as did her gut, for something just didn't feel right. The horizon was as blue as her eyes, so she laughed at herself for being worried about nothing.  You're just nervous because Roy Bender is coming to lunch! She heard Uncle Graham coming down the loft steps and turned to get his opinion on the unusual weather, and he came around the corner with worried eyes.

"It's a bad frontal system; the men at the saloon were talking about it last night. It sparked a twister in Kansas late yesterday evening." He snapped his suspenders and sighed. "It's gonna hit us, and I don't know who it'll take with 'em. I guess the good Lord knows better than me."

The wind blew her damp deep yellow locks and the hair dotted up the back of her neck. "The root cellar is approximately a minute away if you run, and it takes a good thirty seconds to close the metal roof if the wind is fighting it."

"Looks like you have been a storm chaser," He ran his hands throw his salt and pepper hair and leaned down over the table. "Let's get the extra lanterns just in case we need them. I'll go next door to Drakes to make sure that they know about the storm."

"They were in town yesterday. I saw them leave; I'm sure that they have heard the news. Can you help me dig up the potatoes from the hole?" She smiled and then added, "I could barely pull out enough for a batch of tators and onions. I know they are three feet deep, but for some reason, I'm not getting very many of them out at a time."

"You have to make sure to dig in different places around the sheet metal. When you can't get any more tators out of one hole, try a couple more times, digging deeper, and if none turn up, then that side is empty. Refill it with orchard grass, the wooden board and sheet tin and move on to another hole."

Her sun burnt hands swung over her mouth with embarrassment. "I just patted the grass back on top. Will it hurt the potatoes?"

"Yes it could harm them, girl. The reason for the layers of orchard grass is to keep them cool, preserved, and the wood and sheet metal is to help preserve them and keep them dark and snug. The reason the holes are dug against the cellar wall is because it is a steep hill so the water will drain," he informed, and she became intrigued with the planting of potatoes.

"I understand. I'll go gather them for breakfast, but it might take me a while."

"That's fine. I'll go out and get the supplies for the fence out of the wagon. The men are supposed to be here in two hours." He took his straw hat off of the peg on the wall and swung it over his head. "What are you cooking up for us men today?"

She poured him a cup of kaffi and handed it to him. Take this with you; you'll need something warm to drink out there." She turned and grabbed the large wooden mixing bowl. "I am fixing Poor Man's Steak atop thick fried hard wheat pancakes, fried potatoes, and honey pears cooked down with spices and a little brown sugar." She wiped lifted her black apron up and wiped her hands on it and eyed her uncle. "Dessert will be Shoofly Pie."

He clapped his hands. "You've won your man over. Every man loves a generous slice of Shoofly Pie!"

She blushed and uttered, "We'll have to see about that, Uncle Graham."

He gave that supportive uncle wink and smiled. The front door closed, and she was still blushing, feeling the heat against the middle of her cheeks.  I can't mess up the pie. She grabbed her lavender bonnet and headed outside. Although the sky appeared normal, there were no birds around, and she kept eyeing her surroundings for any other strange clues.

She wrinkled her brow and threw her hands on her hips, eyeing the last hole that she'd dug along the step hill that covered the root cellar. Nervously, she noted that the cellar door looked calm; however, she wondered if it would be like that later when the round of storms came through Indiana.

Kansas was several hundred miles away, but it still seemed like a side door to Indiana. Would the storms weaken by the time they got to Bloomington? She looked up through the sun's rays. God, please protect us. Wind splashed through the heated light and coldly slapped her in the face, and she closed her eyes and shivered.  There's still something odd with this weather; something's just not right.

She reached her navy-covered arms around her back and grabbed the apron strings, pulling them to form a perfect bow. Finally, she heard a chirping bird and eagerly jerked her head upward in search of the creature. It was alone, and it circled the tall sycamore tree making rounding circles like a hungry vulture.  I could stand her all day to try to lesson my worry of the weather, and that's not getting lunch cooked.

She took the hoe, which she had left by the cellar, and carefully dug a hole opposite the side of the last spot that she had dug.  Were there anymore potatoes under the orchard grass? Good food couldn't be wasted. The good Lord knew that some people had no food to eat. She smiled as she recalled that her daed Earl had taught her about scraping your plate clean. "God likes a hungry person and a waste not person," he had always told his kinner, and they had all agreed with him.

I found more potatoes in there! She almost jumped for joy when she dug out twelve potatoes, five being quite large, which would be good for baking. Like her uncle Graham, she loved anything that was either sweet or starchy enough to eventually elevate one's blood sugar level. She shyly grinned and turned her back against the farm entrance when she heard the wagon wheels clumping down the lane.  He's here with the doctor, and I am so excited! She tried hard not to bite her lip, to focus her attention of gathering hearty food for a good afternoon meal.

Her chest released a long sigh and her white teeth slid over her bottom lip, gripping it in the middle as she flipped around, potatoes in hand, to see the doctor and Roy Bender get out of the wagon. Roy waved for her to come to the buggy as the doctor walked over to Uncle Graham, who had already started on the fence.

"You all made it here. I am fixing potatoes from last year's crop and a Shoofly Pie!" She exclaimed as her eager legs made their way through the dirt and gravel to reach him, her black laced-up boots spinning a quick brown mist. "The weather is odd, isn't it?"

"Yes, Ma'am, it is going to be a bad one; it's coming straight across," he said, and she got closer and showed him the large potatoes. "Those are good for baking. Maybe we can have those for supper Sunday night. I wanted to take you to the Sunday service to get you used to the fellowship."

"I've never been to any service," she replied as she leaned up and pressed her lips against his bare chin. For a moment, she wondered if he'd ever grow a beard, get married, and settle down.  I know I am the one.

"You'd look handsome with a beard. I think that I may be able to help make that happen one day," she smiled and reached up and ran her fingers across his smooth skin, and he looked down at her eyes as if he loved every minute of the attention.

"I need to help the men with the fence. I'm making you a thin New York steak and brown gravy for Sunday dinner, and then I want to go over some doctrine with you. I know that you've been sheltered, and I want to make sure that you're not confused; the bishop asked me to do this because he's gone to Fort Wayne for a wedding." He reached down and lightly tapped his lips against hers. "He's very excited about your choosing God's way over the shiny lights and glimmer of New York."

"I have to give my dresses up," she hung her head, and he leaned closer and took his hand and tilted her chin up. She smiled but drew half a frown before tearing up.

"Kathy was your mother, but she chose the fast lane. You can too, but I want no part in it. If you court me, you have to believe what we believe," he smiled and then pointed toward Heaven. "Put Him first and me second. Do you think that you can do that?" The wind dangled the light brown ends of his straw hat and she became nauseous.

She nodded, her stomach flipping several times as she swallowed the lump in her throat.  God, what have I done? I am fixing to dedicate my life to a man? How did this happen? She wanted to close her eyes and keep them shut and scold herself for moving too fast, but he was standing there looking at her, and although she knew that it was wrong to lead him on, she accepted his request because she had felt so unworthy and piteous during their earlier interactions in town and at his cabin. Do women sometimes make the wrong choice just so they can feel accepted: to avoid rejection?

God, I am going to get to know you better, so please help me keep the commitment that I am fixing to make. "He's everything to me. That's it: he is the center of my world.

His mouth slowly curved and he took his finger and ran it under each of her eyes to wipe the tears away. "I'm holding you to that promise and so is our God." He leaned down and kissed her, melting his lips into hers, and he thought that her lips tastes better than anything that they'd ever touched. He held her chin and gazed into her eyes, "I'm down on my knees along in the open countryside, pioneering it, just me and God. You'll make a fine addition. Hope you've got some good knees. You'll need them!"

His words panicked her, for she had mostly prayed to go through her upstairs bedroom window. Had she been ungrateful, unfaithful to not kneel as often as she should?  God, you've given me a cowboy- an Amish Christian one. WOW! I think that I might faint.

"Go cook us some dinner. I'll be hungry when we get done."

A light kiss and short embrace and he made his way to the area by one of the barns where the men were working with the fence. He rubbed his lip across his top and bottom lip and told himself that she was the one.

He had to admit that a woman so eager to get his attention surely was fearless, and although she appeared fragile and indecisive, he knew that was only a front, a mold that the prejudice townspeople had taught her: that she would "break' on the outside world, and that it was okay to cross that English line and mingle; it was not, and he knew that she knew it. He admired a woman that had the faith to wear a kapp and correct her past errors before the Lord.

The extra lantern hung from her free hand as she climbed down the loft stairs; a bad storm, one which had wreaked havoc in Kansas was beating down a path of destruction, headed their way later in the day. They would be prepared.  Lanterns, candles, an extra pitcher of spring water for the root cellar. No storm would catch her family off guard. She lit the crème-colored candles and studied the table. Where would her new man sit? Uncle Graham always sat from her at mealtimes. Her daed had always sat at the top of the table. Would he be okay sitting there?

A delicate white place-setting, rimmed in slender lavender lilacs, was carefully placed for each guest, and she looked out the window to see if the sky was still blue: it was a beautiful baby blue.  A little sunshine for our noon meal; that's good for lively chatter, and I can see my new man's eyes as he tries out my baking and cooking skills. I hope that he likes my food.

The black cast iron skillet was grabbed and placed onto the back burner of the wood burning stove. Grabbing the bowl of potatoes, she separated the larger ones, which would be used for baking chive-sour cream potatoes, and placed them on the corner of the kitchen counter. Mamm would never like the counter cluttered. Her deep peach face appeared happy, an upward curve started from cheek to cheek. It was her kitchen now, and it looked like she was already doing things differently than her perfectly-organized mother, and it felt good, like a sense of identity, that of an independent woman.

The potatoes were peeled, sliced thinly round, and tossed into the hot grease. The canned Poor Man's Steak was popped open and tosses in a medium cooking pot. The sweet fragrance from the honey pears teased her palate, but will-power to wait and enjoy their locally-grown delicacy overrode her hungry stomach.

A wonderful combination of sweet spices pushed its way out of the oven of the black stove and made her sweet tooth dance.  All burners are busy, and the Shoofly Pie is almost done. I hope he likes my cooking.

After thirty minutes, it was time to fry the hard wheat pancakes. Her family had always eaten Poor Man's Steak on hard wheat pancakes, and her mother believed that the cakes should be thick and cooked perfectly golden brown. Her heart dropped; this was the first time that she'd eat this family-favorite meal without her sister Lola and her mamm Pearl. Her head leaned over the sink and fought back tears, and if it hadn't been for the more strong feeling of butterflies in her stomach, she probably would have broken down and wept. In a way, Roy Bender was a Godsend, a good, strong distraction from the world of chaos that she'd been thrown into this past summer, and she hoped that he'd continue to keep her mind and heart busy.

Her fingers pushed the hard wheat berries into the grinder to grind it into good flour. Every so often, her eyes nervously darted out the kitchen window. God, you protected me and this haus when I couldn't go to the root cellar; please have mercy and protect us from this violent storm this evening even though I can make it to the safe cellar this time.

The front door swung open and the eyes of three hungry men came walking in scanning the kitchen stove and counter in search of the delicious food that had tempted their nostrils and then their empty stomachs.

"I am frying the hard wheat pancakes for the Poor Man's Steak right now," Charlotte announced as she walked over and took their coats and hats and leaned up to place them on the pegs beside the door.

"That's nice knitting work, Charlotte; is it for your treatments?" Roy asked as he walked over and ran his hand across one of the orchard grass-colored ones. He admired the tight loops and perfect snugness of the mitten.

"They are going to be donated," she replied as she took the hard wheat pancake batter and poured it into a large circle in the greased cast iron skillet. "The Louisville School for the Blind will get them. It's part of my giving back; God's led me to do it."

The tanned wells under Roy's eyes filled with tears, and it embarrassed him, for a strong man like him, with millions in the bank, half of it given to him by his billionaire copper heiress friend, Claudia-Janine when she'd passed away, was used to having no emotions during hard times; he'd always been straight, to the point, and actually downright unsympathetic.  My life is changing. He was right, for this past summer had come with more sympathy, compassion, and attentive listening than he'd had in his whole life. Much to his shock, he'd even volunteered to teach school at Walnut Creek for a month while his brother had surgery, and he was due to leave Monday morning.

"Roy, you may have a seat at the head of the table where my daed uses to sit' Doctor Bronson, you may sit to his left, and Uncle Graham and I will take our usual seats across from each other," she gleamed as she placed the heaping piping-hot plate of hard wheat pancakes in the middle of the table. The large bowl of Poor Man's Steak came next, and the dish of cooked tiny honey pears, laced with brown sugar and spices, was set to the left of the steak. Finally, Roy's favorite: a dish of hearty fried potatoes was placed on the table.

Roy's mouth watered, and he studied her hospitality, her attentiveness to them, and he concluded that she would be serving many a meal to his traveling guests and to his kinner.

I'm going to have to keep the business separate because I don't think that she likes my business etiquette. It scares her. He was right, and he knew it, for he'd been watching her head drop, her chubby, cherry-tasting lips suddenly curve downward when he'd be business-like with her. He couldn't wait to see her reaction during their first week at homesteading; for he was the total opposite around those that he was close to; he was laid back, attentive, and even chatty, and he had an eye for romance: the fresh-picked pastel bouquet of flowers, the delicate chocolates from his best supplier in New York, and relaxing lavender bubble bath salts from France. She wasn't after any of this like the earlier girlfriends; she was after him and not what he could provide for her. It felt good, rewarding, to have someone like her.

"I think that it would be fitting for Mr. Bender to say the afternoon blessing for the meal," Uncle Graham looked at him, and he nodded, and everyone solemnly and gratefully bowed their heads, all while a destructive storm, one that would make Bloomington's history books, thumped across the earth and forced its way over the Indiana state line.

******

Roy Bender folded the dress pants and placed them neatly in the black suitcase. He'd been a member of the Walnut Creek Old Order Amish for years, and he'd never questioned his faith in God. However, he was now realizing that he'd been bitter toward his grandmother for not letting him read his grandfather's secret journal. His tanned hands ran across the extra pair of suspenders that his New York friend had given him. Had he gotten too close to the Englisch, and were they party to blame for his grandfather's secret downward spiral, for he'd spent his early years, right up to the day that his oldest child turned sixteen and joined the church, traveling to sell wares.

You gave me your headache, grandfather. A cold anger rushed through him, turning to a bitter cold snap across his face. He'd turned into the person that he had so much detested, and he was glad that God had sent a beautiful woman who could look past the profit and loss statements and into his heart. There would be no secret journals for him, and that made him happy. He looked up to the ceiling and imagined God's caring face, "Make me the opposite of my grandfather, even if you have to take everything away. Charlotte will move me even if we have to pray to put food on the table. She is fearless." His eyes stay shut, his heart merging with the warm, Fatherly comfort from God. He was a changed man...he was in love.

The banging on the door was fast and furious, alarming him from his meditation. He made his way through the hallway of the cabin and crossed to the front door. It was his neighbor's son, Matthew Troyer, and he wore a worried look.

Roy wondered what could be wrong as he turned the door handle to let him in. Could the baby's fever have gotten worse? He knew that Mr. Troyer was away with the bishop for a wedding in Fort Wayne, so it could have been a possibility that his wife had asked her son to go get a neighbor.

"Five-hundred are dead and several cities are leveled, people trapped inside!" Matthew spoke nervously and turned to look past the cabin's front porch to view the shape of the clouds. "It looks pretty normal now, but I don't know how it will be in two hours."

"It's gonna hit us in two hours?" Roy asked as he leaned into the doorway. "I guess the God Lord will protect us. If he takes us, he takes us, and if he doesn't, it means we have a purpose, a mission to accomplish. Did you get all of your corn put up?"

"We got half of it put up. My brother was a little slow today. How are you and the Miller girl doing?"

"We built a fence for her chickens today. She is harvesting her honey pear trees next week. They are loaded with the sweetest, most beautiful little pears. Her peaches look good too. She'll be able to pay for a whole treatment from sale of her orchard fruit."

"That's good. I'm going back over to the house. Come join us if the storm gets worse."

"I sure will, Matthew. I appreciate your taking the time to warn me."

Matthew nodded and drew a wide smile, "Anytime. That's what neighbors are for, Roy."

******

"Can you feel your legs Uncle Graham?" Charlotte sobbed as she leaned over and looked into her uncle's frail face. He had to feel his legs; he had to be okay. He had to live. "Did the storm get your house?" His tone was weak, his breathing shallow.

She wept harder and leaned her head onto his broad chest. "I don't care about the house. I care about you. What the tornado took can be replaced but you can't be replaced, Uncle Graham!"

"I stopped drinking for you. Tell the doctor to get a Preacher now." He uttered, his face turning an ash color.

She didn't ask him why he needed a preacher. She didn't even comprehend that he'd just said that he'd stopped drinking for her. Her mind was on carrying him out of the doctor's office. "I'll go tell him. Please move your legs while I'm gone into the other room."

Charlotte, there's a letter in your parent's room in the bureau drawer. If the house is left standing, you need to read it. Make sure that Roy's with you."

She became confused, but she didn't want to question his behavior at a time like this, so she ran into the next room where Doctor Bronson was leaning over a brown metal folding chair talking with Reverend Smith, a Baptist Preacher in Bloomington. Both men looked concerned, their minds heavy.

The Preacher stood up as she entered the room, and the doctor followed and extended his arm out as to take her in his arms. The doctor gently held her and announced, "The Reverend wants to meet with your uncle to make sure that he's ready to go be with the Lord."

Charlotte jerked out of his arms, stomped her feet and screamed, "I won't be planning a third funeral. Lola and my mother left way too early. It won't happen again. He extended his arms around her again as the Reverend came running into the room.

"Come quick, Charlotte!" The Reverend snapped before turning and leading them into the room.

Uncle Graham lay fighting for air, his eyelids sunk in and his skin a bluish hue. He finally opened his eyes halfway and said, "Forgive me, Charlotte. I'm not perfect, but I'm going to meet the Lord, and I'm going without a drop of whiskey on my person. I am your father, not your uncle, and Kathy is your mother. You were switched at birth because Pearl Miller's infant daughter was born dead while my wife lay cradling two beautiful twins in the other room. She decided to share the joy of having a child. I've never been Amish, and John C. Brow sits in jail accused of the crime streak that I executed out. I am the bank robber, and I shot the US Marshall from the upstairs bedroom."

"You're the bank robber?" Charlotte was in shock, and the doctor and Roy Bender were, too, for the whole town thought that John C. Crow was the bank robber.

His breathing decreased, his words drawn out," What Earl and Pearl Miller and you have showed me is the kind, gentle love and forgiveness that God must have, and I, being the most wanted man in America, thought that I would never say this, but I do today: I want to follow that Man on the cross at Calvary. Thank you for forgiving me for the hair tonic accident; it was the only way that the doctor could keep you sheltered from the town gossip. You don't have a disease. It was all made up." He briefly coughed, and then he took his last breath. The tornado had just claimed victim number five-hundred and one, and he would be solely missed.

The doctor led her to the front office area, had her to sit down on the couch, and put a cool cloth on her forehead. He ran her hand over her face and said, "I am sorry Charlotte, but we were all covering ourselves, and along the way, more lies were told, and then we all become confused about what was really going on. You don't have an illness at all."

"This is crazy! Totally rubbish!" She didn't know what to believe except that she would be on the first train to Walnut Creek. She'd volunteer to teach school even if Roy Bender didn't come along. She'd been abandoned and humiliated, and it kept getting worse and worse, as did the lies that they had been telling, so she had to leave now.
CHAPTER TEN

The train seemed to move at a snail's pace as Charlotte leaned against the window sill scanning the countryside. There were small trees; all bunched together, they stood strong below the taller, older trees that ran up the hills that the railroad tracks. The train's deep throat roared as they turned a windy curve. Was the crossing ahead on the outskirts of a town or on a rural area like the one that she'd just left?

"Ma'am, the man in the back is trying to get your divided attention," an African American woman, who appeared to be in her fifties, was leaning over the seat. "He's back there." Her deep eyes widened as she pointed to three seats back on the opposite side. It was Roy Bender, and he was also leaning against the window sill, his gorgeous hair slicked back and his eyes mesmerizing.

"Thank you," Charlotte gazed over her shoulder again and wondered if it was okay to seat hop. She'd never been on a train before, and she hated asking Roy; it would simply embarrass her, so she stayed put. She waved and smiled. He nodded and smiled back, and the lady in the seat behind smiled at both of them before returning her attention back to the book in which she was reading.

I wish I would have brought a book or two. Charlotte leaned up as the train came to a halting stop. The rural countryside dotted the land on both sides of the track. Why had the train stopped? Where were they at, and when would the train return to its normal speed?

Goodness. It would have been better to have ridden horse back. Her hands wiggled in her lap and her body repositioned in the small seat; her aching back almost made her grit her teeth. They'd been traveling four hours and all she had seen were farming communities. She wanted to see the city, and not because she wanted to settle there but because she had an oath before the Lord to make sure that she really put one hundred percent into this teaching job. Knowing the city and its layout would help, especially when she heard the school board drill her during the open interview.

I hope I pass the interview. I really want to teach school. The window sill provided a sleeping spot after fifteen minutes. Although she never drifted off completely, her mind was free of worry and her plans for the future. The train jerked, bolting her from her rest, and she reached and rubbed her back. How much longer to Walnut Creek? It would do no good to ask someone because like her life, she had no control over it.

God it is hard to let go of the farms, but I have to do it to be happy. The whole orchard is destroyed, but the tornado didn't take my life. Uncle Graham wasn't so lucky, or was he? He died saying the sinner's prayer with the Reverend right before he revealed one of the many secrets. Could there be more? She had to laugh at herself for calling her real father Uncle Graham, for he'd always be her father; she just wished that she'd had more time to spend with him and get to know him better. What about Kathy? Now that woman made her snicker, for she'd been the one that gave her up.  Feeling sorry for an Amish woman who'd lost a single child? How dare her! I wanted my mother too. Rachael Anne was picked to stay with mother; I was rejected.

She closed her eyes shut and recalled various scriptures that she'd heard Earl and Pearl Miller teach their children at evening devotions. There was Genesis, which involved the creation story, and John 3:16, which claimed one was saved if you believed in Jesus Christ, and finally, there was Corinthians 11, which dealt with wearing a kapp and not cutting one's hair if they were a female. She'd learned a lot from that one family, and she was grateful for it. She knew that she could be the one working at the post office, but deep down in her heart, she was glad that she was Charlotte Miller and not her twin sister. It had been her life and no one else's life. Now, here she was on a train to go interview to teach at Walnut Creek. Would they accept her?

******

Ben Troyer looked out the stormy window of the bulk food store and prayed for Elizabeth Yoder's safe return. There had been a flash flood and several wagons had been unaccounted for in nearby Sugar Creek. Had Elizabeth perished? God, please be with our community right now. We always needed you, but we really need you now.

The rain smacked the window as tree branches swayed, their heavy limbs bending and twisting through the deep wind. Frank Schwartz walked in drenched from head to toe, his straw hat pouring cold water onto the floor. His black beard splashed with water, he shook his head and flipped his hat off. "It's a mess out there. Have you heard about the new teacher? Is she okay?"

"I haven't heard, but I hope that she is okay. It took us a whole summer to replace Brenda Yoder, and I'm not sure that we can replace her if she's been seriously injured. School is in now, and we can't skip classes; it's not good for the students, and I am on the school board, so I have to be tough and follow the rules. If she's been hurt, we have to find another teacher."

Ben had to admit that it really wasn't the fact that the new teacher couldn't handle the classroom, for he knew that she had started off well, and the children liked her, wanted to learn, but it was her boyfriend, Luke Miller: he had spent a lot of time with her, so at any minute, they'd have wedding plans on their hands and no teacher. Sure, he wanted her to be happy, but he also wanted a teacher that would stay put and be passionate about her job.

Bishop Yoder walked in and nodded at the two men. His deep brown eyes matched his thick saddle-colored hair. "The teacher is dead. Let's pray for her family, as they just lost one of their sons in Haiti; he was martyred. This will be hard on the children, but we must keep school going. Ask around to see if anyone wants to teach; they'll need to be trained, and pray about it. It's in God's hands, and I feel like He'll touch someone to learn to teach or bring a new teacher here."

There is no one else; remember the wedding that Brenda went to in Haiti? Ben leaned against the deli counter. "I had to pay one of Washington Court House's retired teachers to come and cover for those two weeks."

The bishop smiled and shook his head, "God will answer, and just keep praying, Ben."

A sigh of frustration entered his mouth followed by a nod of agreement. He hoped that the bishop was correct. They needed a new teacher, and they needed her now.

Charlotte Miller walked into the bulk food store in search of something to eat; she'd eaten very little on the train. Roy Bender walked beside her and grabbed a shopping basket. The men gave a nod to him and then looked at her, and Roy nodded back.

"Hello. How is everything in Walnut Creek? I haven't been here in a while," Roy asked as he walked up to the deli counter. 'I need four bologna sandwiches with thick slices of Colby cheese. We've been on a train ride, and we're mighty hungry."

"Who's this nice young lady that you have with you, Roy?" The Bishop asked. His eyes were eager to know, his heart hoping that God has just answered their prayer.

"She's come up here to volunteer to teach school. She was certified to teach in Indiana," Roy announced as he watched Ben Troyer slice the bologna. His mouth watered and his whole body relaxed, and he knew it was because he was back at home. Home always felt better, that was until he'd get preoccupied on the secret journal that his grandma hadn't given up yet. Could Charlotte talk her into giving it up?

All three men drew wide grins that matched their eyes as they focused in on Roy's remark. God had been quick this time answering their plea for a new teacher almost immediately, and they didn't even have to leave Walnut Creek this time.

"She can board with my sisters," the Bishop said as he took a sip of a bottled root beer. He thought that the drink was calibrated correctly and refreshing. How long would this beautiful blonde-haired lady stay single? He knew one thing: Roy Bender surely wouldn't attract any women, for he was business-oriented. Maybe she'd stay forever. He sent a prayer up.

******

The smooth Colby cheese was unlike any that she'd ever tried as she sat in the buggy next to Roy Bender. As soon as she'd swallow one bite, she'd sink her sharp teeth into the cheese and meat again, her stomach wanting more, and her palate being pleased. "This is so good, Roy!"

He smiled and leaned back against the seat. "You know that you have to teach a minimum of one year?"

She swallowed her food and then sipped her root beer. She hadn't thought about it, and she probably need to: what were the requirements? "I need to talk to the board about what's expected of me."

"I was thinking that you're not going to be teaching for more than a year," His tone lowered, his hands become restless, and he hesitated to explain why he was edgy: he wanted to marry her. He'd ridden his horse at the higher speeds possible through the open prairie, not knowing if she'd survived the tornado that had taken her biological father Graham's life. He'd prayed up through the thick, black cloud that had lined his view to Heaven and pleaded for her. "I only want her, God!" He requested as he'd jumped over fences and ran through flooded creeks.

"You need to let them know that we are dating. That will give them time to find someone else."

"Okay. I will tell them. We're not getting married now, but I would consider it in the future. You know that I am going to sell my two farms. We can use the money to buy one large farm," she quickly guzzled the rest of her sweet drink and thought of how intimidating her statement could have been to Roy, for he had millions of dollars. How would it feel to inherit millions from your everyday customers when they pass on? At times, he had to feel down, unworthy, as if he got to enjoy their hard-earning money instead of them.

"I have a farm here. My sister and her husband live in the tenant house, and they run it." He took a bite of his sandwich and thought it tasted very good. He thought that life in Walnut Creek would be happy as long as he could get his hands on that journal.

******

The children sat with perfect posture, their shoulders squared and their eyes in need to see the new teacher. Several of the third graders had tears welling up in the sides of their eyes; they missed the former teacher, and Charlotte had expected this, for loss was hard to deal with, especially with children.

"You're the locked up girl!" One of the boys yelled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "How can you teach us? You've never been to school?"

"I just wanted to meet everyone. My name is Charlotte, and I am the new teacher. Now, the class is dismissed.

The children's mouth flew open and at first they couldn't believe that they were getting out of school as soon as they'd arrived there, but one at a time, they slowly slid out of their seats and walked out of the two-room school house, and Charlotte was glad, for she recalled the snotty lady's remarks back in Bloomington when the little boy had reminded her of her disease.

I really didn't have the disease! It didn't matter; the children were convinced, as were some of their parents. She wanted to be back on the farm, tending to her ting sweet pears and burying potatoes under layers of orchard grass, wood, and sheet metal. She wanted to be Mrs. Miller, and she knew that she could do that without any judgment from him, for he loved her and not her past. 
CHAPTER ELEVEN

One year and two months later...

Charlotte Miller had been a beautiful bride, and she had even surprised herself, for she hadn't cried a tear. Sure, it would have been nice for her "mother" Pearl and her "father" Earl to have been there, but nonetheless, it was a happy union of two people: the confident candy man and the only Bloomington lady who at one time hadn't an umbrella to shield herself from the sun's rays.

The sun was brazing that day, but once in a while, when it was least expected the wind would twirl down from Heaven and toss some much-needed fresh air and relief from the heat. She rode next to the man of her dreams in the open buggy, its wagon wheels digging deeply into the dirt road that led to the sprawling one hundred acre farm.

He studied her locks of gold, her genuine beauty, and her heart of hope, faith, and the power to forgive, all while she chomped down on a lavender twisted stick of candy, and it wasn't a broken one.

The clouds become dark, their denseness revealed as a heavy rain poured down. He grabbed her and carried her into the house, and she giggled with excitement. "It's already fun being a new wife. I have someone to whisk me in from the rain. It's dark in here. Let's get the lantern and egg a slice of the strawberry-rhubarb pie that won your heart and sip a black cup of kaffi!" She requested, and he smiled as he walked over and flicked the lantern on.

There was just enough flickering light in the oil lamp to see the outline of his strong form. She flushed with heat upon glancing at him. If she could not control her own thoughts to where Roy was concerned, how could she control her deepest hidden desired, especially in this low light. Charlotte could see that he was handsome. But to think such things--would be a sin-- as that would be vanity. She blinked away her thoughts of him and focused on her duty-- to love and to cherish him--until death they would part... But could she put her feelings aside? She thought not. She stepped forward and placed a hand within his rough-skinned grip. Gentle he was with her, as he kissed, his warm breath tickling her palm. She flushed and ran slow fingers through his dark curly hair. His face shaven clean, she knew now that he'd grown out his beard. She'd never see his youthful face again, not after this night. She wanted to plant a thousand kisses across his chin at that moment, but again, refrained from such desires. She was so lucky to be Mrs. Miller; life was not as perfect as it could get, and she knew it.  God, I thank you for everything.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sicily Yoder is the author of the best-selling cookbook series, Cooking with T, is author of fifteen books. She once lived in a conservative Mennonite home, and her uncle is a conservative Mennonite Minister. She can be reached at CookingwithT@roadrunner.com. She is currently working on the Amish Orchards series.

She is a seasoned canner and owns The Amish Garden, a state-certified food wholesaling business. Any prayer requests can be emailed to her at: CookingwithT@roadrunner.com.

