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Chapter Three

“You want to go ahead and get Toby unharnessed?” Marshall asked his brother. The wagon had barely come to a halt in the barnyard and he pressed the reins into Sam’s hands and leaped to the ground. “Rub him down before you let him into the pasture. It’s a hot day.”

“Ya.” Twelve-year-old Sam, a carbon copy of a younger Marshall, gripped the wide leather reins with both hands, seeming to puff up with pride at being given the task. “I’ll give ’im a good rub and a scoop of grain.”

“Mind you, the harness needs to be wiped down, as well.” Marshall backed away from the wagon, clamping his hand down over his straw hat. Sounds coming from the henhouse distracted him for a moment. He could hear chickens squawking and flapping their wings. He looked back to Sam. “Give me a holler if you need any help.”

Sam eyed his big brother from under the brim of his hat, which was identical to Marshall’s. Small for his age, he sometimes struggled with the chores requiring brute strength or simply height, but he more than made up for it with heart. And smarts. If he wasn’t strong enough to do something, like lift a hundred-pound bag of feed, he’d throw together a contraption of one sort or the other to accomplish the task. He had pulleys and levers all over the barn, mechanisms he’d built himself from scraps he found around the farm or scavenged at the county dump or friends’ trash cans.

“I got it,” Sam said. He wasn’t a talker. But he was a hard worker. He was the first one up in the morning, the last to go to bed, and that was only when Marshall or their grossmammi sent him up to his room—with the warning there would be no reading. Otherwise, Sam would be up half the night scouring books and magazines on Plain ways to make work go easier on their farm.

Marshall watched Sam ease the wagon toward the drive-through shed his little brother had designed himself. It was a clever lean-to attached to the main barn, just wide enough for a horse and buggy to pull in to get out of the rain or sun. There, the vehicle, the horse and the man could stay out of the elements while hitching or unhitching. And when it was time to go somewhere, the horse could be hitched to the front of the buggy or wagon and then walk right out without having to back up. Their bishop had liked the design so much he’d built one himself at his own property, saying it would come in handy because a man with his responsibilities had to travel day or night, snow or rain.

The chickens continued to kick up a ruckus and Marshall strode across the barnyard, wondering if a fox had gotten in the henhouse. It had happened the previous year and they had lost half their layers in one night. But it was midday, nearly dinner, and not the time of day a fox was usually up and about.

As he crossed the barnyard, Marshall took in the big barn and multiple outbuildings. Every structure looked neat and tidy, all painted a traditional red with white trim: the old dairy barn, the henhouse, the smokehouse and carriage shed, the granary and other assorted structures. The dirt driveway was raked, the grass mowed and the beds of flowers weeded. And off behind the neat, white clapboard farmhouse, his garden of raised beds, rather than the rows his father had always planted, were neatly weeded. The raised beds were new this year. It had taken Sam two planting seasons to convince Marshall to make the change, but Marshall had to admit it was a good one. They were yielding more crops in a smaller space with less effort.

The sight of his little Eden made Marshall smile. He and Sam had grown up here, Marshall with both his parents, Sam with only their dat, after their mam died giving birth to him. Then four years ago, their dat died of cancer, and at the age of twenty-six Marshall had become the head of the family, responsible for his grandmother and his little brother. The transition from being the eldest son to the man of the house had been difficult at first for Marshall, especially with the transition from big brother to parent to Sam. It had put an end to his rumspringa days and nights of courting the prettiest girls in the county. But the three of them, Marshall, Sam and Grossmammi, had worked through their sorrow and come out the other side, seeing the good in the life God had given them.

The volume of the disturbance in the henhouse became louder and Marshall ran the last couple steps and flung open the door, half expecting to meet a fox with one of his chickens it its mouth. Instead, he came face-to-face with his petite grandmother, holding a basket of eggs in one hand and a flapping chicken by the feet in the other.

“Got her,” Grossmammi exclaimed, holding the chicken high in the air.

The chicken squawked and beat its wings, trying desperately to escape her grip. “Thought she’d get away with it, she did.”

She thrust the chicken upward and Marshall took a step back, raising his hands to keep the chicken from flapping its wings in his face.

He laughed. “Grossmammi, what are you doing?”

She lowered the chicken to her side, letting its head brush the dirt floor of the henhouse, but still held tightly to it. “Collecting eggs.”

He grinned at his grandmother, who stood five feet tall only when she wore her heavy-soled black shoes. Despite her short stature, she was a hearty-sized woman, round with chubby cheeks and a smile that was infectious. Several wisps of gray hair had come free from her elder’s black prayer kapp, evidence of the struggle that had apparently taken place between her and the black-and-white-potted Dominique chicken.

“I mean, what are you doing with the chicken?” He pointed.

She held it up as if she was surprised to find it in her hand. “I warned Emily, if she pecked me again, into the stew pot she went. I should have known not to buy any more Dominicker chicks. Small brains.” She lowered the chicken and looked at him. “She’ll make us a nice supper tomorrow night.”

He removed his hat and wiped his brow before returning it to his head. “And how does Emily feel about that?”

“She should have thought of that before she pecked my hand again.” She held up the hand that held the basket of eggs. “Look, she drew blood.”

He glanced at her hand, which was, indeed, bloody. “She peck you before or after you hung her upside down by her feet?” He suppressed a smile. It made his grandmother angry when she thought he was making fun of her. And an angry Lynita Byler he did not want to deal with today. He was in too good a mood.

“She drew blood, sohn,” she said, shaking the chicken. It began to flap its wings again, but with less effort. “I can’t have my own chickens pecking me!”

He smiled. Even though he was her kins-kind, her grandchild, and not her son, it had been her habit for several years now to call him her own and that somehow eased his pain of being an orphan. Even being a grown man of thirty, he found it hard sometimes to be without parents. “I see your point.” He studied the chicken for a moment. “But I’m afraid she’s going to be awfully tough. How old is Emily? Three years old? Four?”

“Old enough to know not to peck the hand that feeds her grain,” Grossmammi said indignantly.

He reached out and took the basket of eggs from her. “The other thing to take into consideration is that tomorrow is the softball game. Will says there’s talk of cooking hamburgers and hot dogs. In that case, we won’t be having supper at home. I know you don’t want to miss a softball game and potluck to eat a tough old chicken.”

She harrumphed, raised the bird high again and said, “Last time, Emily. I promise you that.” Then she lowered the old hen to the ground and Emily had the good sense to hit the ground running.

Marshall stepped aside to let his grandmother pass and closed the henhouse door behind her.

“You go to Troyer’s and get your britchen strap repaired?” she asked, watching him latch the door securely.

They crossed the sunny barnyard side by side, Marshall shortening his stride so his grandmother could keep up. She was wearing a rose-colored dress today, her bare feet dirty from work in the garden that morning.

“I went to Miller’s,” he told her. “Will’s stepfather’s harness shop. Thought it would be neighborly to go there rather than Troyer’s. Give them the business. Which is a good thing because I met the woman I’m going to marry,” he told her.

She stopped and cocked her head. She wore tiny, wire-frame glasses with lenses that darkened in the sunlight. Marshall couldn’t see her eyes now, but her tone of voice was enough of a reprimand.

“Your wife!” she exclaimed. “You’ve already courted and become betrothed? Banns going to be read on Sunday?” She started walking again and he was the one who had to keep up.

“Not moving quite that quickly, Mammi,” he said, using her nickname. “What’s the matter? I thought you’d be pleased.”

“That you’re ready to bring a wife into this house.” She nodded. “I am. A man going to be thirty-one come Christmas Eve, you should have a wife and a house full of children. God willing,” she added quickly. “Who are you talking about? One of Rosemary’s girls, I suppose? That Ginger is a flirt. You’ve always been drawn to a pretty face.”

“Not Ginger. Lovage. Rosemary’s oldest. She’s just come to Hickory Grove this week.” They cut across the grass toward the back porch. “She’s been in New York settling her mother’s affairs this last year.”

Lynita made a clicking sound between her teeth. “Lovage? What kind of a name is that?”

“Lovage is an herb,” he explained to her as they rounded one of the hickory trees his grandfather, Lynita’s husband, had planted two generations ago. They hadn’t grown naturally on the property, but there were so many in the area, Marshall’s father had told him, that Moses had dug up soldiers in the woods, planted them all around the house he built for his new wife. And now, though Grossdaddi had been dead two decades, they shaded the home where his sons and grandsons had been born and, God willing, his great-grandchildren would be born.

It was interesting to Marshall that in all his running-around years when he was in his early twenties, children had been the last thing on his mind. All he had wanted was a fast horse to pull his courting buggy and a pretty girl beside him. Marriage hadn’t been a consideration and being a father had fallen even behind that. But the last few months, he’d begun to feel a need to settle down and have a family of his own. Maybe it was his grandmother nagging him, or maybe it was God directing, Marshall didn’t know. What he did know was that Lovey Stutzman was the woman for him.

“I like Rosemary, but a bit of an odd duck, isn’t she? And marrying at her age, to a man with all those boys? Brave she is, too.” Lynita studied him through her dark glasses. “I’m glad you’re thinking about finding a good woman, but I think you’d best stay closer to home. A girl born and raised here.” She went up the porch steps.

He followed her. “Not this again, Mammi. Faith is a perfectly nice girl, but—”

“She can cook,” his grandmother interrupted. “She can sew as fine a stitch on a quilt as I’ve ever seen, and you won’t have to worry about her bringing any fancy ideas from New York. She grew up here in Hickory Grove just like you. She knows how things are done.” At the top of the steps, she took the basket from him, an egg basket she’d woven herself. “I like her name better, too.”

Marshall glanced away, grinning. His grandmother was persistent, if nothing else. She’d been touting their neighbor Faith King’s qualities since Easter Sunday, when she and Faith’s mother had talked after services and she had learned that Faith was ready to start looking for a serious suitor. Faith was young and pretty and she cooked as fine a stuffed pig’s maw as he had ever eaten. He’d give her that, but she didn’t light a spark in him. Not the way Lovey had.

He looked at his grandmother, who, standing on the porch with him still on the stairs, was nearly his height.

“Grossmammi, you know I respect your opinion, but—”

“And her father’s land meets ours to the north. Couldn’t be more convenient. Eldest girl and no sons to inherit.” She lifted her snowy-white brows. “The two farms together would make a fine piece of land someday.”

“As I was saying before you interrupted—”

“Ne, I didn’t interrupt. I’m older than you are, and wiser.” She pointed a tiny finger at him. “It’s not an interruption coming from an elder. It’s a fact.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re not marrying me off to Faith King, Mammi.” He turned and went down the steps. First, he was going to check on Sam’s progress unhitching Toby, and then he intended to work on replacing a rotting post in the grape arbor until his grandmother called them for dinner. “I appreciate your concern, but I’ll find my own wife.” At the bottom of the steps, he turned to her, opening his arms wide. “I already have.”

* * *

Lovage walked off the softball field, carrying a catcher’s mask under her arm. The community softball games were so popular in Hickory Grove that Bishop Simon not only had a ballfield on his property, but equipment: bats, balls, extra gloves and an old catcher’s mask he’d found at Spence’s Bazaar. Lovage hadn’t been to the market in nearby Dover, where Amish and Englishers sold wares and foodstuffs and shopped, but she’d heard it mentioned multiple times since her arrival in Delaware. It was a place one could find not just treasures like a used catcher’s mask, but also handmade items like quilts and wooden crafts, deli sandwiches, homemade cakes and doughnuts and pickles and preserves.

“Nice game,” one of the young men, John Mary Byler, who had played third base on her team, said as he walked by. He was with Lovage’s stepbrothers Jacob and Joshua, who were identical twins. With matching haircuts, even knowing them her whole life, Lovage had to listen to their speech patterns to identify which was Jacob and which was Joshua. Their eldest brother, Ethan, said they purposely tried to do things exactly the same way, copying each other’s gestures and such to confuse people purposely for fun.

Lovage nodded and looked down at the ground, feeling self-conscious. John Mary hadn’t wanted her on his team; it had been obvious from the look on his face when Bishop Simon had divvied them up. She supposed this was his way of apologizing, now that he knew she could play softball pretty well, but he still made her feel uncomfortable. Or maybe it was his cousin Marshall Byler who was making her nervous. Marshall had played for the other team, but had kept up a running dialogue with her the whole afternoon, complimenting her on every good throw she made from behind the plate and assuring her she’d get the next one if she missed a strike thrown to her. He was the pitcher for the other team. And now the game was over and families were packing up to go home to tuck little ones into bed. Young men and women of courting age were beginning to break into groups or even pairs to spend an hour together—chaperoned, of course—before they went home.

“Thirsty?” Marshall seemed to come out of nowhere to walk beside her across the grass toward the area where families were packing up the leftovers from the cookout potluck. In the distance, she could see her mother filling one of their three picnic baskets while speaking to Jesse. Benjamin was shamelessly putting covers on food dishes and handing them to her as if every fifty-year-old Amish man cleaned up after supper.

“I’m sorry. What?” Lovage glanced at Marshall. They were the same height, something she hadn’t noticed at the harness shop the other day. She was a tall woman and he wasn’t a tall man. Not that that mattered to her. In fact, she liked being able to walk beside him and look him eye-to-eye. Or she would if he wasn’t making her so nervous, meeting her gaze, holding it every time she looked his way.

“Would you like something to drink? There’s some of my grossmammi’s lemonade left. I’m partial to it. She adds a little fresh squeezed orange juice to it. And plenty of sugar, unlike someone else I know,” he joked.

She kept walking, trying not to laugh, because it would only encourage him. In the last couple hours, she’d gone back and forth half a dozen times trying to decide if she was brave enough to ride home with Marshall or not. A part of her wanted to because, against her will, she found she liked him. Not only was he fun to be around, always laughing and joking, but he was also such a kind man. Not self-centered like so many single men. He gave out compliments freely and seemed endlessly supportive, even to those members of his team who obviously couldn’t play softball.

And he was the most handsome man on the field. Or at least she thought he was. He wore the same clothing all of the other eligible young men wore: homemade dungaree pants, a short-sleeved shirt and a straw hat. But there was something about him that made her a little light-headed when she was able to steal a glance at him when he wasn’t looking. Maybe it was how tightly his sleeves fitted around his biceps, or the way his hair met his neckline, plain to see when he’d thrown aside his hat early in the game to make a play at home plate.

The other reason she was seriously considering riding home with Marshall was because of Ginger’s dare. Not having to do dishes for a week was very tempting. But it was more than that. Ginger didn’t think she’d ride home with Marshall alone in his buggy. She didn’t think Lovage was brave enough. Or fun enough. Ginger said Lovage wasn’t the kind of girl Marshall would ever be interested in.

What if she proved her wrong?

“Would you like to stay a little while?” Marshall asked. “Before we head home? Sometimes there are games for the singles after families head out. Singing and such.”

She glanced at him. “At home that was more for the younger couples.” The minute the word couples came out of her mouth, she blushed profusely and looked away. She couldn’t believe she’d just said that, suggesting they were in any way a couple. “I...I didn’t mean—”

“That I don’t like to have fun because I’ve reached the ancient age of thirty?” he asked. His tone was teasing.

“That we’re a couple,” she blurted, knowing her face must be bright red.

He slid his hands into the front pockets of his pants thoughtfully. “I don’t mind if you tell people we’re courting, Lovey.”

Her eyes widened. “We are not courting, Marshall Byler. I...I don’t even know if I’m riding home with you.”

“Sure you are. I already spoke with your mother and Benjamin about what time they’d like to see you home. She makes a mean strawberry-rhubarb tart, your mam.” He smacked his lips together. “I think it would put my grandmother’s to the test.”

“You asked my mother for permission to drive me home?” Lovage asked indignantly.

“Not really. I think you and I are both old enough that we don’t need permission from our elders. We know our own minds. I was just chatting with them, letting them know they’ll be seeing more of me, now that you and I are courting.”

“We are not courting!” she told him. “I don’t even know you.”

He stopped and tilted his head, looking at her. “Are we going to do this again, Lovey?” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “This is how we’re going to get to know each other. Learn each other’s likes and dislikes and such.” He frowned. “I don’t even know what your favorite color is.”

“Blue,” she said, before she caught herself.

He grinned. “Blue, of course. I would have guessed that. Blue because of my eyes.”

“Blue is not my favorite color because—” She groaned in frustration. She would have liked to have said he was conceited, but he came off not as conceited but as the most confident young man she’d ever met. Which made him the total opposite of her. Lovage was definitely not confident, particularly around men.

He started walking and she walked with him, mostly because she didn’t know what else to do. Her gaze strayed to her family gathered at the picnic tables under the hickory trees. Her mother and Benjamin had passed the baskets to her brothers. They’d be in their two buggies soon, headed home. If Lovage was going with them, she needed to say so.

“So that’s a no on staying for the games?” Marshall went on. “In that case, we can take the long way home. I have a courting buggy, you know. A cozy two-seater.” He winked at her. “I like your way of thinking, Lovey.”

“Marshall,” Lovage said, so rattled she couldn’t even speak.

Just then, two young women in pretty rose-colored dressed walked past them. They were Ginger’s age and pretty, with freckled noses and blond hair. Sisters, Lovage guessed.

“Nice game, Marshall,” the taller of the two cooed.

The other giggled. “We got here late, otherwise we could have played on your team, Marshall,” she said.

Marshall grinned. “Thanks. You should definitely join us next time.”

Lovage cut her eyes at him. These girls were openly flirting with him! And he was flirting back. And—and it made her angry because she was walking with him. He had asked her to ride home with him. And she could be fun. She could flirt.

Maybe.

Gripping the catcher’s mask in one hand, Lovage turned to Marshall. “Yes,” she blurted, so nervous that it came out too loud. Too forward.

“Ya?” He looked at her, his blue eyes twinkling in a way that made Lovage feel a little woozy.

“Yes, I’ll ride home with you. I just...” She walked away from him. “I have to talk to my parents.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He was smiling now. Smiling at her. “I need to make sure my little brother and grandmother are set to go, anyway.”

Lovage had learned from Ginger that Marshall’s grandmother lived with him and that he had been caring for her and his little brother since their father passed away a few years ago. Lovage had to admit, at least to herself, that the idea that he was being a father to his twelve-year-old brother was evidence of what a truly good man he was.

“Meet you at the picnic tables in a few minutes?” Marshall asked. “We’ll say goodbye to everyone, thank the bishop and his wife for having us and then go.”

Lovage nodded as she hurried away.

“See you in a few minutes, Lovey!” he called after her.