Autumn Winds Page 2

  Had he read her mind? Or did he just know the right things to say? A traveling blacksmith surely knew all sorts of ins and outs when it came to making deals for what he needed . . . And what sort of fellow, in a trade every Old Order Amish family relied upon, didn’t settle in one community? And if Ben knew about the rapids in the river, what else had he checked up on? What if he was making up this story as he went along, to gain some advantage over her—or whomever he met up with—in Willow Ridge?

  And what if you’re spinnin’ all this stuff out like a spider, about to catch yourself in a web of assumptions? Sure, he’s got a nice smile, but—

  He did have a nice smile, didn’t he? Miriam quickly fetched a broom and dustpan from the closet, relieved that Ben had already stepped outside to see about pulling the big tree branch from her window. She set the tools where he would find them and then returned to her kitchen, where the lights were brighter and the serving window acted as a barrier between this good-looking stranger and her work space.

  Jah, he is gut-lookin’. And that’s not his fault, is it?

  Miriam laughed at herself. No, Ben Hooley’s looks and manner were gifts from God, same as the way Rachel, Rhoda, and Rebecca favored their handsome dat.

  “And what do ya think of all this, Jesse?” she whispered. Every now and again she asked her late husband’s opinion, or thought about how he would have handled situations she found herself in, even though her confidence had increased a lot during these past months of successfully running her business.

  Miriam stood quietly at her flour-dusted work table . . . just letting the hum of the appliances and the aroma of spicy pumpkin pies keep her company.

  Wait for the promise of the Father.

  She blinked. Was that still, small voice she relied upon for guidance—be it Jesse’s or God’s—implying the heavenly Father might have made a promise to her? And that He was about to keep it? As glass tinkled onto the café floor and that tree branch disappeared out the gaping hole in the window, she wondered if this had been a providential morning. Meant to be, for both her and Ben.

  For sure and for certain, this stranger was giving her a lot to think about.

  Chapter 2

  Ben squatted to center the tree branch over his shoulder, wrapping his arms around its girth. It said something about Miriam Lantz that she’d left the huge old maple in place when she’d built her bakery, which looked to be only a couple of years old. The dull ache where Pharaoh had kicked him throbbed back to life with the effort of shifting the limb from her window, but the pain kept him focused on the job at hand rather than on the woman he’d just met.

  Ya know nothin’ about her! Got no business sayin’ flirty things nor gawkin’ at her, either. Every unattached fella in the district’s got his eye on Miriam, no doubt.

  But just as the storm hadn’t stopped him from driving farther down the road, common sense wouldn’t keep his mind from lingering on the café owner who’d rushed into the storm to help him . . . whose deep-set brown eyes and gentle laughter were already working on him. He gave the tree limb one last heave so it would clear the building’s front wall.

  Miriam Lantz, was it? Ben peered through the jagged window glass, inhaling the spicy sweetness of her pies as he observed the quick efficiency with which she handled her rolling pin. Every Plain woman he knew was a fine cook, industrious to a fault. And plenty enough younger ones had tempted him with their pies and whatnot from the oven, trying to win his favor, yet this woman with a few streaks of silver in her rich brown hair made him sit up and pay close attention. She’d no doubt opened this business to support herself and her family—

  Jah, probably has a passel of kids!

  Yet Ben sensed no desperation in Miriam. No attempt to size him up as husband material, even though she’d taken a few long looks, same as he had. Was it providential that Pharaoh had abandoned him to this woman’s care . . . especially considering the empty smithy she’d mentioned? She wouldn’t notice if he went around back to check out the forge and equipment while she was busy baking, yet something made him wait. Better to have Miriam show it to him of her own free will, in her own good time. He knew all too well how older Amishmen believed their desires were more important than a woman’s. And that was the wrong foot to start off on.

  He inhaled the yeasty scent of rising bread . . . the cinnamon goodness that hinted of apple pies to join the six pumpkin ones cooling on the countertop. His stomach rumbled. Ben smiled and made himself go inside for the broom. Sweeping up broken glass was a better way to please Miriam Lantz than hanging around like a puppy with his tongue lolling out. After breakfast he’d look for Pharaoh and find a way to replace her window, but meanwhile it felt downright cozy just to be here, in her presence.

  Maybe it’s time ya got off the road . . . parked your wagon and put down some roots instead of roamin’ the roads like a lost dog.

  A startling thought, that one! Ben cleared the café floor of its broken glass, stealing glances at the cook in the kitchen. She wore a simple rust-colored dress, the shade of the bittersweet and sumacs he’d seen last week, changing to their fall colors. Miriam was fully filled out from having babies, but she was by no means fat. Her brows formed gentle arches above eyes as homey as hot cocoa . . . eyes that told him she found him as interesting as he found her.

  But why lie to himself? When she’d fussed over him out in the storm, Miriam brought to mind his favorite aunts, Nazareth and Jerusalem—wonderful-gut women, but not the type to have romantic notions about!

  “Know where I might find a tarp to cover this window?” he asked over the rumble of her big mixer.

  Miriam flipped off the switch, thinking about her answer. “Most likely you’ll find some in the smithy, out back. Got a lantern here by the door, if ya care to look.”

  When she looked at him straight on, Ben recalculated her age in a hurry. Here in the glow of her kitchen, Miriam was far more appealing than his aunts and nowhere close to their age. That put a whole different spin on things—but Ben set aside his wandering thoughts. Here was his invitation to check out the forge. And to think more about whether he’d want to be the town’s next blacksmith, or get back into his wagon and roll on out of here. He entered the café’s kitchen, in awe of the gleaming stockpots and utensils hanging from hooks, and realized how hungry he was when he saw large metal pans of hash browns awaiting whatever heavenly stuff Miriam would layer over them.

  As he made his way to the door, he struck the wooden match against the box. Ben lit the lantern, considering how best to express his concern. “Won’t bother ya if I need to poke around to find that tarp? That bein’ your husband’s shop—”

  “We’ve been in and out a lot. Micah—my Rachel’s fella—just remodeled the upstairs so Rhoda and I can live there after they get hitched next month.” Miriam’s smile wavered a little, probably when she thought about her man who’d passed, but she didn’t change her mind. She went back to stirring eggs in a big cast-iron skillet on her stove.

  Ben dashed across the parking lot through the rain, wondering if he’d need a key. The smithy door swung open when he unlatched it, however, and by the light of his lantern he recognized the familiar shapes and shadows of a blacksmith’s domain: the forge, the bellows hanging neatly nearby, and other pneumatic equipment that ran just fine without the electricity Miriam required for her kitchen. A doorway painted springtime yellow most likely led to that apartment upstairs, and Ben dared to picture himself living there rather than bedding down in his wagon . . .

  Keep your silly notions to yourself! She’s got plans for those rooms and they don’t include you!

  Still, it felt good to inhale the masculine scents of steel and sheet metal. Jesse Lantz had kept a right clean shop before he died, or else somebody had cared enough to redd it up in his memory; all the welders and tools were in their places, ready to be picked up and used again. He spotted a bin with a couple of tarps stacked on it and grabbed them, along with a hammer and a bag of tacks. Best not
to linger too long, he thought, picturing the sturdy Belgians and the sleek carriage horses folks would bring here so he could shoe them. It would be a true pleasure to ply his trade in all this well-planned space instead of working from the back of his wagon . . .

  Ben jogged back through the rain and around to the front of the café. It didn’t take him long to tack the heavy tarp to the window casement. He returned the tools to the smithy then, inhaling the sense of security—the sense of already belonging—he felt when he stood in Jesse Lantz’s shop.

  But it was too soon to think he’d be settling here. He didn’t even know the name of the town yet! And it was too soon to give in to his cravings for home-cooked meals and a church service that would be as familiar as his favorite shirt.

  Tell me if I’m barkin’ up the wrong tree, Lord, he prayed as he returned to the back door of the bakery. And don’t let me be misbehavin’, or makin’ fools of this fine woman and myself. She deserves better than that.

  It was a nice step back into happiness, having Miriam smile at him over a huge mound of dough she was covering on her countertop. “Ya might as well join me for a bite of breakfast before my partner and the girls get here. We always sample what we’re puttin’ on the menu, to make sure it’s fit to eat.” Miriam raised her eyebrows in a way that made him hold his breath. Was she flirting with him?

  “Best idea I’ve heard all day,” Ben replied as he moseyed around the kitchen. “Mighty nice place you’ve got here. I’m thinkin’ those are Amish-made tables and chairs in your café—”

  “Jah, the fella my Rachel’s gonna marry built them in his wood shop.”

  “—and I can’t help but notice your electric appliances.” Ben looked at the big freezers and refrigerators along the back wall, as well as the sleek new ovens, stoves, and a dishwasher Old Order women could only dream about. “Not that I’m findin’ fault. Just curious as to how ya talked your bishop into allowin’ that.”

  Miriam smiled while she dished up large servings from a glass casserole and put them alongside thick slices of toast on two plates. “Here in Missouri we’ve got to have electricity to run a café, so I partnered with a Mennonite gal who makes quilts in the shop next door. The land’s mine, and I put up the buildin’, but Mary, Eva, and Priscilla Schrock got us on the grid—to run their sewin’ machines and my kitchen equipment.

  “Back in August, though,” she continued with a shy smile, “the bishop got a bee in his bonnet about how all this success must surely be standin’ in the way of my salvation. So he said I was to sell the buildin’.”

  Miriam paused to fill two mugs with fresh coffee. “It nearly broke my heart, thinkin’ I’d lose this little place and the business I’ve come to love—but God had His way about it! An English fella—who, bless his soul, raised the baby daughter I lost in a flood eighteen years ago—offered the bank a lot more money than Bishop Knepp had.”

  As they carried their plates out to sit at a finely crafted oak table in the dining room, Ben grinned. “I love hearin’ about folks who find a way to succeed . . . to do the work God’s put in their hearts while still followin’ the Old Ways.” After they shared a silent grace over the food, Ben closed his eyes again in sheer bliss over his first mouthful: bacon and sausage and onion, layered with bread and lots of cheese, with crunchies on top. “And it’s no secret you were born to cook for folks, Miriam. Goodness, woman, this is the best food I’ve had since—well, since I left my mamm’s table!”

  Her face turned a pretty shade of pink. “It is my purpose, feedin’ people,” she stated quietly. She studied him over her toast, as though considering whether she’d share her private thoughts. “Truth be told, Hiram Knepp wants me to be feedin’ him and his houseful of kids—”

  Ben’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “Your bishop wants to hitch up with ya? That would put an end to this place right quick.”

  “Jah, there’s that,” Miriam agreed as she rose from her seat. “His second wife—lots younger than he is—passed on about nine or ten months ago. He’s got a daughter, Annie Mae, lookin’ after the household, but she’s more interested in her rumspringa than in bein’ a stand-in wife for her dat. Can’t say I blame her, either,” Miriam added, shaking her head. “Tough enough just bein’ a bishop’s kid.”

  “Jah, lots of us traveled hither and yon, smokin’ and drinkin’ and whatnot durin’ our runnin’-around days. Somethin’s to be said for growin’ up and growin’ out of that phase, though.” Ben watched the way Miriam walked into the kitchen with quick efficiency to fetch a pumpkin pie and a big knife. Her dress fell a few inches below her knees . . . still short enough to reveal shapely, sturdy legs in black stockings.

  “But here I am yackin’ your ear off, when you’re more likely wonderin’ where your horse got off to and wantin’ to get back to your wagon.” She turned to grin at him. “I’ll have to watch myself or when Naomi and my girls get here, they’ll think I’ve been actin’ right sinful, entertainin’ a young fella we’ve never seen.”

  “Jah, I’m a real shiftless sort. Got a string of broken hearts for a hatband, ya know,” Ben teased. He tried not to be obvious about looking her over as she returned to the table. “So . . . this Bishop Knepp with the need for a wife. Gettin’ a little long in the tooth, is he?”

  “Matter of fact, we’re surprisin’ him with a birthday party tomorrow after preachin’. Why not stay for the services and join us for the meal?” she suggested cheerfully. “Hiram’s turnin’ fifty-five. Not all that old, as bishops go—”

  “But way too old for you, Miriam!” Ben’s eyes got as wide as hers did, at the forceful way he’d spoken. “What I mean is—it’s not for me to say, ya understand—but the last thing a woman like you needs is a fella on his third wife, set in his ways—”

  “Like a fence post in concrete, jah.”

  “—and expectin’ ya to fit into a family that’s already got their habits. Not to mention mixin’ your girls in with the bishop’s youngsters,” Ben added. “And you’d be givin’ up your own home . . . this nice café and your bakin’ business.”

  Miriam considered him carefully then; really looked at Ben. He could only gaze back, his breakfast forgotten. “Now how’d ya know about such a thing?” she murmured. “That’s exactly what I told my Rachel and Rhoda—twins they are, and twenty-one now—about why I wouldn’t consider courtin’ Hiram. They’re all grown up—and with Rachel marryin’ later this month and livin’ in our big house, mixin’ them with the Knepp kids isn’t such a concern. But jah . . .” She sighed as she cut two huge wedges of that pumpkin pie. She plopped a big spoonful of real whipped cream on them, too. “Hiram’s not a man to take no for an answer.”

  Ben inhaled the spicy scent of cinnamon and cloves as he cut off the tip of his piece of pie. He dragged that bite through the whipped cream and then took his time about closing his mouth over it . . . savoring its thick sweetness and the dense texture. “Miriam,” he finally said.

  She looked across the table at him, her fork still in front of her mouth. “Jah? Did ya get a taste of somethin’ that didn’t mix in just right? Or—”

  “Not hardly. Never in all my days have I tasted such . . . mighty fine pie.”

  Miriam’s eyes widened. So sweet and dark brown they were, like fudge sauce. And even though she’d not taken the time yet to pull herself together for the day—hadn’t expected anyone to drop in at this hour, after all—Ben couldn’t stop gazing at her chestnut hair . . . which probably cascaded well below her bottom when a man plucked out the hairpins . . .

  “You’d be givin’ up a lot more than ya got, Miriam,” he stated softly—and where this advice was coming from, he hadn’t the slightest notion. “Not just hitchin’ in with this old Hiram fella, but havin’ to live as a bishop’s wife instead of bein’ the fine cook and companion ya were born to be.”

  Miriam’s face lit up like the sun. “Well now. Ya might be just a pup, Ben Hooley, but you’ve got an old dog’s wisdom about ya.”

 
He chuckled, finding his appetite again. After another mouthful of that incredible pie, he quipped, “Jah, probably best to keep my nose in my own bowl instead of pokin’ around in another dog’s chow,” he remarked carefully. “But don’t believe for a minute I won’t mark my territory and defend it. It’s better to be a wise old dog at home than actin’ like a lost pup alongside the road, ain’t so?”

  Chapter 3

  Rhoda Lantz came through the Sweet Seasons back door into the kitchen, inhaling the heavenly aromas of apple crisp and pies and the cheesy-bacon scent of the casseroles her mother had already made for the breakfast menu. She was a little later than she’d intended to be, but hungry as she was, it was best to eat some breakfast before she helped her sister set up the dining room.

  “Mamma, ya must’ve been starvin’! Half of this casserole’s missin’ from the pan!” she teased as she filled her plate. Then she glanced at the lineup of pies set aside from those that would go in the glass case out front. “And ya cut into one of the pies for the party, too?”

  “I’ve been here a while, child. Bakin’ pies. Decoratin’ these cakes for the bishop’s birthday,” came the reply from the other side of the kitchen. Mamma was focused on the bottom edge of a tall white layer cake, squeezing on frosting in a scalloped design with a pastry tube.

  “Jah, your mamm already had the goodies made for tomorrow’s party and this big pan of crisp for today’s lunch buffet by the time I got here,” Naomi Brenneman chimed in. “And to think she was here by herself durin’ that storm, too. That was some kind of wind we had, to toss a big limb through the front window! Lucky that’s all the damage we got.”

  “Blew so hard into my room, I slammed the window down,” Rhoda’s sister Rachel remarked as she loaded the dishwasher. “Sure hope this rain’s all passed through before the preachin’ service tomorrow, or Zooks’ basement’ll smell damp.”