A Promise for Miriam Read online

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version® NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Cover by Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc., Minneapolis, Minnesota

  Cover photos © Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc. / iStockphoto / Thinkstock

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  A PROMISE FOR MIRIAM

  Copyright © 2012 by Vannetta Chapman

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Chapman, Vannetta.

  A promise for Miriam / Vannetta Chapman.

  p. cm — (The Pebble Creek Amish series ; bk. 1)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-4612-4 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-4613-1 (eBook)

  1. Amish—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.H3744P76 2012

  813'.6—dc23

  2011050769

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  For my sister,

  Pam Lindman

  Acknowledgments

  When I was four years old, my sister taught me how to tie my shoes. I’m grateful she’s still in my life, and she continues to have the patience to teach me things such as quilting and double crochet stitches…which are both much harder than how to knot your shoelaces. I love you, sis.

  Although Pebble Creek doesn’t actually exist, the village of Cashton does, and there are several folks in the Driftless region I’d like to thank, including Anita Reeck (Amil’s Inn Bed and Breakfast), Kathy Kuderer (Down a Country Road), and Pete and Nora Knapik (Inn at Lonesome Hollow). Richard Lee Dawley (author of Amish in Wisconsin) was also kind enough to answer questions while I was conducting research.

  The Englisch development I describe being built in the area of Nappanee, Indiana, is entirely fictional, though the Menno-Hof Museum mentioned does exist in Shipshewana, Indiana, and can be visited at www.mennohof.org.

  Thanks to Suzanne Woods Fisher and the Budget for their endless supply of Amish proverbs. Other reference materials include The Amish School by Sara E. Fisher and Rachel K. Stahl, and Herbs and Old Time Remedies by Joseph VanSeters.

  Thanks also to my editor, Kim Moore, and the excellent staff at Harvest House, as well as my agent, Mary Sue Seymour.

  Mary Ellis was an encouragement to me in the writing of this book. My friends and prereaders, Donna, Kristy, and Dorsey, are a precious gift. Bobby, Mom, and kids—I adore you all.

  I didn’t attend a one-room schoolhouse, but I am a better person today because of the teachers in my life who cared, who were dedicated to their profession, and who encouraged a very shy little east Texas girl. I’m thankful that they did.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Discussion Questions

  Glossary

  A Home for Lydia

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Indiana

  March

  Gabe sat by the side of the bed, clasping Hope’s hand.

  The wind fought with the window panes, intent on finding its way into the small upstairs room. The rain lashed out against the night sky.

  He knew when Dr. Frank left the room. He heard him in the hall murmuring to Erma and recognized the defeat in his voice as he moved down the stairs.

  Gabe felt the weight of thick, heavy exhaustion pressing down on him. He couldn’t have held up his head if his life had depended on it, though he would have found a way to do so if it could have saved Hope.

  Saving Hope.

  It had become his life mission, but that wasn’t Gotte’s wille. So the bishop had said as recently as an hour ago. So Erma was saying to the doctor as he left the house even now. Why couldn’t Gabe’s heart agree? Instead, he allowed his head to drop to the quilt, allowed his lips to kiss her hand—a hand that was even now growing cold, and for this moment he allowed himself to weep.

  He heard Erma walk slowly up the stairs and stop outside the bedroom door, allowing him this final moment alone with his wife.

  “Mamm!” Grace’s scream tore through the house, startling in its pitch and intensity. Lunging past Hope’s mother, Gabe’s five-year-old daughter threw herself into the room, clawing at the bed and attempting to crawl on it, all the time sobbing and crying. “I want my mamm. Why won’t she wake up? Make her wake up!”

  He tried to pull her away, putting his arms around her small frame and murmuring in her ear, but her cries only increased.

  “Silence that child!” Hope’s father stood in the doorway, his face an inscrutable mask, his voice a hammer falling. Walking into the room, he jerked Grace from Gabe’s arms. “Take her, Erma. Take her and silence her. I will not have such a display in my home.”

  Micah paused a moment, his eyes taking in Gabe’s tearstained face and the lifeless form of his daughter. Briefly, Gabe thought he saw the mask of indifference slip from his features, but it was less than the span of a heartbeat, and in the dim lantern light he could have imagined it. With a scowl, the older man turned and trudged from the room, leaving Gabe alone to deal with his grief.

  Chapter 1

  Pebble Creek, southwestern Wisconsin

  Three years later

  Miriam King glanced over the schoolroom with satisfaction.

  Lessons chalked on the board.

  Pencils sharpened and in the cup.

  Tablets, erasers, and chalk sat on each desk.

  Even the woodstove was cooperating this morning. Thank the Lord for Efram Hochstetler, who stopped by early Mondays on his way to work and started the fire. If not for him, the inside of the windows would be covered with ice when she stepped in the room.

  Now, where was Esther?

  As if Miriam’s thoughts cou
ld produce the girl, the back door to the schoolhouse opened and Esther burst through, bringing with her a flurry of snowflakes and a gust of the cold December wind. Her blonde hair was tucked neatly into her kapp, and the winter morning had colored her cheeks a bright red.

  Esther wore a light-gray dress with a dark apron covering it. At five and a half feet and weighing no more than a hundred and twenty pounds, Miriam often had the unsettling feeling of looking into a mirror—a mirror into the past—when she looked at the young woman who taught with her at the one-room schoolhouse.

  In truth, the teachers had often been mistaken for family. They were similar in temperament as well as appearance. Other than their hair, Esther could have been Miriam’s younger sister. Esther’s was the color of ripe wheat, while Miriam’s was black as coal.

  Why did that so often surprise both Plain people and Englischers? If Miriam’s black hair wasn’t completely covered by her kapp, she received the oddest stares.

  “Am I late?” Esther’s shoes echoed against the wooden floor as she hurried toward the front of the room. Pulling off her coat, scarf, and gloves, she dropped them on her desk.

  “No, but nearly.”

  “I told Joseph we had no time to check on his cattle, but he insisted.”

  “Worried about the gate again?”

  “Ya. I told him they wouldn’t work it loose, but he said—”

  “Cows are stupid.” They uttered the words at the same time, both mimicking Joseph’s serious voice, and then broke into laughter. The laughter eased the tension from Esther’s near tardiness and set the morning back on an even keel.

  “Joseph has all the makings of a fine husband and a gut provider,” Miriam said. “Once you’re married, you’ll be glad he’s so careful about the animals.”

  “Ya, but when we’re married I won’t be having to leave in time to make it to school.” Esther’s cheeks reddened a bit more as she seemed to realize how the words must sound.

  Why did everyone think Miriam was embarrassed that she still remained unmarried? Did it never occur to them that it was her own choice to be single?

  “Efram had the room nice and warm before I even arrived,” she said gently. “And I put out your tablets.”

  “Wunderbaar. I’ll write my lessons on the board, and we’ll be ready.” As Esther reached to pull chalk from her desk drawer, Miriam noticed that she froze and then stood up straighter. When she reached up and touched her kapp as if to make sure she was presentable, Miriam realized someone else was in the room.

  She turned to see who had surprised the younger teacher. It was still a few minutes before classes were due to start, and few of their students arrived early.

  Standing in the doorway to the schoolroom was an Amish man. Pebble Creek was a small community, technically a part of the village of Cashton. Old-timers and Plain folk alike still referred to the area where the creek went through by its historic name.

  Miriam was quite sure she’d never seen the man standing in her classroom before. He was extremely tall, and she had the absurd notion he’d taken his hat off to fit through their entryway. Even standing beneath the door arch, waiting for them to speak, he seemed to barely fit. He was thin and sported a long beard, indicating he was married.

  In addition to clutching his black hat, he wore a heavy winter coat, though not the type worn by most Wisconsin residents. The tops of his shoulders, his arms, and even parts of his beard were covered with snow. More important than how he looked standing in her classroom was the fact that he held the hand of a small girl.

  “Gudemariye,” Miriam said, stepping forward and moving past her desk.

  The man still didn’t speak, but as she drew closer, he bent and said something to the girl.

  When Miriam had halved the distance between them, he returned her greeting as his somber brown eyes assessed her.

  The young girl next to him had dark-brown hair like her father. It had been combed neatly and pulled back into a braid, all tucked inside her kapp. What was striking about her wasn’t her hair or her traditional Plain clothing—it was her eyes. She had the most solemn, beautiful brown eyes Miriam had ever seen on a child.

  They seemed to take in everything.

  Miriam noticed she clutched her father’s hand tightly with one hand and held a lunch box with the other.

  “I’m the teacher of the younger grades here, grades one through four. My name is Miriam King.” The girl’s eyes widened, and the father nodded again. “Esther Schrocks teaches grades five through eight.”

  He looked to the girl to see if she understood, but neither replied.

  “And your daughter is—”

  “Grace is eight years old, just this summer.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I’m Gabriel Miller.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Miriam offered her best smile, which still did not seem to put the father at ease. She’d seen nervous parents before, and obviously this was one. “You must be new to our community.”

  “Ya. I purchased the place on Dawson Road.”

  “Dawson Road? Do you mean the Kline farm?”

  “Ya.” Not quite rude, but curt and to the point.

  Miriam tried to hide any concern she felt as images of Kline’s dilapidated spread popped into her mind. It was no business of hers where this family chose to live. “I know exactly where you mean. My parents live a few miles past that.”

  “It’s a fair piece from here,” he noted.

  “That it is. Esther and I live here at the schoolhouse during the week. The district built accommodations on the floor above, as is the custom in most of our schoolhouses here in Wisconsin. We both spend weekends at home with our families.”

  “I don’t know I’ll be able to bring Grace in every day.” Gabriel Miller reached up and ran his finger under the collar of his shirt, which peeked through the gap at the top of his coat.

  Miriam noticed then that it looked stiff and freshly laundered. Had he put on his Sunday best to bring his daughter to school on her first day? It said something about him if he had.

  “A man has to put his farm first,” he added defensively.

  “Some children live close enough that their parents can bring them in the winter, and, of course, most everyone walks when the weather permits.” Miriam paused to smile in greeting as a few students began arriving and walking around them. “Others ride together. Eli Stutzman lives past Dawson road, and he would be happy to give your dochder a ride to school.”

  “It would be a help.” Mr. Miller still didn’t move, and Miriam waited, wondering what else the man needed to say.

  She looked up and saw one of the older girls, Hannah, walking in the door. “Hannah, this is Grace Miller. She’s new at our school. Would you mind sitting with her and helping her this week?”

  “Sure thing, Miriam.” Hannah squatted down to Grace’s level and said something to the girl Miriam couldn’t hear.

  Whatever it was, Grace released her dat’s hand and took Hannah’s. She’d walked halfway down the aisle when she turned, rushed back to where they stood, and threw her arms around her father’s legs.

  One squeeze and she was gone again.

  Though it was fleeting, Miriam saw a look of anguish pass over the man’s face. What could be going through his mind? She’d seen many fathers leave their children for the first time over the last eight years, but something more was going on here.

  “She’ll be fine, Mr. Miller. We’re a small school, and the children look after one another.”

  “It’s that…” he twirled his hat in his hands once, twice, three times. “Before we moved here, Grace was…that is to say, we…well, her grossmammi homeschooled her.”

  “I understand. How about if I write a note letting you know how Grace is doing? I’ll put it in her lunch box at the end of the day.”

  Something like relief washed over his face.

  “Danki,” he mumbled. Then he rammed his hat on his head and hurried out the door.

  Esther caught her
attention from the front of the room and sent a questioning look toward the man’s retreating back, but Miriam shook her head. She’d explain later, at lunch perhaps. For now they had nearly forty children between them to teach. As usual, it would be a busy morning.

  Gabe did stop to talk to Eli Stutzman. He wanted to make sure he trusted the man.

  It helped when three girls and a boy who were the last to climb out of the long buggy stopped to wish their father a good day. The littlest girl, probably the same age as his Gracie, wrapped her arms around her daddy’s neck, whispered something in his ear, and then tumbled down the steps into the chilly morning.

  “That one is my youngest—Sadie. Always full of energy, but she’s a worrier. This morning it’s about a pup she left at home in the barn.” Covering the distance between them, the older man removed his glove and offered his right hand. “Name’s Eli Stutzman. I take it you’re new here, which must mean you bought the Kline place.”

  “I am, and I did. Gabriel Miller.” Gabe stood still in the cold, wishing he could be done with this and back on his farm.

  “Have children in the school?”

  “One, a girl—about your youngest one’s age.”

  Eli nodded, and then he seemed to choose his words carefully. “I suspect you’ll be busy putting your place in order. It will be no problem giving your dochder a ride back and forth each day.”

  “I would appreciate it.”

  Stutzman told him the approximate time he passed the Kline place, and Gabe promised he’d have Gracie ready at the end of the lane.

  He turned to go and was headed to his own buggy when the man called out to him.

  “The Kline place has been empty quite a while.”

  Gabe didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced out at the surrounding fields, covered in snow and desolate looking on this Monday morning.

  “If you need help, or find something that’s worse than what you expected, you holler. We help each other in Pebble Creek.”

  Gabe ran his hand along the back of his neck but didn’t answer. Merely nodding, he moved on to his buggy.

  He was accustomed to people offering help. Actually delivering on it? That was often another story, though he wouldn’t be judging the people here before he knew them.