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188 pages

English

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"I wish there was something I could do," Cousin Verena said, her voice cracking."But what?" Susie whispered, wiping her eyes. "The boy I've always loved thinks of me as his sister . . . and always has." Susie Mast's Amish life in Lancaster County has been shaped by events beyond her control, with the tragic deaths of her Dat and close-in-age brother casting long shadows. Now twenty-two, Susie remains unmarried despite her longtime affection for friend Obie Yoder. Unfortunately, her concerns are soon multiplied due to her mother's worsening health and her younger sister's urgent desire for answers about her adoption. Once again, Susie faces the possibility of loss. Will long-held family secrets and missed opportunities dim Susie's hopes for the future? Or is what seems like the end only the beginning?

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Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	07 septembre 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781493433810
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	4 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0408€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Half Title Page
Books by Beverly Lewis
The Beginning • The Stone Wall
The Tinderbox • The Timepiece
The First Love • The Road Home
The Proving • The Ebb Tide
The Wish • The Atonement
The Photograph • The Love Letters
The River
H OME TO H ICKORY H OLLOW
The Fiddler • The Bridesmaid
The Guardian • The Secret Keeper
The Last Bride
T HE R OSE T RILOGY
The Thorn • The Judgment
The Mercy
A BRAM ’ S D AUGHTERS
The Covenant • The Betrayal
The Sacrifice • The Prodigal
The Revelation
T HE H ERITAGE OF L ANCASTER C OUNTY
The Shunning • The Confession
The Reckoning
A NNIE ’ S P EOPLE
The Preacher’s Daughter
The Englisher • The Brethren
T HE C OURTSHIP OF N ELLIE F ISHER
The Parting • The Forbidden
The Longing
S EASONS OF G RACE
The Secret • The Missing
The Telling
The Postcard • The Crossroad
The Redemption of Sarah Cain
Sanctuary ( with David Lewis)
Child of Mine (with David Lewis)
The Sunroom • October Song
Beverly Lewis Amish Romance Collection
Amish Prayers
The Beverly Lewis Amish Heritage Cookbook
www.beverlylewis.com
Title Page
Copyright Page
© 2021 by Beverly M. Lewis, Inc.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2021
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—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-3381-0
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services
Art direction by Paul Higdon
Dedication
To Donna Simmons, devoted reader-friend and constant encourager.
Contents
Half Title Page
Books by Beverly Lewis
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Part 1
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
Part 2
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Back Ads
Cover Flaps
Back Cover
Epigraph
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the house of the L ORD for ever.
—Psalm 23:6
Prologue
S PRING
I t was that wunnerbaar-gut time of year in Hickory Hollow when the earth stirred from its wintry slumber and snow crocuses peeked through the dark soil. The snow had melted more than a week earlier, leaving behind last autumn’s leaves, fallen twigs, and mud. The days warmed and stretched ever longer toward evening.
Already I had seen our neighbor Deacon Luke Peachey out with his six-mule team, plowing the land he’d purchased from Mamma after my father died in a barn-raising accident fifteen years ago.
It was time now to get busy with spring housecleaning and fulfilling orders for the framed counted cross-stitch family trees I made to bring in extra money. Tomorrow, however, March twelfth, I would take some time to celebrate my twenty-second birthday.
After rising at four-thirty to bake two loaves of bread, I set to work scrubbing the upstairs hallway and the spare room, determined to be a helpful daughter and to make up for the chores Mamma could no longer do because of her worsening health.
That done, I sorted through my drawers of clothing and noticed the small wooden box where I’d saved a few favorite items, including handmade Valentine cards from girl cousins and my sweet younger sister, Britta. Inside was a pinecone, sprayed white and with a dried holly sprig attached to it, a gift from Obie Yoder, my friend since our third-grade year. That had also been the year my brother Eli—ten months older—was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver not far from our house.
I paused to glance out my upstairs window at the thick grove of willows below, over near the large pond. The lengthy, supple branches swayed gently as a breeze blew through them. Such a peaceful spot. I thought back to the many times I’d sat in Dat ’s old rowboat and cried after Eli’s sudden death, missing my close-in-age brother.
So long ago now . . .
Tomorrow, I would mark yet another birthday without my brother or father. Obie was coming to join my family for cake and ice cream, as he’d promised last Saturday at market.
Just like him, wanting to share the day with me.

Next morning, I baked a three-layer fudge birthday cake for myself. Baking and decorating cakes was something I enjoyed doing, as well as tending to Mamma’s little shop, open every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. The small cottage where we sold goat cheese, jams, jellies, and Mamma’s famed Amish peanut butter—that fluffy, sweet spread made with marshmallow—was just across the backyard from the house. I also took orders there, as well as at Saturday market in Bird-in-Hand, for my cross-stitched family trees.
For my birthday get-together, Mamma had invited my older sister, Polly, and her husband, Henry, with their three little ones to come for dessert. My brother Allen and his wife, Sarah, and their six children lived way out in Clark, Missouri, having relo cated there last summer. The sudden move had taken Mamma by surprise, as well as everyone else here in Hickory Hollow, but available acreage round Lancaster County was becoming as scarce as hen’s teeth. Allen and Sarah, hungry for land, had joined an established church district there made up primarily of Amish families from Iowa.
Close as we were, my adopted sister, Britta, soon to be thirteen, was excited about this birthday gathering, even though fewer of us would be present this year. In truth, most of the People didn’t make too much of observing birthdays in any case. Focusing attention on individuals wasn’t our way. Other days on the calendar were far more significant: Christmas, Easter, Baptism Sunday, and the fasting days prior to twice-yearly communion—days linked to God.
I hurried downstairs to the front room and noticed what a nice job Britta had done polishing all the wood surfaces after school yesterday. Our sister Polly managed to keep her house over in Landisville spick-and-span, even with a babe in arms, an eighteen-month-old toddler, and a school-age son. The last few years, it had fallen to me to take on most of the household chores, since Mamma’s once extraordinary get-up-and-go had been affected by asthma, which had worsened this spring with the melting of the snow. Despite being tired much of the time and having occasional shortness of breath, she refused to see a medical doctor, preferring to use folk medicine—most especially, a syrup from comfrey root, mullein, garlic, fennel seed, and apple cider vinegar—as well as other natural remedies her own Mamm had passed along.

After Polly and her family left for home that evening, I slipped into my coat to head down to the willows with Obie, while Britta sat on the steps of the potting shed, playing with her three former strays—Tabasco, Lucy, and Daffodil. Britta had been just a toddler when she developed a keen attachment to barn cats. She waved and smiled at Obie and me.
“I’ll be back soon,” I called as we walked toward the driveway. Obie had worn his Sunday best for my birthday gathering—black broadfall trousers, vest, and coat, with his pressed white shirt. Best as I could remember, he’d never worn his for-good clothes when coming to visit, not even the years he’d spent Christmas evening with us.
What could it mean? I wondered, half hoping I guessed the answer.
“Your birthday cake was delicious,” Obie said, blue eyes shining. “You outdid yourself again, Susie.”
I smiled. “Glad ya liked it.”
“Well, I wasn’t the only one,” he said as we headed toward the pond side of the willows. “Henry had seconds, I noticed.”
He chuckled, and my laughter mingled with his as we strolled around the big pond, talking about whatever came to mind, like we were so good at doing. Like we had always been good at doing.
He mentioned his fourteen-year-old sister Hazel’s friendship with my younger sister, and I agreed that it was a real blessing they’d recently forged such a strong relationship.
“Both of them love cats . . . and book learnin’,” I commented, not mentioning that, more recently, Britta had been rather quiet and pensive at home, especially around Mamma. Britta was sometimes prone to moodiness, though, so I didn’t think it was anything to fuss over.
“Hazel sure seems fond of her. When Britta comes to visit, they hurry off to the barn to visit the new kittens, talking a blue streak,” Obie said, admitting to having overheard them.
“It’s great to see Britta breakin’ out of her shell. She still prefers her cats, I think, but I’m glad she’s including people in the mix.”
Obie laughed once more and then fell quiet as we circled back around toward the side of the pond where the willows grew more densely.
Then, under the delicate covering of budding leaves and greening branches, he slowed his pace. His expression softened as his eyes searched mine. “You know,” he began, “all these years, we’ve been such gut friends.”
I studied him, still surprised he’d dressed up like this in his church clothes today.
He shuffled his feet and glanced at the sky, and back at me. Then he said in his deep and mellow voice, one I knew as well as my own, “Here lately, I’ve been thinking ’bout something, Susie. Something important.”