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Baker Publishing Group - Beverly Lewis

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159 pages

English

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New from #1 Bestselling Author Beverly LewisAmelia "Amy" DeVries, a 24-year-old violinist, is disillusioned with life and love after the collapse of her long-running romance. Weary of endless rehearsals and performances, Amy sets out on a road trip through the Pennsylvania mountains. She leaves her cell phone behind so life's demands can't intrude on her solitude. She doesn't know, nor care, where she will end up.When her car breaks down deep in the mountains, Amy realizes the flaw in her "no cell phone" plan. She abandons her car and walks the winding roads, searching for help. Following the smell of woodsmoke and the sound of music, she finds a rustic log cabin. There she meets a young Amishman--and through him a community--that will change her life forever.

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	10 avril 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781441270047
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0432€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

© 2012 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 2012
Ebook corrections 04.04.2014, 10.05.2015
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.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7004-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This story is a work of fiction. With the exception of recognized historical figures, all characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cov er design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services
Art direction by Paul Higdon
To
Julie Klassen,
sweet friend and former editor.
May you write many more
bestsellers!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Prologue
Epigraph
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
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Books by Beverly Lewis
Back Ads
Back Cover
Prologue
L ate-afternoon sun blinded me as I threw open the back door and stepped onto the porch, duffel bag in hand. The screen door caught my foot and dug deep into my ankle, and I dropped my bag with a thud.
Despite my anger, I took a deep breath and wondered if I should just suppress my urge to run off, and stay put in Hickory Hollow. But Daed ’s stinging words were fresh in my mind. “You’ve got one foot in the world and the other in the church, Michael. Go on with ya and don’t come back till you decide!”
At the height of this latest spat, Mamm winced and fled the kitchen for the next room, her prayer Kapp strings flying. I’d like to have fallen in step right behind her, to reassure and comfort her somehow. Yet what could I tell her that wouldn’t break her heart?
No, I wouldn’t turn back. I hurried down the road to my Mennonite uncle’s place, where I kept my car, and sped away toward his cabin, not far from here. Far enough, though, to find some solace from this latest wrangle.
Soon, though, once I calm down, I’ll be a fugitive on my knees praying, not only for wisdom in dealing with my ill-tempered father, but for my future. And it wouldn’t hurt if I put Marissa Witmer out of my mind, too.
Awhile there, I’d actually thought she might become Amish for me, which is the worst reason to join any church. But it’s mighty hard competing with a girl’s “first love,” which is just how she put it to me months ago on our final date. There, near the old covered bridge in Gordonville.
Shortly after that, Daed started pressuring me to settle down . . . and marry. “What’s a-matter with our girls?” he’d asked.
But getting hitched in the Amish church would mean giving up my computer and other fancy gadgets, as well as my car especially my car! in order to commit to the People. “A lifer,” some of my former Amish friends describe it.
Sure, I’m expected to honor my parents and obey the fifth commandment; I know that. But when you’ve had a taste of higher education and the Internet, how do you go back to reading the Farm Journal and relying on the Amish grapevine?
I considered all this as I sped away, my foot heavy on the gas, gravel spraying up after each stop sign. Cranking up the car radio, I relished the feel of the booming bass in my gut. Bishop John Beiler had taken me aside more than once to warn about my interest in worldly music, shaking his finger in my face. Not because I’m a baptized church member, but because I’m approaching twenty-five and still balking about bending my knee to make the church vow. “A mighty poor example for the young folk,” the bishop said recently, his face clouded with disapproval. “Especially your niece!”
Bishop John’s words hit close to home, considering that Elizabeth my parents’ only granddaughter among many grandsons was charging down the path of disobedience. Since she’s always looked up to me as her favorite uncle, I couldn’t help but wonder if I really am to blame. Doubtless Daed thinks so.
Things might seem less futile now if I hadn’t lost my fiancée prior to all of this. The memory of Marissa’s infectious smile and, ach, those adorable blue eyes is still before me. There’s no denying she stole my heart away.
“I’m so sorry, Michael,” she said with tears rolling down her pretty face. It was all I could do to keep from holding her till she came to her senses. Surely she would.
Surely . . .
But last I heard from her cousin Joanna Kurtz our bishop’s niece Marissa had not changed her mind. “She’s followin’ her heart,” Joanna told me, eyes shimmering.
Sure isn’t following me . . .

Now I was holed up in this small cabin hidden away in the woods, miles from home so Daed couldn’t come looking for me by horse and buggy. I had plenty to keep me busy, including work for my online course of study, wrapping things up for an associate in arts degree. Not that I needed a degree in anything, really, what with all the work I’d already been doing for several years now, drafting blueprints for custom houses and even a stately colonial-style church.
What a way to spend a summer vacation, I thought as I worked offline on my laptop. There was no access to the Internet in this remote cabin.
After a time, I wandered to the small washroom on the other side of the room and studied my reflection in the mirror over the sink. Clean-shaven . . . blond hair cropped just below my ears, with the usual old-fashioned bangs. I glanced down and took stock of my bare feet, my black “barn door” trousers, beige suspenders, and long-sleeved blue shirt. I looked like all the other young Amishmen I knew. And it made me feel even more lost.
Deserting the mirror, I went to kneel beside one of the bunks in the main room. “Hear my prayer for guidance, O God ,” I whispered, feeling guilty as I was reminded of my disobedience to the wishes of my parents. Could I expect my prayers to reach past the ceiling?
A single gas lantern brightened the gloom. There was really no need for the lantern when the cabin had electricity, but seeing it there gave me a semblance of comfort. It reminded me of the very thing that had brought me to this momentous day. Because I knew full well if I continued to walk the fence, I might end up on the other side the outside, looking in.
I inhaled deeply, knowing my father would want me to pray for forgiveness, too. But I didn’t honestly believe that driving a car and listening to music from someplace other than the Ausbund was a bad thing, even in God’s eyes. Yet the Old Ways ran deep in me, so I pressed on, spending more time on my knees before rising.
Then, eyeing the small table where I’d put my duffel bag full of clothes, CD wallets, and fresh batteries, I attempted to shrug away my melancholy. Music was my consolation . . . but I wouldn’t give in to the craving just yet. I’d wait till sundown.
After a long sprint through the woods, I returned to the old log cabin and stood in the doorway, staring out. The truth began to sink in what I should’ve realized all this time. Marissa was never going to have second thoughts no matter how much I’d cared for her. Her new path was firmly set.
I watched the sun slowly fall over the secluded woodlands. And in the stillness, the psalm my father read aloud that morning came to mind. Even the night shall be light about me.
It wasn’t easy to push away the painful past; I knew that. But it was high time. I breathed in the spicy scent of pine, aware of distant thunder.
We know the truth, not only by the reason, but also by the heart.
Blaise Pascal
Chapter 1

A melia Devries stood waiting in the wings, her well-polished fiddle tucked beneath her right arm, bow in hand. The rhythmic vibration of guitars and a banjo buzzed in the floorboards of the outdoor theater, beneath her stylish boots. No matter the venue for her performances classical or country, indoors or out she often experienced a slight twinge of nerves before a concert. Normal stage fright, nothing more.
The preshow jitters had begun on the day Amelia played her first violin recital as a precocious five-year-old. But as time passed, she learned to trust the moment the instant she raised her bow and drew it across the strings. Just get me there became her mantra.
Tonight she was the guest fiddler for a small country band one of the warm-up gigs to Tim McGraw’s featured concert this sultry mid-July evening at the Mann Center in Philadelphia’s West Fairmount Park. And she had an impressive performance planned.
The tall blond master of ceremonies, Rickie Gene, brushed past her to make his way to center stage, wearing a black tux and blue shirt. He’s fired up, she thought, remembering the first time she’d met him a year ago at a fiddle fest in Connecticut . . . unknown to Byron, her longtime boyfriend back home in Columbus, Ohio. Or to her father, a former violinist himself, stricken with early onset Parkinson’s disease.
Rickie Gene cast his winning smile like a fishing line to the crowd. “It’s Thursday night at the Mann!”
Loud cheers ros