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Baker Publishing Group - Beverly Lewis

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194 pages

English

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"She realized there was peace right here in the midst of this heavenly sort of place, despite the unpredictable storm churning around her family."For generations, Ellie Hostetler's family has tended their Lancaster County orchard, a tradition her twin brother, Evan, will someday continue. Yet when Evan's draft number is called up in the lottery for the Vietnam War, the family is shocked to learn he has not sought conscientious objector status, despite their Old Order Amish belief in non-resistance. The faraway war that has caused so much turmoil and grief among their Englisher neighbors threatens too close to home.As Evan departs for boot camp, Ellie confides her disappointment to Sol Bontrager, the brother of her best friend and cousin to her new beau, Menno. In contrast to Evan, Sol is a conscientious objector. Despite Ellie's attraction to Menno, she finds herself drawn to Sol's steady presence as they work together in the orchard. Suddenly, it feels as if everything in Ellie's world is shifting, and the plans she held so dear seem increasingly uncertain. Can she and her family find the courage to face a future unlike any they could have imagined?"The Orchard is a peaceful, heartwarming romance novel set amid the quiet solitude of an Amish family's orchard during the Vietnam War."--Foreword Reviews starred review

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Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	06 septembre 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781493439102
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	3 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

Half Title Page
Books by Beverly Lewis
The Orchard • 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 H E H E R I T A G E O F L A N C A S T E R C O U N T Y
The Shunning • The Confession • The Reckoning
A N N I E ’ S P E O P L E
The Preacher’s Daughter • The Englisher • The Brethren
T H E C O U R T S H I P O F N E L L I E F I S H E R
The Parting • The Forbidden • The Longing
S E A S O N S O F G R A C E
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
© 2022 by Beverly M. Lewis, Inc.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Minneapolis, Minnesota 55438
www .be thanyhouse .co m
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2022
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 978-0-7642-3753-9 (paperback)
ISBN 978-0-7642-3754-6 (cloth)
ISBN 978-0-7642-3755-3 (large print)
ISBN 978-1-4934-3910-2 (ebook)
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
Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and post-consumer waste whenever possible.
Dedication
To Darla Demahy for your faithful prayers and sweet encouragement—despite two back-to-back hurricanes!
Epigraph
Who loves a garden still his Eden keeps;
Perennial pleasures plants, and wholesome harvests reaps.
—Amos Bronson Alcott, “The Garden,” Tablets , 1868
Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
Books by Beverly Lewis
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Back Ads
Cover Flaps
Back Cover
Prologue
APRIL 16, 1970
I n the early morning light, I looked out one of my third-floor dormer windows and treasured the springtime rebirth taking place as far as my eyes could see. The orchard was a sea of frilly pink peach blossoms, fifty rolling acres of fruit trees. I wondered how the garden of Eden could have been any more lovely, and I thanked God for the beauty below.
Eager to breathe in the familiar fragrance of the orchard, I raised the window as birdsong beckoned to me. But I also wanted to feel the cool morning dew on my bare feet before doing chores. So, already dressed, I gave my waist-length, light brown hair a good brushing, then twisted and pinned it into a thick bun—not bothering to put on a bandanna.
I slipped down the two flights of stairs in my family’s home, then walked out the side door and across the yard and beyond. Unhurried, I wandered past the blooming peach trees, along the grassy strips that separated their rows. Time seemed to slow to the easy ticking of a heavenly clock. Honestly, I was so thankful not to live like our few English neighbors scattered here and there amongst us. Such a racket came from their big tractors and other farming equipment! Ach , it was bad enough that planes streaked our skies, trucks and cars crowded the highways, and folk in the city of Lancaster rushed helter-skelter.
But here? My heart drank in the peace of this lovely place, the soft blossoms dusting the atmosphere with their sweet peachy scent—like honey. As a young girl, I’d declared that the Lord God himself must surely dwell in our orchard—the most splendid spot on earth.
“If I could, I’d stay here forever,” I whispered, ever so content.
From behind me, I heard swift footsteps and assumed it was my oldest brother coming to check on the swath of newly planted semi-dwarf apple trees down near Harvest Drive. But to my surprise it wasn’t Jonah but Evan, my twin.
“Whatcha doin’ up so early, Ellie?” he asked, stopping to roll up his black pant legs. “You nearly beat the dawn.” He straightened, a whole head taller than me, almost as tall as our older brothers, Jonah and Rudy—both married with growing families and places of their own.
“It’s so fresh and dewy this time of day,” I said. “Ain’t so?”
Evan nodded, a sparkle in his blue eyes the same shade as mine. “No wonder Adam and Eve walked with God in the garden in the cool of the day—and no better place for a Hostetler to be on such a fine Thursday morning.”
“I’m sad for everyone who doesn’t have an orchard to come home to!”
“You remind me of Dawdi Hezekiah, comin’ out here to ramble through the rows.”
“ Jah .” I smiled, happy that Dat ’s elderly father lived in the small Dawdi Haus addition to our home just as he had for nearly two decades—since well before Mammi passed away three years ago. “Well, he’s the one who planted most of these trees back when. They’re his children, in a way.”
Evan gave me a look that suggested I was ferhoodled . “Do ya realize how many of these trees’ll be gone and new ones planted by the time I’m as old as Dawdi is now? The smaller trees bear fruit only up to twenty-five years, ya know.”
“Well, since Dat’s handin’ these acres over to your care when he retires, it’ll be up to you to see to all that someday.” I didn’t need to remind Evan that being the youngest son was a truly special blessing when it came to taking over the land—and in our case, an orchard, too. A blessing for sure , I thought, envying my brother a little. If I’d been born the younger twin and a boy, I’d have been chosen to run the orchard in the future. But alas, women didn’t have much say in those matters. It had always been that way amongst the People.
We walked for a while, and Evan kept glancing at the sky, now brushed with golden streaks. Something had to be on his mind for him to come out here before breakfast.
At last he said, “I’m plannin’ to go to Jack Herr’s burial service tomorrow afternoon in Carlisle, at the Ashland Cemetery Soldiers’ Lot.”
I had known who Jack was—our farm neighbor’s son—but hearing Evan talk like this confirmed what I’d long suspected. He and Jack had become friends. “I’m surprised, I guess . . . ya wanting to go . . . since that would be frowned on, jah ?” We both knew that anything related to the military was forbidden.
Evan halted between the rows of new apple trees. “And for that reason, you must keep mum.”
“I won’t say anything, but are ya sure you oughta go?” I’d heard of Jack’s death from Mamm several days earlier, but I hadn’t read his obituary for myself. Too many young men were dying in Vietnam. It was heartbreaking.
Evan frowned and nodded. “Well, Jack was my best English friend, so I wanna be there.” He sighed loudly, walking a bit farther without saying more. Then when he spoke again, it was nearly in a whisper. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.” He glanced toward the road beyond the orchard. “Jack gave up his life for our country—for people like you and me—so I’m gonna pay my respects,” he said flatly.
So many families round Lancaster County had lost sons or brothers, even husbands, to this dreadful war. But none had been Amish. Our father, like all Old Order Amishmen here in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, held a strong belief in non-resistance, which meant he didn’t approve of going to war under any circumstances. Dat said it went against the Lord’s ways for the People to choose violence, and this fight wasn’t ours anyway since America wasn’t our true home. We were only passing through. “ We’re pilgrims and sojourners whose final destination is heaven,” he liked to say.
“Dat will be displeased if he finds out, though,” Evan added, his expression melting into misery, “so just remember to keep this to yourself.”
I bobbed my head in agreement, then impulsively asked, “But why must ya be friends with outsiders, anyway?”
“Aw, Ellie, just ’cause you don’t have any English friends doesn’t mean I can’t have a few.” He pushed his straw hat down on his corn-yellow hair.
“I don’t understand why ya need fancy friends, though. You used to be gut friends with Solomon Bontrager, remember?”
“I was curious, so I dipped my toe in the outside world even before I turned fifteen. Wanted to know what I was missin’.”
For quite a while now, I’d pondered Evan’s desire to spend time with a handful of English fellows—mostly Jack and his friends. At nineteen, and unlike me, my brother hadn’t started baptismal instruction, deciding instead to stay in Rumschpringe , the season prior to baptism when our youth began to socialize with their friends, sometimes outside the confines of the church. I had no idea why Evan wanted to continue with this stage of his life. Even so, he knew Dat had always advised us to choose our friends wisely, which naturally meant amongst the People. Some teens were known to push the boundaries, though, causing hear