A Widow's Hope. Vannetta Chapman
But before she could pick him up, her father was standing in the doorway. No doubt he’d been awake for hours, and he carried into the room the familiar smells of the barn—hay, horses and even a little manure. It was an earthy smell that Hannah never tired of.
“I thought I heard young Matthew awake.”
“Daddi!” Matthew squirmed out of her lap and launched himself at her father, who caught him with a smile and carried him into the bathroom across the hall. She could hear them there, laughing and talking about the upcoming day.
Hannah slipped back into her room, changed into a plain gray dress, black apron and white kapp. Once dressed, she hurried to the kitchen. If she’d thought she could help her mother make breakfast, she was sadly mistaken.
Steam rose from the platter of fresh biscuits on the table. Another dish held crisp bacon, and her mother was scooping scrambled eggs into a large bowl. Hannah fetched the butter and jam, set them in the middle of the table and then gladly accepted the mug of coffee her mother pushed into her hands.
“Did you sleep well?”
Hannah shrugged, not wanting to talk about it. Then she remembered her bishop’s admonition to speak of her feelings more, to resist the urge to let them bottle up inside. Easy enough for him to say. His spouse was still alive and his children did not struggle with a disability. It was an uncharitable thought and added to her guilt.
She sipped the coffee and said, “I fall asleep easily enough, but then I wake after a few hours and can’t seem to go back to sleep, no matter how tired I am.”
“Normal enough for a woman in mourning.”
“It’s been nearly a year.”
“Grieving takes a different amount of time for different people, Hannah.”
“I suppose.”
Her mother sat down beside her, reached for her hands.
“Did you have the dream again?”
“Ya.” Hannah blinked away hot tears. She would not cry before breakfast. She would not. “How did you know?”
Instead of answering, her mother planted a kiss on her forehead, making her feel six instead of twenty-six. Then she popped up and walked back across the kitchen, checking that she hadn’t forgotten anything they might need for breakfast. Holding up the coffeepot, she asked Hannah’s father and son, “Coffee for both of you?”
“Mammi. I drink milk.”
Matthew’s laughter lightened the mood. Her father’s steadiness calmed her nerves. Her mother’s presence was always a balm to her soul.
The first week she was home, her dad had insisted on learning how to care for Matthew, how to help him into his wheelchair. Now Hannah turned to see her father and son, her father standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his hands on the back of Matthew’s wheelchair. Both looked quite pleased with themselves and ready to tackle whatever the day might bring.
* * *
Jacob Schrock didn’t need to hire a driver for the day’s job. Though the Beiler home was technically in a different church district, in reality they were only a few miles apart. That’s the way things were in Goshen, Indiana. There were so many Amish that his own district had recently divided again because they had too many families to fit into one home or barn for church.
Theirs was a good, healthy community. A growing community.
Which was one of the reasons that Jacob had plenty of work.
The night before, he’d loaded the tools he would need into the cargo box fastened on the back of his buggy. The lumber would be delivered to the job site before lunch.
Bo stood stamping his foot and tossing his head as if to ask what was taking so long. Jacob hitched the black gelding to the buggy, glanced back at his house and workshop and then set off down the road. As he directed the horse down Goshen’s busy two-lane road, his mind raked back over the letter he’d received from the IRS. How was he going to deal with the upcoming audit and complete the jobs he had contracted at the same time? The accountant he’d contacted had named a quite high hourly rate. The man had also said he’d need a thousand-dollar retainer in order to start the job. Jacob had given serious thought to hiring the accounting firm in spite of their high fees, but in truth he didn’t make enough money to afford that.
Jacob had asked around his church, but no one who was qualified had been interested in accounting work. The one young girl who had expressed an interest had quit the first day, and who could blame her? Jacob’s idea of filing consisted of giant plastic bins where he tossed receipts.
Jacob loved working for himself, by himself. He’d rather not have anyone in his small office. The bulk of his income came from residential jobs and a few small business contracts, but his heart and soul were invested in building playhouses for children with disabilities. He needed to juggle both, and now, on top of that, he needed to prepare for the audit.
Twenty minutes later he pulled into the Beilers’ drive. It wasn’t a home he’d ever been to before; that much he was sure of.
Jacob parked the buggy, patted Bo and assured him, “Back in a minute to put you in the field. Be patient.” Bo was a fine buggy horse, if a little spirited. Jacob had purchased him six months before. The horse was strong and good-tempered. Unfortunately he was not patient. He’d been known to chew his lead rope, eat anything in sight and paw holes into the ground. He did not handle boredom well.
Grabbing his tool belt and folder with design plans, Jacob hesitated before heading to the front door. This was always the hardest part for him—initially meeting someone. His left hand automatically went to his face, traced the web of scar tissue that stretched from his temple to his chin. He wasn’t a prideful man, but neither did he wish to scare anyone.
There was nothing he could do about his appearance, though, so he pulled in a deep breath, said a final word to the horse and hurried to the front door. He knocked, waited and then stood there staring when a young, beautiful woman opened the door. She stood about five and a half feet tall. Chestnut-colored hair peeked out from her kapp. It matched her warm brown eyes and the sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks.
There was something familiar about her. He nearly smacked himself on the forehead. Of course she looked familiar, though it had been years since he’d seen her.
“Hannah? Hannah Beiler?”
“Hannah King.” She quickly scanned him head to toe. Her gaze darted to the left side of his face and then refocused on his eyes. She frowned and said, “I’m Hannah King.”
“But...isn’t this the Beiler home?”
“Ya. Wait. Aren’t you Jacob? Jacob Schrock?”
He nearly laughed at the expression of puzzlement on her face.
“The same, and I’m looking for the Beiler place.”
“Ya, this is my parents’ home, but why are you here?”
“To work.” He stared down at the work order as if he could make sense of seeing the first girl he’d ever kissed standing on the doorstep of the place he was supposed to be working.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Neither do I. Who are you looking for?”
“Alton Beiler.”
“But that’s my father. Why—”
At that point Mr. Beiler joined them, telling Hannah he would take care of their visitor and shaking Jacob’s hand. Surely he noticed the scar on Jacob’s face, but he didn’t dwell on it. “You’re at the right house, Jacob. Please, come inside.”
“Why would he come inside?” Hannah had crossed her arms and was frowning at him now.
He’d