Authors: Tricia Goyer
He wiped down the countertop, and then chopped up an onion, carrots, and potatoes. With that done, Jathan melted shortening in the pot on the stove and added boneless beef cubes. When they were browned, he tossed the vegetables into the pot and added water, salt, and a tablespoon of sugar. Then he pulled a few more items from his grocery bag: Worcestershire sauce, paprika, allspice, clove. A dash here, a splash there, and within a few minutes, the room smelled like his mother’s kitchen back home rather than sweaty socks and gun oil as it had before.
He pulled out one of his books on small business ownership, writing notes in the margins as the stew simmered.
An hour later, just as he’d tested to see if the stew was done, a pounding of footsteps sounded on the front porch — Amos stomping mud off his boots. Jathan’s eyes widened. Would Amos think any less of him for his ability to cook? Tension tightened Jathan’s gut.
Amos entered through the front door and stopped in his tracks. He looked over at a bunk and then crouched down and peered under it. “Okay, where is she?”
“Who?”
“The woman. Someone’s been cookin’ in here. It smells amazing.” Amos chuckled.
Jathan shrugged. “Nothin’ special. Jest something I cooked up.” He took out two clean bowls and ladled up the stew.
Amos grabbed a spoon, sank onto a lower bunk, and dug in. “Ja, this is really
gut
,” he said between bites. “You should give the recipe to Sarah at the West Kootenai Kraft and Grocery.”
“No.” The word shot from Jathan’s mouth. He took a bite from the stew but was suddenly no longer as hungry. He wanted to talk to Sarah — get to know her better — but not in that way. Wait until he brought in the prize elk. Then he’d make a proper introduction.
“Don’t go jabbering about things unknown to you,” Jathan said. “Have another bowl, but don’t eat yerself full. I’d like to head over to the store later fer some cake.”
“A piece of Sarah’s cake no doubt?” Amos cocked an eyebrow. “It wonders me why you haven’t asked her to go on a walk.” He combed his fingers through his dark hair and straight bangs. “From the way you keep glancing her direction while she works, well, yer interest is clear. Why don’t you ask her to walk down to the lake or something? Jest to be friendly.”
“
Wonnernaus
. There’s no reason really.” Jathan narrowed his gaze as if trying to convince Amos it really was none of his business.
The fact was, he did want to get to know Sarah, but what did he have to offer if she showed her affection back — talk of a door factory job waiting for him? No, he had to figure out some business plans first.
Most people thought he’d come to Montana for the hunting, and while he enjoyed that, Jathan had another reason. He was running — running from being the youngest son who, no matter how hard he tried, couldn’t live up to his brothers, who lived the perfect Amish lives and always obeyed
Dat
, always made
Dat
proud.
Amos served himself another bowl. “This really is
gut
stew.”
Jathan finished his stew and stood. He placed his bowl on the counter and then stuffed his hands into his pockets.
“Are you sure you made it?” Amos asked.
“No, yer guess was right the first time. There’s an Amish woman here. I stuffed her into my pillow.”
Amos laughed and then placed his dirty bowl on the counter. “Hit the spot.”
Amos eyed the pot. “But it looks like there will be enough for breakfast afore we go out shooting in the morning.”
“
Ja
, leftovers are always better.” Jathan tried to hide his disappointment. As much as he looked forward to target practice, doing so would mean he’d miss sitting in the restaurant and saying hello to Sarah Shelter.
S
arah had two bachelors over today, and when she was talking to them, she didn’t have on her
kapp
.” The words spilled out of twelve-year-old Andy’s mouth as soon as the members of Sarah’s family lifted their head from silent prayer after thanking the Lord for their supper.
“Sarah!” Her mother’s small blue eyes widened and her jaw dropped. The spoon she had poised to scoop up mashed potatoes hit the table with a thud.
“That’s not how it happened,” Sarah hurried to explain. “I was gonna bathe after work and noticed one of my jars missing.” She narrowed her gaze at her brother. “Andy had gotten into my things, and I’d already taken off my
kapp
. I’d jest gone outside to get my jar when Amos and another bachelor walked up. I didn’t even see them coming.” She glanced from
Mem
to
Dat
. Instead of shock, she noted humor in
Dat
’s gaze.
“Now children —”
Dat
leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table —”we mustn’t bicker like this.”
Sarah wrinkled her nose, understanding how foolish she must appear, tattling like she was ten or twelve, not twenty-four years as she’d turned in March.
Twenty-four
. That was something to be embarrassed about. Her older brother and sisters had been married for years at this age. And even though Jonathan hadn’t found a wife after the heartbreak of losing Patty, their younger sister Beth — barely twenty — had gotten married and moved back to Kentucky to be near her new husband’s family. Where did that leave Sarah?
Though no one spoke it, she felt like an old maid who had everyone’s pity. Either that or she was lumped as a child with her younger siblings, twelve-year-old Andy and Evelyn, who was almost five years old. She supposed arguments like today did nothing to prove her maturity in
Dat
and
Mem
’s eyes.
“It’s not like you meant to parade before them bareheaded,” her mother finally said with the releasing of her breath. “I jest hope that doesn’t make them question yer worthiness as a bride in their eyes.”
“
Mem
, please …” Sarah salted her potatoes and then took a big bite.
Debra Shelter released a heavy sigh with the familiar wistful look. Knowing her mother as she did, Sarah guessed what her mother was thinking:
If only Patty hadn’t died. If only her family hadn’t moved back east after the funeral. If only Michael had stuck around. If only Sarah had fallen in love with one of the other bachelors who had come and gone since. There had been lots of other bachelors after all
.
Dat
told Sarah she’d closed up her heart after Patty’s dying. Sarah believed this to be true for the first year. Mourning her friend had been harder than she’d thought it would be. Yet now? She was ready to love, wasn’t she?
Sarah ate her dinner in near silence as her mother chatted about all the community news from the quilting circle. Yet Sarah’s thoughts drew her into the lonely journey of “if onlys.”
If only Patty hadn’t died. From the moment her lifeless
body had been pulled from the lake, Sarah wished things could be different. If only she had Patty to talk to, to get advice from. But life didn’t work that way. God chose who lived and died. His way was perfect, she’d been told.
Yet how could something be considered “perfect” when it still jabbed her heart like a knife?
Sarah helped
Mem
wash the dishes and then retreated to her room. With Patty still heavy on her thoughts, she moved to the three jars lined up on her dresser. If Patty were still alive, Sarah had no doubt she’d be on that hike — first one in line, leading the others. When Patty was alive, it had been easy to follow her — to be brave. Now it was Sarah’s turn to step out.
She needed to talk to
Dat
about climbing Robinson Mountain despite the dangers. Although it was mid-May, snow still clung to high mountain peaks. Even though she hadn’t been up there herself, she’d heard the trail was narrow in spots, and bears roaming the hills were always a concern.
Yet Amos’s smile filled Sarah’s thoughts, pushing away those worries. She’d never find a husband if she kept to herself.
That’s why she wouldn’t tell
Dat
about her plans quite yet. Telling him too early would give him a week to ponder his concerns. She’d talk to him on Friday. One day would give him plenty of time to fret and to remind her of a hundred things about hiking these hills before she headed out.
She picked up one jar and pulled out the small pinecone lying on top of its contents. After all, one never knew what gift could be found in the shadow of tall Montana pines.
Some way to spend my tenth birthday,
Sarah thought, as she kicked a clump of dirt on the ground. Here they were
,
living in a small cabin, her sharing one room with all her brothers and sisters, no friends to play with. Only the trees outside the back of the cabin waving their birthday wishes as the branches twisted and shuddered in the wind. Only the forest floor to occupy her. Then again … she found things here she’d never seen back home
.
Sarah looked down at her apron. Pine needles, a clump of moss, a golden leaf. She’d never found such things in Kentucky. Well, maybe she had, but they seemed extra special here
.
Back home, flat land stretched out from her farm in all directions. Here they were surrounded by trees and bushes, except for the narrow dirt road that took them to the main road where the store was. And even the main road was more pothole than path — or at least that’s what
Dat
said
.
“Mem’s
not gonna like my dirty apron,” she scolded herself. Placing her items on the porch, Sarah ran into the cabin and opened the cupboard under the kitchen sink. There was a jar of clothespins, some cleaning rags, and a bottle of bleach. She moved to the next cupboard over and found pots and pans. The next one had bowls and … there. Sarah pulled out an old jelly jar, unscrewed the lid, and raced back outside
.
In the distance, she could hear
Dat
and her brothers Joe and Jonathan cutting firewood
. Mem
had walked to the store with Sarah’s little sister, Beth, toddling by her side. Sarah dropped her findings into the jar and then looked around. A pinecone would be a good find for her collection. She moved to the stand of trees away from where her father and brothers worked
.
She picked up one pinecone, but half of it looked crushed, as if someone had stepped on it. Or
something
had stepped
on it. Another one was damp and moldy on one side. Still keeping her eye on the house, Sarah stepped farther into the stand of trees. The air was cooler under the shade of the limbs and leaves. It smelled moister, too, like the muddy pond on their Kentucky farm that she and Jonathan used to throw rocks into
.
She found two small pinecones and was examining them to see if they had any flaws when a crashing erupted in the forest. It sounded like a wild horse … or a bear. Sarah’s heart raced. The pinecones tumbled to the ground
.
In Kentucky, children were taught to stay out of horse corrals, but here … where could one go in Montana to keep away from bears? Sarah turned and was prepared to run with everything in her when a singsong voice belted through the trees
.
“There ya are! I heard a new Amish family was in town. Wheredja come from?”
Sarah turned, slowly. There, through the trees, she saw something unexpected, something wonderful. An Amish girl jogging her direction. Well, at least Sarah supposed she was an Amish girl. The girl wore a
kapp,
but it was tied by the strings around her neck and hung down her back. Dirt streaked her cheeks, and she wore boots far too large for her feet, as if she’d stepped into her father’s boots while running out the door
.
“Come on,” the dark-haired girl called without so much as an introduction. She motioned to Sarah. “What are ya jest standin’ there for?”
Sarah glanced over her shoulder, positive the girl was talking to someone else
.
The girl paused and put two hands on her hips. “I said, ‘What are you jest standing there for?’”
Sarah’s eyebrows folded. “Whoever are you talking to?”
“I’m talking to you, silly.”
“Me? Well, I can’t go anywhere. I …” She pointed back at the house. “I was told not to wander off.”
The girl brushed brown, wispy hair back from her face and jutted out her chin. “Ja, but is it really wandering when I know where I’m going? I won’t get you lost.”
“Maybe not, but who are you? A stranger, that’s what.”
“
Ne,
not a stranger, jest a friend you don’t know yet. That’s how things are up here in the West Kootenai. Our neighbors are jest folks we’re working to get to know better.”
Sarah smiled. “I like that. I’m Sarah Shelter. And you?”
“Mossy Weathercreek.” The girl’s eyes widened as she said that name, as if liking the way it rolled off her tongue
.
“I’ve never heard of an Amish girl named Mossy or the last name of Weathercreek. What’s yer real name?”
“Today?”
Sarah placed a hand on her hip. “Today and all the days you’ve been born.”
“Today it’s Patty Litwiller, but ten years from now, when I turn twenty, it’s going to be Patty Beiler
. Mem
says that’s how long I have to wait until I marry Jebadiah Beiler. He lives not far from us and has the prettiest green eyes. As green as the moss you have in that jar.”
It wasn’t until Patty mentioned the moss that Sarah remembered she had the jar in her hands. She glanced down at it, but now the things she’d picked up weren’t nearly as interesting as the girl who stood before her
.
“Does Jebadiah know you’ll be marrying him?” Sarah asked
.
“Not yet.” Patty smiled
. “Mem
says I need to wait eight years to tell him. She says that to do so now would scare him away faster than a fox chases away a rabbit.”
Sarah took a step closer. “Do you have rabbits here?”
Patty nodded so hard Sarah was sure Patty’s chin was going to bounce off her chest. “Wild ones. Foxes too. They’re small and red and spook easy. I haven’t seen one in a while, but they’re around. Wanna go look?”
“Tell you what. Why don’t I get a jar like this one, and we can fill it with interesting things.”
“Like spiders?” Patty’s eyebrows arched into two peaks
.
“If you want.”
“All right then. The foxes can wait.”
“One thing …” Sarah pointed to Patty’s
kapp.
“You better put that back on.”
Patty gasped and pulled it by the strings, back onto her head. “Gut thing you said something. If
Mem
saw, I’d be hanging all the laundry fer the next two weeks. You saved my life, Sarah Shelter. Honestly, you did.”