After dinner, Leah found herself washing dishes with the Byler daughters. “We’re glad you’re here,” said Sarah, the oldest, whose dark blond hair and china-blue eyes made her look like a wholesome fashion model.
“Yes, we are,” echoed Rachel, the short middle daughter. “Here, you can wipe.” She handed Leah a dish towel.
Eliza, the youngest daughter, clattered around gathering dishes from the table and depositing them near the sink.
“How long will you be here?” Sarah asked, as she plunged her hands into soapy water.
“I don’t know. They seem to think it will be months. I—I know I can’t stay here forever, and I can’t return to my former job, so I’m at something of a loss.”
“Gott will provide.” Rachel rinsed a plate and handed it to Leah.
Leah thinned her lips. Isaac had said the same thing. But God hadn’t provided so well when it came to allowing her to use her education and skills to further her career. What did this Amish girl know of what it took to claw one’s way to the top of one’s profession in the dog-eat-dog world of television journalism?
She bit back the unwarranted retort. It’s not Rachel’s fault my future is uncertain. She owed this family a debt of gratitude and had no intention of taking out her change of circumstance on the innocent children.
Sarah chattered on. “And don’t forget. Tonight we have a gathering at the Millers’.” Her face lit up. “Hot dog roast!”
Rachel chuckled. “Light-minded,” she told her sister, who stuck out her tongue before resuming her scrubbing.
“Are you both finished with school?” Leah set aside the wiped dishes.
“Oh yes. Years ago. We’ve both had our rumspringa too.” Rachel rinsed cups.
“And perhaps things will change this November.” Sarah’s eyes twinkled. “You’ll meet Aaron tonight.” A rosy blush suffused the girl’s cheeks.
“How old are you both?”
“Twenty,” said Sarah.
“Eighteen,” said Rachel. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Sarah’s brows rose. “And you’re not married?”
“No. I was always too busy with my career to think about getting married.”
Leah caught a surprised glance between the sisters. “Sad,” murmured Rachel, her head ducked over the dishes.
In the English world, marriage was not the be-all and end-all of a woman’s life, unlike in the Amish world.
“There.” Sarah scrubbed the last pot and handed it to Rachel. “Eliza already wiped down the table and counters, so we can take the food to the Yoders. First we’ll bring you to Daed’s shop so Isaac can give you the tour around the farm.”
Rachel rinsed the pot and handed it to Leah, then wiped her own hands. Leah finished drying the pot, the girls put all the dishes away and she trailed after them as they headed for the front door.
A barnlike structure about thirty feet square stood on the other side of the gravel driveway, shaded by two fine maple trees. Tender in her bare feet, Leah had to walk slowly. June sunshine poured in through the large open rolling doors.
“Ah, here for the tour?” Ivan swept sawdust into a pile.
“Yes, please.” Leah glanced around at the large space, which smelled of fresh wood shavings and was filled with tools she didn’t recognize.
“We’re going to the Yoders’,” said Sarah. “We’ll be back in an hour or so.”
Ivan placed the broom in a corner and dusted off his hands. The young sons of the family were occupied with some task near the doorway.
Isaac walked over from a far corner, capping his camera. “Show her around here first, why don’t you,” he suggested to Ivan. “Then I’ll take her around the farm.”
“Ja.” He turned to Leah. “As you know, we don’t use electricity, but nothing in our Ordnung prevents us from using hydraulic and pneumatic power run by diesel compressors. We feel these technologies don’t violate our dedication to living according to the biblical Word of Gott. So this is my band saw. You can see up here how this pulley system runs from the motor to...”
Leah tried to follow Ivan’s explanations as he described with enthusiasm the myriad tools and their uses. She was far more impressed with what he made. Half-finished rocking chairs, dressers, bed frames and tables all exhibited stunning handcrafted quality. Fully finished pieces sat along the walls of the shop, some covered in sheets, others draped with clear plastic to keep the dust off. Ignorant as she was of the intricacies of construction, even she recognized the quality and the beauty of the woodwork.
“I can see you never use particle board.” She ran her fingers along a beautiful piece of maple on a dresser and thought of her pressed-sawdust dresser in Los Angeles.
“Of course not.” Ivan pointed to lumber leaning against a wall and stored up in the rafters. “Several of us here in Pikeville buy our wood from a dealer who specializes in sustainable sources. If you have generations of woodworkers, you need generations of forests to keep us going. We use hardwoods such as northern red oak, cherry, maple, quartersawn white oak, mahogany, hickory, beech and elm. We also use softwoods like pine and cedar. Our dealer works with plantations in Appalachia and places in Tennessee and Michigan that grow trees just for us.”
Leah grew intrigued by an industry she’d never considered before. “How many crafters use these plantations?”
“There are four woodworkers in our community,” replied Ivan. “Regionally, among other Amish communities, there are...what, Isaac, about eight more?”
“Nine, I believe.”
“And another dozen or so scattered in other states. We all get our lumber from these sources that have grown wood for craftsmen for about a century.”
“Wow,” murmured Leah.
Ivan rested his hand on the wooden flywheel of a nearby saw. “I was lucky to inherit some of the tools from factories in Michigan that used to make furniture. They broke up the factories in the 1960s, and some of the Amish craftsmen went in and bought up much of the old machinery they once used. The machinery was distributed around various communities. My grandfather obtained several pieces, and they’ve been passed down to me. My boys will take over this shop someday, and the tradition will continue.” He reached out and ruffled the hair of his two young sons. The boys shuffled their feet and smiled. “And these two are showing great promise in following me as craftsmen.”
Ivan’s simple pride in his inherited skills, and his humble pleasure at passing those skills on to his own sons, touched Leah. How often had she ever come across such a structure? There was more to the Amish way of life than outsiders knew or appreciated. Just for a moment, the journalist in her stepped out of the shell of self-pity she had cultivated since her near-deadly encounter with gang members on that cold Los Angeles night six months ago.
She looked up and locked eyes with Isaac. He gave her a half smile, as if he understood the feelings behind the moment. Her cheeks grew warm, and she turned away. “And no one objects to having such young children around power tools?” she asked Ivan, to cover her emotions.
Isaac snorted with laughter before he discreetly turned it into a cough.
“How else can kinner learn but to follow the example of their parents?” inquired Ivan in genuine bewilderment.
How indeed? It was obvious that by the time these young boys turned eighteen, they would already be familiar with every tool, every technique and every aspect of furniture construction and would be able to make a living with their skills. It wasn’t such a bad way.
“I think it’s smart,” she concluded out loud.
“But having Isaac here is a big help, especially when I’m on deadline. My boys are too young to work with the power tools yet.” He nodded toward Isaac. “Go ahead and show her around, then I’ll have just a bit more work for you this afternoon.”
Isaac touched his hat brim and turned to Leah. “Ready to see the farm?”
“Sure. But walk slowly—I’m not used to walking around with bare feet.”
She followed him outside into the warm June sunshine. He stopped and pointed at the acreage around the farm. “That’s the corn crop. It’s not very tall at the moment, of course, since it’s just the end of June. There’s an old saying—‘Knee-high by the Fourth of July.’ The idea is if the corn is up to a man’s knees by that point, the harvest is likely to be good, Gott willing.”
“And the Bylers sell the corn?” Leah looked over the verdant field.
“Ja. They have about four acres.” Isaac made a wide gesture. “It’s sweet corn, and they mostly sell it at farm stands and a few grocery stores in the region. Anything left over they will usually can for the winter.”
“They can their own corn?”
“Of course. How else will they preserve it? Everyone cans.”
Not in Los Angeles, they don’t, she thought.
Isaac led the way toward another barn and stepped into the shady interior. “The Bylers don’t have a lot of animals compared to some people in our community. Ivan makes his living with the wood shop, not a dairy.”
“So what do they have?”
“Jersey cows, a few pigs and of course the horses.”
One horse put his nose over the half door of his stall. Isaac stroked him. “Most Amish don’t breed or train their own horses. A lot of our buggy horses are former race horses. Ivan is busy in the shop, so he leaves the buggy training to others.”
“How many horses do they have?”
“Just six. Two for buggies, four for draft work.”
“And this is one of the buggy animals?”
“Ja. The draft animals are much bigger, of course.” Ivan peered through a door. “Looks like they’re out in the pasture at the moment.”
Leah reached out and touched the horse’s nose, which was soft as velvet. The animal didn’t seem to mind, so she stroked him. “He’s beautiful. I’ve never touched a horse before.”
She glanced up in time to see Isaac’s jaw drop.
“Never touched a horse?” he echoed.
“Of course not. There aren’t a lot of horses in urban Los Angeles.”
“Have you ever been on a farm?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Then for sure and certain you’ve got a lot to learn.”
Leah patted the horse again, smelled the rich horsey smell and thought perhaps there might be some rewarding experiences now that she was in witness protection.
Isaac moved toward another part of the barn. “Here’s where Ivan milks the cows.” One fawn-colored animal with huge doe eyes rested in the shade of the pen near the wide-open door leading to the pasture. Her jaws moved rhythmically. “The other three animals are out to pasture. You can just see them out there. Three of the calves are steers, so they’ll get butchered later in the year.”
Leah quailed at the thought of eating something the Byler family had raised. Of course she knew where meat came from but had never thought of coming face-to-face with the source. “What do they do with the milk?”
“Same thing my mother does, I assume. Make butter and cheese, sometimes yogurt. Anything extra goes to the pigs.”
“What pigs?”
“These pigs.” Isaac walked toward another portion of the barn.
The pigpen was a series of heavily reinforced stalls with open doorways leading outside. Four huge porkers wallowed in the shade, and one more stood in the doorway and sniffed at them. “You can’t really tell from here, but the Bylers have a whole acre paddock for the pigs.” Isaac pointed out the door. “They do well when they’re given a bit of room to roam.”
Leah sniffed. “They don’t smell too bad. I would have thought pigs were dirty.”
“No, they’re very clean animals. They use a corner for a latrine and keep the rest of their pens tidy.”
“The fence doesn’t look very tall, though.” Leah peered through the barn door to the outside paddock.
“Pigs don’t jump, so it doesn’t have to be tall. It just has to be strong at the bottom, because they root.”
“Do a lot of people raise pigs?”
“Ja. The Bylers raise and sell piglets. Anything extra is butchered once the weather is cold enough.”
“Do they freeze the meat?”
“No. Most of us don’t have a freezer, of course, since we don’t have electricity. We wait until winter, when Gott freezes it for us,” replied Isaac. “Our bishop gave permission to put freezers at a place in town and store meat there, but a lot of people don’t use that option. Most people smoke the meat, or can it, and the rest gets frozen in winter and eaten before spring comes.” Isaac grinned. “Frischi wascht, yum.”
“What’s that?”
“Fresh sausage.”
She looked down at the large animal lounging against the pen wall. “I’ll never look at bacon the same way again,” she muttered.
Isaac chuckled. “You get used to it quick enough. Most of us raise our own animals for meat, so they’re raised humanely. To use Englisch terms, it’s very green and sustainable.”
Leah smiled. “I try to live a sustainable zero-waste lifestyle. Not that it was easy in Los Angeles.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place.” Isaac smiled in high wattage. “There are few places overall as sustainable as an Amish community.”
“Hmm.” The journalist in her sat up and took notice. She wondered how many English reporters had written about this aspect of the Amish lifestyle. For all she knew, it was widely covered and she just wasn’t aware of it.
“Maybe that should be the first article you write for my magazine,” continued Isaac.
“I’m not interested in writing for your magazine.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a journalist anymore. Besides, who’d be interested in this kind of stuff?” She waved her arm.
She saw Isaac’s expression tighten. She might be a little ashamed of her bluntness, but she had no interest in being roped into using her professional talents to write for some amateur magazine.
“Ja, well, I’ll show you the orchard.” He turned away.
She followed him from the barns and around the back of the house. Smallish trees in neat rows dotted a grassy field. On the edges, she counted six stacks of white boxes.
“These are apples.” Isaac pulled a low-hanging branch lower. “See the fruit? They’re only an inch across right now. Tiny, but they’ll grow.”
“And there are...” Leah counted under her breath. “Six, seven, eight, nine...twenty-five trees of each variety. I think Ivan said these apples are the ones he sells commercially?”
“Ja. It’s not such a large orchard that they can’t handle the work themselves, during the harvest.” Isaac rubbed his chin. “I know Rachel loves working the apples. She’s said it’s one of her favorite things to do.”
“I wonder how old these trees are.”
“I’m guessing about twenty-two years or so.” Isaac patted a trunk. “Ivan said his daed planted them as a wedding present when he and Edith were married.”
“What a lovely gift.” Leah was touched by the practical legacy.
“Those are the beehives.” Isaac pointed at the stacks of white boxes. “Sometimes they sell honey, but I think they keep most of it. And of course the bees help with the fruit trees. Over there is the home orchard, where they grow other fruit. They have enough to share around, trading surplus in the community for what they don’t grow themselves.”
“Community,” she mused.
“Ja, sure.” Isaac’s expression made it seem obvious. “It’s what makes life worthwhile.”
It’s what makes life worthwhile. Yet had she ever experienced anything like the warm familiarity the Byler family had with their neighbors? No. While the journalist in her was intrigued by the concept, the human side of her longed to experience it, as well.
“Over there—” Isaac pointed “—you can see their wheat field. I know it looks something like a lawn at the moment, but that’s because it’s hard red spring wheat and should be ready to harvest in August.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone growing their own wheat before,” said Leah. “What do they do with it?”
“Make flour,” replied Isaac. “It’s not hard to do.” He walked toward a fenced area. “Over here is their kitchen garden.”
“Kitchen garden?” gasped Leah. “It’s huge!”
“Well, it has to feed eight people and get them through the winter.” He unlatched a gate and went inside. “They do a nice job of keeping it weeded.”
“What is growing here?”
“Do you really want to hear the list, or would you rather know what they don’t grow?”
“Uh, sure. Don’t grow, I guess.”
Isaac started ticking his fingers. “They don’t grow lemons. Or coffee. Or lentils. Or rice. Or tea. Cinnamon. Peanuts. That kind of stuff.”
She stared. “Sounds almost as if they grow all their own food.” She dropped onto a nearby crate. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone this self-sufficient.”
“It’s just how most people live.” Isaac shrugged. “Everyone else does pretty much the same thing. What’s the matter?”
Leah closed her gaping mouth with a snap. “I’m just overwhelmed, I guess.” She lifted her hands and let them drop.
Her reaction seemed to amuse him. He chuckled. “City girl?”
“Completely.” She sagged. “I’m afraid I have an awful lot to learn.”
“Are you up for the task?”
Leah looked up at the hint of challenge. “That sounds like a dare.”
“Maybe it is. The amount of work tends to discourage a lot of people who aren’t Amish.”
She lifted her chin. “Anything they throw at me, I can handle it.”
“Gut.” His grin held an almost fiendish overtone. “I look forward to seeing that.”
It almost sounded like Isaac tried to provoke her. Why?
Before she could analyze it further, he held out a hand to assist her off the crate. “I think a quick peek at the chickens and then the outdoor tour is done. Sarah and Rachel can show you around the haus later. So,” he added as he released her hand and fell into step beside her, “you said you were from Los Angeles?”
“Yes.”
“Big city. Why are you here in Pikeville?”
Leah froze inside. It was the one question she didn’t want to be asked, but at least she had a predetermined story she could tell, one that mingled with just enough truth to be plausible. “I was in a car accident.” She touched her cheek. “It messed me up pretty badly. I used to work as a television journalist, but you can’t be in television with a face like this. I—I needed to get away. I have friends who know the Bylers, and they invited me to stay with them until I heal up.”
Unlike some other men she’d encountered, Isaac didn’t seem to be put off by the scar in the slightest. “And then what? What happens after your face heals?”
“I don’t know.” Her shoulders slumped, and for a moment she allowed despair, which was never very far away, to claim her. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to change my career, and it’s something I’m reluctant to do. I loved being a TV journalist.”
“Why are you dressed in Amish clothes? It seems unusual for a visitor.”
That was a question she hadn’t anticipated. “Uh...uh...since I’m here for so long, I wanted to fit in. I speak a little German, and Edith thought it best if I didn’t stand out. But I’m hoping everyone can forgive me for any blunders I make.”
“Oh, they will.” He fell silent as she padded along, her bare feet still tender. “Will you be attending the hot dog roast at the Millers’ tonight?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure it’s polite to show up without an invitation.”
“The Millers won’t mind. They’ll have a large crowd of youngies anyway, so one extra person won’t matter.”
“What’s a hot dog roast?”
“Just as it sounds. They have a long pit where they build a fire, so everyone has a chance to stand by the flames and cook their hot dogs.”
“But what do they do, besides eat hot dogs?”
“Talk. Sing. Play games. And sometimes flirt.” He grinned at her.
Leah caught her breath. If she didn’t know any better, she might have thought Isaac was flirting with her. If so, it was subtle almost to the point of imperceptible. And there was no possible way she could flirt back, not with a man bound within the rules of a faith she didn’t share.
She looked away. “I’m much older than Sarah or Rachel. Is this a gathering just for young people?”
“How old are you?” he blurted, then made a gesture as if to snatch the words back. “Sorry, I hope that wasn’t rude.”
His expression was so comical she laughed. “It’s no secret. I’m twenty-eight.”
“Ain’t so? Me too.”
“And you’re not married? That seems unusual, from what I know of the Amish.”
“I had—” He hesitated. “I spent some time away. Many years, in fact. Now I’m back and I intend to stay, but many of the women in the community aren’t encouraging when it comes to risking their future with me. I have too much Englisch in me, they say.”
She couldn’t help but chuckle. “I assume Englisch is the catchall phrase for anyone who isn’t Amish.”
“Ja. It’s not meant as a pejorative, just a distinguisher for anyone who isn’t Amish. Here’s the chicken coop.”
Leah looked at the various clucking fowl. A rooster crowed lustily from one corner. “What kind are they?”
He pointed. “Ameraucana, Barred Rock, a couple of Buff Orpingtons and some Black Australorps. These are egg birds. In that coop over there—” Isaac pointed to a nearby spacious enclosure “—they raise Jersey Giants for meat.”
So many meat animals... It was something Leah had never thought about before.
Isaac grinned. “It’s quick and humane. They don’t feel a thing.”
How did he know what she was thinking? “I’m sure it is.” She swallowed. “It’s just a novelty for me to be looking meat in the eye.”
“Gott provides us with meat. We are grateful for it.”
“You still showing her around?” said a voice from behind.
Leah turned. Sarah and Rachel walked up with empty baskets in their hands.
“We’re just finished,” replied Isaac.
“I see.” Rachel lifted a single brow, and her eyes darted between Leah and Isaac.
Leah’s cheeks grew hot. It was clear Rachel thought there was interest between her and Isaac, and she wanted to nip that idea in the bud. “Yes. Well. Thank you for the tour, Isaac. I’m probably keeping you from a lot of work, so don’t let me stop you.”
“Ja, I have some things to finish up in the shop.”
“Are you going to the Millers’ hot dog roast tonight, Isaac?” Sarah asked Isaac.
“Ja, sure, I was planning to.”
“Save a seat for Aaron, then.”
“I will.” Amusement tinged Isaac’s voice. “I’ll see you then.” He flicked the brim of his hat, turned and marched away.
“I’ll bet he didn’t plan on it earlier,” murmured Rachel, turning toward the house.
“Plan on what?” asked Leah.
“Attending the hot dog roast. I mean, he normally doesn’t bother with youngie events.” She frowned at Leah. “This could be a problem.”
“Why a problem?” asked Leah.
Rachel glanced at her sister, then back at Leah. “Um, nothing.” She turned toward the house. “Come, we’ll show you around the house.”
Leah frowned at the young woman’s blatant attempt to sidestep the subject. There were undercurrents here she didn’t understand. But one thing was certain. The last thing Leah wanted was to be a cause of strife within her host family.