Nineteen

Sylvie had come to Stoney Ridge with little and was leaving with even less. After she finished packing the last suitcase, she asked Joey if he would stay put on the tire swing while she went to give Edith Lapp a list of instructions about feeding the animals.

“Do we have to leave, Mem?”

“I’m pretty sure we do.” Walking across the yard, she prayed for the Lord to give her the right words. Jimmy had taught her that kind of prayer was all right. “The Bible says to pray about everything,” he had said, and showed her where it was in the book of Philippians. So, Lord, what should I say? A gentle whisper came, so quiet that it couldn’t be heard, yet she heard it all the same. Speak peace.

She had barely started to knock on the door as Edith opened it, as if she’d watched Sylvie come across the yard. Probably, she had. Sylvie swallowed past the tightness in her throat. “Edith, can’t we both be on the same side?”

“Depends. What is it you’re after?”

“You love your son. I love your son.” Sylvie saw the alarm in Edith’s eyes, sensed her bone-deep loyalty to her son. While she might bear Sylvie a grudge, she did love her son. For the first time since they’d met, Sylvie sensed some common ground. “You love Rising Star Farm. So do I. Does it have to be one or the other? Can’t we both be on the same side? Can’t we both want the best for Jimmy? For the farm?”

“I know what’s best for my boy . . . and I know it’s not you.”

Edith’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits, snuffing out the last thin thread of hope that Sylvie had yet to release. “That’s what I thought.” She let out a sigh, her shoulders lifting in one last shrug. “We’re leaving, Edith. Rising Star Farm is yours.”

Edith started to speak, then clamped her mouth shut.

“Here is a list of all the animals, what they eat, how often.” She held out a folded paper to Edith. “I think Jimmy knows it all, but just in case, I wanted him to be sure.”

Edith opened the page and stared at it, then looked up at Sylvie, a victorious look in her eyes. “I suppose you want money.”

“No, Edith. I don’t want your money.” Exasperation rising, she forced a calm she wasn’t feeling. “Do you think I care about the house? About the money? No, I do not. Just like you, I care about my boy. And my animals.”

A smile pulled at Edith’s dour mouth. “Rest assured. The animals will be well tended.” Her eyes shifted past Sylvie. “I see your taxi has come, so I’ll say goodbye.” And the door shut.

Jimmy had been in town all morning, buying lumber to fix some rotting fence posts at Rising Star Farm. The moment he returned to the farm, the very instant he drove the wagon onto the property, he could sense a change. The same way he felt when a cloud passed in front of the sun. Everything felt cold, empty. The tree swing hung still, the kitchen rang silent.

Slowly, he climbed down from the wagon, his gaze sweeping the property, looking for a sign of Joey, of Sylvie. He’d had Prince with him. How could she have left Prince? Left him?

A sick regret gripped Jimmy. He’d done it again. Burned another bridge. Let a girl he loved slip away. The realization that he loved Sylvie nearly toppled him, and he had to put a hand out on the horse to steady himself. He’d lost her. He’d lost Sylvie. Even Prince knew. He turned his head, ears pinned back, fixing a terrible accusing stare at Jimmy.

What was wrong with him? Why did he get so close to love and marriage, toy with it, only to run in the other direction?

He saw his mother make her way across the yard toward him, holding a paper in one hand. He met her halfway. “Sylvie’s gone, isn’t she? You chased her away.”

“If she really loved you, she wouldn’t have left.” She shrugged, like it was no big deal, yet it was. “If she loved you, she couldn’t have left.”

“Mom,” he said, his voice trembling.

“Son, she’s not the one for you. She and that boy of hers, let them be someone else’s problem.”

Until this moment, Jimmy hadn’t realized how hard his mother was, or how hard the years had made her, or maybe he had such little confidence in himself that he hadn’t ever seen her clearly. His mother was always so sure of herself, like a tree that wouldn’t bend, even in a gale. Now he realized that if a tree didn’t have deep roots—to accommodate the wind while keeping it firm and steady and strong—then its trunk could snap.

He didn’t want to be that kind of a man.

She handed him the paper. “Here. She left you a list of feed for all those animals.” Eyes fixed on the house, she seemed pleased with herself. “At long last, this place is rightfully yours. It’s not much to look at, but the land’s always been the best in Stoney Ridge. I always knew, someday, it would come back to us.” Her gaze swept the property. “Won’t take long to get the rest of Jake’s junk out of here. Then we’ll all move in. Fix it up real nice.”

“No.”

Her chin jerked up. “What did you say?”

“No. I said no.” He locked eyes with her. “I’m going to move in here alone.”

She held his gaze for a very long moment, then nodded. “If that’s what you want.” She turned and took a step, then stopped. She smiled. “Actually, I think that’s a real good idea. Get it all fixed up to bring home a bride.”

Exactly, Jimmy thought. Just not the bride you have in mind.

Izzy had always assumed that Frank Miller, her mother’s third husband, was her biological father. She had only some vague memories of him. He wore a blue Izod shirt, had sandy blond hair, a gap between his two front teeth, smelled of beer, and whenever he looked at her, he seemed slightly bewildered.

Juan Miranda could not be more opposite, in every way. Confident, bold, handsome in a George Clooney way. And he looked at Izzy not with bewilderment, but with such tenderness. Sadness, too, for lost years. He’d always wanted a daughter, he told her so last night, after everyone had left the hospital to go home and he remained. “And when I met you, Izzy, my first thought—my very first thought—was how much you looked like my mother. Her name is Isabella.” His eyes grew shiny as he spoke. “I don’t know how or why Grace named you Isabella. I don’t remember ever telling her about my mother, but maybe I did.”

Probably, he did. Izzy was getting to know her mother well enough to know that she did remember odd little details. And forgot plenty of other ones, like birthdays.

“I called my mother in Puerto Rico and told her about you.” He squeezed her hands. “She says to tell you that she already loves you, Izzy. That she’s been waiting her whole life for you.” He took out his wallet and showed her a picture. “See the resemblance?”

Izzy smiled. First smile in a couple of days. Even she could see the resemblance. “So what’s she like, this mother of yours?”

“She’s an artist. Loves to draw, to make things. Her sense of color and style is . . . ,” he kissed the tips of his fingers, “legendary.” His eyebrows lifted. “I told her that you’re an artist too.”

“Me? I’m no artist.”

“Oh, but you are. Think of the Flying Horse sign. That was what brought us together.”

Imagine that. Izzy Miller Schrock had found her father, a kind and good man, who actually wanted her. She had a grandmother, too, for whom she was named. For all the mistakes Grace Mitchell Miller had made, and those stacked up to the sky, she had done a few things right. Of all the names, she had chosen Isabella for her.

Imagine that, Izzy thought. I have a father who wants me. I have a grandmother whom I resemble. And she is an artist. She’d never had a grandmother before. Or a father. First time for both. First time for a lot of things. If anyone doubts that miracles still exist, just look at me. Look at me.

She shifted in the bed, felt a cramp in her tummy, and rubbed it away. Empty again. She’d hardly had time to work through grieving the loss of this little one. A boy, she sensed, though she really had no idea. One thing she knew—the baby she had miscarried had served a profound purpose in his short life. Something came to mind that David had said, a year or so ago, at a funeral for a stillborn baby: “His life was complete.” At the time, such a thought shocked her. Now, she understood it.

She turned her head to look out the window, at the stars in the night sky, tears filling her eyes. “Lord, thank you for our child. Thank you that he is not lost, but with you.” She hadn’t realized how much she’d been holding the sadness in. Now she let it overcome her. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Sad tears at what she’d lost, happy tears at what she’d found.

Sylvie had the taxi stop at the hospital so she could tell Izzy face-to-face that she was leaving. Izzy deserved that from her. Luke, too, but she couldn’t face him without bursting into tears. She left Joey in a chair outside of Izzy’s room, across from the nurses’ station, and told him to stay put. She popped her head in the door in case Izzy was sleeping but saw a smile fill her friend’s face. Izzy looked tired, with shadows under her eyes, and yet she was entirely lovely. Even more appealing, she had no idea of how beautiful she was.

Sylvie pulled a chair up to the bed and reached out to hold Izzy’s hand. “Fern told me all that’s happened in the last few days.” She squeezed her hand. “I’m so very sorry.”

“So am I,” Izzy said, eyes growing shiny, “but I’ll be all right. Better than all right.”

Sylvie smiled. “I have no doubt of that.” She looked down at their joined hands, startled by how different they were—Izzy’s olive skin, fingers long and tapered. By comparison, her own hand was so small, so white. They couldn’t look more different, yet it mattered not. From the first time they met, they felt a bond. Kindred spirits, true heart-to-heart friends. Had it not been for Luke, Sylvie might not have ever known her. And now she was saying goodbye to a friend who had grown dear to her. Choking back tears, she explained why she felt she needed to leave Rising Star Farm. “I just can’t stay, Izzy. Please don’t try and change my mind.”

“I won’t,” Izzy said with a disappointed sigh. “Though I wish you’d stay. Jimmy or no Jimmy, Stoney Ridge is your home. It’s where you belong. It’s where the people live who love you.”

“I thought it was. I wish it were. But life doesn’t always turn out the way you hope it might.”

Izzy bit the corner of her lip. “I feel as if Edith Lapp is running you out of town.”

Sylvie took in a deep breath. “She’s a big part of it, that’s for sure. But Jimmy is part of this too. He doesn’t know what he wants. Or who.” She shrugged. “It just seems best if I go. Start over.” Again. “You’ll tell Luke? Jenny and Fern? Tell them I’m sorry. Let them know I’m grateful for all they did for me.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. I’ll tell them what you said.” Izzy tipped her head. “Just remember what Fern always says. ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’”

Sylvie smiled. “Think that’s written in the Good Book?”

“I don’t know where exactly, but I think so.” Izzy looked Sylvie straight in the eyes. “If he asks, should I tell him you’ve gone back to your father’s?”

“Only if he asks.” She was fairly confident Jimmy wouldn’t ask.

The sun had almost set by the time the bus delivered Sylvie and Joey to the small town where her father lived.

“Are we there yet, Mem?” Joey asked for the hundredth time that day.

“Not quite yet.” She’d felt a barb of alarm each time he asked, nearly reconsidering her decision to return, because she had no idea how her father would react when they knocked on his door. It was entirely possible that he would close the door in her face.

They walked a few blocks, lugging suitcases along the bumpy road, until a horse and buggy drove up alongside her and came to a stop.

“So, then, you’ve come back.”

Sylvie startled at the familiar deep voice of her father. “Hello, Dad.” She locked eyes with him, surprised at how much older he looked. His beard was entirely gray now, so were his bushy eyebrows. Had she been gone such a long time? Just two years. He seemed to have aged a decade in that time.

Her father studied her for a long while, then turned his gaze to Joey, then back to her. “Looks like you’ve had a long day.”

“Very long.” She felt her eyes start to sting, then twitch. If he drove off without them, she knew what that would mean. What would she do next? Where could they go? If the bishop turned his back on his own daughter, who would dare take them in?

But he made no effort to drive off. In fact, it was significant that he had even stopped to talk to them. When it came to holding on to grudges, her father was a champion. It seemed . . . that something had changed between them. Some thawing. Some door cracked open. Some light broke through. Or was it only wishful thinking?

“Well, it’s getting dark,” he said in his gruff way, staring straight ahead. “You’d better hop in.”

Jimmy led Prince into the barn and hooked up his harness to the crossties. “Stop looking so sad, you big baby. You’ve got a pretty good life here. Besides, she’s the one who left. Not us.”

Prince swatted his tail from side to side, as if to say, “Right. Tell me about it.”

Jimmy had never been the type to miss people, not so much. Not his brother Paul, not even Bethany. Wherever he’d gone, he’d made it a point to not let the past encroach on his present. Until now.

Jimmy’s remedy to the recent upheaval in his life was to push harder, to be so preoccupied with chores and tasks on the farm that they drove out any thoughts of Sylvie.

Impossible.

Every inch of Rising Star Farm reminded him of her. Every single inch. Conversations they’d had about plans to upgrade the farm, moments when he’d watched her walk from the house to the barn or clothesline. The snowman he’d built with Joey. It was still there. The base of it, anyway. Most of the rest had melted.

And then there was the house. He’d set up a cot in Jake’s old office because he couldn’t bear to go upstairs, to sleep in her bed. Sitting at the kitchen table brought up endless memories, so he avoided it. He ate his meals standing up at the counter, like a horse.

And then there was Prince. Beautiful Prince.

Jimmy still couldn’t believe that Sylvie had left Rising Star Farm without him. She was crazy about that horse. Obviously, she couldn’t cart the big horse along with her, and to be fair, this was Prince’s home. Added to that . . . Juan Miranda had booked Prince for three more mares. Five thousand dollars a pop. Half now, half when the foal was born. And Juan had told Jimmy that if all went well, he’d be back. So it made sense that Prince was left behind, but it pained him. He knew, more than anyone, what this horse meant to Sylvie.

The worst time for Jimmy was the end of the day, just as the sun was setting and the moon was rising. Evening was unfolding. That had been their time. He and Sylvie used to sit on the porch steps together, sipping hot cocoa, Joey swinging in the tree swing, and they’d talk about the farm. She’d point out the winter birds—the Northern Cardinals, the Pine Siskins, the Downy Woodpeckers—and then she told him about the birds that visited the feeders come spring. Birds he’d never heard of, yet she seemed to know them all. Even their calls. She taught him that the first thing you learned as a bird-watcher was to listen well for birdsong. Such a concept was new for him: to listen well.

Except for the most bitter, blustery days of winter, they’d wrap up in blankets and sit on those steps. Those minutes spent on the porch steps were some of the finest in Jimmy’s life. Sometimes, he missed Sylvie so much, it actually hurt.

Last night, he woke up, heart pounding, as he remembered there’d been a man in her life before Jake. The man who had first introduced her to Arabian horses. Most likely, he’d still be there. Folks in the Hillbilly Amish didn’t move around much. He felt a queer churning. Of all the emotions he’d been facing lately, jealousy was hardest to stomach.

He bent down to pick up a hoof pick to clean out Prince’s hooves and ran his hand down the horse’s front leg until he shifted his weight and lifted it. As Jimmy cleaned each hoof, he dared a tentative, heartfelt prayer. For forgiveness. Direction. Wisdom. For another chance. Pulse drumming in his chest, he hardly expected an answer. He dropped the hoof pick in the tack box and picked up the currycomb, then started rubbing circles on Prince’s withers.

“Jimmy, are you listening?”

Jimmy jerked like a fish on the line. He looked over Prince’s neck. “Luke Schrock.” He stood just a few feet away.

“Man, what is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I just didn’t hear you come into the barn.”

“Oh yeah? From the far-off look on your face, you must have been tuned in to something. Whose voice were you listening to?”

Jimmy stilled. Interesting question. Whose voice had he been listening to lately? For most of his life? His mother’s shrill voice came immediately to mind.

“So Sylvie’s left.”

“Yup.”

“Your mother must be happy.”

“I suppose so.”

“And I suppose you’re happy too. You’ve got the farm, after all.”

From the strident, sarcastic tone in Luke’s voice, Jimmy could tell where this was headed. “Save me the lecture. I’ve already given it to myself. Yes. I blew it. I lost the woman I loved. Again.”

“So, then, you’re going to just keep floating along in your stupid life?”

“I’m not floating. I’m trying to get this stud farm going.”

“Okay, that’s a start. But what other plans do you have? I meant, besides taking care of this horse and a three-legged dog?” He squinted, noticing something big ooze down the barn aisle and into a corner. “And a very fat cat.”

Jimmy stopped currying, midbrush. “Are you asking as a friend or as a deacon?”

“Fair enough. As a friend.”

He went back to brushing Prince’s big neck. “It’s just . . . the truth is, I’m a little stuck.”

“Stuck because you let the girl you love slip away? Stuck because you let your mother call the shots? Stuck because you don’t know how to make your stupid life count for anything?”

“Wow. So this is what it’s like to be your friend?”

“Yup. A real friend tells you straight up.”

Jimmy scratched his head. “I’m stuck because . . . I can’t seem to think beyond the needs of a day.”

Luke nodded knowingly. “Long-term thinking. Counselors say the lack of it is at the core of most problems they see.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “And there you go. Sounding like a deacon again.”

“Nah. I understand it because I spent most of my teens and early twenties with a serious lack of it. It’s still something I have to work at. I just can’t see how things will play out, down the road. Izzy can. I can’t.”

“Sylvie could. In most things, anyway.” She was never comfortable with the idea of using Prince as a racehorse stud. She never felt comfortable with calling Prince the Flying Horse. He’d ignored her objections. More than once, Sylvie had said that just because something wasn’t wrong, it didn’t make it right. Was that one of the reasons she left?

“Let me ask you something. Do you even know what you’d like life to look like, down the road?”

Jimmy stopped brushing Prince’s neck. He dropped his hands to his sides and rested his forehead on the horse’s big neck. He was quiet for a moment, eyes squeezed shut. “I think I do. A well-managed horse farm, buildings in good condition. So clean and tidy that you couldn’t even find a spiderweb. A house with buttery lights glowing from every window, to welcome a man home. Joey swinging on the tire swing. Sylvie in the kitchen, cooking supper for the three of us.” He opened his eyes. “I can see it. All of it. I just don’t know how to get from here to there.”

Luke grinned. “Well, well. Jimmy Fisher. That might just be the first intelligent thing I’ve ever heard you say.” He clapped his hands together. “So let’s start from there and go backwards.”