14

Children were never simple, Abigail knew that, but she had not expected to find such diversity among siblings as there was in Uncle David’s home. Though she and Laura were closest in age to Katrina, there was very little contact. Katrina was rarely over to visit at Uncle David’s—to avoid getting cornered by Mammi might be the reason—but even when she was, she seemed preoccupied and distant. Abigail felt she hardly knew her cousin anymore. Jesse came around frequently, mostly at mealtimes, with the black puppy trailing behind him. He always had a smile and a quick joke.

Ruthie was inclined to be on the moody side. Sometimes, she would sit there, staring out of the window, and say nothing at all.

“What are you thinking of?” Abigail would ask.

Ruthie would shake her head and reply, “Nothing.”

That couldn’t be true. Nobody thought of nothing, but it was difficult to imagine what thoughts a girl like Ruthie might have. Sulky and sullen ones, most likely. Molly’s thoughts, Abigail had no doubt, would be quite pleasant and most likely have to do with food, which she thoroughly enjoyed. Eight-year-old Lydie was what Mammi called a social butterfly, while her twin, Emily, was happiest in her own company. She was indifferent to others, unlike Lydie, who was always invited over to friends’ homes to play. Emily preferred to be home with a book.

On a Saturday afternoon, some girls stopped by to play with Lydie, who wasn’t home at the time, but Ruthie intervened and invited the girls to stay and play with Emily. Emily simply stared at them and said nothing. Abigail understood Emily’s reluctance to be expected to be sociable just because little girls had stopped by to play. Before she had a chance to say so, Ruthie jumped in.

“You should talk to these girls,” Ruthie admonished Emily. “They are your guests, and you should go play with them.”

Emily mumbled something, and all three girls went off to the yard together. But when Abigail and Ruthie looked out of the window not twenty minutes later, they saw the two visiting girls playing happily while Emily was nowhere to be seen. Abigail found her in her room, reading a book.

Ruthie was indignant and insisted she go outside with her friends.

“Leave Emily to do what she wants to do,” Abigail said. “She can’t help it. Remember where she comes from. Remember your people. She has their blood in her veins.”

Ruthie looked at her in horror. “What are you talking about?”

“Books, of course. Look at how your father loves his books. Emily is her father’s daughter. She takes an interest in books that most other children, or adults, would not ever bother reading. Books are in her blood.”

Emily smiled up at her as Ruthie helped her get her sweater on. “I like that. Books in my blood.”

Ruthie rolled her eyes. “Don’t listen to Gabby and her family tree nonsense.” She opened the door to shoo Emily out.

Ruthie’s skepticism about the merits of genealogy was not new to Abigail. Her own mother and grandmother shared similar doubts. Abigail knew from experience that she could not sway a doubter’s views. However, a few days later, she found the means to succinctly prove to Ruthie that the study of genealogy was vitally important.

It happened as Abigail was doing a favor. First for Mammi, then for her uncle. Mammi had asked Abigail to pick up a few spices for dinner at the Bent N’ Dent.

Donning boots, mittens, and a warm coat, she set out for a chilly walk. The day was sunny, but the wind was brisk. Molly had given her a shortcut to get to the store, but it required cutting through a cornfield. As she crossed through the farmer’s field, avoiding the spiky severed brown cornstalks, a heron rose and sailed low over a stand of pine trees. Dane Glick, she thought, would enjoy the sight of that heron. Perhaps he had already seen it swooping around Stoney Ridge.

And thinking of what Dane might like surprised her.

She came to a road, looked up and down, and saw the store in the distance at the corner of an intersection. Molly’s directions, despite being the muddiest possible course, were excellent. After getting Mammi’s spices, Uncle David asked her if she wouldn’t mind dropping a small box of groceries off at Moss Hill on the way home. “Thelma isn’t feeling well. Birdy called and asked if someone could run a few things over.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” she told him. “Of course I don’t. I’m here to help.” She had missed supper on Saturday and the chance to meet Birdy, but Laura filled her in on every detail, particularly Mammi’s chilly hospitality.

Abigail hadn’t realized that Moss Hill should more accurately be named Moss Mountain. It was practically vertical. She climbed up the winding driveway, up and up, so steep that she was perspiring by the time she reached the landing. Once there, she easily found the modest, well-kept house and knocked on its door. A tall, sturdy, intelligent-looking woman answered. She had brown hair and dark brown eyes, and a rather long nose, and was perhaps a few years older than Abigail. She smiled, which made her somewhat ordinary features quite pretty. If not pretty, then definitely merry.

“You must be Birdy.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Abigail. Uncle David’s niece from Ohio. You met my sister Laura Saturday night.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course.”

“Uncle David sent a few groceries over for Thelma.”

“Did he? I thought David might drop them off on his way home.” Birdy blushed and looked down awkwardly. Abigail followed her gaze and noticed Birdy’s hands. They were work-worn hands, strong and dependable. “Do come in.” She stepped back and Abigail wiped her feet on the mat and followed her into the entryway.

“Let me see if Thelma is up to a visit. She caught a dreadful cold. Katrina is in town, at a doctor’s appointment, and I just got home from teaching school.”

While she waited, Abigail glanced idly around the entryway, noticing three different-sized black bonnets hanging on pegs near the door. Then she looked through the open door into a very, very tiny kitchen. A pot of sautéing onions sat simmering on the stove, sending a savory aroma throughout the house.

Birdy reappeared and said, “She’s sound asleep.”

“That’s all right. Thelma doesn’t know who I am anyway.”

“That wouldn’t bother her one bit. She likes to meet new people.” Birdy sifted through the box of groceries. “Thank you for dropping these off. You saved me a trip.”

A strange sound of metal against metal filled the air. “What in the world is that?”

“I think that’s the drill,” Birdy said. “For the oil well.” She looked up. “I’d take you up there if I could, but I’ve just got dinner started and I don’t want to leave Thelma. You can go up and watch, if you’re interested. Just stay at a distance. Andy is up there. Tell him I sent you.”

“How will I know who he is?”

Birdy smiled, and again Abigail noticed that the warmth of her smile could light a room. “Andy Miller is Amish. He’ll be the only man up there who’s not wearing a hard hat.”

Abigail was very interested in these oil wells. She had heard her uncle discuss them, but she had no idea what they might look like. She followed the dirt path until she came to the construction site. She saw enormous pieces of equipment that were clearly designed to dig deep into the earth. The drill bit brought up soil and rock and dumped it into a pile. Curious, Abigail got as close as she dared to the dump pile.

And there—there it was!—she found the perfect illustration to succinctly make her point to Ruthie about the importance of genealogy.

Unfortunately, Ruthie was only sporadically speaking to Abigail. On again, off again. After this morning’s incident, it was off again.

Before breakfast, she had grabbed Ruthie’s coat off the wall peg to go feed the chickens. She thought the coat was hers, an innocent mistake, as all coats were black. On the way back to the henhouse, she put her hands in the pockets and felt something odd. It turned out to be a tube of lip gloss. Hot pink! As she had walked into the house, she held it up in the air to ask Ruthie about it.

Reflecting upon that moment later, Abigail realized she should have waited until she was alone with Ruthie to ask her about it. Unfortunately, the entire family, especially Mammi, sat at the kitchen table and witnessed the sight of lip gloss. Ruthie was furious.

Well, Ruthie might not be speaking to her, but she didn’t say anything about listening to her.

Abigail hoped there was a difference.

Early the next morning, before his girls left for school, David walked to the store. Restless with so much uncertainty in his life, he tried to concentrate on something altogether more enjoyable than church problems, something like Birdy, but found his thoughts about Birdy were equally unsettling. He was ashamed of himself for avoiding her ever since the dinner at his home.

Today was an example. He had seen Birdy walk down the road toward the schoolhouse. He could have shouted hello, could have shared a good morning like they often did as he dropped his daughters off at school, but instead he hid behind a tree until she went into the schoolhouse and shut the door.

Good grief. He was a grown man. What was wrong with him? For the last few weeks, he hadn’t even found time to teach the Bible memorization classes for Birdy’s scholars as he had been doing. Was that not a sign of sin in his own life? He rubbed his stomach against a mild but persistent gnawing pain. He was letting all kinds of insecurities eat away at him. Why? Why couldn’t he fully embrace this new relationship God had brought into his life?

Multiple reasons, he mused, as he trudged on toward the Bent N’ Dent. One was Freeman’s insinuation that he was dallying with Birdy—such a careless word, “dallying” was—for his own benefit.

Could he be dallying with Birdy? Maybe he was. His mother used to say that he could sit on a fence and watch himself walk by.

But the other nagging reason stemmed from his mother’s strong, strong! disapproval. As much as he kept trying to push away his mother’s remark about blood being thicker than water out of his mind, in some center place of him, he had the same doubts. Who knew what kind of ramifications a Quieting could bring to the church in the months and years to come. Would it eventually come between him and Birdy? As hard as he tried to convince himself otherwise, it sat there nonetheless. Doubt had settled in for a stay.

Abigail poured herself another cup of tea, sat down at the kitchen table, and for a brief moment, allowed her thoughts to wander. For several reasons, the kitchen was a good place to be. First, there was the view, that of a small valley with a creek running through it, an Amish farm—Eagle Hill—across the road, all bordered by a ridge. A stand of trees made a sound like ocean waves when the wind and rain blew through the tree limbs. Or that, at least, was the sound which Abigail imagined the ocean to make. She had never been to the sea, which was far, far away from central Pennsylvania. But she could imagine it, if she closed her eyes tightly and listened to the trees swaying in the wind. Perhaps one day she would visit it, and would stand on the sandy beach and let the cold salty water wash over her toes. Perhaps.

The other advantage to sitting at the kitchen table to work was the fact that there was always something to watch out the window. Like now, for example: Jesse had left his puppy with them for the day. C.P. was out in the yard, chasing a foolish rabbit that dared to venture into the yard. The rabbit made a dash for the thickets and C.P. chased behind, only to stop abruptly at the thickets, ears pricked, baffled by the rabbit’s disappearance.

Abigail raised her teacup to her lips and looked out over the brim . . . and practically choked on her sip. There was Dane, waving happily to her, standing in front of the kitchen window.

She opened the kitchen door and looked up into his eager face. Their eyes held for several beats while her cheeks warmed. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear. “Why are you here?”

“The rain has stopped and it’s going to be a beautiful day! I thought it’d be fun to show you something special.”

“Not possible.” She had a long to-do list.

“It’s entirely possible.” Laura appeared out of nowhere and spoke over her shoulder. “Gabby’d love to go with you, Dane.”

“I can’t. I have my afternoon all planned out.”

“Plans are made to be changed,” Dane said with a grin, as Laura grabbed Abigail’s coat and bonnet off the wall peg and gently pushed her out the door and toward him.

No, Abigail thought, plans were made to help one accomplish her tasks. But she seemed to have no choice in this matter. There was no point in throwing up one’s hands in despair. Her father was always doing that—throwing up his hands with a shrug. Abigail followed Dane down the path toward his buggy. She assumed he was going to take her to the Sisters’ House, but Dane drove the buggy in the opposite direction of town.

“Where are you taking me?” Abigail asked.

“Just be open to something different.” He must have seen that she was resisting. “Relax. There’s nothing wrong with a little spontaneity. It keeps a person young.”

She was disturbed by Dane’s logic. He was remarkably perceptive about her. She had never mentioned this to him, but she had often been accused of acting like a little old lady.

Was she turning into her father? He refused to go anywhere new, to try new food, to meet new people.

“So?” Dane said, turning right on a road Abigail had not traveled. “You’re doing okay?” He was watching her in that intense way he had, the way that made her feel as if he was reading her thoughts.

Abigail took a deep breath and gave a quick nod. “Carry on.”

Dane drove the buggy up a long, steep driveway, so steep that at one point he jumped out of the buggy and asked her to get out too. “It’s easier for the horse to pull the buggy,” he said, which she thought was very humane, though she was feeling increasing anxiety as they walked up a gravel road. The trees on each side of the road were so thick that it felt as if they were entering a national forest. When they came to the crest of the hill, Dane helped her back in the buggy, and flicked the reins again to get the horse moving along. Finally, they came to a cleared flat area, ringed by tall conifers.

“Welcome to my home.”

Dane had described his property as untillable, and that was a very apt description. It was much like Moss Hill, nearly vertical. He explained it was land that belonged to his grandfather, part of the Big House’s acreage, and when his grandfather died, his oldest son—Freeman—divided up the land and parceled it out among his brothers. This untillable hilltop went to Dane’s father, the youngest son. He tried to farm it and gave up, moving his family west to Somerset County. Dane had no interest in farming, but he did like the idea of raising sheep. This property wasn’t good for much, but it would work for sheep. So with his father’s blessing, Dane was set free from a farmer’s life and came back to claim the neglected hilltop.

A large fenced paddock filled the yard, and in it were his sheep, a dozen or so, milled together in a tight clump, wide dark eyes staring out at them from ruffs of beige wool. There was a small wooden cabin with a tall brick chimney, and a smallish barn, more like an outbuilding. The cabin looked extremely old, as if it might topple over in a strong wind. There was a blue plastic tarp on part of the roof.

As old as the cabin looked, the barn looked newly constructed. The pinewood siding was still yellow and the green metal roof was clearly modern. Dane pulled the buggy to a stop and turned to Abigail. “I want to show you my world.”