Courting caleb, p.1
Courting Caleb, page 1
“Who are you?” she asked, putting her paintbrush down.
She bent to scoop up a piece of the fired clay and he quickly joined her, getting down on one knee.
“Here . . . let me help you.” He tossed his hat onto the nearby table, narrowly missing the wet paints, and then set to picking up the remains of the mug. She couldn’t help but be aware of the fresh pine scent that clung to him and frowned at herself for even noticing.
“Danki. . . .” she said when he’d made a small pile of the pieces on the table. “Now, who are—”
He looked up at her with startling blue eyes framed by thick lashes. “I’m . . . the answer to your ad.”
“My ad. . . .”
He blinked and she was once more struck by the unusually intense color of his eyes.
“Jah, the ad—for the Amisch mail-order groom. I’m the one.”
She rose to her feet and he hastily got up off his knee. “But . . . I don’t understand,” she said.
“You did write the ad? I—thought I’d respond in person.”
She gazed up into his handsome face and shook her head slightly. “But . . . he’s already here.”
“Who?”
“The Amisch mail-order groom. He arrived this morning. . . .”
Also by Kelly Long
The Amish of Ice Mountain
The Amish Bride of Ice Mountain
An Amish Man of Ice Mountain
The Amish Heart of Ice Mountain
An Amish Courtship on Ice Mountain
An Amish Match on Ice Mountain
An Amish Wedding Feast on Ice Mountain
Amish Mail-Order Grooms
Marrying Matthew
And read more by Kelly Long in
An Amish Christmas Quilt
The Amish Christmas Sleigh
The Amish Christmas Candle
The Amish Christmas Kitchen
THE AMISH MAIL-ORDER GROOMS
Courting Caleb
KELLY LONG
NATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
“Who are you?” she asked, putting her paintbrush down.
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2022 by Kelly Long
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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BOUQUET Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-5167-1
ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-5168-8 (eBook)
Prologue
WANTED: An Amish Mail-Order Groom. Age 20-30. Must understand that courting will follow the marriage ceremony in gut order. Seeking one who is reserved, quiet, and bookish. Must cherish a woman as the vessel of Gott’s making. Bride would prefer groom to write poetry and have a cultured reading voice. Reply to: Abigail Mast, Blackberry Falls . . .
Twenty-five-year-old Caleb King read the ad in the Renova Record for the fifth time, then shook his head. He eased his black hat back from his forehead and leaned against the warm side of his horse, Tommy. He felt safe with the horse . . . no questions . . . no demands. . . .
He glanced up as someone slid the barn door open, and he squinted in the sudden wintery sunshine. When Caleb turned and saw that it was his fater, he had the childish desire to hide the newspaper behind his back and probably would have if the situation hadn’t been so deadly serious.
Still, he was unprepared for the brutal backhand his fater calmly delivered.
“Why did you do it?” His fater’s straight yellowed teeth looked like an animal’s, and Caleb struggled to focus for a moment as he licked blood from the side of his mouth.
“Every other suitor within a fifty-mile radius was at her fater’s funeral except for you. But it’s you Charity Miller wants, and I swear that it’s you she’ll have.”
Caleb resisted the urge to close his eyes against the memory of the last encounter he’d had with Charity Miller. He’d caught her kicking a stray dog with a well-shod foot, and when he’d picked the animal up and out of harm’s way, the girl had merely shrugged at him with menacing eyes. “What difference does a stray hund make?” she’d sneered. “Besides, sometimes it feels gut to let others know who’s in charge. Don’t you think?”
Caleb had felt vaguely like throwing up or giving her a taste of her own medicine. He’d shuddered to think that his daed wanted a union between Charity and himself. A marriage to join their adjacent farmlands to create King’s Acres—the largest farm in the whole of Elk County.
Now Caleb snapped back to the moment and looked into his fater’s angry face; then he squared his shoulders. “Nee, Fater. I will not marry Charity Miller. I have another. . . engagement.”
“What? Where?” the older man bit out in red-faced fury.
Caleb smiled and clutched the newspaper tighter. “In a place called Blackberry Falls. . . .”
Chapter One
It was a cold, late-November afternoon as Abigail Mast, the potter of Blackberry Falls, gently lifted a paintbrush and touched it to the dab of pink paint that she’d made from juiced mulberries. She brushed the color onto the mug she held in her opposite hand and steadily shaped the first petal of a rose. The action was calming, and she needed peace—especially today. She shivered as a gust of wintery air blew in through the open door and swirled past her ankles. She liked the door open to catch the air even on the most intemperate of days.
“Abigail Mast?”
The mug fell from her hand and smashed on the hardwood floor of her cabin. She glanced up to the open doorway and frowned at the stranger who stood there. He was big and broad shouldered and Amisch, based on his clothing. The afternoon light glinted on his overly long blond hair. At least he has his hat in his hands, she mused. He can’t be all that threatening. She was used to living alone on the fringe of the community and she preferred it that way.
“Who are you?” she asked, putting her paintbrush down. She bent to scoop up a piece of the fired clay and he quickly joined her, getting down on one knee.
“Here . . . let me help you.” He tossed his hat onto the nearby table, narrowly missing the wet paints, and then set to picking up the remnants of the mug. She couldn’t help but be aware of the fresh pine scent that clung to him and frowned at herself for even noticing.
“Danki,” she said when he’d made a small pile of the pieces on the table. “Now, who are—”
He looked up at her with startling blue eyes framed by thick lashes. “I’m . . . the answer to your ad.”
“My ad . . .”
He blinked, and she was once more struck by the unusually intense color of his eyes.
“Jah, the ad—for the Amisch mail-order groom. I’m the one.”
She rose to her feet and he hastily got up off his knee. “But . . . I don’t understand,” she said.
“You did write the ad? I—thought I’d respond in person.”
She gazed up into his handsome face and shook her head slightly. “But . . . he’s already here.”
“Who?”
“The Amisch mail-order groom. He arrived this morning.. . .”
* * *
Caleb felt a sinking in his stomach as he came to grips with the words she spoke. Idiot . . . Of course another man is here already. I should have written....
“Where have you come from?” Abigail asked with a frown, as if searching for a way out of the dilemma.
“Renova,” he said absently. “My bruder Matthew married someone from here a few months back.”
“Ach, you mean my gut friend, Tabitha Stolfus.”
He looked at her, taking in the sheen of her brown hair, which was nicely parted and mostly covered by her kapp. She was tall and held herself erect with perfect posture, yet the top of her head barely came to his chin.
“Does Matthew know that you’re here?”
Caleb sighed to himself and shook his head. “Nee—I came rather suddenly.” He watched her wet her lips. “I suppose—”
“Great walleyed catfish and pork bellies! Who do we have here?”
Caleb turned to see a spry, elderly Amischer with a thick gray beard standing behind him.
“I’m Caleb King.... I came to see Abigail because—”
“Because, uh, he’s Matthew King’s bruder. He wondered if I knew the way to Tabitha and Matthew’s,” Abigail replied quickly.
Caleb turned back to watch as a flush stained the fine features of the woman before him. Clearly, lying didn’t come easily to her and the thought made him strangely glad. He wasn’t about to betray her to the auld man.
“Jah, my bruder Matthew . . .”
Caleb paused and Abigail hurried on. “Uh, sei se gut, excuse me, Caleb. This is Bishop Kore.”
Caleb shook hands as he rapidly considered the circumstances . Lying to the bishop.... It was enough to get a body shunned, but still, she risked it. Was it possible that she had not sought permission to write the ad? “Bishop, sir, perhaps you would show me to my bruder’s. I’ve got my horse and dog out back here.”
“Jah.” The bishop nodded. “MoonPies and Popsicles! Let’s geh!”
Caleb resisted the urge to study Bishop Kore’s bald pate, wondering what ailed the auld man’s mind, but then, Abigail Mast was acting as if such talk was normal. Caleb followed the bishop out of the cabin and briefly turned back to look at her. There’s something about her that makes me think of swimming in deep water. But then he shook his head and walked out into the sunshine of the wintry day.
* * *
“I cannot believe that this has happened! Two of them! What are you going to do?” Mercy knew her voice rose an octave as she stared at her younger sister. Abigail looked as serious and thoughtful as usual, and this only irritated Mercy more. She could never fully understand Abigail’s calm yet closed personality.
“They say still water runs deep,” Mercy muttered.
Then she straightened and glared at her sister once more. “Abigail—I’m serious. What are you going to do?”
“Perhaps marry Phillip Miller. He got here first. . . .”
Mercy put her hands on her hips, pinching her ample curves to calm her temper. “I don’t know why you have to marry either one of them. What kind of thing is it to send in the mail for a husband? Your life is full enough at the pottery, isn’t it? Why do you—”
Mercy stopped speaking abruptly as her fourteen-year-old sohn, Joshua, entered the cabin with a blast of cold air. Mercy sighed to herself as she considered her buwe’s tall frame and shock of wheat-colored hair. He was every inch his father and Mercy had to admit to herself and to Gott that she wished Joshua resembled her instead of the shiftless Englischer whom she had thought loved her.
“I got the goats done, Mamm. Can I head out to do some ice fishing now?”
Mercy frowned. “With Tad?”
Tad Stolfus was a troublemaker if she’d ever seen one. The buwe had been in and out of mischief since the day he’d turned ten and rode Grossmuder Mildred’s pet hog, Henrietta, through the cemetery and burial service of auld man Tucker.
“Jah,” Joshua confirmed. “With Tad. Okay?”
She nodded reluctantly. “But be back by supper and make sure you’ve got a few trout to put on the table.”
“Sure will, Mamm. Danki. Goodbye, Aenti Abigail.”
Mercy watched her younger sister embrace Joshua and wondered once more how she was going to help Abigail out of her mess with men.
“You don’t need to worry about this, Mercy. I’ll figure things out,” Abigail said briskly once Joshua had closed the door behind him.
“How?”
“Well,” Abigail mused, “Gott says that He is working things out for good in our lives if we love Him, so maybe there were meant to be two mail-order grooms.”
“You cannot marry two men!”
Abigail gave her a sudden smile. “Nee, but perhaps I can court two. I hadn’t wanted the bishop to know about the ad, but now I think it will be all right. I’m going to talk with him this very minute.”
“Court? Two? Wait! Let me geh with you.”
Mercy snatched up her black cloak and followed Abigail outside even as she muttered to herself about the burdens of being an aulder sister.
Chapter Two
Phillip Miller never thought he’d be bathing in a waterfall, in fresh falling snow, to get ready for his marriage ceremony. In fact, he’d never imagined being married at all. He was a farmer, through and through—the very earth was his mistress. And even in the winter, he thought of heirloom seeds, plant catalogs, and the design and layout of next year’s gardens. But as he lathered his jet-black hair with a chunk of gritty homemade soap, he mused that a man had to have support on a farm at times. A wife—not just a hired girl—and sohns, he supposed. To help till the ground. He thought briefly of his soon-to-be wife’s rather solemn but pretty face and he wondered how he’d ever bridge the gap between that seriousness and making sohns with her....
He’d just flicked suds out of his eyes when he caught the sound of cheerful whistling coming through the deluge of icy cold water around him.
He squinted at the bank where he’d left his clothes and glasses atop his coat and made out the blurry shapes of what he thought were two buwes. Better safe than sorry, though.... He had no desire to wade out of the creek and frighten a woman with his nakedness....
“Uh . . . buwes?” he called over the rush of water.
“Jah?” two youthful voices responded, and Phillip felt safe to move. He slogged over the icy and slippery rocks of the full creek and climbed the bank. He eyed the buwes for a moment while he got his glasses on, then hastily drew on his pants and wrangled his blue shirt over his wet back. Boots, suspenders, coat, and hat followed in due order, and then Phillip cleared his throat as he struggled to keep his shivering to a minimum.
“Ice fishing, are you? What are you using for bait? I’m Phillip Miller, by the way.” He held out his hand and had it wrung in succession by the two buwes.
“I’m Tad,” the shorter, dark-haired buwe said with a laugh in his voice. Phillip smiled good-naturedly because he could see the merry trouble brewing in Tad’s brown eyes, and he reminded himself to keep an eye out for the buwe in any questionable circumstance.
“I’m Joshua.” The second youth’s voice was carefully polite, and he seemed bashful. “We’re using grubs to fish.”
Phillip nodded. Here then is the faithful friend, the sometime victim and usually unknowing accomplice to Tad’s scheming. . . . Phillip understood the role, having grown up with a Tad of his own.... He quickly turned his thoughts from his boyhood and pulled on his black gloves. “All right, buwes. Hope you’ll have gut fishing. I have to geh—I’m late for my wedding.”
* * *
Caleb was struck by the quality of the craftsmanship that he saw as he stood in his bruder’s home. The main room of the cabin seemed full of intricate wood carving, from the arched beams of the ceiling to the detailed rungs on the ladder that led to the loft.
“All courtesy of my gifted frau,” Matthew said with a smile, and Caleb felt himself pulled close to his aulder bruder for a quick hug.
