Caleb felt tears sting at the backs of his eyes. It has been so long since someone has touched me with kindness. . . . He knew he could have sought out many girls back home—both Amisch and Englisch—who would have eagerly satisfied his normal need for human contact, but somehow, a hug from the bruder he admired touched him more at the moment.

  “It’s gut to see you,” Caleb managed; then he bent to embrace his petite sister-in-law, Tabitha. He was struck by her physical beauty as he imagined any man would be, but there was also a confidence about her and an air of purpose. Still, he couldn’t stop the image of Abigail the potter from leaping into his mind. Something about her seriousness drew him . . . but it was all for naught now that the true mail-order groom had arrived in Blackberry Falls.

  Caleb noticed that Bishop Kore, who had been genially standing to the side in the rush of greetings, now hopped on one foot to open the door and ushered in Abigail and another woman. There was a flurry of laughter and snowflakes that seemed to bubble around Caleb, making him wish that he might join this seemingly happy community.

  Then he heard a strong knock at the door.

  “Ladles and soup meat! We’ve got the last beaver to the party!” The bishop opened the door once more and a tall man with damp black hair entered. He seemed to gravitate toward Abigail.

  Caleb knew at once that this was the groom who had answered the ad properly.

  “Well, now,” Bishop Kore suddenly thundered in a voice loud enough to cause Caleb to blink. “Claw-foot tables and onion baths! We have got a situation here. . . .”

  Caleb felt the strange desire to say something—anything—because he knew instinctively that Abigail the potter had been found out. But the auld bishop was on a roll....

  “Abigail, is there something you’d like to discuss?”

  Caleb watched Abigail’s pretty face flush, but her mouth was set with visible determination.

  “Jah, Bishop Kore. I must confess to all here involved that I decided to send an ad to the Renova Record for a mail-order groom.”

  “Aha!” The bishop punctuated his exclamation with a slight tapping of his toes. “And you had multiple replies, right?”

  Caleb found his voice. “Nee, sir. I was not . . . did not write a reply. I came without an invitation, so Abigail has only one prospective bridegroom. I should geh out and put up my horse in the barn and leave you all to celebrate a wedding together.”

  He nodded briefly and was about to leave the pleasantly warm room when the bishop roared at him.

  “Nee, buwe! You’ll stay right here! Now, is it my understanding that both you and you”—he waved a hand in the dark-haired man’s direction after pointing a stubby finger in Caleb’s chest—“want to marry Miss Abigail? Is that right?”

  Caleb nodded and the other man did likewise.

  “All right,” Bishop Kore continued. “I say that Abigail needs to court both of you—not to end in two marriages, of course. But rather, to work with what Derr Herr has provided. Now let’s see, it’s nearly December.... We’ll give you until Valentine’s to make a proper decision as to who to marry and, in the meanwhile, you, Caleb, will reside with Birchbark up on the far side of Blackberry Falls.”

  Caleb thought maybe that he’d imagined it, but there was a faint, collective groan from those gathered. But he had no time to hash it out in his mind before his opponent—so to speak—was ordered to stay with someone called Grossmuder Mildred for the duration of the double courting.

  “Now—” Bishop Kore gave everyone a genial smile, apparently back to acting like a mild but narrisch auld mon instead of a thundering preacher. “I think this should be gut. You’ll have to work out your own times for the courting and, buwes, I expect you both to contribute to the community here in some manner. No questions? Gut again. I’ll see you buwes to your respective hosts.”

  Caleb felt dazed as he nodded in Abigail’s direction and followed the bishop outside. It had started to snow seriously now, and he was glad for the familiarity of his horse and his dog. But, he wondered, with a vague unease, what good could possibly come from living with someone called Birchbark. . . .

  Chapter Three

  Abigail watched the men troop outdoors and felt unexpected laughter bubble up inside her chest so that it was difficult to keep a straight face. She longed to hug her arms around herself but didn’t like to show such obvious emotion. Besides, Mercy was working herself up into a frenzy now that the bishop had gone.

  “This is absurd!” her sister declared.

  “Ach, I don’t know,” Matthew offered with a smile as he pulled his petite wife into the circle of his outstretched arm. “My bruder would never allow himself to be roped into the absurd. The strange, maybe. But never the absurd.”

  Abigail smiled at Tabitha and Matthew. She knew that her best friend’s husband loved to tease, but Mercy clearly wasn’t in the mood. In fact, her sister gave another huff of disapproval, then excused herself from the cabin.

  “All right, ladies,” Matthew said lightly. “I think that’s my cue to take myself out to do some chores. I know you want to discuss this strange idea of mail-order grooms.” He bent to kiss Tabitha, winked at Abigail, then pulled on his coat and hat and left the cabin.

  “Now”—Tabitha laughed—“before I head down to the mill, tell me how you managed to hook two men with one ad.”

  Abigail shook her head. “I’m not sure.... How is the mill, by the way?”

  Tabitha had recently been given leadership of her fater’s mill, an unusual role for an Amisch woman, even though many Amisch women ran businesses of their own. But Abigail could tell that Tabitha was not to be led away from the point at hand.

  “You’re going to court two men, and only Bishop Kore can imagine how that might work. Do you have any inclination toward one or the other?”

  Abigail drew a deep breath. “Nee, how could I?”

  “Hmmm . . . Well, I suppose you’ll have to pray for the right choice. I guess I was blessed that there was and is only one Matthew King.”

  “Your own mail-order groom,” Abigail agreed, rising to her feet. Her practical nature told her that she would somehow manage the unusual courtships set before her, and she followed her friend out the door into the frosty air.

  * * *

  The snow began to fall in heavy, wet, flakes, and Phillip found himself hopelessly lost. The bishop’s vague pointing toward Grossmuder Mildred’s cabin had been meaningless in the storm, turning his surroundings to a blur of white. He finally bumped into a solid wall and realized he had at least found shelter of some sort. He felt his way along to what appeared to be the main doorframe and tried the latch; it gave, and he half fell inside.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  The feminine voice was shrill, and he groaned faintly to himself—if this was Grossmuder Mildred, then he might be in for a long few months. He rose, took off his hat, and straightened to his full height. Then he removed his fogged glasses. He could make out the cheerful brightness of a fire in the grate and the smell of something warm and sweet that reminded him of childhood.

  “Here.”

  A white tea towel was thrust under his nose and he took it and began to clean his glasses with his hat under his right arm. Then he slipped the lenses on and was surprised to see the redheaded woman—Abigail’s sister,—standing with her hands on her curved hips.

  “Hello.” He rubbed the towel through his damp bangs, then gave her a half smile. “I’m sorry. The bishop pointed in this direction when he told me to geh to Grossmuder Mildred’s and then the snow really started to come down—”

  “And you got lost.” It was a statement more than a question, and he could hear the doubt in her voice.

  “I can geh,” he answered evenly. “If you’ll just point me—”

  “You’ll never find it in this snow and you’ve already dripped all over my clean floor. You might as well wait a few minutes. I’m Mercy, by the way. Abigail’s aulder sister.”

  “Okaaay.” He stood, shivering and uncomfortable in his wet, black wool coat. “I’m Phillip Miller.” She gave him a stiff nod, then turned back to the stove. Clearly, Mercy did not mean to give him a proverbial Amisch welcome. He watched as she opened the cookstove and slid out a pan of sticky buns. She put them on top of the stove trivet then gave him a wry glance.

  “I suppose you’re hungry?” she asked with a frown.

  “Not a bit. I detest fresh sticky rolls and cinnamon buns of all kinds.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Fine. Hang your coat up and kumme have a bun and one cup of coffee.”

  “Ach, I’d never ask for more than one.” He slipped his coat off and found the wooden peg to the left of the door. An assortment of smaller buwes’ coats hung on several pegs, but he didn’t see a man’s coat.

  He turned back to face the cheery kitchen and stepped out of his sopping boots, then made his way to the table, where Mercy had thumped down a heavy coffee mug. He sat down on a chair, which creaked alarmingly under his weight, and glanced up at his reluctant hostess as she served him.

  He guessed that she was in her late twenties, but he quickly dropped his gaze to his plate when a flush colored her cheeks. He didn’t want to offend her, especially as she was Abigail’s sister. He told himself that he was simply curious, and information from Abigail’s older sister might give him insight into his potential future frau. So, he sank the fork into the treat she’d given him and had the first bite lifted partway to his mouth when she snapped at him, her green eyes flashing.

  “I don’t approve of you.”

  He put his fork down. “Somehow I guessed that.”

  “Did you? Did you also guess that I think it’s narrisch for my sister to do—this mail-order groom thing? Did you guess that I’ll never see her hurt, by you or the other man, or anyone else who happens to come plodding up to Blackberry Falls? Abigail is out of her mind to marry a complete stranger.... Ach, and did you guess that I’m thirty-four, because you wondered, didn’t you?” She banged the coffeepot on the stove.

  Phillip had the distinct feeling that she would have continued if the front door of the cabin hadn’t burst open, sending snow flying and ushering in the two teens he’d met at the falls that afternoon.

  * * *

  Mercy swallowed the words she was going to heap on the mail-order whatever-he-was and focused on Joshua and Tad.

  “Hang up your things, buwes. I’ve got hot sticky buns.” She tried to keep her voice neutral, having no desire to let her temper get the best of her again around Phillip Miller.

  But instead of her sohn and his friend hanging up their snowy coats, they clumped across the floor, dragging a string of frozen trout, and began to talk to the man at the table in excited tones.

  Mercy felt herself frowning. “Buwes, look at the floor!”

  Phillip put down his fork and rose from the table. “Geh on, buwes. Take off your things and help me dry the floor for your mamm.” He turned to look at her. “We met earlier at the falls. Is Josh your sohn?”

  “Joshua,” she bit out. “And yes, he’s mine.” She swallowed hard and was amazed to feel tears prick at her eyes as the man and buwes got dishcloths from the nearby sink to tidy the floor.

  Mercy wanted to find fault with the way they were working, but nothing came to her lips. She could only swipe hastily at her eyes and move to cut two more buns from the pan. Why en der weldt am I crying? She decided it was because of her concern over Abigail and her strange ad.

  She set about cleaning the fish, trying to ignore the cheerful male chatter behind her. The talk was something that she was not familiar with, and she realized that Joshua rarely sounded so happy. She supposed that her rather stern love for her sohn was not good enough, in some ways, especially when it came to trying to be both fater and mamm to the buwe. She sighed faintly, knowing she was simply feeling sorry for herself and that Gott was Fater to all.

  She’d turned with the plate of expertly filleted fish, intent on getting to the frying pan, when she ran full tilt into Phillip’s broad chest. She looked up and gave him a shaky smile as he caught the plate of fish.

  * * *

  At the rate the snow was falling, Caleb expected the bishop to come into the cabin with him, but instead, the auld man waved him on to the barn, then disappeared into the curtain of snow. Caleb entered the warm confines of the barn and turned up a lantern he found hanging on the wall. He wiped Tommy down, then settled him with food and a comfortable bed of hay for the nacht. He scooped up Fred, the faithful yellow Lab that he’d rescued from Charity Miller’s kick, and struggled from the barn to the nearby cabin.

  Caleb pounded on the door with as much force as he could but realized that he probably wasn’t going to be heard over the wind of the storm. He hiked Fred up higher on his shoulder and tried the latch, which gave so easily that he stumbled in the door.

  He was met with cheerful warmth from the burning embers of a stone fireplace and decided that his host had not been gone long. He lowered Fred to the floor, where the dog scuttled to the hearth. Caleb decided he’d do the same. He slipped off his black coat and hat, hung them up, then made for an oversized bentwood rocker near the fireplace. He let his gaze travel up the log walls around him and decided that he’d enjoy living in a cabin instead of the austere farmhouse he’d grown up in. He closed his eyes for a minute, lulled by the fire, only to jump from his chair moments later as the cabin door banged open.

  A mammoth man, covered in snow and heavy furs, pushed the door back against the wind and Caleb noted that the stranger didn’t appear to be surprised by his presence.

  The thickly bearded Amisch man drew his large hands from his fur mittens and nodded at Caleb.

  “Name’s Birchbark. What ya see is what ya git. . . .”

  Caleb had to hide a smile. If only everybody went around with a life slogan like that. . . . Caleb King . . . no idea what I’m doing.... He shook hands with Birchbark, then stood rather awkwardly until his host cracked his large back and gave a prodigious yawn.

  “I heard you’ll be stayin’ awhile.”

  Caleb nodded. “If that’s all right.”

  “Right as rain. Can get kinda lonesome up here. What’s yer dog’s name?”

  “Fred.”

  Birchbark gave a low growl of approval and bent to stroke Fred’s yellow coat. “Says ya rescued him from some screwy Amisch girl—full of money and hate. Says she kicked him before you came along.”

  Caleb blinked, then rubbed his hand across his eyes. Am I hearing things or did Birchbark just have a conversation with my dog?

  “Nah, buwe, ya ain’t narrisch. It’s a gift Derr Herr give me. I talk much better ta animals than ta people.”

  “All right.” Caleb nodded. At this point in the emotionally exhausting day, he’d believe just about anything, so a hairy mountain man who talked to Fred seemed to be the least of his concerns—because, somehow, he had to win the potter’s heart.

  Chapter Four

  The storm passed and by daybreak, the snow and ice had transformed Blackberry Falls into a wintery delight, with gumdrop bushes and laden branches bending as if curtseying to the day.

  Abigail looked on the scene with a feeling of deep contentment. During her morning prayers, she had felt led to study the Bible verse that read “For I know the plans I have for you—plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. . . .” She believed that Gott was speaking to her through His Word and that there was change coming into her otherwise quiet life. She leaned against the deep windowsill of the cabin’s sitting room and smiled softly to herself. She was to have the pleasure of courting with two men; it was a heady thought.

  She pressed her forehead to the cold, ice-etched window and prayed that Derr Herr would help her to choose the right man. And when she lifted her head to look out upon the day once more, she nearly jumped as Phillip crossed the line of her vision and gave her a cheerful wave.

  She waved back, taking in his dark good looks, then hurried over to open the door for him.

  “Gut morning,” he said, sweeping off his hat and giving her an infectious grin. “I’ve brought some seed catalogs over. They’re not new, but they’re pretty to look at.”

  He held out a brown wrapped parcel and she took it with a smile.

  “Sei se gut, kumme in.” She widened the door to accommodate his large frame and she found that he carried the scent of fresh snow with him.

  “Your hair’s wet,” she muttered, just catching herself in time to keep from scolding about wet hair and cold air—she didn’t want to sound like a mamm.

  “Jah, the falls were freezing this morning.”

  Abigail’s mind flashed with a sudden image of him bare-chested, standing in the icy water. She swallowed hard and squeezed the seed catalog package hard. Wherever did that thought come from? Still, she realized that it was perfectly normal to feel attraction for a handsome mon—especially one who’d kumme to court her.

  “Sei se gut, sit down at the table. I’ve got some hot chocolate heating.”

  “That sounds great!”

  There was a brief awkward pause while Abigail joined him and opened the first seed catalog. Then Phillip spoke abruptly.

  “I met your sister last nacht.”

  “Ach . . .” Abigail murmured, knowing Mercy’s moods. “How was she?”

  She could tell by the way his jaw worked that he was struggling not to say what he thought. Abigail laughed. “Don’t worry, Phillip. I know Mercy!”

  He laughed then too. “What is her story? And I met Joshua and Tad as well. They both seem like great kinner. Does Mercy’s husband work away from home?”

  “Mercy isn’t married.” Abigail spoke the words calmly, waiting for the normal surprised reaction. Of course, there were other women like Mercy in the Amisch community—women who’d conceived and never married, but their circumstances were difficult. Abigail knew her sister felt that she was always being judged, and that hurt.

  But Phillip merely nodded his dark head and opened another seed catalog, and Abigail was pleased by his silence.

 

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