An Amish Arrangement

The Farmer’s Instant Family

Jeremiah Stoltzfus hopes the Amish community of Harmony Creek will provide a fresh start...until days before closing on his new farm, he finds a beautiful trespasser. Mercy Bamberger claims the property is hers, promised by her late grossdawdi. Jeremiah can’t turn out the single mom and her daughter, nor can he leave. His solution: temporarily sharing the farm until ownership is settled. Once a city kid adopted by a Mennonite family, Mercy yearns to make the farm a haven for unwanted children. But living beside the handsome Amish farmer has her yearning for everything that’s eluded her...laughter, love and a forever family.

“I’m not going to relinquish my family’s farm to you or anyone else.”

“But—”

“We moved in a couple of days ago. We’re not giving it up.” Mercy crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s our home.”

Jeremiah had to select his words with care. He didn’t know if he’d be allowed to close on the farm as scheduled. He’d never heard of a person dying before property was transferred.

Until he spoke with his real estate agent and got her advice, he didn’t know what the outcome of this sticky situation would be. Mercy wasn’t going to back down. That much was clear. If their situations were reversed, he suspected he’d be as unwilling to compromise. He was unwilling to compromise.

There wasn’t room to. Either the farm was going to be his...or it wasn’t.

A pleasant warmth buzzed through him again as his gaze connected with hers. He looked away. Until he knew what was going to happen with the farm, he needed to keep his distance.

JO ANN BROWN has always loved stories with happily-ever-after endings. A former military officer, she is thrilled to have the chance to write stories about people falling in love. She is also a photographer and travels with her husband of more than thirty years to places where she can snap pictures. They have three children and live in Florida. Drop her a note at joannbrownbooks.com.

An Amish Arrangement

Jo Ann Brown

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Then the Lord put forth His hand, and touched my mouth. And the Lord said unto me, “Behold, I have put My words in thy mouth.”

—Jeremiah 1:9

For Leon Barkley,

one of my first friends.

Together we learned softball from my dad

and basketball from your brother.

Thanks for your help with my real estate

questions and making this story possible.

A special thank-you to Tina, Melissa and Dina,

who have shared my love for the

Stoltzfus family right from the beginning

and made each book better.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

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

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Harmony Creek Hollow, New York

The day had started out as Jeremiah Stoltzfus had planned.

It didn’t stay that way after a woman dropped into his arms.

For most men, playing the hero for a beautiful woman would have been a dream come true. But most men didn’t discover that woman trespassing on a tumbledown farm in northern New York. A farm Jeremiah couldn’t wait to call his own.

He’d been invited by the current owner to visit when he reached Harmony Creek. In a couple of days the farm would be his.

At dawn Jeremiah had left his family’s home in Paradise Springs, Pennsylvania. He was joining others to build a new Amish settlement near the Vermont border. He’d made arrangements during the past few months, purchasing the farm based on a few photographs sent by his Realtor. After saying goodbye to his mamm, brothers and sisters along with their spouses and kinder and knowing it was unlikely he’d see them again for a year, he’d taken a train north to Albany. There, he was met by a van, which drove him the last fifty miles to Harmony Creek Hollow.

The valley edging the creek was set outside the tiny town of Salem. Rolling hills covered with trees and meadows would support dairy farms for the Amish families moving into the area.

The owner of the sixty-acre farm he was buying, Rudy Bamberger, had invited him to stop by before the closing in two days. Jeremiah suspected the old man wanted to size him up first.

Rudy had already asked him a lot of questions through Kitty Vasic, Jeremiah’s Realtor. Personal questions that Kitty told Jeremiah he didn’t have to answer. However, Jeremiah had no problem with the questions, because the old man had been selling his family’s farm. Jeremiah had written a long letter, explaining his background and his plans for the farm and his future. His answers must have satisfied Rudy, because the old man accepted his offer on the farm the next day.

When he’d arrived, Jeremiah had carried his two bags as he crossed the snowy yard past neglected barns. No tracks had been visible. Nothing had gone in or out of the big barn since the last snowstorm. Allowing himself a quick glance at the other outbuildings, which needed, as he’d known, a lot of repairs, he’d walked through the freshly fallen snow to the main house.

The large rambling home had a porch running along the front and the side facing the barn. Through a stand of spruce trees, he could see another house, where a tenant family once would have lived. The few remaining shutters hung awkwardly at the windows, a sure sign the house was a fixer-upper, too.

He looked forward to beginning—and finishing—the tasks ahead of him as he made the farm viable again. His skills as a woodworker would be useful while renovating the barns and the sap house near the sugar bush farther up the hill.

Climbing onto the porch, he’d set down his bags before he knocked snow off his well-worn work boots. He’d gone directly to the side door. Rudy had told him to use that door when he arrived.

“Don’t knock,” the most recent letter had instructed him. “My ears don’t work like they used to, and I don’t want you standing in the cold while you bang and bang. Come in and give a shout.”

He’d thrown the door open. “Rudy, are you here?”

A shriek had come from close to the ceiling. He’d looked up to see a ladder wobbling. A dark-haired woman stood at the very top, her arms windmilling.

He leaped into the small room as she fell. After years of being tossed shocks of corn and hay bales, he caught her easily. He jumped out of the way, holding her to him as the ladder crashed to the linoleum floor. His black wool hat tumbled off his head and rolled toward the wall.

“Oh, my!” gasped the woman.

She was, he noted because her face was close to his, very pretty. Her pleated kapp was flat unlike the heart-shaped ones his sisters wore. Beneath it, her hair was so black it gleamed with bluish fire in the fading sunlight coming through the door and tall windows. Her brown eyes were large with shock in her warmly tanned face, where a few freckles emphasized her high cheekbones. She wore a pale pink dress with white and green flowers scattered across it in a subtle pattern. No Amish woman from Paradise Springs would use such fabric. It must be allowed in the new settlement along Harmony Creek. What else would be different here?

But first things first.

“Are you okay?” he asked, not surprised she wasn’t the only one who sounded breathless. His heart had slammed against his chest when he saw her teetering. And from the moment he’d looked into her lustrous eyes, taking a deep breath had seemed impossible.

“I’m fine. I had just a little farther to go. Just a little...” Her voice trailed away as the shuddering ladder, which had landed on its side, clattered to the floor.

Jeremiah frowned. There was nothing on the wall to prevent her from falling. He saw the ruined wallpaper and chipped crown molding along with scraps of paper she’d already pulled off were piled on the floor. Why was she tearing off wallpaper in Rudy’s house?

“Who are you?” he asked at the same time she did.

“I’m Jeremiah Stoltzfus,” he answered. “You are...?”

“Mercy Bamberger.” Her face shifted into a polite smile, and he guessed she’d collected her wits that had been scattered by fear. “Thanks for catching me.”

“Why are you here?”

Instead of answering, she said, “You can put me down.”

Jeremiah was astonished his curiosity about why she was in what would be his house had let him forget—for a second—that he was still cradling her in his arms. He set her on her feet, but caught her by the elbow when she trembled like a slim branch in a thunderstorm.

Hearing uneven thumps upstairs and hoping they heralded Rudy’s arrival, he steered her to the left. There, a staircase was half-hidden behind a partially closed door. Seating her on the bottom step, he picked up his hat as he asked, “Are you all right?”

“I am.”

He didn’t believe her, because her skin had a gray tint and her voice quivered. He wouldn’t push her, because he guessed she was embarrassed by the circumstances. But one question remained: What was Mercy Bamberger doing in his house?

“Bamberger?” he asked aloud. “Like Rudy Bamberger?”

“Yes. Do you know my grandfather?”

Well, that explained who she was and why she was in the house. Glancing up the stairs, his eyes widened when he saw a shadow slip across the top. It was far too small for a grown man and appeared to have four legs.

He watched, saying nothing as he realized the silhouette belonged to a kind. A little girl, who looked about seven years old, had braided hair as black as Mercy’s. She leaned on metal crutches with cuffs to go around her skinny arms. Her legs were encased in plastic and Velcro from the tops of her black sneakers to her knobby knees. Who was she?

As if he’d asked the question aloud, the little girl cried, “Mommy!” Rushing at a pace that forced his heart into his throat again, because he feared she’d fall, the kind flung her arms around Mercy’s neck. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mercy reassured her.

The kind glanced at him with a scowl. “I heard the ladder fall and—”

“I’m fine, Sunni.” She hugged the little girl. “Jeremiah kept me from getting hurt.”

“Who?”

“Jeremiah.” Mercy pushed herself to her feet and swung the little girl off the steps. She kept herself between the kind and him, showing she didn’t trust him though he’d saved her from a broken bone or worse. “He’s Jeremiah.” Without looking at him, she added, “Jeremiah, this is my daughter, Sunni.”

Again he fought not to ask the questions battering at his lips. The kind was unquestionably Asian, and her eyes, like Mercy’s, glistened like dark brown mud in a sun-washed puddle. She also wore plain clothing with a small print.

Comprehension struck him. Mercy and her daughter weren’t Amish. They dressed like the Mennonite women who lived near Paradise Springs. He searched his mind, but couldn’t recall if his Realtor had mentioned anything about Rudy living plain. He glanced up at the electric light hanging from the ceiling. Some plain folks used electricity.

Too many questions needed answers.

Right away.

“Hi, Sunni,” he said, because he didn’t want to upset the little girl or her mamm more.

She aimed another frown at him before turning her back on him. When she didn’t answer him, Mercy asked the kind why she’d been upstairs. He thought she was dismayed the little girl had gone on the stairs by herself until Mercy said, “Be extra careful. Don’t forget the floors aren’t safe.”

“I stayed away from those, Mommy.” Sunni raised her left crutch and tapped the floor beside her. “I do that to check before I go in.” Without a pause, she asked, “Can I have a cookie?”

“One,” Mercy said with a smile. “Put the bag clip on after you get your cookie.”

“Okaaaay,” Sunni replied in the same tone Jeremiah had used as a kind when his own mamm said something he deemed obvious.

He smiled, but again the little girl acted as if he were invisible before she drew her arms from the cuffs on the crutches. Leaning them against the wall, she hurried through a doorway to the right. He guessed it must lead to the kitchen.

His grin vanished as he glanced around the room. Rudy called it his everything room. Hooks on the wall showed where coats, hats and bonnets could be hung. The bare floor was scraped from years of barn boots on it, and the tattered wallpaper was a grubby white. It might once have been a brighter color. The room was furnished with a rickety table and a battered sofa covered with a worn blanket. A desk had a book under one leg to keep it steady on the sloping floor. The interior of the house was in worse condition than the outside. The photographs sent by the Realtor had been misleading.

Had he failed to examine them closely enough in his eagerness to buy the farm and get started on making his dream come true? No, he’d peered at each picture through a magnifying glass to discover every detail. He knew the kitchen cabinets were painted dull brown, and there was electricity in the house. He planned to remove the latter as soon as the papers were signed.

Jeremiah picked up the ladder and raised it against the wall again. Checking it was solidly in place, he looked at Mercy. He was curious why she was peeling paper off the wall in what would be his house. He could understand if she wanted to take one of the pictures of the farm hanging on a fake brick wall behind the desk, because the farm was her grossdawdi’s. In the silence, the tick-tock of a wall clock in the kitchen was loud.

Jeremiah appraised the room again. He intended to use it for the farm’s office, as he guessed Rudy had. It was one plan among the many he had. His brothers teased him about having to have every detail set in place before he acted, but trying to find knots in a piece of wood before he began working on it had kept him from wasting time when building a piece of furniture. Being as cautious in his other endeavors seemed wise.

Though he knew, too well, the best of plans could fall apart. He’d thought his future was set with Emmarita Kramer, but she’d jumped the fence and married an Englisch guy she’d met at an auction Jeremiah had taken her to. She never broke the courtship off with Jeremiah, just left. He should forgive her and forget his shock, but when he hadn’t been able to do either, he’d decided on a clean start in the new Harmony Creek settlement.

Hearing a throat cleared and knowing Mercy was trying to get his attention, he turned. She was shorter than he’d realized. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. As she stuck several vagrant strands of black hair beneath her pleated kapp, she regarded him coolly. She was, he could tell from the set of her taut lips, as curious about him as her daughter had been.

He had a lot of things he wanted to ask her, too, but he waited for her to speak first.

She took one step, then another toward him, though she was at a disadvantage because she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. Then, seeing the determination in them, he wondered if she saw her height as a liability or a way to surprise those who underestimated her.

“You never answered my question,” she said.

“Which one?” He couldn’t remember what she’d asked him, and he refused to be put on the defensive in what would be his own home.

“The important one. What are you doing here?”

“I came to see Rudy Bamberger.” He frowned. “You said he’s your grossdawdi.”

She nodded.

“Then I’m surprised he didn’t tell you I’d be coming here today.”

“Why?”

He didn’t think she was being cagey on purpose. Until now, she’d been straightforward. “He invited me to come and look around.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand why.”

“Didn’t he tell you he’s selling me his farm?”

* * *

Mercy Bamberger was shocked speechless. Had she hit her head when she’d dropped into Jeremiah Stoltzfus’s strong arms after trying to grab another strip of wallpaper? She’d made a mess of this conversation from the get-go.

With the ancient Adirondacks to the west and the gentle Green Mountains to the east, the farm had been a haven for her from the first time she’d come to visit the man she called Grandpa Rudy. It offered the very thing she’d lost and didn’t think she’d ever find again. Home. How desperate she’d been for a sanctuary! And how precious it seemed as the promise she’d held within her heart for the past decade was being fulfilled.

She couldn’t mess it up. Already she’d made the mistake of not keeping a closer eye on Sunni. Her daughter had been born with a congenital curiosity not diminished by her physical challenges. Mercy’s determination that the little girl should do anything a regular kid could allowed Sunni to indulge her quick and inquiring mind. Telling Sunni not to investigate the rooms upstairs because the floors were unsafe must have convinced her to find out how dangerous they were.

Mercy was letting herself get distracted by a handsome stranger who appeared to be a few years older than her twenty-five years. His bright blue eyes that had been shadowed by his black wool hat identified him as one of the Amish farmers moving into the hollow. Grandpa Rudy had told her about the new settlement in one of his letters. He’d been writing to her every week since she was eleven years old, the year she’d been adopted by his son and daughter-in-law and given a chance to have a new life and the loving family she’d feared she’d never have again.

She was startled how far up she had to look to meet Jeremiah’s eyes. Few Amish men she’d met had been as tall as he was. If his ruddy hair hadn’t been cut in the plain style and he wasn’t wearing a simple light blue shirt along with black suspenders and broadfall trousers beneath his black coat, she wouldn’t have guessed this very good-looking man was Amish.

Scolding herself, she recalled how Graham Rapp was easy on the eyes, too, but he’d broken her heart by showing how much a “mama’s boy” he was by choosing his mother when Mercy refused to be second. She must not let herself be beguiled by an attractive man again. Not when so much was on the line with her plans for the farm and the changes it could make in many young lives.

But the Amish were well-known for their honesty. So why was Jeremiah talking nonsense about Grandpa Rudy selling him the farm?

“I think you’re mistaken,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t quake with the strong emotions rushing through her like lightning in a summer sky. “My grandfather didn’t mention anything about selling Come Along Farm.”

“Come Along Farm?”

“That’s the name he gave the farm when I was little. He urged us to come along and keep up with him while he did chores, so we called it Come Along Farm.”

“He didn’t tell you he’s selling me the farm?”

“No!”

“I’m sorry to take you by surprise,” he said gently, “but I’ll be closing the day after tomorrow.”

“Impossible!” Her voice squeaked, and she took a steadying breath. Sounding as young as Sunni wouldn’t help. And she didn’t want her raised voice to bring her daughter from the kitchen to investigate. The little girl was upset enough already to have to leave their Mennonite community and Mercy’s parents in central New York, and Mercy hadn’t missed the glares Sunni had shot at Jeremiah. When she and Graham ended their ill-advised engagement, her daughter had been caught up in the aftermath and no longer trusted men she didn’t know. Mercy’s attempts to reassure Sunni that the little girl had nothing to do with the breakup hadn’t helped.

“It’s not impossible. I’ve got the paperwork in my suitcase on the porch. If you want to see it—”

“I don’t have interest in seeing what can’t be legitimate. It sounds as if someone has played a horrible prank on you, Jeremiah. I’m sorry.” She was, because she guessed he’d traveled for hours or days to get there. “But the farm’s not for sale.”

He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. Taking a deep breath, he released it. In a calm tone she doubted she could emulate, he said, “There’s no sense in arguing. Why don’t you get your grossdawdi, and we’ll settle this?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

She blinked on sudden tears. “Because he’s dead.”

When Jeremiah’s face became ashen, Mercy wondered if she should tell him to take a seat. It must have been seconds, but it felt like a year before he asked, “Rudy is dead?”

“Yes.” She swallowed hard past the lump in her throat.

“When?”

“Last week. It was a massive heart attack. He was buried the day before yesterday.” As she spoke, she found it impossible to believe the vital, vigorous man was gone.

Rudy Bamberger had been more than a grandfather to her. He’d been her best friend, the one who had welcomed her into the family after her life had hit bottom. Rudy hadn’t been a replacement for Abuelita, her beloved grandmother who had raised her when she was called Mercedes in a tiny apartment in the Bronx. Abuelita had died two weeks after Mercy’s tenth birthday, and everything in Mercy’s life had changed, including her name. Yet, Grandpa Rudy had made her feel as if she belonged among the people who were so different from those she’d known in the city. His love had been unconditional, and she’d returned it.

“I’m sorry,” Jeremiah said with sincerity.

She wished he’d been trite instead of genuine, because one thing hadn’t changed. He wanted to take away the farm that was her final gift from Grandpa Rudy. How often she’d sat on the old man’s lap and talked about taking care of the apple orchard or making maple syrup as he did each spring or what color she would paint the big bedroom! He’d humored her, even when her paint choices went from pink to purple to red and black over the years.

But Jeremiah was saying her grandfather had intended to sell the farm to him.

“But Grandpa Rudy told me the farm would be mine after he passed away.”

“Then why would he sign a purchase agreement with me?”

Mercy shook herself from her mental paralysis. She hated admitting she couldn’t guess why her grandfather would break his promise to her.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

Shocked she hadn’t noticed Sunni in the kitchen doorway, Mercy put her arm around her daughter’s narrow shoulders. “Nothing that can’t be fixed,” she replied with a smile.

Over the child’s head, she shot Jeremiah a frown, warning him not to upset Sunni. She didn’t want her daughter to feel as if her world was being taken away from her—again—as it must have when Sunni traveled from Korea to what was supposed to be her forever home. It hadn’t been, because her adoptive parents, who’d changed her name from Kim Sun-Hee to Sunni, couldn’t handle having a daughter who wore leg braces. Sunni had been returned to social services as if she were a set of curtains that didn’t match the furniture. A disrupted adoption was the name given to it. Or a failed placement. The latter fit better, because it sure felt like a failure for the child involved.