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An Arranged Romance
Molly Ziegler is proud of being a successful midwife. But at age twenty-one, she’s unmarried—and fodder for gossip in her Amish community. Even as her meddling mother urges her to marry the town’s most eligible bachelor, Molly wants more. And in newcomer Isaac Graber, she’s found her way out. If Isaac will pretend to court her, her mother has to stop matchmaking—once and for all. What Molly didn’t plan on are the unexpected feelings the businessman stirs in her. Isaac will go along with Molly’s ruse. Especially since he can’t stop thinking about her. But when the favor backfires spectacularly, it might just lead them toward true love.
“Let’s get this injury seen to, and then you can have some hot breakfast.”
Their gazes met for seconds. Her whiskey-brown eyes caused the oddest sensation in the pit of his stomach, like butterflies flittering from flower to flower.
Men’s stomachs weren’t supposed to flutter.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” She smiled. Her eyes sparkled.
“Now take your pills and drink your coffee. I’ll see you in the kitchen in ten minutes.”
“Wait!” Isaac didn’t know why he’d called out to her, and then realized he didn’t want her to leave. It had been a long time since he’d had a conversation with anyone, much less a kindhearted woman who made him feel alive. “What’s your name?”
“Margaret, but everyone calls me Molly,” she said, whirled round and then was gone.
The door shut behind her and he stared at the spot where she’d stood. When she’d left, all the life seemed to have been sucked out of the tiny room with her.
CHERYL WILLIFORD and her veteran husband, Henry, live in South Texas, where they’ve raised three children, and numerous foster children, alongside a menagerie of rescued cats, dogs and hamsters. Her love for writing began in a literature class and now her characters keep her grabbing for paper and pen. She is a member of her local ACFW and CWA chapters, and is a seamstress, watercolorist and loving grandmother. Her website is cherylwilliford.com.
The Amish Midwife’s Courtship
Cheryl Williford
The Lord is good and does what is right; he shows the proper path to those who go astray.
—Psalms 25:8
This book is dedicated to my husband, Henry, who’s always there when I need him, and to Clare Naomi, our youngest granddaughter. Your smile makes the sun shine brighter. Much thanks goes to Barbara Burns and Susan Cobb, my daughters and two of my biggest fans, and to ACFW’s Golden Girls critique group. Without you ladies I’d still be editing my own weak verbs.
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
Chapter Nineteen
Dear Reader
Extract
Copyright
Chapter One
Pinecraft, Florida
November
Molly Ziegler gave the dust mop one last shove under the bed and hit a mahogany leg. Unexpected movement under the bed’s mound of sheets and wedding-ring quilt caught her unaware.
She froze.
Something swung toward her head. Instinctively she launched the mop high into the air, warding off the coming blow.
The mop’s handle connected with something solid.
A satisfying clunk rang out in her mamm’s tiny rental room. Her heart thumped in her chest as she stepped back from the bed, lost her balance and hit the floor. Her feet tangled in the folds of her skirt as she pushed away.
His dark brown hair wild from sleep, a gaunt-faced, broad-shouldered man gazed down at her, his dark green eyes wide with surprise. He dropped the wooden crutch he’d been holding. “Who are you?” His hand gingerly touched the bump on his forehead. His eyes narrowed in a wince.
The bump on his forehead grew and began to ooze blood.
He wasn’t supposed to be in the bedroom at this time of the day. The door hadn’t been locked.
In a stupor of surprise, she blinked. She had no brothers, and with the exception of her father who had passed away in his sleep five years earlier, she’d never seen a man in his nightclothes. There were dark shadows under his eyes. Thick stubble on his chin and upper lip told her she was dealing with an unmarried man.
Annoyed by his words, she scowled. “I was about to ask you the same thing. Cover yourself. There’s a woman in your midst. You might be visiting Pinecraft, where rules are often bent and broken, but my mamm’s dress code is very strict and must be followed by all renters.”
“It wonders me why you’re showing off those lovely stockings to a man if your mamm’s dress code is so strict.”
Molly’s face burned as she swiftly straightened her skirt. She clambered to her feet, an already sour mood making her wish she stood taller than five foot nothing in her stocking feet.
She controlled the urge to stomp as she stepped away from the bed with all the dignity she could muster. Her hands brushed down the skirt of her plain Amish dress and cleaning apron. With eyes narrowed, she sliced the man with an icy glare. “My mamm and I run a decent boarding haus. Our ways are Plain, but we keep high standards.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a bit grumpy in the morning?”
Molly tried to ignore the man’s uncalled-for comment and smirk, even though she knew he was right. She had woken up grumpy, her sleep cut short by Frieda Lapp’s early-morning call and delivery of a beautiful baby girl, who they planned to call Rachel after John’s recently departed mother.
She inched toward the closed bedroom door. Her mamm’s rule was firm and told to every renter who stayed in their boardinghouse. “This room was to be vacated by noon. It’s now past one. Didn’t you see the sign when you paid your deposit?”
“I saw the sign, but I made other arrangements with Mrs. Ziegler late last night. I’ll be staying for several days, perhaps a month until I can find a permanent place, now that I’ve bought the bike shop. Didn’t she tell you?”
A thick line of blood trickled down the man’s forehead, threatening to drip on the bed linens.
He must be Isaac Graber, the stay-over Mamm mentioned this morning, and now I’ve struck him.
She turned on her heel and shoved back the plain white curtains blowing at the window. A crutch lay by her foot. She found an identical crutch leaning against the bedpost.
Molly dug into her apron pocket and pulled out a clean tissue and thrust it into his hand. “Here. You need this. Mamm won’t want blood on the sheets.”
He pressed the tissue against the bump, then gazed down at the blot of scarlet blood. “You cut my head!” His coloring turned from primrose to a sickly mossy green.
“I wouldn’t have hit you if you hadn’t taken that swing at me with the crutch.” She leaned in to hand him a wastebasket and then stepped back fast, inching her way toward the closed bedroom door. The man behaved like a brute, but she had to admit he was an attractive one. She’d never seen eyes so green and sparkling.
And such thick, glossy nut-brown hair. Dark strands jutted at every angle in the most unusual way.
Molly realized he was talking, and she tried to drag her attention away from his face and back to his words.
“I was asleep and you startled me awake. You could have been a thief, for all I knew.”
“A thief!” She sucked in her breath and then chuckled. “That’s rich. I was doing my job and you attacked me.”
He kept talking as if she hadn’t spoken. “I grabbed the closest thing I had to defend myself.” He looked at the plastic trash can she’d placed on the edge of the mattress and gazed at her, befuddled, his forehead creasing. “What’s this for?” he asked, swallowing hard.
“In case you vomit. Some people do when they see blood and turn that particular shade of green.”
“Green? I’m not green. It’s more likely I’m red from all the blood.” He offered her the can, leaving his bloody fingerprints on the rim. “Take this thing away. I don’t need it.”
If Mamm hears about all this, she’ll rant for hours. Her eyes glanced at the small alarm clock on the bedside table and was shocked to see that time had gotten away from her. It was almost two. I’ll be late for singing rehearsal if I don’t hurry.
She snatched the can, her gaze on the impressive bump growing on the man’s forehead. The cut was at least a half-inch long, blue as the sky and still dripping blood. “Does it hurt?” Her anger cooled and she began to feel contrite. “Maybe you could use some ice...a cloth?” She spoke softer “Maybe a doctor?”
He looked heavenward, rolling his eyes like a petulant teenager. “Oh, now the woman shows concern, and here I am thinking her a heartless thief.” He pulled the sheet up and covered his thin sleeping shirt in mock alarm.
“Think what you will. Men usually do. Now, do you want a damp cloth or not, because I’m busy and don’t have time for this foolishness.”
“A cloth would be good if you’re not too busy.”
His sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed. Her bad mood darkened. She grumbled to herself as she went into the old-fashioned, minuscule bathroom just off the bedroom. She didn’t resent being told to clean the sparsely furnished back bedrooms when their last two renters left, but she’d already had her day planned.
She was used to hard work during their peak winter season, but holding down a job at the local café as a waitress and birthing babies as the local midwife kept her busy. Sometimes too busy. She liked the whirl of her demanding life, but she did resent her mamm’s attitude. Just because she was still single didn’t mean she didn’t have anything better to do on her day off than mop floors and strip down beds. She’d miss singing practice again this afternoon thanks to her mamm’s unreasonable demands on her time.
Her lip curled in an angry snarl as she pushed back a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, then ran a clean washcloth under cold running water.
Lifting her head, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and scowled. Dishwater blonde hair that had been neatly pulled back in a tight bun now ran riot around her head. Remembering the renter’s good looks, her cheeks flushed pink. What must he think of her appearance?
Her brown eyes flashing with frustration, she looked away, reprimanding herself for behaving like the frustrated twenty-year-old spinster she was.
With a jerk, she tugged her prayer kapp back into place and then squeezed the water out of the cloth. She was in enough trouble for hitting the man. Now wasn’t the time to start ogling the guests and worrying about how she looked. The sin of vanity brought only strife into the life of a Plain person. She had to pull herself together.
The worn but well-polished hardwood floor squeaked as she hurried back to the bedroom and handed the cloth to the man. Their hands touched and she pulled away, not about to admit she felt anything.
But she had.
He ran his fingers through the dark spikes on his head and brought a semblance of order to his wild hair before wiping at the cut above his eyebrow.
“Here, let me do that. All you’re doing is making it bleed again.” Forgetting her own stringent proprieties, Molly moved to the bed, pulled her full skirt under her and sat as far away from him as she could and still touch him. She jerked the cloth from his fingers before he could object and dabbed lightly around the seeping wound.
“A butterfly bandage should take care of any further bleeding and keep the wound from scarring,” she said. “The bandages and antibiotic cream are in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.”
She ran for the door, then skidded to a halt. “While I’m gone, please get out of bed and put on proper clothing.” She bounded away, her skirt swirling around her legs as she hopped over the trash can and slipped out, letting the bedroom door bang behind her.
* * *
Isaac Graber’s head hurt. He wiped the sticky blood off his fingers with the damp cloth the petite blonde-haired housekeeper had left behind and found himself smiling, something he hadn’t done since the accident and his painful recovery.
The tiny woman had put him through sheer misery trying to keep up with her rapid-fire conversation. She taxed his patience and his temper, but he couldn’t wait for her to come back into the room.
With a tug, he threw back the tangled covers and slid out of bed. The same white-hot agony that kept him up most nights stabbed down his leg. Angry red lines of surgical stitching laced up the puckered skin near his left knee and calf, his leg pale where the cast had covered it for several months.
He struggled to get into a pair of clean but well-worn trousers and a wrinkled long-sleeved cotton shirt he’d pulled from his suitcase, and then put on a fresh pair of socks and his scuffed boots, as he tried to forget the fresh ache in his head.
He’d taken his last pain medicine in Missouri, weeks before, and now had nothing to dull the ache in his leg or his heart. Not that he deserved the mind-numbing pills that helped him forget what he’d done and the tragedy he had rained down on his best friend’s family.
Isaac dropped his chin to his chest and forced himself to breath slowly. He shouldn’t have been driving that day, especially since the country road was slick after a sudden hard rain. He had no license. No insurance. Someone else could have taken Thomas home from the multi-church frolic when he’d wrenched his ankle. Why had he offered to drive? It wasn’t like him to break Amish laws, even if Thomas’s ankle was swollen after the rough game of volleyball.
With his eyes squeezed shut, his mind went back to the horrific day. The memory of Thomas lying on the ground next to him was seared in his mind.
The first police officer at the scene had assumed Thomas, who was Mennonite, had been driving. In shock and bleeding profusely, Isaac had been too confused to speak. He’d been rushed to the hospital and then into surgery.
But days later, when his thoughts had cleared, he’d heard the police were blaming the dead-drunk man in the other vehicle for the accident. Isaac knew they were wrong. Surely he was the one at fault and needed to make it right.
In the hospital, Isaac had confessed everything that day to his daed, but his father had railed at him, “We are Amish and will manage our own problems. You are to ask Gott for forgiveness and then be silent. I will not have the truth known to this community just to make you feel less guilty. Nothing can be gained by your confession. It was Gott’s will that Thomas die. You are to keep all this to yourself, do you hear, Isaac? You must tell no one. The shame you carry is yours, and yours alone. It is Gott’s punishment. You must learn to live with it. Your mamm and I will not be held up to ridicule because of your foolish choices. This kind of shame could kill your mamm. You know her heart is weak.”
And like the coward he was, he’d run to Pinecraft, desperate to get away from his daed’s angry words, his mother’s looks of shame. Isaac would spend the rest of his life dealing with things he could not change.
His hands braced against his legs, he looked down at his scuffed brown boots, at the crutch at his feet. He deserved to be crippled. If the police in Pinecraft ever found out the truth, he knew he’d be arrested, thrown into an Englischer jail for the rest of his life.
He rubbed the taunt muscle cramping in his leg. Gott was right to punish him for his foolish choices.
He smoothed down his trouser leg, covering the scar. Fatigue overwhelmed him. His guilt robbed him of sleep. He and Thomas had both died that day, but he knew he had to go on living.
A ridge of stitched skin under the trouser leg sent pain burning into his calf. No more Englischer doctors for him. All they wanted was to make him whole again. He didn’t deserve to be free of pain. The doctors in Missouri should have let him die.
He’d have to find a way to deal with the ache in his heart, his guilt and the odd way he was forced to walk. Let people stare. He didn’t care anymore. Nothing mattered. Thomas was dead.
The housemaid came swinging back into the room with a tray of bandages, a bottle of aspirin and bowl of water. A steaming mug of black coffee sat in the middle of her clutter.
“I thought you might want something for the pain in your head.” She set the tray on the nightstand, ruined his coffee with three packets of sugar and used a plastic spoon to stir it. With the twist of her delicate wrist, she unscrewed the aspirin bottle. “One or two?”
“None, danke,” he said, and watched her count out two pills and place them on the table next to the coffee mug.
“Let’s get this injury seen to and then you can have some hot breakfast. I put the biscuits back in the oven to warm. The last of the renters ate their meal at seven, but I’ll make an exception for you this morning.” She squeezed out the white washcloth floating in warm water and approached him, her pale eyebrows low with concentration.
Their gaze met for seconds. Her whiskey-brown eyes caused the oddest sensation in the pit of his stomach, like butterflies flittering from flower to flower. He frowned and hardened his resolve. The last thing he needed was a woman trying to take care of him.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.” She smiled. Her brown eyes sparkled.
He looked away, concentrating on the colorful braided rug on the floor. Her touch was gentle, the cream she spread with her fingertips cool and soothing. She unwrapped a small butterfly bandage and pressed it down, careful not to touch his cut.
“There, all done.”
Tray in hand, she backed toward the door. “Now take your pills and drink your coffee. I’ll see you in the kitchen in ten minutes.”
“Wait!” He realized he didn’t want her to leave. It had been a long time since he’d had a conversation with anyone, much less a kindhearted woman who made him feel alive. “What’s your name?”
“Margaret, but everyone calls me Molly,” she said, whirled round, and then was gone.
The door shut behind her, and he stared at the spot where she’d stood. When she left, all the life seemed to have been sucked out of the tiny room.
* * *
Molly leaned against the closed bedroom door and allowed herself to take a deep breath. She exhaled with a whoosh, then hurried back toward the kitchen. No man had ever affected her the way Isaac Graber did. She lifted her hand and watched it tremble. He had flustered her, made her pulse race. She was as happy as a kinner on Christmas morning and had no idea why.
Ridiculous! A man was already considering her for courtship, not that she was interested in him or ready for marriage to anyone. Still, her future had been mapped out by her mamm, and she really didn’t have any choice in the matter.
No doubt she’d soon see the flaws in Isaac, like she did most men. She had to be practical. Mamm was counting on her to make a good marriage that would end all their financial problems.
She hurried through the hall and into the warm, cozy kitchen fragrant with the aroma of hot biscuits and sliced honey ham. At the stove, she turned on the gas, lit a blaze under the old iron frying pan and then added a spoon of reserved bacon fat.
Her hands still shook as she broke three eggs into a bowl and poured them into the hot oil. Crackling and popping, the eggs fried but were forgotten when the troublesome renter awkwardly maneuvered his way through the kitchen door, lost his balance and tripped over his own feet. He lay sprawled on the worn tile floor. Facedown. Not moving.
“Herr Graber!” Molly stepped over his crutch and kneeled at his side. The morning headlines flashed through her mind. Man Killed by Abusive Landlady. “Please be all right.” She shook his shoulder.
Nothing.
She shook it again, harder this time.
“If you’d stop trying to break my shoulder, I might be able to get up.”
Molly stamped her foot, angrier than she’d been since he’d called her a thief earlier. Why did this man bring out the worst in her? “You scared me. Why didn’t you say something, let me know you weren’t dead? I thought...”
He leaned up on one elbow. “Did you seriously think I was dead? It would take a lot more than a spill to kill me, Miss Ziegler.”
She gathered her skirt around her and scooted away, not sure what kind of mood he was in, but stayed close enough, just in case he needed help getting back on his feet.
His green eyes darted her way and then over to his fallen crutches. “Your mother seemed normal enough when I signed in last night. I wonder if she knows how you treat her guests when she’s not around.”
“I take offense to that remark, Herr Graber. I in no way harmed you. Well...here in the kitchen I didn’t. I was busy cooking your breakfast, and you fell over your own big feet.” He wore scarred, laced-up boots, the kind bikers favored. Maybe that was how he’d hurt himself. A nasty bike spill, and now he was in pain and taking his misery out on her.
“You’re right. I did fall over my own feet. That’s what cripples do.” He leaned heavily on a single crutch and pushed his way to his feet, his face contorting with pain.
“Ach, you’re no cripple,” she said, standing.
“What would you know about being crippled?”
He’d crossed the line. Molly lifted her skirt an inch and showed him the built-up shoe on her right foot. “I think I know a lot about being crippled.”
He flushed, his forehead creased in dismay. He moved to straighten, and groaned.
A wave of sympathy washed over her. He had to be suffering. She’d almost been a teenager when she’d fallen out of a tree and broke her leg, damaging the growth plate. Her pain had been excruciating, but she got around fine now. He looked pale with pain. No wonder his mood was dark. “Can I help—”
He lifted his hand to warn her off. “Nee. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself up. I’ve had plenty of practice.”
He rose and towered over her. He had to be at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a slim waist.
The smell of burning eggs reached Molly’s nose. She gasped as she turned and saw smoke rising from the overheated frying pan. “Your eggs! Now look what you’ve made me do.” She pulled the pan off the burner and then turned back, ready to do verbal battle with the wretched man.
Unsteady on his feet, Isaac Graber hobbled across the kitchen floor and stepped out the back door, waving gray smoke out of his face as he shut it behind him with a slam.
Chapter Two
A gust of wind accompanied Ulla Ziegler through the back door. She hurried into the kitchen, the folds of her once-clean apron smeared with mud and brimming with a load of gritty brown potatoes and freshly pulled carrots. Fat rain drops spattered against the kitchen window.
Finishing the last of the breakfast dishes, Molly stopped mid-swipe. To her amazement her stout little mother, who slipped and slid through the door, managed to make it across the room without dropping one potato.