A Promise for Miriam (4 page)

“She can still learn math, reading, and writing.”

“Yes, but—”

Gabe stuck his hands into his coat pockets. His breath came out in front of him in a frosted cloud, but his eyes—his chocolate-brown eyes—were colder than the plummeting temperatures as he challenged her. “If she were a deaf or mute child, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“But she’s not a deaf or mute child.”

“I’m glad you see my point. Now you focus on your job, and I’ll focus on mine. Good night, Miriam.”

Reaching up, he released the fasteners that held the leather flap. It spun down, shutting out the cold and the inscrutable expression on his face. She could only see out of the front of the buggy. She could only see the lane leading away from his home.

He swatted the mare’s rear, and she obediently set off at a trot down the lane.

Miriam had a good mind to pull on the reins and turn right back around.

She thought to return and explain to Mr. Gabriel Miller exactly how wrong he was. She could give him a good twenty reasons why he was wrong.

Before she’d reasoned out those twenty reasons, though, she was far down the road. In truth she had trouble coming up with so many. Each time she’d come up with one, Gracie’s gentle eyes, or the way she’d hugged her father’s legs that first day, or the wonderful drawings she did would pop into Miriam’s mind, and then she’d discard her ironclad reason to reach for another.

By the time she’d found one good reason, she saw the gaslights in her parents’ sitting room window, and her horse, Belle, had already turned into the lane.

One good reason was all she needed, though.

Grace should speak because she could.

It was their duty—Miriam’s, Doc Hanson’s, and, yes, Gabe’s too—to help her because Grace had a voice, and Miriam believed every child’s voice was a gift.

Miriam was determined that, one way or another, she would find a way to set it free.

Chapter 3

W
hen Miriam woke the next morning, her first thoughts were of Gabriel Miller—the sadness in his eyes, the way he smiled when he dealt with his daughter, and the rudeness with which he’d dismissed her the night before, in that particular order.

Her second thoughts were of Grace, the young girl who had already claimed a special place in her heart.

Those strings of thought crossed one another and became tangled as she lay in the predawn light and wavered between waking and sleeping.

Then the strings were broken, and Miriam sat straight up in bed, thinking of only one thing—her mother’s cooking. Her stomach growled as the smells of frying sausage and fresh biscuits wafted up the stairs and pulled away the last remnants of sleep.

It made no difference that her meal the night before had been breakfast. This was her mother’s cooking. She was home.

If she’d had any urge to roll over and bury herself in warm quilts, the image of her mother downstairs cooking the morning meal convinced her otherwise. She dressed quickly in her Saturday work dress and then hurried outside to visit the restroom. The morning was cold, fresh, and sparkling.

Miriam was aware that most Americans would probably think they were crazy for still having their toilets in a separate building from the house. Even some Amish had taken to indoor bathrooms—not in Cashton, at least not on their side of Pebble Creek, but in the more liberal districts.

She paused to gaze across the frost-covered fields. At moments like this her worries lifted and she could pull in a deep breath. She was able to thank God for all she had and for the people in her life. As she stood there, morning light tinged the eastern sky, a small flock of birds took flight, and their dog, Pepper, chased a rabbit around the corner of the barn.

All of it was God’s handiwork. Closing her eyes, she whispered a short prayer for her parents, her students, and even for herself.

Miriam didn’t claim to fully understand why her life was different than other women her age, but at times like this it didn’t seem to matter. She could trust that God had a plan, and that He would let her in on it eventually.

A light wind pulled at her robe, and she laughed at herself, standing in the cold when a hot breakfast was on the table.

Abigail turned from the stove and tossed her daughter the same smile she’d been giving the past twenty-six years, or at least it seemed Miriam could remember it from birth. Slight like Miriam, her light -brown hair was tucked under a white prayer
kapp
, and she wore a dark-gray dress with a black apron.

Today they would cook, clean, and prepare for tomorrow’s church services.

“
Gudemariye
,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “I thought you might sleep a bit later after your hard week of teaching.”

“You know I can’t sleep late once I smell your cooking.” Miriam poured
kaffi
from the pot sitting on the stove and then kissed her mother’s cheek before peeking in the oven. Biscuits golden and risen to perfection winked back at her.

“As tired as you looked when you arrived last night, perhaps I should have done my best to see that you did sleep in a bit.” Abigail nudged her out of the way and retrieved the pan of biscuits. “If it’s the cooking that woke you, I could have served your father porridge and cold biscuits.”

“What would I have done to deserve such a thing, Abigail Ruth?” Joshua asked as he banged into the kitchen. He barely managed to hang his hat on its peg before Miriam engulfed him in a hug.

She paused at the back door only long enough to glance out and see that Pepper had followed her father to the house and remained at the back step, ever vigilant and faithful to her family. The German shorthaired pointer had been the smallest of a litter born one spring when Miriam was sixteen. The dog had grown into a beauty and won the entire family’s heart.

“You deserve sausage, biscuits, and more,” Miriam said to her father, walking him to the table and pouring him a hot mug of
kaffi.
“I was complaining to Mother that the smells from the kitchen woke me.”

“Doesn’t sound like my girl to be grumbling about anything, much less a hot meal,” Joshua said, smiling. He ran his fingers through his coal-black beard, which had begun to show streaks of gray the last few years.

Miriam received her size and skill with knitting needles from her mother. From her father she’d inherited her black hair and a rarely seen but volatile temper.

Joshua reached for the sugar bowl and added a single, level teaspoon to his mug. She’d never thought of her father as old, but a recent visit to the
Englisch
doctor had revealed he suffered from borderline diabetes. He’d taken the doctor’s advice seriously and cut back on all of his refined sugars, though apparently he was still eating everything else he was used to.

“Your
bruders
will be here in another hour,” Abigail said to Miriam as she placed platters of sausage, scrambled eggs, and the hot biscuits on the table. “They’re going to help prepare the house for the church service tomorrow. Your
dat
especially needs extra hands clearing out the barn for the luncheon.”

“Simon’s coming later today?” Miriam asked, trying to stuff a biscuit into her mouth, take a swallow of
kaffi
, and reach for her napkin at the same time.

“
Ya
.” Abigail pulled the syrup across the table to add a dab on the corner of her plate before passing it on to Miriam. “He asked for time off at the store and worked extra all week so the owner wouldn’t mind him being gone today.”

“It’s hard to believe he’ll be married in the spring.” Miriam scooped eggs on her plate and added a single piece of sausage. Sinking back in her chair and pulling her mug of
kaffi
toward her, she thought of Simon marrying and having children. For reasons she couldn’t explain, the idea brought to mind Gabriel Miller.

“Your brother has turned twenty-two. He’s plenty old enough to marry.” Joshua’s gaze traveled from her to the plate of biscuits and then back to her again. “You tumbled into bed as soon as you arrived last night. Was school more difficult than usual last week?”

Miriam stared down into her
kaffi.
She had wanted to talk to her parents about Gabe, but now that she had the perfect opportunity, she wasn’t sure exactly what to say.

His parting words to “focus on her job” rang in her ears, and she once again felt the anger she’d struggled with as she’d driven to her parents’ home.

“Do you know Gabriel Miller? The man who bought Mr. Kline’s farm?”

Joshua studied her, and then he returned to eating his meal in silence. Miriam decided that perhaps he wasn’t going to answer her question. With her father, it was often that way. Sometimes he merely moved on to another subject.

This morning, though, after he had finished his breakfast, he looked out the window, out over the fields covered with snow, and said, “I went by and met the man. He didn’t have much to say.”

“That farm is a near total loss,” Abigail added. “Everyone around these parts knows that—Amish or
Englisch.
Your father offered to help him, but apparently he wasn’t interested.”

Joshua shrugged, stood, and set his dishes in the sink. “The man has a right to do things his own way.”

He paused long enough to kiss his wife on the cheek. “I wasn’t aware Miller had a child in the school. Is that what this is about?”

“Yes. He has a girl, eight years old. Her name is Grace.” Miriam thought of adding that there had been no sign of a Mrs. Miller. She considered telling her parents that Grace didn’t speak. And she wanted to admit she wasn’t sure how to handle the situation, especially after last night’s visit at the Miller home.

As the morning light bathed the kitchen, her father said, “We’ll be the best neighbors we can be to them.” Then he turned, retrieved his hat, and walked back out into the cold morning.

Her mother began clearing the dishes, humming to herself as she worked.

That was the way things were with her parents. They had the ability to accept things as they were—something Miriam hadn’t quite mastered yet.

But her father’s words echoed in her mind as she cleaned the floors, scrubbed the counters, and then helped prepare lunch for her three brothers. Later that afternoon she went out to the barn and spent twenty minutes with Pepper—brushing him, playing fetch, and enjoying the feel of him flopped across her feet. Even while she was resting, her mind went back and dwelled on what her father had said. Being good neighbors was the most they could do at this point—and being a good teacher should be her main goal at work.

At least until Gabe was willing to let them do more.

Perhaps tomorrow’s service would reveal additional information about the mystery of Grace and Gabe and the missing Mrs. Miller. Would it be useful in helping Grace?

That was something she’d have to wait to find out, and Miriam was learning a truth about herself—besides not wanting to accept things as they were, she was also not good at waiting.

Gabe would have preferred to stay home on Sunday morning.

Saturday he had worked from before sunrise until late into the evening, as he did every day, pausing long enough to feed Gracie, compliment her drawings, and peer into the small wooden box she was hovering over. It held a mouse. He’d suggested she add some straw and a bit of cheese and water if she was sure she wanted to keep the tiny gray thing.

Her smile was all the answer he needed.

He knew there was no avoiding church Sunday morning. The bishop had been by earlier in the week and all but exacted a promise from him.

The promise he’d given to Bishop Zeke back in Indiana was something he considered a serious matter. More important even than that, though, was the vow he’d given to both his mother and Hope’s mother. That memory weighed on him heavier than the work that waited to be done. He’d given his word that Grace would be brought up properly and raised correctly in the faith, and he’d see to it that she was. The fact that he’d have to endure the looks of strangers and the sympathy of yet another community was a small thing.

He’d endured worse.

Running his finger under the collar of his best shirt, the same shirt he’d worn to take Gracie to school the first day, he went through a mental checklist before they left the house.

The fire was banked in the stove.

He’d taken care of the animals for the day.

Gracie wore her best clothes and waited patiently by the front door, studying him curiously.

Gracie.

He’d meant to talk to her before they set off for the service. Walking across the sitting room, he stopped in front of her and crouched down so that they were eye to eye. As usual, when he looked at her like this, when he stopped to slow down and consider how quickly she was growing before his very eyes, she reminded him of her mother. Gracie had Hope’s warm brown eyes and beautiful features—a petite nose, small chin, and even the same smattering of freckles across her cheeks.

The single difference was the color of her hair. Hope’s brown hair had been quite light, almost blonde, where Gracie’s was dark-brown like his. The morning she was born, when the midwife had placed their new infant in Hope’s arms, his wife had gazed up at him and whispered, “Isn’t she a little angel, Gabe? Her hair is like the chestnut pony’s, and like yours.”