The Amish Baker. Marie E. Bast

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      “I grew up here. When I met my frau, I moved to Seymour, Missouri. After Martha got cancer, I moved her and our family back, so she could have treatment in Iowa City, and we’d be closer to my bruder Peter and his family.”

      The doorbell jingled and Sarah reluctantly peeled her eyes away from Caleb and focused on her customer. “Gut mornin’.”

      “Morning, Sarah.” Mrs. Wallin smiled as she entered the bakery. “Just a loaf of white bread today.”

      Caleb finished his cinnamon roll and coffee, tossed his cup in the wastebasket next to the counter and tipped his hat to Sarah. “Have a gut day.”

      Sarah gave a nod. “You, too.” As she was bagging the white bread for Mrs. Wallin, she peered up and caught his wink, and had to steady her hands.

      Her pulse jumped. Her mind raced in a hundred different directions, but only for a few seconds. What was she thinking? She didn’t want to remarry. The bakery was her life.

      * * *

      Caleb strode toward his buggy, his heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer. Sarah’s chocolate-brown hair and cinnamon-brown eyes had stolen his attention. He’d tried to refocus but couldn’t keep his eyes from following her. He could have sat in the bakery all day, staring at her as she worked.

      Still, it was unmistakable with her navy blue dress and the shape of her prayer kapp. She was Old Order Amish. If she were single, where could the relationship go? He enjoyed the liberties his church allowed—shorter beard and hair, Sunday school and Bible study. The Old Order wanted only the church to interpret Scriptures, while New Order encouraged small group study.

      His church even believed in church outreach and helping the non-Amish. They also permitted electric conveniences, such as the tractor, mechanical milker and refrigerator, rototiller, lawn mower, chainsaw and propane gas. Without grown sohns to help Caleb, he needed such things on the farm.

      He must chase thoughts of the beautiful baker out of his head. A relationship between Old Order and New Order would never work. Jah, he must forget about Sarah with the cinnamon-brown eyes and concentrate on his farming and crops.

      Caleb climbed into his buggy and tapped the leather straps against Snowball’s back. “Giddyap, slowpoke. I have chores waiting at home.”

      As the horse trotted along, Caleb gawked at his neighbors’ fields and mentally compared theirs to his. Jah, his looked gut, maybe better.

      Caleb parked the buggy by the barn, stepped down and welcomed the cool breeze that swept across his face. He pulled his hat off, swiped a hand over his brow and then plopped his hat back on his head.

      His mind steered his hands back to the job at hand. As he unhitched the horse and walked him to his stall, Caleb tried to push Sarah’s image from his head. What was wrong with him? He was acting like a sixteen-year-old bu who was getting ready to court.

      This was nonsense. Martha had died only a year ago; it wasn’t time to start thinking about getting another frau.

      Nein. Nein. Too soon.

      * * *

      Sarah glanced up as Melinda Miller maneuvered her shopping bags through the bakery doorway. “Congratulations on your sohn. I have a boppli gift for little Abraham’s mamm and daed to enjoy.” Sarah scooted to the kitchen, snatched the gift box off a table, returned to the front and handed the box to the new mamm. “I was going to drop it by after work today, but you saved me the trip.”

      Melinda lifted the cover enough to peek in. “It’s a cookie shaped like a little buggy with a boppli in it. It looks delicious. Danki, Sarah.” She leaned over the counter, her face beaming like that of a five-year-old girl with a new dress. “A dozen maple-pecan rolls. Motherhood is wunderbaar. Too bad you and Samuel never had kinner.”

      The words slammed into Sarah, wrapped around her scarred heart and squeezed. She and Samuel had wanted a kind, a child. Concealing the ache in her chest with a smile barely there, she worked swiftly to bag the order and hand it to Melinda. She took the money, slipped it into the drawer and then slumped a hip against the counter to help ease the pain.

      “Danki, Sarah. I’ll see you next week.” Melinda opened the door carefully, trying not to bump her baked goods while guiding her shopping bags.

      Alvin Studer held the door for Melinda. When she was through, he entered.

      He walked by the display case, slowly checking out the sweets. “You’re a gut cook, Sarah.”

      “Danki, Alvin, but you mean baker.”

      “What?” He looked up, his eyes full of puzzlement.

      “Never mind.” She waited for his order as he paced the floor, looking at breads and rolls, then stealing glances at her. He bent his tall, lanky frame closer to the display case and peered inside. His long face twisted with indecision.

      Sarah’s mind wandered back to Caleb Brenneman. Remembering his handsome face pulled a smile across her mouth as she fought to push it away. Most Amish men didn’t come into the bakery, so she’d probably never see him again. That was gut—she’d forget about him in a few days.

      “Have you made a selection yet, Alvin?”

      He stepped to the counter and gave her a smile while his eyes roved over her. “A loaf of cinnamon-raisin bread.” He hesitated. “Would you like to go for a buggy ride with me Saturday night, Sarah?”

      Stunned, she stepped back. She didn’t want to go for a ride with Alvin, or any other man. She had her life. It was comfortable, and she liked things as they were. But with Alvin, she’d heard he had hit his last frau, so the answer was an emphatic nein. Yet the idea of courting anyone who wasn’t Samuel frightened her.

      How should she answer Alvin? She hated to be rude, though she wanted no misunderstanding in how she felt. “Danki, Alvin, but my shop requires all my time. When I’m not out front, I’m in the back, baking. I have no free time to squeeze in a buggy ride. Sorry, but that’s the life of a baker.”

      His eyes turned dark and mean. His expression hinted that he wanted to say something but didn’t.

      She drew in a ragged breath. Her hands fumbled as she plucked the bread from the shelf, almost dropping it. She shoved the loaf in a sack and set it on the counter. “Danki, Alvin.”

      He stared at her. The doorbell jingled twice as the stout Bertha Bontrager bumped the door with her hip as she entered. Alvin didn’t flinch at the noise.

      Sarah blew out the breath she was holding. “Afternoon, Bertha. What can I do for you today?”

      “The bishop said you’d be receptive to my invitation,” Alvin whispered as he tossed Sarah a cold look and laid a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Keep the change. I’ll see you next time.” He grabbed his sack and stomped out the door.

      Sarah was stunned and winced as a shiver ran up her spine.

      * СКАЧАТЬ