The Amish Bride. Emma Miller

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      She swallowed. Her throat felt tight, as if an invisible hand was squeezing it. It was all perfectly logical, of course, but what about her heart? Her parents had married for love, and she had hoped for the same.

      “I’m not asking you to marry either of Simeon’s boys,” he father went on. “I’m only asking that you give them a chance.”

      Her gaze met his, but she still didn’t speak.

      “Just...just a month. That’s all I ask of you. Give them a month.” He smiled the smile he knew she could never resist. “Is that too much for an old man to ask of his daughter?”

      He said it so sweetly that she sighed and looked at the lima bean in her hand. “No, I suppose it’s not too much to ask, so I will walk out with them,” she said softly. “But I’ll tell you now—” she pointed with the empty hull at him “—I’ll only truly consider Micah, not Neziah.”

      “Don’t be foolish. You cared for Neziah once. You came close to marrying him.”

      She tightened her mouth. “That was a long time ago,” she said. “Marrying Neziah would have been a mistake. We were—are—too different. He isn’t the husband for me, and I’m certainly not the wife for him.” Memories she hadn’t stirred up in years came back to her, and she felt her heart trip. Things had been so complicated with Neziah, and she had been so young. “I’d feel trapped in a marriage with him.”

      “Then you’re wise to refuse him.” He leaned closer to her. “But you are open to being courted by Micah?”

      She nodded. “Jah. If you think I should do that, I will.”

      “And you don’t think it’s being unfair to Neziah to allow him to believe you’re considering his suit?”

      “Honestly, Dat, I think he went along with Simeon’s idea just to please his father. I bet he’s trying to figure out at this very moment how to get out of this.”

      “Then we will put this all in God’s hands,” her father said. “He’s never failed to be there when we need Him. It pleases me that you are willing to walk out with the Shetler boys, and I will place my hopes and prayers on the best solution for all of us.”

      She nodded, her heart suddenly lighter. “I’ll put my trust in Him,” she agreed. And for the first time in years, she allowed herself to think of a different life than she had thought hers would be...one that included a husband, a baby and new possibilities.

      * * *

      “I’m hungry,” Joel said in Deitsch as Neziah lifted him out of the bathtub and wrapped him in an oversize white towel.

      “Jah, me, too,” Asa agreed in Deitsch. “I want milk and cookies. Can we have milk and cookies, Dat?”

      “English,” Neziah reminded them. “Bath time is English. Remember? Soon Joel will go to school, and the other children will speak English. You wouldn’t want them to call him a woodenhead, would you?” Asa wriggled out of his grasp and retreated to the far end of the claw-footed porcelain tub. “Come back here, you pollywog.” He captured the escapee and stood him beside his brother. It always surprised him how close they were in size, even though Asa was nearly two years younger. Neziah wrapped his younger son in a clean blue towel and sat him on the closed toilet seat.

      The bathroom was large and plain with a white tile floor, white fixtures and white walls and window shutters. Neziah wondered if his boys ever realized how lucky they were not to have to use an outhouse as he had for much of his childhood. He hadn’t minded the spiders and the occasional mouse or bat as much as he had the cold on winter nights. He smiled. This modern bathroom with its deep sink, corner shower and propane heater was a great improvement. The Amish elders might be slow to change, but they did make some concessions to the twenty-first century, and bathrooms, in his opinion, were at the top of the list.

      “My tummy hurts,” Joel said in English, sticking out his lower lip. “I have hungry.”

      “After the big dinner and all the pie you ate at the Beacheys?” Neziah chuckled. “I don’t think so. You’ll have to wait for breakfast.”

      Joel’s face contorted into a full-blown pout, and Asa chimed in. “Me hungry, too.”

      “Bed and prayers.” Neziah whisked off the towels and tugged cotton nightshirts over two bobbing heads. “Brush your teeth now, and maybe we’ll have time for a little Family Life before lights out.” Family Life was one of the few publications that came to the house, and Neziah made a practice of reading short stories or poems that he thought his sons might like at bedtime.

      “But we’re hungry,” Joel whined, retreating to the Deitsch dialect. “My belly hurts a lot.”

      “Then cookies and milk will only make it worse,” Neziah pronounced. He scooped up Asa and draped him laughing over his shoulder and took Joel’s hand. “Bed. Now.” Joel allowed himself to be tugged along reluctantly to the bedroom and the double bed the boys shared. Neziah deposited Asa between the sheets then reached down for Joel.

      “Read,” Asa reminded. He pulled the sheet up to his chin and dug his stuffed dog out from under his pillow while Joel wormed his way over his brother and curled up on top of the light cotton blanket and sheet.

      A breeze blew through the curtainless windows on the north side of the bedroom. Like the bathroom, this was a sparse chamber: the bed, a bookcase, a table and two chairs. There were no dressers. The boys’ clothing was all hung inside the single, small closet. Neziah pulled up a chair, lit the propane lamp and together they shared a short prayer. Then he took the latest copy of Family Life magazine from the table. He’d read to Joel and Asa every night since their mother had died. It was something she’d always done with the children, and although he wasn’t as much at ease with reading aloud as Betty had been, he felt it was the right thing to do.

      Strangely, the practice, which he’d begun out of a sense of duty, had become the highlight of his day. No matter how tired he was, spending a few moments quietly with his sons brought him deep contentment. Asa, in particular, seemed to enjoy the poetry as much as Neziah did. It wasn’t something that Neziah would have willingly admitted to anyone, but he found the sounds of the rhyming words pleasing. Joel preferred the stories, the longer the better, but Neziah suspected that it was simply a way of delaying bedtime.

      Tonight, Neziah chose a short and funny poem about a squirrel that stored up nuts for winter and when he had finished it he said, “Sleep well,” as he bent to rest a hand lightly on each small head. Joel’s hair was light and feathery; Asa’s thick and curly. “God keep you both,” he murmured.

       “Dat?”

      “Jah, Joel, what is it? No more about cookies tonight.”

      “Nay, Dat. I was wondering. Is Ellen going to be our new mutter?”

      Neziah was surprised by the question; he had wondered how much his sons had understood from the conversations he and Micah had had with their father and later at the Beacheys’ table. Apparently, they’d caught the gist of it. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. He made it a point never to be dishonest with his children, not even for their own good. “Maybe. Would you like that?”

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