The Amish Groom (The Men of Lancaster County #1)
Mindy Starns Clark & Susan Meissner
DEDICATION
For the Akamines
Brian, Tracey, Hannah, and Emiko
with love and thanks for your faith and your friendship
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Our sincere and heartfelt thanks are extended to
Kim Moore, editor extraordinaire, and the entire Harvest House team, for being so gifted and dedicated in all you do.
Chip MacGregor, our literary agent, for pairing two good friends on such a wonderful collaborative journey.
John Clark, for assistance with plotting, brainstorming, research, and so much more.
Ben Riihl and the Daniel and Liz Fisher family, all of Lancaster County, for opening your Amish homes to us, sharing your insights and friendship, and showing us such warm hospitality.
Emily Clark, Lauren Clark, Tara Kenny, and Christy Koustourlis, for help with brainstorming and problem-solving.
Erik Wesner and Sherry Gore, for assistance in our research.
God, who walks alongside all of us on the search for our true place of belonging.
ONE
The surface of the pond was glassy smooth, a deep liquid oval beckoning through the trees. I headed down the path, my dog at my side. When we reached the clearing, Timber darted forward, chasing a duck into tall reeds. I came to a stop right at the edge of the water, work boots and pant cuffs damp from the morning dew, and paused to take it all in.
This secluded little farm pond was always so striking, so peaceful, but never more so than at this time of day, when the sun was just coming up—not to mention at this time of year, when the trees lining its banks offered riotous bursts of reds and yellows and oranges among the green. Whatever the season, I could never get enough of it. The fish that darted in and out of sight below. The dense and rocky overgrowth on all sides. The weeping willow at the far end, its branches dangling down to the water, tickling the surface.
I set down the tools and other items I was carrying and then turned my face upward just as the sun broke across the stillness. I watched as the horizon lost its sleepy purple cast, turning auburn. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and I knew a perfect day lay in store for my cousin Anna’s wedding. As if on cue, Timber barked from somewhere off to my right, reminding me that there was much to do between now and then. Time to get to work.
Not far away, the old wooden rowboat rested upside down on the grass where I’d left it the last time I’d used it, the oar tucked securely underneath. I flipped it over and brushed out a few spiders who’d been living inside. Then I put the oar and the stuff I’d brought into the small craft and slid to the water. When it was all loaded, I glanced around for Timber and was glad to see that although the duck had flown off, the yellow lab was now fully occupied with sniffing his way around the pond’s perimeter.
I placed one foot in the boat’s hull and gently pushed off with the other, the small vessel cutting through the water with ease. When it slowed about ten feet short of my goal, I lowered the oar into the water and paddled toward the buoy that floated near the center of the pond. As I did, I breathed in the new morning air, filling my lungs with its earthy, October fragrance.
According to my grandmother, this pond had been my mother’s favorite place to go when she was young and wanted to be alone with her thoughts. She had come here often, and I had a feeling I knew why. When the morning sun slashed across the top of the trees on mid-autumn dawns like this one, I could see my reflection in the water as clear as in the mirror in my bedroom back at the farmhouse, as if there were another me beyond the surface, looking back. I was always drawn to that other place, to the what-ifs of it all. No doubt my mother, who was so full of wanderlust, had felt the same.
Easing the boat alongside the buoy, I brought it to a stop once the floating brown orb was within easy reach. I rested the dripping plank beside my feet, gave the straw hat on my head a pat to make sure it was secure, and then slid my hands into the cold water, feeling under the buoy for the rope. Grasping it, I began to pull slowly upward, working my hands along the taut line, wishing I’d thought to wear gloves for a better grip. The more I pulled up, the slimier it grew, coating my palms in a nasty brown goo that smelled of mud and dankness and rot.