Wonderful Lonesome Read online

  “You proved that with Ruthanna and Eber.” What did Jake mean by spiritual concerns?

  “You have probably heard I hope to open a new Mennonite congregation in Limon.”

  “Yes. God be with you.” Rudy was not aware of any Mennonite families in Limon.

  “I believe He is. I am not trying to pressure anyone, but I am going around to the Amish to let them know we will have our first service soon. I know some of you have been longing for plain worship.”

  The Stutzman family had been among the earliest to come from Europe and settle in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, in 1737. Amish worship was in his bones. He did not see himself joining the Mennonites, but Jake was right. Rudy did long for the deep, rich worship of his people.

  Willem nailed in the last of the new baseboard Jake hoped would help to keep the mice out of his furnished rooms and pushed a sofa back against the wall. The furniture had seen better days. No wonder Jake had gotten such a good price on the rooms. Even the Amish settlers who sank all their money in their land and left little for their houses had sturdier furniture. Earlier Willem had tipped the sofa over and banged a displaced crosspiece back into position and leveled the legs of the small rustic table that would serve as Jake’s writing and study desk.

  The doorknob turned, and Jake entered.

  “How did it go?” Willem began to pick up the tools strewn around the room.

  Jake shrugged. “It is difficult to tell. I can’t say that anyone was surprised.”

  “You’ve made no secret of your hope to start a church, and you’ve always been friendly with the Amish.”

  “Not everyone was home, and I called on people I was sure were not interested in the Mennonites. I did not want anyone to feel left out.”

  “Let me guess. The Weavers, Martin Samuels, Rudy Stutzman.”

  “My goodness, your Abigail was quite disturbed at my presence on Widower Samuels’s farm.” Jake sat on the sofa.

  Willem grimaced. “Did she try to throw you off the land?”

  Jake chuckled. “I have a feeling she wanted to, but Amish restraint got the best of her. She seems to think I have some sort of hold on you.”

  Willem dropped his hammer in his open wooden toolbox. “I try to be honest with Abbie.”

  “She will not come to a Mennonite church of her own free will, and we cannot force her.”

  “There is always the Holy Ghost,” Willem said. “God’s will may change Abbie’s will.”

  “Willem,” Jake said, “have you thought about what it would mean if God’s will does not change Abbie’s will?”

  Willem straightened the black hat on his head. “Abbie loves the Amish church.”

  “So do you.”

  “I do.”

  “And you love her.”

  “Yes.” Willem folded himself into a small chair upholstered in a floral print, something none of the Amish would have in their homes. “But I can also see that the will of God is bigger than the Amish church. If Abbie cannot believe that with her whole heart, then she deserves a husband who will share her conviction, and I will not stand in her way.”

  The sky still hung in the faint ambiguous pink and gray of morning’s decision to break forth again when Willem pulled on his boots and loaded his rifle. His traps were designed to kill a coyote or any other animal that found a gopher carcass attractive bait. Early every morning, before tending to farm chores or digging lignite for his English customers or even satisfying his own hunger with the bread that Abbie baked and brought every week, Willem made the rounds to inspect the traps. If he found an animal in one of the traps, whether predator or innocent, he would be prepared either to dispense justice or end suffering. So far, after two weeks, he had seen coyote tracks in a wide circle around a couple of traps, but none had succumbed. Today Willem took heavy gloves with him, a purchase of his last trip into Limon. If he wore them to change the bait, he hoped to minimize his own human scent on the trap.

  Willem knew the coyotes were out there. He heard them every night, howling and barking whether the moon was bright or dim. Chickens were not the only targets. A coyote could kill a full-grown deer with a strategic strike to the neck. A cow would not be much different. Baby goats and calves had no defenses. The livestock of all the Amish farmers was at risk. They built their fences to keep cows and horses on their land and in pastures. Constructing a barrier that a coyote could not scale over or dig under was likely impossible, and certainly expensive beyond the means of struggling Amish settlers.

  On his way out, Willem looked at his coffeepot and fleetingly longed for the sensation of thick black coffee sliding down his throat. But he did not have time for the indulgence and walked past the stove without lighting it. This might be the day that a trap held evidence of the enemy’s demise.

  Given the barren yield of the last two weeks in traps spread around on four farms, it was unlikely this morning would be different, but it was possible. No one purported that catching the swift nocturnal wolf-like animals was an easy venture. Willem was not the only man whose traps came up empty. But one day a hungry coyote with pups in the den to feed would step into a trap. If it was an adult male, the threat of future attack would diminish. Willem had no plans to relent on his vigilance.

  Willem saddled his horse. Is that what Abbie thought—that it was possible the Amish could have a thriving congregation despite one defeat after another assaulting their efforts? Her hope kept her vigilant for the glory of God among their people. To her, it was only a matter of time and the settlement would rejoice in the triumph of worship.

  He trotted the horse through his own land first, planning a wide arc.

  Abbie barely slept in the two nights since Jake made his rounds welcoming any interested Amish to his Mennonite meetings. He had talked about starting a church for so long, and now he was going to do it. And he was going to take Willem away from her. The imminence of this reality dulled her appetite and robbed her sleep.

  She swung her feet over the side of her bed and reached for her clothes. In a few minutes she was dressed with her hair pinned up adequately enough for the slim risk that she would see anyone on a walk at dawn. Chores during the heat of the day were inevitable, but a walk while the morning was yet cool would help her clear her mind. Abbie looked out the tiny window of her narrow bedroom and judged that the fullness of dawn was still at least thirty minutes away. But the moon had been full only a few nights before and lingered still.

  As she walked, she could pray. For Willem. For Ruthanna. For Eber. For all the families. They might not be able to gather to hear sermons and take communion, but she could still pray. Even for herself, that God would quell the unrest of her spirit at the thought of losing Willem.

  Abbie had traversed more than two miles on her morning quest for peace when she saw Willem on his horse silhouetted against the rising sun. Her feet stopped and she drew in a long breath. She was angry, hurt, confused, and in love. It all swirled around this man whose left shoulder sloped more severely than his right, this man who knew her heart like no other. She hated being angry with him. “Be ye angry, and sin not: let not the sun go down upon your wrath,” the Bible said. And only a few verses later, “Be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.” Ephesians 4:32 was one of the first verses Abbie’s parents made her memorize before she had even learned to read it for herself. She knew it in German and in English. Sermons of her childhood had impressed on her that forgiveness was at the heart of a life obedient to Christ.

  Her left foot went forward, then her right, and she counted her paces toward Willem. When she knew he had seen her, she started counting again at one.

  He slid off her horse to greet her. “Gut mariye.”

  “Good morning.” Abbie hid her nervous hands in her plenteous skirt. “Are you checking traps?”

  He nodded. “Are you well?”

  “Very.” She ran her tongue over the back side of her lips. “The Holy Ghost has
convicted me that I have acted unkindly toward you and Jake. Please forgive me.”

  She looked into his eyes reflecting the growing light.

  “Of course I forgive you, Abigail. I know that some of my choices make you unhappy. I never mean to hurt you.”

  “I know.” She hardly heard her own voice.

  “If I catch a coyote, you will be the first to know.”

  She smiled, wondering if he could tell how hard it was for her to do it. “Would you like to come to supper tonight? I know Levi would love to see you. We all would.”

  “And I would love to beat him at checkers, but I am afraid it cannot be tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have a meeting in town.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s just a meeting, Abbie.”

  She refused to lose her temper. “About Jake’s church, I suppose.” The Amish rarely held meetings in the evenings, when they preferred to be with their families. Were the Mennonites going to disparage the value of family?

  “Yes.”

  She maintained a pleasant tone, determined not to hollow her request for forgiveness. “Another time, then.”

  Willem could hardly keep his eyes open when the meeting began thirteen hours after he found Abbie at the edge of the field. Other than minimal attention to farm chores that could not wait, Willem spent the day digging lignite. In mid-September residents carried out load after load of coal for cooking and heating through the winter. So far Willem’s labors had yielded little coal for his own use. English customers with larger homes to heat were pleased with his efforts, and between cash and foodstuffs, Willem was optimistic about the coming cold season. The ravine harbored ample coal still.

  The meeting was small, only Jake, Willem, and one married couple who lived in Limon. They met in Jake’s sitting room.

  “Thank you for coming.” Jake smiled at his guests. “Tonight we remember that where two or three are, there Christ is also. Though we begin with a small group, we know the harvest is ripe. Many souls need the ministry that we begin together.”

  “Are you expecting many others to join the church?” James Graves put his palms on his knees as he asked the question.

  “We will see how God leads,” Jake answered. “At every step, we will be grateful for what God provides.”

  James turned to Willem. “My wife, Julia, and I have known the Mennonites before, but I am surprised to find an Amish man here for this first meeting. Are you planning to convert?”

  Willem cleared his throat. “Jake and I have talked a great deal. I feel I understand the Mennonites well. We love and serve the same God.”

  “Do others of your people feel the same way? I’ve heard that you don’t really have church.”

  “It is true that we do not have a minister,” Willem said, “but we are people of deep faith.”

  Jake spoke. “I have been visiting Amish families. Willem is right. They have deep religious conviction, and I intend to respect them. I will not try to coerce any of the Amish to join us.”

  “Then why were you visiting them?” James asked.

  “I want them to know they are always welcome. That’s all.”

  Julia pressed the point. “But do you think some of them will want to join us?” She turned to Willem. “Are you going to join us, or are you merely curious?”

  Willem glanced at Jake. “As Reverend Heatwole suggested, I will be waiting on God to make His will plain to me.”

  Jake suggested that the group take time to pray about the adventure of beginning a new church in Limon and led aloud in prayer. Then he moved the meeting on to other matters. Where would they hold services? How would they let the townspeople know of the new church? Did the Graveses have any names to suggest that Jake call on to make a personal invitation? Did any families in town have spiritual needs that a new minister might meet?

  Willem said little during the course of the meeting. He had offered to make some notes of the conversation, and Jake supplied paper and a fountain pen. If James Graves tried to return to the subject of the Amish, Jake graciously redirected the conversation. Willem recorded Jake’s questions and the answers that emerged from the Graveses.

  By the time Jake closed the meeting in prayer, the sun was well on its way down. Willem hung two lanterns from the front of his wagon for the drive home and allowed his horse to set her own pace. He did not hear the coyotes while he was in town. Only when he was a few miles west of Limon, halfway to his own land, did he hear the mix of howling and barking.

  So far Willem had not promised Jake anything, and Jake did not press for a commitment. If only Abbie would say she would come with him. But with Abbie or without her, he was not sure how much longer he could stand not to hear the Word of God preached. Even if he began with a tiny congregation, Jake planned to hold his first service within a few weeks. Willem was fairly certain he would be in the congregation that day.

  With a basket of warm muffins, Abbie walked down the lane from her home to the main road, crossed to the other side for a fifteen-minute walk, and turned down the lane to the Miller farm. She had offered to take a buggy over to fetch Ruthanna, but her friend had assured her Eber would bring her and come back for her later. When she reached the house, she found Mary and Ruthanna sitting at the table drinking coffee. Mary gestured toward a third cup, and Abbie sat in front of it.

  “I just made them.” Abbie unfolded the towels wrapped around the muffins and was pleased to see that the baked goods still steamed slightly.

  “They smell delicious.” Mary inhaled the fragrance. “Wherever did you get blueberries?”

  “Mamm had one last jar from last year.” Abbie pulled a muffin open.

  “Did either of you manage to have anything to trade for Ordway fruit this year?” Mary filled Abbie’s coffee cup.

  Ruthanna nodded. “I don’t know how he did it, but somehow Eber convinced Mr. Gates at the mercantile to give him some on credit. I’ll be canning all next week.”

  “I’ll help you,” Abbie said. “We’ll just have to be sure to choose a different day than when Mamm wants to can. She managed to coax a few more beans and squash out of her vegetable garden, and we’re hoping to trade eggs for fruit.”

  “The rain last week must have helped,” Mary said. “It wasn’t much, but it was something.”

  “Every drop helps.” Abbie flung doubt out of her tone. “We have potatoes, too. Plenty to share, I think.”

  “Little Abe pulled up half of what I planted.” Mary stroked the head of the little boy playing with a wooden spoon at their feet. “But Albert says we’ll get some produce somehow.”

  “We should make a canning schedule and make sure everyone’s pantry is stocked.” She sighed. “If only we had half the irrigation the Ordway settlement has.”

  “The Mullet sons went down for a month’s work to harvest,” Ruthanna said. “Perhaps when they return there will be extras for everyone.”

  “God will provide.” Mary picked up her son. “He looks like he’s been eating dirt.” She moved to the water barrel, where she stuck the hem of her apron in to dampen it and scrubbed at Little Abe’s cheek. He protested by leaning away from her at a precarious angle. When his mother set him on the floor again, he toddled away from the table.

  Ruthanna felt so enormous and full of child that she could hardly imagine her waist would ever again slim down the way Mary Miller’s had after Little Abe was born. Her feet swelled more every day, and the baby kept her awake at night. Life had slowed to doing only the next thing she could see that needed doing, and she hardly thought beyond the end of the day. She cleaned the cabin, made sure Eber ate and rested, and tried to rest herself in the afternoons when it seemed that the baby was less active. The heat was becoming too much. By midday the house was stifling and did not cool again until after the sun set and the evening winds blew. At home Ruthanna kept a clean, damp rag within reach to wipe across her face as often as she felt the need.

  While Mary and Abbie chatted about how th
e settlement families would get fruits and vegetables to can for the winter, Ruthanna put a hand across her tightening belly. Against her will her entire body contracted and she found it hard to breathe. Pain wrapped itself around her midsection, rising in her back and making her gasp before circling around to the front again. These pains were happening every day now, one every few hours or several close together.

  “Ruthanna, are you all right?” Abbie’s voice cut through the pain in a distant sound.

  “Breathe, Ruthanna,” Mary said. “Don’t close your eyes. That only makes you feel the pain.”

  Ruthanna had not realized her eyes were closed, but she forced them open to see her two friends leaning across the small table, inspecting her. At this unnaturally close angle, their eyes seemed awkwardly wide and the furrows in their brows alarmingly deep.

  “I’m fine,” she managed to say.

  “False labor,” Mary diagnosed. “The same thing happened to me before my time.”

  Ruthanna nodded. “Esther tells me it is quite common.” If this was false labor, she dreaded what true labor would feel like.

  “How much time do you have left?”

  Mary took her hand, and Ruthanna kept herself from crushing her friend’s fingers as the pain finally subsided.

  “Less than two months.” Esther Weaver had birthed many babies besides her own, including Little Abe. Ruthanna had no one else to trust in these matters, so she repeated the calculations Esther had made long ago.

  Before Ruthanna’s train trip to Ohio marked off the distinction between life there and the hardship of the Colorado plain.

  Before Eber got sick and exhausted the hope she had stored up for their future.

  Before Jake in his kindness nevertheless made people nervous about his intentions.

  “I’m all right,” she said again, and Mary released her hand.