The Shepherd's Bride. Patricia Davids

happy wedding day.”

      Their mother had lovingly stitched wedding quilts for each of her daughters. They lay packed away in the cedar chest in the corner. The quilts were different colors and personalized for each one of them. They were cherished by the girls as reminders of their mother’s love.

      Lizzie hardened her resolve. “We’ll think of something. It’s only the middle of March. We have until the wedding time in autumn. You’ll see. We’ll think of something before then.”

      “Nee. My wedding will take place the first week of May so I may help with spring planting.”

      Greta slipped into bed behind Lizzie. “That’s not right. We can’t prepare for a wedding in such a short time.”

      “Rufus doesn’t want a big wedding. It will be only the bishop, Uncle Morris, you girls and Rufus.”

      Such a tiny, uncelebrated affair wasn’t the wedding dream of any young woman. Lizzie felt the bed sag again and knew Betsy had joined them on the other side of Clara.

      “I don’t want you to leave us.” Betsy’s voice trembled as she spoke.

      “I won’t be far away. Why, you’ll all be able to come for a visit whenever you want.”

      A visit. That was it! A plan began to form in Lizzie’s mind. She was almost certain she had enough money saved to travel to Ohio on the bus. Their grandfather might ignore a letter, but if she went to see him in person, she could make him understand how dire the situation was.

      It was an outrageous plan, but what choice did she have? None.

      Clara couldn’t marry Rufus. He would crush her gentle spirit and leave her an empty shell. Or worse.

      Lizzie bit her bottom lip. She couldn’t let that happen. Nor could she tell her sisters what she intended to do. She didn’t want them to lie or cover for her. As much as it hurt, she would have to let them think she had run away.

      Her younger sisters soon returned to their own bed. Before long, their even breathing told Lizzie they were asleep. Clara turned over and went to sleep, too.

      Lizzie lay wide-awake.

      If she went through with her plan, the only person she dared tell was Mary Miller. There was no love lost between the schoolteacher and their uncle. Besides, it wasn’t as if Lizzie was leaving the Amish. She was simply traveling to another Amish community. If she wrote to her friend from Ohio, she was certain that Mary would relay messages to the girls. If their grandfather proved willing to take them in, Mary would help them leave.

      Lizzie pressed her hand to her mouth. Would it work? Could she do it?

      If she went, it would have to be tonight while the others were asleep. Before she lost her nerve. She closed her eyes and folded her hands.

      Please, Lord, let this plan be Your will. Give me the strength to see it through.

      She waited until it was well after midnight before she slipped from beneath the covers. The full moon outside cast a band of pale light across the floor. It gave her enough light to see by. She carefully withdrew an envelope with her money from beneath the mattress and pulled an old suitcase from under the bed. It took only five minutes to gather her few belongings. Then she moved to the cedar chest.

      Kneeling in front of it, she lifted the lid. Clara’s rose-and-mauve star quilt lay on top. Lizzie set it aside and pulled out the quilt in shades of blue and green that was to be her wedding quilt. Should she take it with her?

      If she did, it would convince everyone she wasn’t returning. If she left it, her sisters would know she was coming back.

      Suddenly, Lizzie knew she couldn’t venture out into the unknown without something tangible of her family to bring her comfort. She replaced Clara’s quilt and softly closed the lid of the cedar chest.

      Holding her shoes, her suitcase and her quilt, Lizzie tiptoed to the door of their room. She opened it with a trembling hand and glanced back at her sisters sleeping quietly in the darkness. Could she really go through with this?

      * * *

      Carl King scraped most of the mud off his boots and walked up to the front door of his boss’s home. Joe Shetler had gone to purchase straw from a neighbor, but he would be back soon. After an exhausting morning spent struggling to pen and doctor one ornery and stubborn ewe, Carl had rounded up half the remaining sheep and moved them closer to the barns with the help of his dog, Duncan.

      Tired, with his tongue lolling, the black-and-white English shepherd walked beside Carl toward the house. Carl reached down to pat his head. “You did good work this morning, fella. We’ll start shearing them soon if the weather holds.”

      The sheep needed to spend at least one night inside the barn to make sure their wool was dry before being sheared. Damp wool would rot. There wasn’t enough room in the barn for all two hundred head at once. The operation would take three to four days if all went well.

      It was important to shear the ewes before they gave birth. If the weather turned bad during the lambing season, many of the shorn ewes would seek shelter in the sheds and barn rather than have their lambs out in the open where the wet and cold could kill the newborns. Having a good lamb crop was important, but Carl knew things rarely went off without a hitch.

      Duncan ambled toward his water dish. At the moment, all Carl wanted was a hot cup of coffee. Joe always left a pot on the back of the stove so Carl could help himself.

      He opened the front door and stopped dead in his tracks. An Amish woman stood at the kitchen sink. She had her back to him as she rummaged for something. She hadn’t heard him come in.

      He resisted the intense impulse to rush back outside. He didn’t like being shut inside with anyone. He fought his growing discomfort. This was Joe’s home. This woman didn’t belong here.

      “What are you doing?” he demanded. Joe didn’t like anyone besides Carl in his house.

      She shrieked and jumped a foot as she whirled around to face him. She pressed a hand to her heaving chest, leaving a patch of white soapsuds on her faded green dress. “You scared the life out of me.”

      He clenched his fists and stared at his feet. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

      “Who are you? You’re not Joseph Shetler. I was told this was Joseph’s house.”

      He glanced up and saw the defiant jut of her jaw. He folded his arms over his chest and pressed his lips into a tight line. He didn’t say a word as he glared at her.

      She was a slender little thing. The top of her head wouldn’t reach his chin unless she stood on tiptoe. She was dressed Plain in a drab faded green calf-length dress with a matching cape and apron. She wore dark stockings and dark shoes. Her hair, on the other hand, was anything but drab. It was ginger-red and wisps of it curled near her temples and along her forehead. The rest was hidden beneath the black kapp she wore. Her eyes were an unusual hazel color with flecks of gold in their depths.

      He didn’t recognize her, but she could be a local. He made a point of avoiding people, so it wasn’t surprising that he didn’t know her.

      She quickly realized he wasn’t going to speak until she had answered his questions. She managed a nervous smile. “I’m sorry. My name is Elizabeth Barkman. People call me Lizzie. I’m Joe’s granddaughter from Indiana. I was just straightening up a little while I waited for him to get home.”

      As far as Carl knew, Joe didn’t have any family. “Joe doesn’t have a granddaughter, and he doesn’t like people in his house.” He shoved his hands into his pockets as the need to escape the house left them shaking.

      “Actually, he has four granddaughters. I can see why he doesn’t like to have people in. This place is a mess. He certainly could use a housekeeper. I know an excellent one who is looking for a position.”

      Carl glanced around Joe’s kitchen. It was cluttered and dirty, unlike