An Amish Arrangement. Jo Ann Brown

      “That’s the name he gave the farm when I was little. He urged us to come along and keep up with him while he did chores, so we called it Come Along Farm.”

      “He didn’t tell you he’s selling me the farm?”

      “No!”

      “I’m sorry to take you by surprise,” he said gently, “but I’ll be closing the day after tomorrow.”

      “Impossible!” Her voice squeaked, and she took a steadying breath. Sounding as young as Sunni wouldn’t help. And she didn’t want her raised voice to bring her daughter from the kitchen to investigate. The little girl was upset enough already to have to leave their Mennonite community and Mercy’s parents in central New York, and Mercy hadn’t missed the glares Sunni had shot at Jeremiah. When she and Graham ended their ill-advised engagement, her daughter had been caught up in the aftermath and no longer trusted men she didn’t know. Mercy’s attempts to reassure Sunni that the little girl had nothing to do with the breakup hadn’t helped.

      “It’s not impossible. I’ve got the paperwork in my suitcase on the porch. If you want to see it—”

      “I don’t have interest in seeing what can’t be legitimate. It sounds as if someone has played a horrible prank on you, Jeremiah. I’m sorry.” She was, because she guessed he’d traveled for hours or days to get there. “But the farm’s not for sale.”

      He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. Taking a deep breath, he released it. In a calm tone she doubted she could emulate, he said, “There’s no sense in arguing. Why don’t you get your grossdawdi, and we’ll settle this?”

      “I can’t.”

      “Why not?”

      She blinked on sudden tears. “Because he’s dead.”

      When Jeremiah’s face became ashen, Mercy wondered if she should tell him to take a seat. It must have been seconds, but it felt like a year before he asked, “Rudy is dead?”

      “Yes.” She swallowed hard past the lump in her throat.

      “When?”

      “Last week. It was a massive heart attack. He was buried the day before yesterday.” As she spoke, she found it impossible to believe the vital, vigorous man was gone.

      Rudy Bamberger had been more than a grandfather to her. He’d been her best friend, the one who had welcomed her into the family after her life had hit bottom. Rudy hadn’t been a replacement for Abuelita, her beloved grandmother who had raised her when she was called Mercedes in a tiny apartment in the Bronx. Abuelita had died two weeks after Mercy’s tenth birthday, and everything in Mercy’s life had changed, including her name. Yet, Grandpa Rudy had made her feel as if she belonged among the people who were so different from those she’d known in the city. His love had been unconditional, and she’d returned it.

      “I’m sorry,” Jeremiah said with sincerity.

      She wished he’d been trite instead of genuine, because one thing hadn’t changed. He wanted to take away the farm that was her final gift from Grandpa Rudy. How often she’d sat on the old man’s lap and talked about taking care of the apple orchard or making maple syrup as he did each spring or what color she would paint the big bedroom! He’d humored her, even when her paint choices went from pink to purple to red and black over the years.

      But Jeremiah was saying her grandfather had intended to sell the farm to him.

      “But Grandpa Rudy told me the farm would be mine after he passed away.”

      “Then why would he sign a purchase agreement with me?”

      Mercy shook herself from her mental paralysis. She hated admitting she couldn’t guess why her grandfather would break his promise to her.

      “Mommy, what’s wrong?”

      Shocked she hadn’t noticed Sunni in the kitchen doorway, Mercy put her arm around her daughter’s narrow shoulders. “Nothing that can’t be fixed,” she replied with a smile.

      Over the child’s head, she shot Jeremiah a frown, warning him not to upset Sunni. She didn’t want her daughter to feel as if her world was being taken away from her—again—as it must have when Sunni traveled from Korea to what was supposed to be her forever home. It hadn’t been, because her adoptive parents, who’d changed her name from Kim Sun-Hee to Sunni, couldn’t handle having a daughter who wore leg braces. Sunni had been returned to social services as if she were a set of curtains that didn’t match the furniture. A disrupted adoption was the name given to it. Or a failed placement. The latter fit better, because it sure felt like a failure for the child involved.

      As Mercy had learned herself fifteen years ago when she’d been the one given away by what she’d thought would be her forever family. If the Bambergers hadn’t been there to take her in... No, she didn’t want to think of that awful time.

      Again, she warned herself to focus on the present, not the past. And her and Sunni’s future. She had to stop letting her emotions take over. She needed to be logical. Building Come Along Farm into a retreat for city kids would require her to face a lot of bureaucracy on local and state levels. She must be ready to stand up for what she wanted.

      “Sunni, if you go and get the book we were reading, I’ll meet you in the living room once I’m finished here.”

      The little girl looked from her to Jeremiah, then nodded. “Okay, Mommy.”

      Mercy said nothing as Jeremiah watched Sunni hobble away. There was no pity in his expression, and she was grateful. Too many people felt sorry for Sunni, calling her a “poor little thing.” Sunni was one of the strongest people Mercy knew and had learned to walk through perseverance and hard work. If only Mercy could help her heal from the emotional wounds she’d suffered, but those would take more time.

      As soon as the little girl was out of earshot, Mercy said, “I guess I should see the purchase agreement you say my grandfather signed.”

      Jeremiah hooked a thumb toward the door. “Give me a minute, and I’ll dig out the paperwork I’ve got.”

      She considered locking the door, but that wouldn’t solve the problem. Instead, she held the door open while he brought in two scuffed duffel bags.

      Closing the door, she said nothing while he opened one bag and found a manila envelope. He withdrew a sheaf of pages and sorted through them. In the middle of the stack, he pulled out several and offered them to her.

      “Here’s everything I got from your grossdawdi through my Realtor,” he said without a hint of emotion.

      Mercy didn’t look to discover if compassion had slipped into his gaze. This time, for her. She wanted it no more than Sunni would have. When he handed her the pages, his work-roughened skin brushed against her fingers. Sensation arced between them like electricity, and she jerked her hand away. Being attracted to the man who insisted he was buying her family’s farm would be stupid.

      If he had the same reaction, she couldn’t tell, because she carefully kept her gaze on the papers. She scanned each page, her heart sinking lower and lower. Everything looked aboveboard, and she recognized her grandfather’s scrawled signature on the bottom of each page. She didn’t stop to decipher every bit of legalese, but grasped enough to know Grandpa Rudy was selling the farm to Jeremiah Stoltzfus.

      Just as Jeremiah claimed.

      “But my grandfather died,” she whispered. “Doesn’t that change things?”

      “I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve ever bought property.” He gave her a lopsided grin that lifted her traitorous heart once more.

      Paying it no attention, she returned the papers to him and he put them in his bag. No one could answer the question gnawing at her most. Why would her grandfather promise her the property and then decide to sell it without telling her? She’d often mentioned her plans for the farm. Hadn’t he read