A Groom for Greta. Anna Schmidt

that he should set his sights on the quieter, more steadfast Lydia.

      Determined to get on with the matter of pursuing his courtship of Lydia, Luke was beginning to lose patience with the way Greta’s mood could change from tears to laughter and back to tears with stunning quickness. But then she buried her face in her hands and her slim shoulders shuddered violently. “How is this possible?” she managed between hiccups.

      “I believe that your sister and I would make...”

      “Not that,” she snapped, the hiccups apparently cured by her sudden fit of temper. She looked off toward the direction that Josef Bontrager had gone as silent tears flowed freely down her cheeks. “Oh, what’s to become of me?” she moaned, wrapping her arms around herself.

      “I expect you’ll do fine,” Luke said as he refilled the dipper and handed it to her. “You’re young and from what I’ve observed there isn’t an eligible man in town who...”

      She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide with horror, her mouth working as if she wanted to say something but could not make her voice work. “You men think that it’s... How dare you for one minute...” she stuttered and shoved the dipper into his hand. “Do not plan to call for us tomorrow for services, Luke Starns,” she ordered, then turned and stalked off down the lane that led to the house she shared with her sister.

      How dare I what? Try to console you? Treat your injured finger? Fetch you water?

      “Women,” Luke muttered as he strode back inside his shop, hooked the halter of the heavy leather apron over his head and started pounding out the iron that he’d left on the fire.

      Through the next half hour as Luke continued his work, Greta’s accusations stayed with him as did her tears. Clearly she remained convinced that he had passed judgment over whatever had passed between her and her beau. Still, thinking back on it, he realized that he’d been more aware of the disagreement than he’d fully understood. And the more he thought about the conversation he’d only partially paid attention to while he stood at the window, the harder he struck the iron on the anvil with extra force.

      Josef Bontrager was a man given to the kind of bombastic announcements that carried above the normal sounds of a town going about its business. Though his announcement to Greta had come at the time of day when most folks had already gone home, his voice insured that anyone who happened to be nearby would hear what he had to say.

      “I can’t marry you, Greta.”

      No wonder the young woman had been so upset. This was no surely ordinary quarrel. The couple’s plan to wed within a month was to be announced the following morning at services. If Bontrager meant what he’d said...

      “Guten tag, Luke.” Roger Hadwell stood at the door of the shop, watching Luke pound the iron into shape. “You’re working later than usual,” he observed.

      “Yah. Just finishing up here. Have some water.” He nodded toward the bucket.

      Roger helped himself while Luke made the last two strikes on the molten metal then shoved it into another bucket of water at his feet. Hot iron striking cold water produced the familiar sizzle of steam rising that Luke found somehow calming. “Come sit awhile,” he invited. He followed Roger outside to the warped bench he kept ready for just such visits.

      Roger owned the hardware business next door and frequently stopped by to exchange bits of news with Luke during the workweek. He was uncustomarily quiet as he sipped water from the dipper. “Did something happen to Greta Goodloe?” he asked finally.

      Luke stalled for time. “Why do you ask?”

      Roger shrugged. “Me and the wife couldn’t help noticing that she stopped by your shop here after Josef drove off—and stayed a good little bit. My wife seemed to think that Greta was upset about something. She and Josef have another spat?”

      Luke sent up a silent prayer for forgiveness for the lie he was about to tell. “It’s the dust.” He nodded toward the street where a hot westerly wind created little flurries of dirt and sand on the street. “Got something in her eye.”

      “That was it then,” Roger said and Luke understood that this was a question.

      “That and she’d gotten a splinter. I picked out the splinter and gave her some water. She took a few minutes to catch her breath and went on her way.”

      They sat watching Jeremiah and Pleasant Troyer pass, their buggy loaded with kids and the week’s shopping. Pleasant nodded in greeting as Jeremiah turned the buggy toward home. The town would be pretty much deserted until everyone gathered at the Troyers’ place the next day for services and the start of a new week.

      “When I saw Greta and Josef earlier,” Roger continued, “it looked like they were having words.”

      I can’t marry you, Greta.

      What kind of man just blurts out something like that in the middle of town where anybody might see or hear? What kind of man walks away without so much as an explanation for the woman he’s professed to love for most of his life?

      Luke couldn’t imagine treating a woman—or any human being—with such callousness. He didn’t know Greta Goodloe very well—really not at all other than seeing her in town or at services—but she seemed a kindhearted person and surely did not deserve such treatment from a man who had professed to love her. He thought about her smile and the way it could bring a special radiance to her features. But she had not been smiling much during the time she had spent in his shop.

      He realized now that he’d gotten lost in thought while Roger had continued to speculate on what might have gone on between Greta and Josef. “...wouldn’t be human if they didn’t have words now and again. Whole town knows that this is hardly the first time. I mean you take a fiery little thing like Greta and put her with a man as fence-straddling as Josef and there are bound to be some times when they don’t see eye to eye.” He chuckled and stood up. “Wait ’til those two are married and spending all day and night together. Oh, there are gonna be some fireworks then, I’ll guarantee it.”

      Roger was still chuckling to himself after he’d tipped his hat and sauntered back to the hardware store—no doubt to report to his wife that Luke had not had any further information to offer. Luke started inside his shop, but a flash of color caught his eye and he paused to look down the lane toward the house where the Goodloe sisters lived.

      In the gathering dusk, Greta was taking down laundry from the clothesline that ran from the house to a palm tree and back again. She yanked free the clothespins and dropped them into a basket at her feet, then snapped the sheet, towel or clothing item hard against the hot westerly breeze and folded it into a precise rectangle before adding it to the pile already in another larger basket.

      Luke told himself that he remained where he was watching her until the line was empty because he wanted to be sure that she had recovered from her earlier distress. But the truth was that he could not seem to stop watching her. It was as if Josef’s harsh words had pried open a door. Suddenly the beautiful Greta Goodloe might be free to consider other suitors. And there had been a time when a much younger and more foolish Luke would have taken a good deal of pleasure in that news. But he had been different then.

      “This is not the sister for you,” he told himself sternly as he forced his gaze away from her and headed inside.

      * * *

      Greta saw Luke Starns watching her. She’d also seen Roger Hadwell make his way over to the blacksmith’s, observed the two men talking and wondered if Luke had decided that since she had already broken their bargain by refusing his offer of a ride to services, he was free to tell Roger everything. In that case she had made a complete fool of herself confiding in the blacksmith and, no doubt by morning, everyone in town was going to know about it. She would be the subject of whispers and conversations that stopped the moment she entered the room when she and Lydia arrived at services.

      Oh, who do you think you’re fooling? Sooner or later everyone has to know the whole story.

      Well,