Johanna's Bridegroom. Emma Miller

would know when the time was right and that God would bring a good man into her life.

      “She’s adorable, Anna.” Beautiful, she thought, but she didn’t say the word out loud. Physical beauty wasn’t something the Old Order Amish were supposed to dwell on. Better a child or an adult have grace and a pure spirit within than a pleasing face.

      “And such an easy baby,” Grossmama said. “Like my Jonas. A gut baby.” She capped a large crimson strawberry and popped it in her mouth. Closing her eyes, she chewed contentedly, savoring the sweet flavor.

      Anna looked up from the earthenware bowl in her lap and smiled with barely contained pride. “Rose is a good baby, isn’t she? Poor Samuel can’t believe it. He keeps getting out of bed at night to make certain she’s still breathing.”

      Grossmama’s eyes snapped open, and she nodded so hard her bonnet strings bounced. “Happy mudder, happy kinner. And such a quick delivery. Pray that Martha has such an easy birth when her time comes.”

      “It’s Ruth who’s expecting,” Rebecca gently reminded her grandmother. “Not Aunt Martha. Our sister Ruth.”

      Johanna tried not to smile at the thought of Aunt Martha, older than her mother, having a new baby. Grossmama’s physical health had been good, and she seemed happier since coming to live with Anna, but her memory continued to fail. Not only was she convinced that Anna’s husband, Samuel, was her dead son, Jonas, but she mixed up names and people so often that one had to constantly think twice when one had a conversation with her. Only yesterday, Grossmama had been certain that Bishop Atlee was her new beau, come to take her to a frolic. Johanna couldn’t help wondering what the English at the senior center, where Grossmama taught rug making several days a week, thought of their grandmother.

      “Are these the last of them?” Rebecca asked. Two brimming dishpans of ripe strawberries stood on the table, waiting to be washed and crushed before being added to the bubbling kettles on the stove.

      “No,” Johanna said. “I think there’s one more flat. I’ll go—” She broke off as the pounding of a horse’s hooves on the dirt lane caught her attention. “It’s Irwin!” She snatched open the screen door and hurried down the wooden steps, wondering why he was in such a hurry.

      Blackie galloped into the yard with Irwin, hatless and white-faced, clinging to his bare back. Chickens squawked and flew in all directions as the teenager yanked the gelding up so hard that the horse began to buck, and Irwin nearly tumbled off.

      “What’s wrong?” Johanna cried. Irwin, the teen who Johanna’s mother had adopted, never moved faster than molasses in January. “Ruth’s not—”

      “Not Ruth! It’s Roland’s J.J.”

      Roland. For an instant, Johanna felt paralyzed. If Roland was in danger, she— No, she told herself, not Roland. J.J., Roland’s little boy. The moment passed and she regained her self-control. “What is it?” she demanded.

      Irwin half slid, half jumped to the ground, letting the reins slip through his hands. Blackie made one more leap and blew flecks of foam from his mouth and nose. Neck and tail arched, the spirited horse trotted onto the lawn, where, after a few more antics, he began to snatch up mouthfuls of grass.

      “You’ve got to come! Schnell!” Irwin steadied himself and ran toward Johanna. “Bees! A swarm! In Roland’s tree. They’re crawling all over J.J.! Roland says they could sting him to death!”

      “Bees?” Johanna asked. “Roland doesn’t keep bees.” If J.J. was in danger, she had to go, but how could she go? After everything that lay between them, knowing how she felt, how could Roland ask it of her? “Are you certain they’re honeybees?”

      Irwin nodded. “H...honeybees!”

      Johanna grabbed him by his thin shoulders and shook him. “Calm down!” she ordered. “Has J.J. been stung?”

      “Ne.” Irwin shook his head. “Roland doesn’t know what to do. He says you have to come. You know bees.”

      “All right,” Johanna agreed. J.J.’s little face, the image of his father, flashed through her thoughts, and she swallowed, trying to keep her voice from showing what she really felt. “You run to our farm,” she instructed Irwin calmly. “Get my smoker and my bee suit and an empty nuc box and bring them to Roland’s.”

      He knitted his eyebrows. “What kind of box?”

      “A used hive body. A deep one. And don’t forget my lemongrass oil. It’s on the shelf beside my gloves. Bring them to Roland’s.” She took a deep breath and pressed her hands to her sides to keep anyone from seeing them tremble. “Can you remember all that?”

      He nodded.

      “Good. Now run, as quickly as you can!”

      Anna and Rebecca had followed her into the yard. “What’s happened?” Rebecca asked.

      “Irwin says that there’s a swarm of bees at Roland’s.”

      “In the tree! By the pond. And...and J.J.’s up in the tree with them,” Irwin said. For all his fourteen years, he looked as though he was about to burst into tears. Red patches stood out on his blotchy complexion, and his hay-thatch hair stuck up in tufts. Somewhere, he’d lost his hat, and one suspender sagged.

      “Go now,” Johanna told Irwin. “And don’t stop for anything!”

      Irwin took off.

      “I’ve got to go see what I can do,” Johanna said to Rebecca and Anna, taking care not to show how flustered she really was. She’d been an apiarist long enough to know that it was important to remain calm with bees. They seemed to be able to sense a person’s mood and the best way to calm a hive—or a swarm—was to stay calm herself. As if that’s possible, the warning voice in her head whispered, when you have to go to Roland’s house and pretend you’re only friends.

      “Take one of our buggies,” Anna offered. “We’ll help you hitch—”

      “Ne.” Johanna glanced from her sisters to where the horse grazed on the lawn. “There’s no time. I’ll ride Blackie.”

      “Bareback?” Anna’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? Blackie’s—”

      “Headstrong. Skittish. I know.” Johanna grimaced. “It isn’t as if we didn’t get thrown off worse when we were kids.” How could she tell Anna that she was afraid? Not of Blackie or of being thrown, but of Roland...of the past she’d thought she’d put behind her years ago?

      “You’re going to ride astride, like a man?” Rebecca shook her head. “It’s against the Ordnung. Not fitting for women. Bishop Atlee will—”

      “J.J.’s life might be in danger. The bishop will understand that this is an emergency,” Johanna answered with more confidence than she felt. Her heart raced as she bent and ripped up a handful of grass and walked slowly toward Blackie. The animal rolled his eyes and backed up a few steps, ears pricked and muscles tensed.

      “Easy,” Johanna soothed. “Good boy. Just a little closer.” She inched forward and grabbed a trailing rein. “Give me a boost up,” she said to her sisters.

      Rebecca shook her head. “You’re going to be in sooo much trouble.”

      Ignoring Rebecca, Anna moved to Blackie’s side and cupped her hands. Johanna thrust a bare foot into the makeshift stirrup and swung up onto the horse’s back.

      “Was is?” Grossmama shouted. “Baremlich!”

      But Johanna had already pulled Blackie’s head around, grabbed a handful of mane and dug her heels into the animal’s sides. Blackie broke into a trot, and they galloped away.

      * * *

      Roland Byler’s stomach did a flip-flop as he stood by the pond and stared up at his only child. J.J. had climbed into the branches of a Granny Smith apple tree and sat with his back against the trunk