The Amish Bride. Emma Miller

Shetlers kept him. He certainly wasn’t safe for Simeon’s grandsons to ride or drive. A clever pony like him was a handful for anyone to manage, let alone a one-legged man in his sixties.

      Cautiously, Ellen took a few steps closer to the pony. Butterscotch tossed his head and moved six feet farther down the road. “So that’s the way it will be,” she said. The sound of a vehicle alerted her to an approaching car. The driver, coming from the direction of Honeysuckle, slowed. The pony stood and watched as the sedan passed. He wasn’t traffic shy, which was the one good thing that Ellen could say about him.

      When the car had disappeared behind her, Ellen took another bite of the apple, turned her back on Butterscotch and retraced her steps toward Simeon. She heard the creak of the harness and the rattle of wheels behind her, but she kept walking. She kept going until she was almost even with Simeon, then stopped and waited. It wasn’t long before she felt the nudge of a soft nose on her arm. Without making eye contact, she held out the remainder of the apple. Butterscotch sunk his teeth into the piece of fruit, sending rivulets of juice dripping down Ellen’s arm. Swiftly, she reached back and took hold of the pony’s bridle.

      “Gotcha,” she murmured in triumph.

      Once Simeon was safely on the seat of the cart, reins in hand, with the cart turned toward Honeysuckle again, he waved to her scooter. “Why don’t you put that in the back? Ride with me. We can talk on the way.”

      Curious and a little apprehensive, Ellen lifted her scooter into the back. He offered his hand. She put a foot into the iron bracket and stepped up into the cart. “Have I done something wrong?” she asked.

      She couldn’t imagine what. She hadn’t been roller skating at the local rink in months, and she took care to always dress modestly in public, even if she did wear a safety helmet when she used her scooter in high-traffic areas.

      “Of course not.” Simeon shook the reins. “Walk on.” Butterscotch moved forward and the cart rolled along. “You’re an excellent example for our younger girls, Ellen,” he said, turning to favor her with a smile. “You’re devout and hardworking.”

      Now he really had her attention. The familiar sound of horse’s hooves alerted her to a horse and buggy coming up behind them. Ellen glanced over her shoulder; the driver was Joseph Lapp. She and Simeon waved as Joseph swung around, passing the pony cart. He waved back and quickly moved on ahead of them.

      “Wonder if we’ll start tongues clucking, riding together,” Simeon remarked.

      Ellen looked at him, hoping he was joking. Simeon wasn’t going to ask if he could come courting, was he? It seemed like once a month he was asking someone permission to court—a matter that kept the women of the community, from age eighteen to eighty, chuckling. But the twinkle in his faded blue eyes told her that he was teasing, and she relaxed a little.

      “I want to discuss with you a problem that’s been worrying me in my household.” He tugged at his full gray beard thoughtfully. “As you know, ours is a bachelor house—one grandfather, two grown sons and two small boys. And we’re sorely in need of a woman’s hand. Oh, we cook and clean and try to keep things in order, but everyone knows a good woman is the heart of any home.”

      Unconsciously, she clasped her hands together and tried to think of what she would say if he asked to walk out with her. A few months ago, he’d asked her twenty-nine-year-old widowed friend, Ruthie.

      “You’re what, Ellen? Two and thirty?”

      “Thirty-three,” she said softly.

      “Jah, thirty-three. Almost three years younger than my Neziah.” He fixed her with a level gaze. “You should have married long ago, girl. You should be a mother with a home of your own.”

      “My parents...” she mumbled. “They’ve needed help, and—”

      “Your devotion to your mother and father is admirable,” he interrupted. “But in time, they’ll both be gathered to the Lord, and you’ll be left alone. And if you wait too long, you’ll have no children to care for you in your old age.”

      Her mouth went dry. What Simeon was saying was true. A truth she tried not to think about. It wasn’t that she hadn’t once dreamed of having a husband and children, simply that the time had never been right and the right man had never asked her. She’d had her courting days once, but her father had gotten ill and then there was the fire...and the years had simply gotten away from her. She believed that God had a plan for her, but her life seemed whole and happy as it was. If she never married, would it be such a tragedy?

      “I’ve long prayed over my own sons’ dilemma,” Simeon confided as he loosened the reins and flicked them over Butterscotch’s back to urge him on faster. “Neither one is married now, and both would be the happier if they were. So I’ve prayed and waited for an answer, and it seems to me that the Lord has made clear to me what must be done.”

      Ellen turned to him. “He has?”

      Simeon turned the full force of his winning smile on her. “You should marry one of them.” He didn’t wait for her to respond. “It makes perfect sense. My land and your father’s are side by side. Most of his is wooded with fine old hardwood, and we make our living by the lumber mill. I’ve known you since you were a babe in arms, and there’s no young woman I’d more willingly welcome into our family.”

      She, who never was at a loss for words, was almost speechless. “I...” She stopped and started again. She couldn’t help but stare at Simeon. “You think I should marry Neziah or Micah?”

      “Not only think it, but am certain of it. I already told them both at breakfast this morning.” He narrowed his gaze. “Now I expect you to be honest with me, Ellen. Do you have any objection to either of them for reason of character or religious faith?”

      She shook her head as the images of handsome, young, blond Micah and serious, dark-haired Neziah rose in her mind’s eye. “Nay, of course not. They’re both men of solid faith, but—”

      “Goot,” he pronounced, “because I don’t know which the Lord intends for you. I’ve told both of my sons that I expect each of them to pay court to you and make a match as soon as may be decently arranged. The choice between them will be yours, Ellen. Steady Neziah and his children or my rascally, young Micah.” He gazed out over the pony with a sly smile. “And I care not which one you take.”

      * * *

      It was an hour later at the craft store when Ellen was finally able to share her morning adventure with Dinah Plank, the widow who helped in the shop and lived in the apartment upstairs. Dinah, a plump, five-foot-nothing whirlwind of gray-haired energy, was a dear friend, and Ellen valued her opinion.

      “So, Simeon came right out and told you that you should marry one of his sons?” Dinah paused in rearranging the display of organic cotton baby clothing and looked at her intently through wire-framed eyeglasses. “Acting as his sons’ go-between, is he?”

      “So it seems.” Ellen stood with an empty cardboard box under each arm. She had two orders to pack for mailing, and she wanted to get them ready for UPS.

      “What did you tell him?” The older woman shook out a tiny white infant’s cap and carefully brushed the wrinkles out of it. Light poured in through the nine-paned windows, laying patterns of sunlight across the wide-plank floor of the display room and bouncing off the whitewashed plaster walls.

      “Nothing, really. I was so surprised, I didn’t know what to say.” She put the mailing boxes on the counter and reached underneath for a couple of pieces of brown-paper wrapping. “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. They’ve been such goot neighbors, and of course, my dat and Simeon are fast friends.”

      “You think Simeon has already said something to your father?”

      “I can’t imagine he did.” She lined the first cardboard box with two pieces of brown paper. “Dat would have certainly said something.”

      Dinah