with them. He would not be Luke.
Loneliness rose up inside her. Whom, then would she marry? Though she had not relished the thought of Aunt Gerda parading her in front of every eligible man in Troyer, she’d been fairly certain she would find her future husband there. Now that she was going back home to Apple Grove, was Amos Beiler to be her only option? Her gaze strayed once again to the horizon.
Lord, has that been Your intention all along? Did You send me out on this ill-fated journey simply to make me agreeable to a future with Amos? She kicked a dried clot of dirt and watched it roll down the hill. If so, You could have saved me a lot of trouble by saying so.
Enough moping. Such dour thoughts were unbecoming to an Amish woman. She left the hilltop and headed toward the wagon. Rebecca had wandered off to the east and stood a distance away, her back bent as she inspected something in the grass. Maummi and Papa were out of sight, but as Emma approached the wagon she heard the low murmur of their voices. They had seated themselves in the shade, leaning against the wheels on the far side of the wagon.
Emma started toward the rear to get the apple she’d refused earlier, but Maummi’s words stopped her.
“I like the Englisch man. He makes for me a warm feeling in my heart.”
“The trouble is not in liking him,” Papa’s gentle voice answered. “He is not Amish.”
They were discussing Luke. Emma hesitated. She should make a noise to announce her presence. Instead, she ignored a warm rush of guilt and remained still.
“He is Christian.” From Maummi’s decisive tone, Emma could almost see her firm nod. “Like my Carl.”
“I fear you see in him too much of my fader. You would push our Emma to him.”
“Not so. But neither can you build a wall to trap her inside your backyard. She is a good girl and loves the Amish way. You must let her choose for herself.”
“Ja. I know. I have raised both my daughters to serve the Lord and obey the Ordnung. If she chooses to leave the Plain way, as is her right, I can do nothing.” A long sigh sounded. “If the Lord had left my Hannah here, she would know what to do. Her desire matched mine, that our daughters choose baptism and the church. I fear I will fail her, and my Emma, and my Lord all at once.”
Maummi’s voice held a note of gentleness Emma rarely heard. “You have not failed, Jonas.”
Emma could listen no longer. She crept away without a sound and went back up the low hill, where she dropped down to sit in the grass. Hot guilt churned in her stomach, leaving her faintly sick. The guilt of eavesdropping was one thing, but the sorrow and self-accusation she’d heard in Papa’s voice was enough to make her sob. How could he consider himself a failure when he had surrounded her with love and guidance her whole life? What an ungrateful daughter she had become.
A breeze stirred the golden grass around her and she welcomed it, drawing it deep into her lungs. When she exhaled, she blew all her foolish feelings for Luke out with it. Her future was in the Lord’s hands, not her own. If He wanted her married to Amos Beiler in Apple Grove, so be it. She would not disappoint her Lord or her papa.
Luke awoke to the smell of coffee and bacon, one of the best combination of odors God ever concocted. Today it failed to rouse him. His eyes protested when he tried to pry them open, and grogginess hugged his brain like fog hugs a Texas river on a cool morning. He knew he’d be tired today when he had taken both the first and second watch last night, but he’d rather be in the saddle doing something productive than tossing on his bedroll, his brain too full to sleep.
The Switzers’ wagon had dropped out of sight yesterday, and the empty stretch of land behind the herd had pestered him like a bothersome horsefly. He couldn’t stop turning around and stretching his sight, trying to catch a glimpse of white from a bonnet. He’d even welcome the sight of that doggone hutch. But the prairie to the south of them remained empty.
He rolled off his pallet and stood to stretch while he scanned his surroundings. The cattle had stirred, and more than