Read an Excerpt
Promise Lodge
By Charlotte Hubbard KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
Copyright © 2016 Charlotte Hubbard
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-3942-6
CHAPTER 1
Deborah Peterscheim stood at the roadside entrance to Promise Lodge, her pulse pounding. Her English driver was heading back along the county road with her last dollar. As she cradled a cookie tin in her arm and gripped the handle of her old suitcase, she hoped the three-hour trip from Coldstream hadn't been a huge mistake.
But it was too late for doubts. "This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it," she reminded herself as she raised her face to the warm June sun. It felt good to let the breeze ripple her clothing as the trees whispered their welcome — such a comfort compared to the final, harsh words her dat had flung at her as he'd pointed toward the door. If only she hadn't spotted the flames coming from the Bender barn. If only she hadn't called 9-1-1 ...
One more time, to reassure herself, Deborah read the ad she'd torn from The Budget: New settlement in north-central Missouri. Ample land. Lodging available while homes are being built. Limited number of apartments for single women. Old Order Amish and Mennonites welcome. Contact Amos Troyer, P.O. Box 7, Promise, MO.
Surely Preacher Amos and the other friends from Coldstream who'd started this new colony would understand her need for a fresh start. First and foremost, she hoped to win Noah Schwartz's heart again, after foolishly calling a halt to their engagement last month. Just one of several stupid moves, she thought with a sigh. But don't let on about why Dat sent you away. Not until you absolutely have to.
Deborah blanked out the painful parting images of her parents' faces and instead focused on the handwritten sign at the roadside.
WELCOME TO PROMISE LODGE
OPENING SOON
THE PROMISE PRODUCE STAND
THE PROMISE LODGE APARTMENTS
She recognized the clean, precise printing as Noah's — he had an eye for arranging things, and a steady hand when it came to wielding a paintbrush or a welding torch. Did she dare believe that Noah was welcoming her to Promise Lodge? Or would he reject her apologies — her request for his forgiveness — before she could convince him her pleas were sincere?
There was only one way to find out.
Deborah walked beneath the arched metal Promise Lodge sign, which was positioned between trees that formed a canopy over the entryway. Their leaves rustled in the breeze, allowing splotches of sunshine to dapple the dirt driveway. When she stepped beyond the colorful trumpet vines at the entrance, she stopped to gaze at what she hoped would be her haven. Maybe her new home.
Ahead, Deborah saw a tall, timbered lodge building with a wide porch and a grassy yard surrounding it. Several cabins nestled in the shade of ancient trees behind the lodge. In a fenced pasture beside an old red barn, black-and-white dairy cows grazed and goats munched on weeds as they watched Deborah. Off to her right, about an acre away, the surface of a lake shimmered in the sunlight.
To her left, a large garden plot had been tilled and hoed. Leaf lettuce, peas, and other early vegetables grew in neat, straight rows, their leaves shining a vibrant green against the dark soil. Beyond this planted plot, another garden was being plowed. When a Belgian came around from behind the fragrant honeysuckle hedge, following the contour of previous rows, Deborah's heart stopped.
Noah was driving. She would know his lean silhouette and the dark, wavy hair fluttering beneath his straw hat anywhere, for she'd memorized his handsome features all through school and during their yearlong engagement. This was the man she'd planned to spend her life and raise her children with — and when he fixed his eyes on her, even from a distance, Deborah stopped breathing. He gazed long and hard, his expression indiscernible as the horse plodded along and the plow blades churned up the black soil.
Deborah dropped her suitcase and ran toward him, clapping a hand over her kapp so it wouldn't fly off. Such hope — such joy! — danced in her heart. Surely he would feel compelled to give her another chance. She had to find a way to make amends. "Noah!" she called out. "Noah, it's so gut to see you!"
As he halted the horse and stepped down from the plow, Deborah stopped at the edge of the plot to catch her breath. Noah took his time, stepping carefully over the uneven, furrowed earth. His green shirt clung to his damp chest and his old Tri-blend pants flapped in the breeze as he walked. He'd lost some weight —
But I can fix that! Maybe he's missed me as much as I've longed for him! Deborah thought as Noah crossed the last several feet between them. He mopped his face with a bandanna and then stuffed it back into his pocket.
"Deborah."
She savored the sound of Noah's voice, the way he made her name sound so much sweeter than anyone else could, even if a wary silence stretched between them. When Deborah realized he wasn't going to say anything else, she offered him the cookie tin. "I — I brought you some of those brownies you always liked," she said with her best smile. "The kind with the peppermint patties in them."
Noah took the tin but he didn't open it. Sweat was dribbling from beneath his straw hat down his cheeks, but she didn't dare wipe it off the way she used to.
"Why'd you come here?" he asked. "It's a long trip from Coldstream."
Deborah winced. He was asking the questions she didn't want to answer — but she might as well state her case. "I made a big mistake, breaking off our engagement, Noah," she murmured, holding his intense brown-eyed gaze. "I'm hoping we can — hoping you'll give me the chance to make up for my impulsive decision. I'm sorry for those things I said. Can you forgive me? Please?"
His eyes widened. When someone asked for forgiveness, the Old Order ways demanded an answer, or at least an effort toward reconciliation. "I'll have to think about it," he replied tersely. "Why would I want to court you again, after you shot me down like a tin can off a fence?"
Deborah turned so Noah wouldn't see her eyes filling with tears. Their conversation wasn't going well at all, but she had to get past this roadblock. She had nowhere else to go, and no way to get there. "I was wrong to doubt you, Noah," she whispered. "I got too impatient, wanting answers — that house with a rose trellis we'd talked about — before you were ready to provide them."
"How'd you get that bruise on your neck?"
As her hand flew to the mark her collarless cape dress couldn't conceal, Deborah realized how guilty she must look. "I fell."
She closed her eyes against the memory of how Isaac Chupp had grabbed her in anger because she'd called the sheriff. It wasn't a lie — she had fallen after the bishop's son had shoved her into a ditch.
But she couldn't start down that conversational trail yet. Noah would want nothing more to do with her if she told him of the events that had led to her leaving Coldstream this morning after her dat had ordered her out of the house.
Noah cleared his throat as though he didn't believe her. He glanced at her suitcase. "How long do you figure to stay?"
Deborah swallowed hard. She hadn't been here ten minutes, yet Noah sounded ready to be rid of her. "This is such a pretty place," she hedged, gazing out over the grassy hills that were dotted with trees and wildflowers. "And you're planning to provide apartments? And open a produce stand? Your mamm and aunts are the perfect women for running those businesses."
Noah let out a humorless laugh. "Mamm, Rosetta, and Christine love it here," he replied. "Me? I'm not seeing Promise Lodge as the Eden they made it out to be when they declared we were all moving. But there's no going back."
Deborah closed her eyes. Noah's impatient tone suggested that he'd already written her off.
"There's no lack of work to keep me busy here, and to keep my mind off how things went sour between us." He let out a long sigh. "I suppose that's one gut thing."
The pain in Noah's eyes sliced into Deborah's soul. She'd had no idea how badly she'd hurt him, or of the bridges she'd burned by so recklessly ending their engagement. "I'm so sorry," she said in a tremulous voice. "I —"
"Jah, so you've said."
"— had no idea what I was tearing apart when I thought I wanted to —"
"It was my whole life you tore apart, girl," Noah blurted. "It'll never go back together the way it used to be. Why would I take a chance on getting my heart ripped out again?"
Deborah hung her head. Noah's words sounded so final. It seemed her best option was to use a phone here at Promise Lodge to call that English driver's cell phone before he got any farther down the road. But she had no way to pay him, and no place else to go now that her dat had cast her out.
"I've got this plowing to finish," Noah said, gesturing toward the Belgian that was standing in the partially tilled garden plot. "You'd best go on up to the lodge. At least Phoebe and Laura will be glad to see you."
* * *
As Deborah trudged toward the buildings, her shoulders slumped and shuddering, Noah's heart thudded. She'd never been much good at lying. Her cheeks flushed and her pretty green eyes clouded over — not that she'd ever really lied, that he knew of. But she'd dodged his questions a time or two during their courtship, and she hadn't told him anything he needed to know just now.
In that respect, Deborah was a lot like Mamm and his aunts. They minimized problems and forged ahead without thinking everything through, as they'd done when they'd sold their three farms, pooling their money to buy this abandoned church camp. Women were good at getting themselves into situations men found totally impractical. So now he was plowing and painting at Promise Lodge instead of continuing his welding apprenticeship with Deborah's dat, Preacher Eli Peterscheim — not that he'd wanted to remain in Coldstream after Deborah had broken his heart.
Excited barking made Noah sigh. His Border Collie, Queenie, was running up from the pasture to greet Deborah as though the prodigal daughter had come home. "Traitor," Noah murmured, watching the dog wag her fluffy tail while Deborah stroked her black head and ears.
Instinct told Noah to set the canister down, but his wistful memories were stronger. As he lifted the lid, scents of mint and chocolate brought back the days he and Deborah had spent together planning their future. Three brownies later, he kicked himself for caving in to sentiment, to the idea that Deborah had baked them just for him. Her brownies were only a temporary fix, a Band-Aid on a gaping emotional wound.
"We've got a long row to hoe, Buck," he muttered to the Belgian as he stepped up onto the plow platform. "Geddap, fella."
As the muscled horse pulled him around the end of the plot, Noah watched his cousins, Laura and Phoebe Hershberger, rush out the lodge door to greet Deborah. Their happy cries drifted out to him and he envied the way they took her into their arms, welcoming her so excitedly. Once upon a time he'd hugged her with the same enthusiasm, believing he could find no finer young woman on God's earth — believing the Lord had created Deborah Peterscheim especially for him. He'd loved her all his life. He'd never had eyes for anyone else.
But Deborah's cruel, unexpected words still rang in his head. It's been more than a year, Noah. I thought we'd be married by now, in our home and starting our family. Maybe you don't love me enough. Maybe our engagement is a big mistake.
How could he possibly have responded to those words? What was the right answer, when the young woman to whom he'd given his heart had implied that he didn't love her enough and couldn't make her dreams come true fast enough? Hadn't she realized that he couldn't support a wife and a family before he finished his welding apprenticeship and found a steady job?
It made no sense. And to add grease to the fire, a short time later his mamm had announced they were pulling up stakes in Coldstream to move to Promise. While he agreed with Mamm and her sisters that Bishop Obadiah Chupp's attitude had become intolerable, he'd obviously underestimated the depth of their disagreement with the bishop's opinions. And who had ever heard of women starting a new colony? Why had Mamm and her sisters ever thought they could make it work?
Noah exhaled to release his rising resentment but then his anger came at him from a different direction. Who had grabbed Deborah's neck hard enough to leave a bruise in the shape of a purple handprint? True enough, her dat had a temper when he got frustrated, but had he slapped her around? If so, what had gentle Deborah done to provoke him?
What if it wasn't her dat? But then, why had she been standing close enough for any other fellow to touch her? Unless ...
Noah finished the plowing. His stomach churned with suspicion as he unhooked Buck and led him behind the stable. What if Deborah had ended their engagement because another guy had caught her eye? And if that was the case, how long had that been going on? Had she fled Coldstream to kiss up to him because she'd been mistreated? Or had she gone astray?
Noah led the horse into the corral and topped off the water trough. The steady pounding coming from the barn told him that either his brother or Preacher Amos was inside. Until new families arrived, they were the only three men at Promise Lodge, and he felt more like talking with one of them than subjecting himself to the hens in the lodge — not to mention facing Deborah again so soon.
As Noah entered the shadowy structure, where cracks in the weathered lumber allowed some daylight through, his older brother, Roman, looked up from the stanchion he was constructing. When this property had been a church camp, riding horses, tack, and hay had been stored here, so he and Amos were renovating it into a dairy barn for Aunt Christine's Holstein herd. After her husband died last fall, Roman had taken over the milking and the care of the cows.
"Problem?" Roman asked. "By the look on your face, your mouth was open when a bird flew over."
Noah grimaced. "Deborah's here. Begging for my forgiveness."
His brother's eyebrows shot up. "And you said —?"
He thrust the canister at Roman and then walked around, checking out the progress on the remodeling. "I told her I wanted no part of courting her again."
"Gut answer! Amos brought five more letters from the post office this morning, from families wanting to come to Promise Lodge," his brother said in an excited voice. "Three of those families have daughters. They're looking for affordable land and fresh bloodlines to marry into. So here we are, brother. The answer to their prayers, right?" Roman pried off the canister lid, inhaled deeply, and then stuffed a brownie into his mouth.
Noah sighed, allowing the thrum of the agitator in the bulk milk tank to fill the silence. Before fall, they needed to construct a separate stable for their horses, and within the next week or two they'd have to build a roadside stand where the girls could sell their produce. So much work, so little time.
"Still can't argue that Deborah's brownies are the best, though," Roman remarked. "Looks like you've eaten a few."
"Jah, they were a peace offering. But once the sugar wears off, you're only hungrier for something more substantial."
Roman chortled. "That's where these new girls might be just the ticket. But if Deborah has asked you to forgive her, you know Mamm and the aunts will side with her," he pointed out. "And Preacher Amos'll be reminding you about that seventy-times-seven thing, when it comes to letting go of old grudges. Even if you don't want to marry her anymore, he'll tell you to forgive and forget."
It was true. Preacher Amos was an admirable man, even if he'd come to Promise Lodge mostly because he was a widower and he had his eye on Mamm. He was more laid-back than Preacher Eli or Bishop Obadiah Chupp, but he insisted on following the rules Jesus had taught. There would be no wiggling out of forgiving Deborah, no crying foul just because she'd jilted him. Forgiveness was the cornerstone of the Old Order faith. They had both joined the church last year, so he couldn't ignore Christ's most important commandment: Love one another.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Promise Lodge by Charlotte Hubbard. Copyright © 2016 Charlotte Hubbard. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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