Hills of Wheat Read online

  Also by Sarah Price

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  #2 Hills of Wheat

  #3 Pastures of Faith

  #4 Valley of Hope

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  #1 A Small Dog Named Peek-a-boo

  #2 Peek-a-boo Runs Away

  #3 Peek-a-boo’s New Friends

  #4 Peek-a-boo and WeeWee

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  Hills of Wheat:

  The Amish of Lancaster Series

  By Sarah Price

  The Pennsylvania Dutch used in this manuscript is taken from the Revised Pennsylvania German Dictionary (1991) published by Brookshire Publications, Inc. in Lancaster PA.

  Copyright © 2011, 2012 by Sarah Price.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Contact the author at [email protected] or visit her weblog at http://sarahpriceauthor.wordpress.com.

  Chapter One

  On top of the hill, surrounded by growing shoots of winter wheat that waved gently in the late-March breeze, a young woman stood by herself. She wore a short-sleeved blue dress, covered with a plain black apron. Her brown hair was barely visible as it was tucked neatly beneath a white heart-shaped prayer cap. Her eyes were shut as she felt the wind against her face, already brown from working outside. But on this day, she did not have to work. It was Sunday, a day of rest. Instead of relaxing inside the house with her family, she had felt drawn to the outdoors. Again. It was where she always retreated when she had a few spare moments. It was where she felt the closest with God.

  She lifted her arms into the air, letting the breeze touch her skin. It brushed against her like gentle feathers. She smiled and began to spin around, slowly at first. The sun warmed her face while the breeze cooled it down. A laugh escaped her throat, a laugh of pure joy and happiness. Spring had almost arrived, the time of year when life was reborn on the farm. New plants, new flowers, new crops.

  In just a few weeks, the winter wheat would change to a creamy light brown in color. The low rolling hill would be covered with shimmering wheat. It would glow like gold in the sun. Then, later in the summer, in the early morning hours, she would help her father and brothers plow the field, working to collect the sheaths behind the harvester, pulled by two mules, as it cut them down. The smell of the freshly cut wheat, the warmth of the sun, and the sweat of honest labor would greet her every day during that time. Her family would create neat rows of shocks to let the wheat dry before bringing them in for market. It was her favorite time of year.

  But now, just now, as she stood among the growing wheat, she felt the birth of spring. The warmth, the sun, the upcoming harvest. She knew what it meant. For the Amish, it was a time of renewal. But for the girl, it meant much more. It was a rebirth, not just of her senses but also of her entire soul.

  __________________________________________

  He was lost. That was the one thing he knew for certain. Beyond that, he did not know anything other than the fact that he was lost in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Once he had turned off the main road, everything began to look the same. The roads were long, weaving through miles of fields and farms. Each farm stood next to an even larger barn and windmill, looking like picturesque paintings against a backdrop of green fields. Silos completed the picture, hovering over the barns and casting long shadows onto the fields.

  Cows dotted the fields, most of them black and white Holsteins. Occasionally, he would drive around a bend, hoping to find a street sign or some type of indicator as to where he was. But each bend brought him further away from the main road and further into the heart of farmland.

  He glanced down at the paper in his hand with the handwritten address. But, he couldn’t even read his own writing. Frowning, he looked up in time to see the two children walking along the road and up the hill. The boy wore a straw hat and the girl a black bonnet. They had lunch pails in their hands and one was on a scooter. Both were barefoot. His old pickup truck was headed right for them. Cursing silently, he swerved, more on instinct than by need. The children didn’t even notice and continued walking.

  The truck wobbled and he felt a bump followed by a loud rattle noise. He could hear the too familiar thump-thump of a problem.

  “Aw come on,” he mumbled as he slowed down the truck.

  He pulled off onto the side of the road, parking halfway on a grassy hill and opened the door to his pickup. As expected, he had a flat. He knew that he should have changed the tires before he left on his journey.

  “Just what I need,” he said to himself, as he ran his fingers through his dark, curly hair and looked around, hoping to see another car or some inkling of civilization. But all he saw were the farms, pastures, and cows. Lots of cows. But no people and certainly no cars. He also didn’t even see telephone lines. His cell phone battery had died less than twenty minutes after he had crossed the state line earlier in the day. This was a bad idea, he thought to himself, not for the first time that day.

  With a deep sigh of resignation, he set to work changing the tire. It had been a long day, a day filled with long highways and deep emotions. Leaving Connecticut behind would begin the healing, he knew that. But it didn’t hurt any less as he left the only home he had ever really known for new, unchartered territory. He knew that he needed the change, needed the fresh start. Still, he hadn’t counted on the forlorn sense of closure that increased with every mile of the journey. And now, with only a few minutes left, if he could ever find the house, the flat tire was like a slap in the face.

  The sun was overhead but there was a cool breeze. He wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced at the sky. It was clear, the perfect spring day. The air was sweet, occasionally carrying a hint of the cows in nearby pastures. But he didn’t find the odor offensive. Indeed, he was looking forward to being around the farms, away from the city and rat race he had called life. If only he could be at the house, unpacking the truck and getting situated before nightfall. Instead, he was stuck on the side of the road, battling with a lug wrench and rusty lug nuts.

  As he turned back to the wheel, he noticed a motion out of the corner of his eye. Standing up, he leaned against the truck, shielding his eyes with his hand. Despite the blinding sun, he looked in the direction where he thought he had seen something move and, indeed, there was the most unusual sight.

  In the middle of the hill, a young woman stood with her arms stretched out and her face turned toward the sun, the warmth caressing her cheeks. She wore a blue dress with a black apron covering the front. The white covering on her head completed the picture. Amish, he thought. Yet, even from this distance, he could tell she was a pretty girl. She was lean, which made her look taller than she actually was. And she was smiling to herself, unaware that she was being observed.

  The moment struck him as one of peace. He was drawn to it. He hadn’t had many moments of peace in the past few years. That was what he was seeking: peace and tranquility. He needed to find that type of peace again. Somewhere along the way, it had disappeared. He thought he knew the reason why it was gone and he definitely knew the moment when it had vanished. The search for peace was the very reason he was here, on this road, lost with a flat tire. It was the reason he was watching the young woman spinning slowly on the hill that was covered with what he suspected was a growing crop of wheat.
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br />   Without being aware of his own actions, he stepped away from the truck and took a few steps toward the hill. In the distance, he saw the farmhouse and barn with surrounding pastures filled with cows. A dog barked in the distance but he couldn’t see from where. Perhaps behind the barn or by the farmhouse. He imagined that was where she lived. What he couldn’t understand was why she was here, all alone, in the field of the growing wheat on the hillside. While he admittedly knew very little about the Amish, he did know that Sundays were usually a day of worship and time spent with family.

  He stood on the edge of the hill, watching her. The wind caught her prayer cap and it flew behind her. For the briefest of moments, she didn’t seem to care. It lay at her feet and she continued to spin, her face tilted toward the sun. But then, after a long moment, she dropped her arms to her sides and took a deep breath. That was when she turned to pick it up and saw him.

  He could tell that she was startled by the way she quickly glanced over her shoulder at the farm behind her. It was as if she was contemplating a quick retreat. But she hesitated long enough for him to smile, wave, and point toward the road where his truck was parked.

  “I’m sorry,” he called out. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. My truck…it has a flat.”

  She quickly put the prayer cap back on her head and, once again, glanced over her shoulder toward the farm. She averted her eyes, trying not to look at him as she took a step backward. “You need help, ja?” she asked, her words thick with a Pennsylvania Dutch accent and her voice carried in the breeze, despite the soft tone.

  Cautiously, he took a step toward her. “I think I got it fixed. Just the tire.” He glanced around the field and back toward the road. “But, perhaps you could help me try to find my way?”

  “You lost, then?” she asked, an inflection on the last word.

  He ran his fingers through his hair and looked around. “I’m afraid so. I know I’m close but these roads don’t have street signs.” He met her gaze, his blue eyes sparkling. “And they are so winding. My GPS system doesn’t seem capable of keeping up.”

  “Where you looking to go?”

  “Musser School Lane?”

  She smiled. “Then you aren’t lost at all! Your truck is on it!” There was something genuine about her smile. It lit up her face and caused her eyes to crescent in happy half-moons.

  “Really?” He laughed, looking over his shoulder at the truck again. “I wonder how that happened?”

  An awkward silence fell between them. He took advantage of the silence to study her. Despite being Amish, she was, indeed, a very pretty girl with a natural beauty. Her skin was tan and clean, a healthy glow on her cheeks. As he watched her, a flush covered her face, the blush from his scrutiny too apparent. She took a step backward and glanced back at the farm again. Off in the distance, he could hear the gentle musical rhythm of a horse’s hooves clip-clopping against the macadam. There was nothing more to say.

  “I should be going,” she finally said. She turned and walked down the hill, her pace quick and light. It wasn’t often that Amish women spent time alone in the company of men, especially non-Amish men. She wanted to be back in the safety of her world and away from his questioning eyes.

  He watched her as she walked away, carefully crawling through the fencing into the cow pasture. When she finally disappeared into the barn, he turned and headed back to his truck. He wanted to finish that tire and get to his final destination in time to unpack the truck and settle in for the night. He knew he had some long days ahead of him and plenty of time to learn more about the Amish.

  Chapter Two

  The markets were crowded. Sylvia took a deep breath and closed her eyes, saying a silent prayer. She disliked market days. Oh, it was nice to see some of her friends and she loved the smell of the foods. Homemade cheeses and breads, pies and meats. The smells were gloriously powerful and she could stand there for hours, imagining the women who had spent afternoons making such good food.

  But once the doors opened, it was too busy with too many staring eyes, silly questions, and sneaky strangers. At least twice each day, she would find some tourist trying to steal a photo of her, despite the signs that told the customers NO PHOTOS. But it was inevitable. After all, she thought disdainfully, rules don’t apply to the Englischer. When it did happen, the only recourse that Sylvia had was to turn away quickly. She was too embarrassed for the tourist to scold them and too shy to protect herself.

  Today, the aisles were crowded with people slowly strolling past the vendors. Each of the little booths offered different culinary experiences: jams, cheese, bread, salads, and root beer. Everything was homemade on an Amish farm from within a ten-mile radius. During different seasons, there would be beautiful displays of tomatoes and corn or pumpkins and squash. People would drive for miles to attend the Amish Farmers Market at Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania. During the winter, the market was only open on Fridays and Saturdays but starting in mid-March, it was also open on Wednesdays. Sylvia was just glad that she only had to work there on Wednesdays and Fridays.

  “Excuse me, miss?”

  Wearily, Sylvia forced a smile at the woman on the other side of the food display. “Yes ma’am?”

  “I’d like to buy some of that jam,” the woman said, pointing to the small pyramid of jam jars. Sylvia started to pick up the jam to show to the woman. “You make that jam at your own farm?” She asked.

  Sylvia took a deep breath. The questions. Now it was time for the questions. It was almost as bad as the picture thieves. “No ma’am. I just work for the farmer who does make it.”

  “You people really don’t use electricity?”

  Sylvia shook her head, hurrying to put the jar into a brown bag. “That will be five dollars please.”

  The woman took her time rummaging through her purse. “I can’t imagine! No electricity!” She handed Sylvia a five-dollar bill. “How on earth do you wash your clothes?”

  Sylvia took the five-dollar bill and handed the woman her bag. “Have a good day, ma’am.” She quickly turned away, hoping that the woman would just disappear. She hated the questions from these complete strangers. It was always the same thing. First about the electricity then about schooling. If they really got carried away, the next question would undoubtedly be about how large Amish families are. It amazed Sylvia how these people were so curious about the Amish, yet demonstrated their complete ignorance of the culture by always asking their brazen, probing, and predictable questions.

  She longed for the day when she could just stay at home. She loved the peaceful days at her father’s farm, working in the fields inbetween the morning and evening milking. She didn’t even mind helping her mother in the kitchen or when she went to help her brother Emanuel’s wife with their small farm in Ephrata. But Jacob Zook needed help. His wife was ill with the cancer and his oldest daughter needed to stay at home to tend to her needs. Until the situation changed, one way or the other, Katie Lapp had volunteered her youngest daughter, Sylvia, to step in to help at his stand at the Farmers Market. No one had asked her if she minded. And Sylvia knew better than to complain.

  A man lingered near the display. “May I help you, sir?” she asked as she took a step forward. When he looked up, she frowned, trying to recall where she knew this man’s face. She couldn’t place it. She only came into contact with Englischers at the market. But the only Englischer men tended to be tourists. Yet, there was something so familiar. Then it dawned on her.

  He was the man from the hill. She remembered his curly brown hair and dancing blue eyes. There was something rustic about him that had made that brief encounter stick in her memory. A blush covered her cheeks and she shifted her weight. It was unusual for her to know any of the people who came to the market as buyers. Instead, she took comfort in knowing the other vendors, people like her, who would prefer to be at home on the farm but did what was needed for the family and the community.

  She knew at once that he had recognized her when he smiled and leaned f
orward. He rested his arms on the top of the glass case between them. “I know you,” he said softly. She didn’t reply, not quite certain what to say. He solved that problem by reaching out his hand. “We didn’t properly meet last weekend, did we? My name’s Jake Edwards.”

  Sylvia stared at his hand, not moving to shake it. She looked as uncomfortable as she felt. “I…I…” she stumbled over her words. “Sylvia Lapp, Mr. Edwards. May I help you with something?”

  “Well, for starters, you can call me Jake. Mr. Edwards sounds so old…reminds me of my father,” he said, his voice light and teasing.

  She wasn’t certain how to respond. When she glanced up, her eyes met his. For a long second, too long for her comfort, he held her gaze. Yet, she couldn’t tear her eyes away. She had recognized that he was handsome from the encounter on the hill. But, now that she was up close and indoors, she saw how handsome he truly was. When he smiled, his face lit up with such sincerity that she felt as if she knew this man. But their acquaintance had only been for a few minutes on top of the hill just a short week ago. And, clearly, he was not Amish.