Amanda Weds a Good Man Read online

  As they stepped outside, however, an ominous crash rang out, followed by a yelp and another crash.

  “Simon! Get your dog out of that wagon!”

  Amanda’s face fell. Oh, but she recognized that authoritative voice. And there could be only one Simon with a pet who had stirred up such a ruckus . . . and only one wagon full of pottery with its end gate down.

  As she rounded the corner of the store with Sam and Abby, the scene in the parking lot confirmed Amanda’s worst fears: the Brubaker family had gathered around her wagon and was coaxing Simon’s German shepherd out of it while Wyman lifted his youngest son onto its bed. When the five-year-old boy grabbed his basketball from the only box of her pottery left standing, the picture became dismally clear.

  “Oh, Amanda,” Abby murmured as the three of them hurried toward the Brubakers. “This doesn’t look so gut.”

  Amanda’s stomach clenched. How many days’ worth of her work had been shattered after Wags had apparently followed Simon’s ball into her wagon?

  “Gut afternoon to you, Wyman,” Sam said. “We just heard your exciting news, and we’re mighty happy you and Amanda are hitching up.”

  Wyman set his youngest son on the ground and extended his hand to the storekeeper. “Jah, I finally found a gal who’ll put up with me and my raft of kids. But I can’t think she’s too happy with us right this minute.”

  Amanda bit back her frustration as her future husband lowered one of her boxes to the ground so she could see inside it. The other boxes had been overturned, so some of her pie plates, vases, and other items lay in pieces on the wagon bed. She had considered padding her pottery more carefully, boxing the pieces better, but who could have guessed that Simon’s energetic, oversize puppy would follow a basketball into her wagon? A little sob escaped her.

  “And now, Simon, do you see why you should always check the latch on the dog’s pen when we leave?” Wyman asked sternly. “Not only was it dangerous for Wags to come running up alongside our buggy, but now he’s broken Amanda’s pottery. What do you say to her, son?”

  The little boy, clutching his basketball, became the picture of contrition. Simon’s brown eyes, usually filled with five-year-old mischief, were downcast as he stood beside his father. “I . . . didn’t mean to break your stuff,” he murmured. “I bounced my ball too high and Wags had to play, too. I’m real sorry.”

  Chastising this winsome boy wouldn’t put her pottery together again, would it? “Things happen,” Amanda replied with a sigh. “I was hoping to sell my ceramics here at the mercantile, but . . . well, maybe we can salvage some of it.”

  “Tie Wags to the wagon, Simon, before he causes any more trouble,” Wyman murmured.

  Abby had stepped up beside Amanda to carefully lift the contents of the box onto the tailgate while Wyman set the other two boxes upright. Amanda was vaguely aware that the other Brubaker kids were nearby: his teenage sons, Pete and Eddie, went on inside the mercantile while seventeen-year-old Vera came up beside her, cradling little Alice Ann against her hip.

  “See there, all is not lost,” Abby remarked as she set unbroken dishes to one side of the wagon bed. “Still enough for a display, Amanda—”

  “And look at these colors!” Vera said as she fingered some of the broken pieces. “Dat told me you worked on pottery, Amanda, but I had no idea it was like this! So, do you paint ready-made pieces or do you make everything from scratch?”

  Amanda smiled sadly as she held up two pitchers that no longer had their handles. “I form them on my pottery wheel, and when they’ve dried I glaze them and fire them in my kiln.”

  “Would you mind if I take the broken stuff?”

  Surprised, Amanda considered the request. Vera’s eyes were lit up with interest, as though she truly loved the pottery even though it was shattered. “I don’t know what you’d do with it,” she murmured, “but it’s not like I can sell repaired plates and pitchers, either.”

  “I’m sorry this has happened, Amanda. I’ll pay you for what Simon broke,” Wyman offered as he squeezed her shoulder. “At least you won’t be needing the income after we marry, jah?”

  “Denki, Wyman. That’s generous of you.”

  As much as she had come to love Wyman Brubaker during these past months of their courtship, a red flag went up in Amanda’s mind. He—and most men—didn’t understand that her pottery was much more than a way to earn money. It had been her salvation after Atlee had lost a leg to gangrene and then lost his will to live . . . a way to focus her mind on cheerful designs and colors instead of becoming lost in the darkness of her grief after he died.

  Wyman ran the only grain elevator in the area, so he was able to provide quite well for a large family. Yet as she considered mixing her Lizzie and the twins—not to mention her opinionated mother-in-law—with the three rambunctious Brubaker boys, Vera, and toddler Alice Ann, Amanda wondered what she was getting herself into. Everyone seemed amiable enough now, but what if their good intentions went by the wayside once they were all together in one household?

  Would they be one big happy family, as Abby had predicted? Or had she let herself in for more major changes than she could handle by agreeing to marry Wyman Brubaker?

  Chapter Two

  Wyman gazed around the vast interior of the Cedar Creek Mercantile as he stood beside its owner. He and Sam Lambright had been good friends since they were boys, when Wyman’s parents had come here from Clearwater to shop and Sam’s dat had run the store. “So what did you think when Amanda told you of our wedding plans?”

  “High time,” Sam replied smugly. “Wasn’t it last winter that I suggested her as a potential wife?”

  Wyman shrugged. “Took me a while to get over losing Viola. And with Vera to keep the house running and watch after Simon and Alice Ann, I . . . I wasn’t in a hurry to hook up again, at my age.”

  “At your age?” Sam punctuated his question with an elbow to Wyman’s ribs. “Are any of us getting any younger? I can’t think you’d want to raise five kids alone—especially since Vera will be starting a family of her own soon.”

  “Let’s not rush things, Sam. She’s only seventeen.”

  “And what of Alice Ann?” his friend asked quietly. “Is she talking yet?”

  Spotting his toddler in the seat of Vera’s shopping cart, Wyman sighed. Alice Ann had been only a year old, snuggled against Viola’s shoulder that fateful day when they’d been hurrying to bale the hay before it rained. His wife had been walking alongside the mules when a thunderclap spooked them. Viola had grabbed their harness and then slipped in the wet grass . . . had let go of the baby just as she got crushed beneath the hay baler. It was a scene Wyman would never forget, or forgive himself for. His sweet, orderly world had ended in seconds, and a speech therapist believed the shock of witnessing her mamm’s death had rendered their youngest daughter mute.

  “No, she’s still not talking. Looks ready to blurt something out every now and again—and she understands everything we say,” he murmured. “We pray on it a lot.”

  “And I’ll keep praying with you,” Sam replied. “It’ll be gut for all of you to have Amanda there, and an improvement for her and her girls, as well. It’s a match made in Heaven, I’m telling you.”

  Wyman caught a movement on the opposite end of the store and excused himself. He’d just reimbursed Amanda for her broken pottery, and he had no intention of allowing Simon to do more damage inside Sam’s store. And what had gotten into Pete, that he’d put a hook on a fishing pole and was trying to snag Lizzie Lambright’s kapp with it?

  “You’re asking for trouble, son,” Wyman called out as he hurried toward the tackle boxes and lures. Several shoppers followed his gaze to where a rod was angled over a section of shelves and its line dangled just above unsuspecting Lizzie’s head. And who could miss the way Eddie was chatting with Lizzie, holding the end of her cart, so his brother knew where to ease the
hook lower . . . lower. . . .

  Lizzie’s shriek rang out. Wyman winced, hoping she didn’t snag her hand when she clutched at the white kapp that floated a foot above her head.

  “Pete! Eddie!” he snapped. “Enough of your foolishness.”

  His teenage sons had sense enough to look penitent when he reached them, but the prank had accomplished what they’d hoped: poor Lizzie appeared mortified while her sisters, Cora and Dora, giggled at her. Wyman grabbed the clear fishing line, unhooked the starched white kapp, and handed it to the young lady who would soon be living under his roof.

  “Pete, you know where you need to be, and right this minute,” Wyman said, aiming his voice over the top of the shelf. He sighed. Had living two years without their mother turned his older boys into such troublemakers? As Lizzie hastily replaced her prayer covering, he noted the bags of chicken feed she had probably been looking at when Eddie had waylaid her.

  “Sorry, Lizzie,” Pete said as he strolled toward them. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Jah, you did!” the girl retorted. Her cheeks turned bright pink as she tied the strings of her kapp beneath her chin.

  “You boys are old enough to know better,” Wyman muttered. “Not only was your prank unspeakably rude, it wasn’t smart, either. What if that hook had caught Lizzie on the cheek? Or in her eye?”

  “Just give me a sack of that chicken feed,” Lizzie muttered. “And turn loose of my cart, Eddie Brubaker!”

  A few moments later both boys had apologized and Lizzie had moved on, but Wyman could only shake his head. Thank goodness Amanda hadn’t witnessed this little scene while she was helping her mother-in-law across the store, but she would certainly hear about it. He told Vera to finish her shopping quickly and then made his way toward the checkout counter, where Sam was loading a customer’s order into her cart.

  “Sorry about that,” Wyman said quietly. “I should’ve followed Vera’s suggestion and left the boys at home.”

  Sam’s smile was kind. “Eddie and Pete were flirting with a pretty girl. No harm done, really.”

  “But they’re fifteen and thirteen!”

  “And you didn’t exasperate your folks when you were that age?” Sam teased. “Why, I can recall when you and I unscrewed the caps of the salt and pepper shakers at Abe and Beulah Mae’s wedding—”

  “Shh! My boys don’t need any more ideas.” Wyman let out the breath he’d been holding. Maybe he was blowing this incident out of proportion, but he’d overheard folks saying his kids needed a mother’s firm hand and watchful eyes. “This hasn’t been Amanda’s best shopping trip. I hope she won’t change her mind about marrying me.”

  “She’s patient and kind, the very definition of love,” Sam replied. “Everybody’s getting the prewedding jitters, I suspect. It’ll all work out as God intended, my friend.”

  “I hope you’re right.” He looked at the tall, slender fellow with the graying beard, grateful that Sam had displayed such understanding. The Cedar Creek district was blessed to have him for their new preacher. “Did you and Amanda set a date? Abby was saying you’ll be performing the ceremonies for your Matt and Phoebe soon, as well.”

  Sam lifted the page of the wall calendar that hung behind him. “Here in the Cedar Creek district we always hold weddings on Thursdays . . . so how’s the second Thursday of October work for you? That’ll be the eighth.”

  “Can’t thank you folks enough, Sam. I’ll be there.”

  “It’s always a better start for a marriage when the groom shows up,” Sam teased. He picked up the pencil beside his cash register. “I’ll write you in, Wyman. No wiggling out of it now.”

  Vera was pushing her loaded cart up to the counter, so Wyman rounded up his three sons. The four of them went outside to fetch a pair of buggy wheels from his wagon and then crossed the blacktop to Graber’s Custom Carriages, with Wags circling them excitedly. It was a fine autumn day, so Wyman tried to enjoy the crunch of fallen leaves beneath his feet and the panorama of farmland . . . woolly sheep grazing in nearby pastures, and the deep green cedars that swayed in the breeze along Cedar Creek. “I hope you boys have gotten your shenanigans out of your system,” he warned as he opened the door.

  Inside the carriage shop, the heavy smell of paint and the tattoo of pneumatic drills filled the air. By the looks of it, the buggy business was keeping James Graber and his men very busy.

  “Hullo there, Wyman! Gut to see you Brubakers on this beautiful day,” a familiar voice called out above the racket. James had lifted the front of his welding mask and was smiling at them from beside the nearest workbench. “What can I do for you?”

  As Wyman showed James where his wheels needed some repair, his boys started toward a young redheaded fellow who was brushing deep green paint on a nearly finished wagon. Noah Coblentz had apprenticed with James a while back. Wyman wondered if Eddie shouldn’t be looking for a place to learn a trade, as well, since he showed no interest in working at the elevator.

  “We can have these ready in a few days,” James said. He attached a tag to one of the wooden wheels before leaning them against his bench. “So how’ve you been, Wyman? Busy at the elevator now that the harvest has started, jah?”

  “The corn’s coming in,” Wyman said with a nod. “English fellows with bigger, fancier combines are always the first, and this year they haven’t had much of a crop. The drought’s going to hit us all right in the pocketbook, I’m afraid.”

  “Makes me grateful to work in a business where Plain folks need vehicles, rain or shine,” James replied. He glanced over to where Wyman’s sons were chatting with Noah. “Your boys are growing like weeds. Has Simon started to school?”

  “Next fall,” Wyman replied, and then he couldn’t help smiling. “Meanwhile, he’ll be keeping Amanda Lambright busy, because she and I are getting hitched in a few weeks.”

  “You don’t say!” James clapped him on the back. “That’s mighty gut news for all of you.”

  On impulse, Wyman chucked James’s clean-shaven chin. “Time for you to be sporting a beard, the way I see it. You and Abby have been a pair forever, haven’t you?” he teased. “Better take notes at our wedding. We’ll show you how it’s done.”

  James’s cheeks colored a bit. “Matter of fact, Abby and I are moving in that direction. We’ll tie the knot in our own gut time.”

  “Ah. Sounds like I’d better stop kidding you about it then.”

  “Emma and my parents do plenty of that, jah,” James replied.

  “And your sister’s well? And how about your folks?” Wyman inquired. “Haven’t seen them for a long while, now that Carl Byler farms your dat’s ground and hauls his crops to the elevator.”

  “Our family’s fine, all things considered,” James replied. “And with the two Lambright weddings and yours coming up, maybe Emma will find herself a beau. She’s being a gut daughter, looking after our parents, but she deserves a home of her own with a husband and children to love her.”

  Wyman thanked James and rounded up his sons again, realizing how fortunate he was. He had a home, he had children, and soon he would have a wonderful new wife to complete the picture of domestic satisfaction James had described. Like a jigsaw puzzle, his life would again have all its pieces in place when Amanda joined her family with his.

  A sense of completion filled him. He’d set his wedding date and the Lambright family was hosting his ceremony, so maybe this exasperating morning had served a higher purpose after all.

  Chapter Three

  “Glad you could come out with me on this fine fall afternoon,” James said as he helped Abby up into his rig. “It’s too pretty a Saturday to spend all of it in the shop.”

  When he was in the driver’s seat, Abby scooted just close enough that their arms brushed. “Jah, and I’ve had about all I can handle of working at the mercantile for the week. Three busloads of English tourists came in today, s
o I’ve had to straighten the shelves again and again,” she said. “Some of those folks chattered on their cell phones the whole time they were in the store. That makes for a lot of racket!”

  James lightly clapped the reins on his gelding’s back. “Jah, I see that a lot, too. Makes you wonder what-all they find to talk about.”

  He could think of several topics to discuss with Abby, however—such as asking how the preparations were going for her nephew Matt’s wedding on Thursday, or whether her niece Phoebe’s new house would be completed before she married Owen Coblentz the following week. This flurry of weddings made him very aware of the important things he wanted to say to the woman beside him.

  How fresh and vibrant Abby looked, in a butterscotch-colored dress that complemented a face made rosier by the autumn breeze. He wasn’t surprised that she’d brought along a lidded container for the Brubaker family, because no matter how busy Abby was, she always made the time and effort to share her goodness with others.

  “Going to show me what’s in your pan?” James hinted.

  Abby smiled as though she’d been waiting for him to ask. When she popped off the lid, the aroma of cinnamon and other spices teased him. “When you mentioned you were delivering Wyman’s wheels,” she said, “I packed some of the pumpkin whoopie pies I’d made for the meal after church tomorrow. I don’t suppose you’d want to taste one—to be sure they’re all right for the Brubaker kids, of course.”

  “Oh, we shouldn’t take the chance that your goodies aren’t perfect,” James teased.

  When he bit into the treat Abby held in front of his mouth, he delighted in the moistness of the pumpkin cookies . . . the sweet tang of cream cheese filling as it covered his tongue. “Oh, my,” he murmured. “This treat’s almost as wonderful-gut as you are, Abby.”

  “Oh, James, you say the sweetest things.” Abby nibbled at the whoopie pie before holding it in front of him again. “Pumpkin’s one of my favorite flavors. What flavors do you like?”