Her Secret Amish Child. Cheryl Williford
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he’d have a wife he might eventually learn to love. If he could find a way to trust her with his heart.
The screen door squealed for oil as Lizbeth appeared and stepped onto the porch. She turned in his direction, her brow furrowing from the bright noontime sun. She wore the same navy dress and shoes she’d worn to church on Sunday. Again today her expression was relaxed and friendly.
“Fredrik,” she said and nodded.
He tipped his straw hat in her direction and grinned back, noticing her smile reached her warm blue eyes. “Lizbeth.”
“You two have made friends?” Chicken John said, his tone inquisitive.
Fredrik spoke first. “A long time ago—”
“Ya, well. Remember, Benuel and I just happened to meet Fredrik at the café and became friends,” Lizbeth interjected, cutting off his words. Something in her gaze told Fredrik she still didn’t want her daed to remember they knew each other as children. “And speaking of Benuel, we really should be on our way. Ulla offered to watch him for a few hours. Not the whole day.”
“Ya, you’re right. We’ve taken too long,” her father agreed. He reached around, locked the doorknob from the inside and then shut the side door behind him. “Good seeing you, Fredrik. I’ll call you about the house repairs later today.”
“Ya. Later today is perfect. I’ll be at the shop. It’s gut seeing you again, Lizbeth. Tell Benuel I said hello.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I’ll tell him. You have a pleasant night,” she said and hurried away, the sun reflecting strands of gold in her hair.
His heart racing at the sight of her, Fredrik pushed his straw hat down on his head and followed behind them as they crunched down the pea gravel driveway. He was ashamed he hadn’t found the nerve to tell Lizbeth he’d bought the house she wanted as her own, but his dreams of working in the leaning shed blossomed. Became bigger than life.
He observed Lizbeth as she gathered up the skirt of her plain blue cotton dress and climbed onto her bike. He liked the way she held her head high, as if nothing could touch her.
Both turned and waved as they pedaled off. He wondered about the widow wearing a different colored dress now. Did that mean she was over her time of mourning? When she’d arrived in Pinecraft she’d still dressed in black.
He knew grief could make a woman distant and unfriendly, but Lizbeth seemed friendlier now. Perhaps he’d done the right thing putting her name on his list of potential women to step out with. The fact she had a boy didn’t bother him one bit. It just made his odds better, since she might be looking for a prospective husband to help raise her son. And she might not expect a potential husband to immediately surrender his heart.
He looked back at the simple wood house and lifted his shoulders as he took in a long, contented breath. He or Ulla would tell John he’d bought the house. No doubt the man could find another house for Lizbeth, but until Fredrik found a suitable wife, he was in no hurry. The widow could rent from him and live in the house if she wanted. He didn’t mind sharing, but she’d have to move once he married. He truly believed Gott would help him find his bride soon.
Fredrik made his way back to the apartment door, his gaze wandering to the backyard shaded by a big oak draped full of hanging moss. Lizbeth’s son seemed full of energy. This yard would have been the perfect place for a boy like him to play. It still could be.
Pushing those thoughts aside, he opened the solid wooden apartment door he’d left ajar and stepped back inside, his eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light. The picture window at the side of the big room had a set of closed, wide wooden blinds that blotted out the daylight. He tugged on their dangling cord and stepped back as dust floated on the sunlight flooding the room. The walls had once been a bright white, but now looked yellow with age. Just as he’d thought, they would need to be washed down and painted.
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