His Amish Sweetheart. Jo Ann Brown
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Springs
Lancaster County, Pennsylvania
Esther Stoltzfus balanced the softball bat on her shoulder. Keeping her eye on the boy getting ready to pitch the ball, she smiled. Did her scholars guess that recess, when the October weather was perfect for playing outside, was her favorite part of the day, too? The kinder probably couldn’t imagine their teacher liked to play ball as much as they did.
This was her third year teaching on her own. Seeing understanding in a kind’s eyes when the scholar finally grasped an elusive concept delighted her. She loved spending time with the kinder.
Her family had recently begun dropping hints she should be walking out with some young man. Her older brothers didn’t know that, until eight months ago, she’d been walking out—and sneaking out for some forbidden buggy racing—with Alvin Lee Peachy. Probably because none of them could have imagined their little sister having such an outrageous suitor. Alvin Lee pushed the boundaries of the Ordnung, and there were rumors he intended to jump the fence and join the Englisch world. Would she have gone with him if he’d asked? She didn’t know, and she never would because when she began to worry about his racing buggies and fast life, he’d dumped her and started courting Luella Hartz. In one moment, she’d lost the man she loved and her gut friend.
She’d learned her lesson. A life of adventure and daring wasn’t for her. From now on, she wasn’t going to risk her heart unless she knew, without a doubt, it was safe. She wouldn’t consider spending time with a guy who wasn’t as serious and stolid as a bishop.
As she gave a practice swing and the kinder urged her on excitedly, she glanced at her assistant teacher, Neva Fry, who was playing first base. Neva, almost two years younger than Esther, was learning what she needed so she could take over a school of her own.
Esther grinned in anticipation of the next play. The ball came in a soft arc, and she swung the bat. Not with all her strength. Some of the outfielders were barely six years old, and she didn’t want to chance them getting hurt by a line drive.
The kinder behind her cheered while the ones in the field shouted to each other to catch the lazy fly ball. She sped to first base, a large stone set in place by the daeds who had helped build the school years ago. Her black sneaker skidded as she touched the stone with one foot and turned to head toward second. Seeing one of the older boys catch the ball, she slowed and clapped her hands.
“Well done, Jay!” she called.
With a wide grin, the boy who, at fourteen, was in his final year at the school, gave her a thumbs-up.
Smiling, she knew she should be grateful Alvin Lee hadn’t proposed. She wasn’t ready to give up teaching. She wanted a husband and a home and kinder of her own, but not until she met the right man. One who didn’t whoop at the idea of danger. One she would have described as predictable a few months ago. Now that safe, dependable guy sounded like a dream come true. Well, maybe not a dream, but definitely not a nightmare.
Checking to make sure her kapp was straight, Esther smoothed the apron over her dress, which was her favorite shade of rose. She’d selected it and a black apron in the style the Englischers called a pinafore when she saw the day would be perfect for playing softball. She held up her hands, and Jay threw her the ball. She caught it easily.
Before she could tell the scholars it was time to go in for afternoon lessons, several began to chant, “One more inning! One more inning!”
Esther hesitated, knowing how few sunny, warm days remained before winter. The kinder had worked hard during the morning, and she hadn’t had to scold any of them for not paying attention. Not even Jacob Fisher.
She glanced at the small, white schoolhouse. As she expected, the eight-year-old with a cowlick that made a black exclamation point at his crown sat alone on the porch. She invited him to play each day, and each day he resisted. She wished she could find a way to break through the walls Jacob had raised, walls around himself, walls to keep pain at bay.
She closed her eyes as she recalled what she’d been told by Jacob’s elderly onkel, who was raising him. Jacob had been with his parents, walking home from visiting a neighbor, when they were struck by a drunk driver. The boy had been thrown onto the shoulder. When he regained consciousness, he’d discovered his parents injured by the side of the road. No one, other than Jacob and God, knew if they spoke final words to him, but he’d watched them draw their last breaths. The trial for the hit-and-run driver had added to the boy’s trauma, though he hadn’t had to testify and the Amish community tried to shield him.
Now he was shattered, taking insult at every turn and exploding with anger. Or else he said nothing and squirmed until he couldn’t sit any longer and had to wander around the room. Working with his onkel, Titus Fisher, she tried to make school as comfortable for Jacob as possible.
She’d used many things she hoped would help—art projects, story writing, extra assistance with his studies, though the boy was very intelligent in spite of his inability to complete many of his lessons. She’d failed at every turn to draw him out from behind those walls he’d raised around himself. She realized she must find another way to reach him because she wasn’t helping him by cajoling him in front of the other kinder. So now, she lifted him up in prayer. Those wouldn’t fail, but God worked on His own time. He must have a reason for not yet bringing healing to Jacob’s young heart.
Or hers.
She chided herself. Losing a suitor didn’t compare with losing one’s parents, but her heart refused to stop hurting.
“All right,” she said, smiling at the rest of the scholars because she didn’t want anyone to know what she was thinking. She’d gotten gut at hiding the truth. “One more inning, but you need to work extra hard this afternoon.”
Heads nodded eagerly. Bouncing the ball in her right hand, she tossed it to the pitcher and took her place in center field where she could help the other outfielders, seven-year-old Olen and Freda who was ten.
The batter swung at the first three pitches and struck out. The next batter kept hitting foul balls, which sent the kinder chasing them. Suddenly a loud thwack announced a boy had connected with the ball.
It headed right for Esther. She backpedaled two steps. A quick glance behind her assured she could go a little farther before she’d fall down the hill. Shouts warned her the runner was already on his way to second base.
She reached to catch the ball. Her right foot caught a slippery patch of grass, and she lost her balance. She windmilled her arms, fighting to stay on her feet, but it was impossible. She dropped backward—and hit a solid chest. Strong arms kept her from ending up on her bottom. She grasped the arms as her feet continued to slide.
The ball fell at her feet. Pulling herself out of the arms, she scooped the ball up and threw it to second base. But it was too late. The run had already scored.
Behind her, a deep laugh brushed the small hairs curling at her nape beneath her kapp. Heat scored Esther’s face as she realized she’d tumbled into a man’s arms.
Her gaze had to rise to meet his, though he stood below her on the hill. He must be more than six feet tall, like her brothers, but he wasn’t one of her brothers. The gut-looking man was a few years older than she was. No beard softened the firm line of his jaw. Beneath his straw hat, his brown eyes crinkled with his laugh.
“You haven’t changed a bit, Esther Stoltzfus!” he said with another chuckle. “Still willing to risk life and limb to get the ball.”
He knew her? Who was he?
Her eyes widened. She recognized the twinkle in those dark eyes. Black hair dropped across his forehead, and he pushed it aside carelessly. Like a clap of thunder, realization came as she remembered the boy who had made that exact motion. She looked more closely and saw the small scar beneath his right eye...just like the one on the face of a boy she’d once considered her very best friend.
“Nate Zook?” she asked, not able to believe her own question.
“Ja.” His voice