The Amish Bride. Emma Miller
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Shetlers. Seeing the indigo bunting, still in his full summer plumage, made her smile. All her life, she’d been fascinated by birds, and this particular species was much rarer than the blue grosbeak or the common bluebird. Ellen wondered if the indigo bunting had a mate and had built a nest in the hedgerow, or was just passing through in an early migration. She scrutinized the foliage, hoping to see the bird again, but it remained hidden in the leaves of a wild cherry tree. She could hear the bird’s distinctive chrrp, but it didn’t reappear.
And, Ellen reminded herself, the longer she stood there watching for the bird, the later she’d be for work. She needed to be on her way. She shifted her gaze to the steep driveway ahead of her.
Maybe this was the morning to be sensible and act like the adult she was. She could just walk her scooter to the bottom of the lane and then hop on once she reached the road. But the temptation was too great. She scanned the pavement in both directions as far as she could see for traffic. Nothing. Not a vehicle in sight. Taking pleasure in each movement, Ellen stepped onto the scooter, gripped the handles and gave a strong push with her left foot. With a cry of delight, she flew down the hill, laughing with excitement, bonnet strings flying behind her.
Ellen waited until the last possible moment before squeezing the handbrakes and leaning hard to one side, whipping the scooter around the mailbox, onto the public road. A cloud of dust flew up behind her, and pebbles scattered as she hit the pavement. The scooter fishtailed and she continued to brake, bringing it to a stop.
One of these days, Ellen thought. One of these days, you’re going to come down that hill so fast that you can’t stop and land smack-dab on top of the bishop’s buggy. But not today.
As she stepped off the scooter, her heart still pounded. Her knees were weak, and her prayer kapp was hanging off her head from a single bobby pin. She was definitely too old to be doing this. What would the community say if they saw John Beachey’s spinster daughter, a fully baptized member of the church and long past her rumspringa years, sailing down her father’s driveway on her lime-green push scooter? Although most Plain people were accepting of small eccentricities within the community, it would almost certainly be cause for a scandal. The deacon would be calling on her father out of concern for her mental, spiritual and physical health.
Chuckling at the thought, Ellen pinned up her kapp and shook the dust off her apron. She moved to the crown of the road and began to make her way toward the village of Honeysuckle. However, she’d no sooner rounded the first wooded bend when she saw a familiar gray-bearded figure sitting on the side of the road.
“Simeon!” she called, pushing the scooter faster. “Vas is? Are you all right?” Simeon Shetler, a widower and a member of her church district, lived next door with his two grown sons and two grandsons. Ellen had known him since she was a child.
“Hallo!” He waved one of his metal crutches. “Jah, I am fine.” He gestured with the other crutch. “It’s Butterscotch who’s in trouble.”
Ellen glanced at the far side of the road to see Simeon’s pony nibbling grass fifty feet away. The pony was hitched to the two-wheeled cart that her one-legged neighbor used for transportation. “What happened?” she asked as she hurried to help Simeon to his feet. “Did you fall out of the cart?”
“Nay, I’m not so foolish as that. I may be getting old, but I’m not dotty-headed.” They spoke, as most Amish did when they were among their own kind, in Deitsch, a dialect that the English called Pennsylvania Dutch. “But I will admit, seeing your pretty face coming down the road was a welcome sight.”
“Have you been like this long?” she asked, taking no offense at his compliment, which might have seemed out of place coming from most Amish men. Simeon was known as something of a flirt, and he always had a pleasant word for the women, young or old. But he was a kind man, a devout member of the community and would never cross any lines of propriety.
“Long enough, I can tell you. It took me ten minutes to climb back out of that ditch.”
As a young man, Simeon had had a leg amputated just below the knee. Although he had a prosthetic leg and had gone to physical therapy to learn how to walk with it, he never wore it. For as long as Ellen could remember, the molded plastic and titanium prosthetic had hung on a peg on his kitchen wall. Usually, Simeon made out fine with his crutches, which extended from his forearms to the ground, but when he fell, he wasn’t able to get back on his feet without a steady object like a fence post, or the aid of a friendly hand.
Simeon grinned. “Some fool Englisher threw a bag of trash from one of those food-fast places into the ditch. I thought I could pick it up if I got down out of the cart. I would have been able to, but I slipped in the grass, fell and slid into the ditch. And then by the time I crawled back out, that beast—” he shook his crutch again at the grazing pony “—trotted away.” He chuckled and shrugged. “So, as you can see, I was stuck here until a Good Samaritan came along to rescue me.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked, looking him over.
“I’m fine. Catch the pony before he takes off for town,” Simeon urged. “Then we need to have a talk, you and me. I think maybe it was God’s plan this happened this morning. I have something important to discuss with you.”
“With me?” Ellen looked at him quizzically. Simeon was an elder in their church, but she couldn’t think of anything that she’d done wrong that would cause concern. And if she was in trouble for some transgression, it should have been the deacon who’d come to speak to her and her parents to remind her of her duties to the faith community.
Unless...
Was it possible that Simeon or one of his sons had recently seen her antics on the push scooter? She didn’t think so. She was careful about when and where she gave in to her weakness for thrilling downhill rides. And Bishop Harvey had approved the bright color of her push scooter, once she’d explained that she’d gotten it secondhand as a trade for a wooden baby cradle.
The unusually bright, lime-green push scooter was an expensive one from a respected manufacturer in Intercourse. She could have had it repainted, but that would cost money and time, even if she did it herself. Bishop Harvey was a wise leader and a practical man. He understood that, with Ellen’s father owning only one horse, she needed a dependable way to get back and forth to the craft shop without leaving her parents stranded. And if the fluorescent color on the push scooter was brighter than what was customarily acceptable, the safety factor made up for the fancy paint.
“See, there he goes.” Simeon pointed as the pony moved forward, taking the cart with him. “Headed for Honeysuckle, trying to make a bigger fool of me than I already am. We’ll be lucky if you catch him.”
“Oh, I’ll catch him, all right.” Ellen reached for the lunch box tied securely in her scooter basket on the steering column. She unfastened it, removed a red apple and walked down the road toward the pony. “Look what I have!” she called. “Come here, boy.”
Butterscotch raised his head and peered at her from under a thick forelock. His ears went up and then twitched.
Ellen whistled softly. “Nice pony.”
He pawed the dirt with one small hoof, took a few steps and the cart rolled forward, away from her.
“Easy,” Ellen coaxed. “Look what I have.” She held up the apple. “Whoa, easy, now.”
The pony wrinkled his nose and snorted, side-stepping in the harness, making the cart shift one way and then the other. Ellen walked around in front of him and took a bite out of the apple before she offered it again. Butterscotch sniffed the air and stared at the apple. “Goot boy,” she crooned, knowing he was anything but a good boy.
The palomino was a legend in the neighborhood. For all his beauty, he was not the obedient pony a man like Simeon needed. This was not the first time Butterscotch had left his owner stranded. And Butterscotch didn’t stay put in his pasture, either. He was a master of escape: opening locked gates, squeezing through