More Than Words (Daughters of Amana Book #2)

Judith Miller

Description

Gretchen Kohler is an Amana storekeeper's daughter with a secret passion for writing. But artistic pursuits are frowned upon in her conservative Amana village, so she confines her poems and stories to her journals, letting only close friends read them. When a young reporter comes into her store, she believes she's found a kindred spirit. She shares a few of her stories with him--only to have her trust betrayed in the worst of ways, resulting in trouble for her entire community. The scandal is made even worse by the fact that gypsies have camped nearby and seem to be preying upon the Amanans' compassionate, pacifist nature. Will Gretchen lose her job, her reputation, and the love of her childhood beau all because of one bad decision?

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 01 septembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781441213785
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Cover
Title Page
© 2010 Judith Miller
Published by Bethany House Publishers 11400 Hampshire Avenue South Bloomington, Minnesota 55438 www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan. www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2010
Ebook corrections 04.15.2016 (VBN), 10.23.2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-1378-5
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.
Cover photography by Aimee Christenson
With special recognition to The Amana Historical Society.
To Jim I love you— more than words
Contents
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
Special Thanks to . . .
About the Author
Other Books by Judith Miller
Back Ad
Back Cover
But the Lord said unto Samuel, Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; because I have refused him: for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.
I S AMUEL 16:7
CHAPTER 1

April 1885 Homestead Village Amana Colonies, Iowa
“Come down from that tree, Oma !” I’d done my best to sound firm. Taking a sideways step, I shaded my eyes to gain a better view among the bloom-laden branches of the apple tree.
My grandmother peered down at me with a devilish grin, her leather-clad feet wedged into a crook of the tree. “ Nein , Gretchen! I’m going to get an apple.” She pointed a gnarled finger toward a spindly branch bearing a few spring blossoms.
“Don’t go any further, Oma. There aren’t any apples, and that branch won’t hold you.”
Ignoring me, she grabbed another limb and hiked her right leg toward a scrawny branch that would surely crack under her weight. The old woman’s addled brain might be willing to make the climb, but her aged and fragile body was going to end up on the ground.
After steadying the ladder that Oma had placed against the tree trunk, I lifted my skirt and stepped onto the bottom rung. “Just wait until Stefan gets home!” I issued the muttered warning from between clenched teeth and cautiously began my climb. No matter how often I scolded my brother, Stefan never put anything away. He’d used the ladder to retrieve a ball from the roof yesterday afternoon, and instead of putting it back into the shed, he’d left it sitting outdoors. Out where it created an alluring diversion for Oma, who had somehow managed to drag it across the yard and balance it against the apple tree.
A low-hanging branch snagged my finely knit black cap, and Oma chuckled as she watched my attempts to disentangle the head covering. After finally grabbing the cap and giving it a one-handed shove onto my head, I glanced upward but quickly averted my eyes. “Oma! Put your leg down. I can see your undergarments.”
She leaned forward and peeked down, as if she intended to check the truth of my statement. Her body listed sideways, and one foot slipped from the branch. A snowstorm of flowering blossoms showered down on me.
“Hold on, Oma! I’m coming up to help you.”
“Don’t bring the blackbird,” she shrieked. “It will eat the apples.”
My frustration mounted as Oma continued the childlike behavior. For all of my life, my mother’s mother had lived with us, and we shared a special bond. But when these bouts of dementia took hold, there was no dealing with her. “There are no blackbirds and there are no apples, Oma.” I took another step up the ladder and reached for a thick branch. The rough bark dug into my palm as I tightened my hold. If I inched a little closer, I could grab hold of her leg.
“Go away! You’re bringing the blackbird with you.”
She climbed higher into the tree, and I gasped in fear. Now I couldn’t even reach her foot. “There are no birds in the tree, Oma. I’ve frightened them all away. Come back down to me.”
She peered over her shoulder. A flash of terror shone in her dark eyes. Her once-gentle lips twisted in a menacing jagged line. The look would have held a stranger at bay, but I wasn’t a stranger, and I wouldn’t be deterred.
“There’s a blackbird on your head,” she cried. “Get it away! Shoo it off before it eats my apples.”
Utter defeat shot through me. Would I ever learn to deal with Oma’s episodes? If I didn’t get her out of the tree within the next few minutes, my father might discover the dilemma. That thought alone propelled me back into action. I yanked the hat from my head. “The blackbird flew away. See, Oma? Look at me!”
Lips curved in a toothy grin, she leaned forward, peered around my shoulder, and cooed, “Pretty boy, come and get me.”
“Oma! Please come . . .” I lifted my foot to mount the next rung but was stopped short when two strong hands encircled my waist. I grabbed hold of the ladder and glanced over my shoulder. “Conrad.” I exhaled my friend’s name along with a silent hallelujah.
“Come down, Gretchen. I’ll get her.” His hands remained clasped around my waist while I descended to the ground. With one sympathetic gaze, I was enveloped in comfort. He touched a finger to my trembling lips, and warmth spiraled up my spine. “You should have come for me when you first discovered her.”
“I know, but I thought she’d listen to me.”
He tilted his head toward the ladder. “Did she drag this from the shed by herself?”
“Stefan,” I said.
He nodded his understanding. “He’s a boy. In a few years he will begin to remember what you tell him.”
I thought it would take more than a few years before Stefan remembered anything other than how to have fun, but I didn’t say so. “I don’t know who creates more problems, Oma or Stefan. Neither one of them will listen to me.”
With a chuckle he mounted the ladder and waved to my grandmother. “I’ve come to rescue you, Sister Helga. Let me help you out of the tree.”
I stood below and prayed this wouldn’t take long. For a brief moment Oma eyed Conrad with curious suspicion—a strange occurrence, for she usually fancied him her beau when in a delusional state of mind. I immediately feared the worst.
Finally she pointed to a far branch. “First an apple I must pick.”
Conrad wagged his finger and shook his head. “Nein. It is too early in the year for apples, Sister Helga, but I promise I will pick you a large red apple come September.”
“Ja?” She gave him a toothy grin that creased her aged skin into a thousand wrinkles. “Then I will come down to you, pretty boy.”
With skirt and petticoat askew and slowed by an occasional snag to her black stockings, Oma shimmied and slid down the tree until Conrad held her in a firm grasp. He maintained his hold until the old woman’s feet were firmly planted on the ground. She turned to face him and jabbed her finger in a tap-tap-tap rhythm on one of his shirt buttons. “Permission from the elders you must have before you marry me.”
If Oma’s outburst had caused Conrad any unease, his feelings remained well hidden. I couldn’t say the same for myself. Heat climbed up my neck in a thousand fingers and splayed across my cheeks. How could Oma recall a marriage requirement of our faith, yet fail to remember that old women don’t climb trees or that apples aren’t ready for harvest until fall? Those thoughts, along with Oma’s behavior, caused my head to ache.
“Thank you for your help, Conrad.” I hoped he wouldn’t notice my embarrassment. “I apologize for Oma’s words.”
With the tip of his fingers, he lifted my chin. “What is this with apologies? We have known each other for twenty-two years. We look after each other, ja?” He took a step closer and leaned forward. “I know this is hard for you, Gretchen.” His eyebrows dipped low over cobalt blue eyes.
I bobbed my head. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I forced a grin. “But we haven’t really known each other for twenty-two years. I think you can only count from the time we reached the age of four. Before that, I remember nothing.”
He chuckled. “From now on I will just say I have known you all my life.”
Conrad thought he understood my daily plight: the rigors of trying to keep my work completed at the store while attempting to hide Oma’s behavior from my father, and striving to keep Stefan on the proper path to manhood. I didn’t want to dash Conrad’s belief, but he could only partly understand. He wasn’t there day and night to see my struggles.
The right side of his mouth lifted in a half grin. “And you don’t have to worry about what to do without me, because I will always be here to help. I’m not going anywhere.”
Before I could respond, Oma clutched Conrad’s arm in a vise-like grip and tugged. “Come on, pretty boy. Come and sit with me.”
He winked at me before returning his attention to my grandmother. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you come and sit with me in the barbershop, Sister Helga?”
Shaking my head, I mouthed that he didn’t need to take charge of Oma.
“It’s the least I can do. You need some time alone to complete the ledgers at the store without worry.” He shifted his weight and waved me toward the general store. “And if your work is all done, you can write in your journal. You’re always taking care of others. Let me look after you some of the time.”
Lifting a bony finger, Oma tucked a wisp of white hair behind one ear. Her black cap remained twisted in a loose knot at the back of her head, but I made no attempt to fix it. If she discovered any black fabric in her hair, she’d probably think the imaginary blackbird had built a nest atop her head. Co