An amish widows hope, p.1
An Amish Widow's Hope, page 1
“What did you expect?” Isla asked softly.
“You left, and Daadi forbid me to see you again.” Her father, a minister and very strict, had insisted that she walk the path of obedience. As much as she wanted it to, love alone couldn’t bridge the divide between Amish and Englisch. The two might coexist, but the lines ran parallel.
And never the twain shall meet.
Evan cleared his throat. “I was genuinely happy for you both. It’s what folks are supposed to do, you know? Get married, have a family…”
“Ja. We did.”
Overwhelmed by the emotions gripping her heart, Isla returned to her cooking. The pain in her chest grew stronger, a reminder that some wounds never truly healed, and that some choices left scars that time could never erase. Sixteen years ago, the urge to follow Evan into the Englisch world was a temptation she’d found hard to resist. She’d never admit it, but she’d considered defying her vater’s command.
She’d let the only man she’d ever loved go…and had regretted it ever since.
Pamela Desmond Wright grew up in a small, dusty Texas town. Like the Amish, Pamela is a fan of the simple life. Her childhood includes memories of the olden days: old-fashioned oil lamps, cooking over an authentic wood-burning stove and making popcorn over a crackling fire at her grandparents’ cabin. The authentic log cabin Pamela grew up playing in was donated to the Muleshoe Heritage Center in Muleshoe, Texas, where it is on public display.
Books by Pamela Desmond Wright
Love Inspired
The Cowboy’s Amish Haven
Finding Her Amish Home
The Amish Bachelor’s Bride
Bonding over the Amish Baby
Her Surprise Amish Match
Her Amish Refuge
An Amish Widow’s Hope
Visit the Author Profile page at LoveInspired.com.
An Amish Widow’s Hope
Pamela Desmond Wright
Note to Readers
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9781335621382
Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.
—Isaiah 41:10
To my big sissie, Jeri Patterson. For your love and support—I’m so grateful for you.
A special thank-you also goes to my editor, Melissa Endlich—your keen insights and steady guidance make each book stronger. And to my amazing agent, Tamela Hancock Murray—your unwavering belief in me and my stories is a gift I treasure.
…and to Carl Marino, who inspired Sheriff Miller.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Excerpt
About the Publisher
Chapter One
“Unit 1, come in. Unit 1, Sheriff Miller, do you copy?”
Eyes bleary with exhaustion, Evan Miller reached for the mike. “Go ahead, Dispatch,” he said, his voice gravelly. Ten hours into an eight-hour shift, and he was utterly frazzled.
The dispatcher’s voice crackled over the airwaves. “We’ve got another break-in.”
Evan winced as more details emerged. Once again, the culprit had struck in an Amish neighborhood.
“Copy that, Dispatch. I’m on it.”
“Ten-four,” the radio crackled back.
Flipping on his lights, he left the siren off—no need to scare the already shaken townsfolk. Making a quick U-turn, he sped toward the destination, keeping an eye out for anyone or anything that looked out of place.
Vital minutes ticked by.
Turning down an avenue paved with cobblestones, he passed cozy houses, weathered barns and bountiful gardens. Nestled within the historic district of Burr Oak and zoned to allow for the keeping of horses and other livestock, the location was primarily inhabited by Plain folks. Stately oak trees lined the street, their thick branches forming a verdant canopy. Each home stood as a testament to the skills and labor of its inhabitants. Wide porches beckoned visitors to sit awhile, and the scent of homemade bread often mingled with the fresh, earthy aroma of tilled soil.
Here, life and business intertwined seamlessly. Hand-painted signs adorned the edges of several properties, advertising the available diverse goods and wares crafted by skilled hands. Simple folks, the Amish worked hard to provide an honest living for their families.
He searched for the address that dispatch had relayed. Finally, a neat home perched on a large lot came into view, set behind a picket fence. Blue shutters provided a cheery contrast against white-washed walls. The trim lawn and flower beds reflected the owner’s love for gardening. Potted plants enhanced the inviting entrance. A sign leaning against a sawhorse read Plain & Simple Sewing.
After parking at the curb, he headed through the gate. The late spring afternoon was blustery and dark clouds gathered, thick with the promise of a storm. Holding his clipboard tightly so the wind couldn’t snatch his paperwork away, he strode up the walkway.
Drawn by his cruiser, curious onlookers peered out their windows. The Amish tolerated Englisch law enforcement, but that didn’t mean they embraced it. Still, folks were spooked by the break-ins. And rightfully so. This latest string of thefts was something more malicious than the usual petty larcenies. The culprit was going after people who wouldn’t fight back.
The front door swung open before he stepped onto the porch. A middle-aged woman of stout build stared down at him.
“About time you got here, Sheriff.” Face red with frustration, she clutched a long wooden spoon. “Nice of you to dawdle as if there were no urgency. Abner called 911 twenty minutes ago.”
Oh, no. His last encounter with Verna Pilcher had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Leader of the community watch, she was his fiercest critic. No matter what he did, it always fell short of her expectations. She believed he should be on duty every hour of every day.
“I got here as soon as I could.” Overworked and understaffed, the department was barely managing to keep up with the surge in crime. “You want to hold the judgment and tell me what happened?”
“What happened?” Verna echoed, cheeks flushing a deeper shade of purple. “Some no-good thief breezed right in. That’s what happened.”
“And I’ll do all I can to catch him,” he said and gestured toward the entrance. “If you don’t mind, I’ll need to go inside.”
Huffing, Verna stepped aside. “Hardworking folks shouldn’t have to live in fear in their own homes,” she complained. “Something has to be done.”
“I hear you, and I’m doing everything in my power to put a stop to it.” He tipped his hat with a nod. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
Passing her by, he went inside. The interior of the home was simple but immaculate. Arranged for the reception of customers, a small parlor harbored an old-fashioned treadle sewing machine, its cast-iron frame polished to a gleaming shine. Dressmakers’ dummies stood nearby, adorned with garments in various stages of completion. Each piece told a story of meticulous care and dedication to the craft of sewing. A large bay window adorned with lace curtains added a touch of charm. Unfortunately, remnants of the crime were also evident. Drawers had been rifled through and other small items overturned. A silent witness to greed, an empty cashbox lay discarded on the floor.
A woman and two children sat on a nearby love seat. The siblings clung to each other. The girl, slightly older, tried to appear brave, but her trembling body betrayed her unease.
“Is everyone all right?”
“Ja. I think so.” Dabbing teary eyes, the woman lowered her handkerchief.
“Can you—” he started to ask, but the rest never materialized. He couldn’t help but stare at her. Slender and fine-boned, her crystal blue gaze was strikingly familiar. Clad in a widow’s weeds, her hair was pinned beneath a black kapp. A few long strands had escaped, framing her face with wispy blonde curls.
He blinked, taken aback. Pulse missing a beat, recognition kicked in. Isla Stohl… The girl he’d known was now a woman, and the sight of her took his breath away. Every feature, from the delicate arch of her eyebrows to the curve of her lips, was perfectly sculpted. Images of their shared childhood flooded his mind; the laughter, the secrets, the innocent delight of Rumspringa as they explored the Englisch world together, tasting the forbidden freedom that lay beyond their community. He could almost feel the electric thrill of their first kiss, a moment charged with promise and passion.
“I didn’t realize…”
Isla tilted her head thoughtfully. “It has been quite some time, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, it has.” He hadn’t expected to come face-to-face with his past when he’d walked through the door. Seeing her again rattled him—quick, unexpected and hard to shake off.
More uninvited images surged back. The joy of their courtship was soon overshadowed by the sorrow of their breakup. He remembered the agony of his decision to leave the Amish, torn between the expectations of his family and his ambition to be more than a simple pig farmer. In the end, he’d chosen to depart. But standing before her now, he questioned if he’d truly understood what he was leaving behind when he walked away from that life. And from her.
“Not the way I’d imagined seeing you again,” she said, a mixture of sadness and something deeper reflected in her gaze.
Evan pulled himself back to the present, donning his professional demeanor like armor. The past was a bridge long crossed. Today, he had a job to do.
“Yeah. Not exactly my choice either.”
“I suppose we’ll have to make the best of it,” she allowed. “Please, do what you must.”
Snagging a pen, he lifted his clipboard. “Were you home when the incident occurred?”
“I was not.” Pausing for a breath, she explained, “I’d taken a break to fetch the kinder from the park. I’d barely unlocked the door before I caught a glimpse of a man dashing through the haus.” Pointing, she added, “He went through there.”
Following the directions, Evan walked into the kitchen. The back door stood ajar, the frame splintered and warped from the violent intrusion. Hanging off-kilter on its hinges, it creaked ominously with every faint draft. Fragments from its glass face lay scattered on the floor.
As always, the culprit had made a clean getaway. He’d had no one to chase him or hold him accountable. Evan was the one who had to look the victims in the eye and promise things would get better.
He returned to the parlor. “Did you get a look at the perp?”
Discomfort flickered in her expression. “I only caught a glimpse, but he was dressed in Amish clothing.”
“Did anyone see his face? Or any other features you might recognize?”
The witnesses all shook their heads.
“He was going out as we were coming in. A few minutes earlier, and we’d have walked right in on him.”
“Be thankful you didn’t,” Verna Pilcher declared. “Why, there’s no telling what could have happened.”
Isla drew a steadying breath. “Gott had a hand over us.”
“Daed’s keeping an eye from heaven, too,” Joel said.
“He is, sohn,” she said, laying a hand on the youngster’s arm. “He always has, and he always will.”
Emotion tightened Evan’s throat. He knew Isla’s name wasn’t Stohl anymore. It was Bruhn. After they’d broken up, she’d gone on to marry his best friend.
“My condolences on your loss.”
“We miss him,” she said, declining to say more.
An uncomfortable silence stepped between them. Unspoken words and unresolved feelings created a palpable tension neither seemed ready to break.
Evan didn’t judge her reluctance to share personal details. They hadn’t spoken in years, at least a decade or more. Nor had he attended Owen’s funeral. What right did he have to mourn alongside them when he’d chosen to reject his heritage?
Embarrassed, he tapped his pen against his clipboard. The sooner he gathered the facts, the sooner he could leave. “I take it you kept cash on hand?” Kneeling by the cashbox, he made a note to have it dusted for prints. Just in case.
“Ja,” she said.
“How much?”
“Everything.”
“How much is everything?”
“Two thousand.” She pointed toward a large rolltop desk. “Owen always kept our money locked in the drawer.” Irony twisted her lips. “It’s always been safe.”
Rising, he walked over to examine the damage. Several drawers had been pried open, probably with the same tool used to jimmy the back door. Though some Amish were fine with the safekeeping a bank offered, others preferred to keep their money in hand. Most Plain folks also didn’t have any security in place, either. It would be easy for someone to look around and figure things out.
“Did he take anything else?”
“He took my pocketknife, the one Daed gave me for my birthday,” Joel blurted, and his lower lip trembled.
“My piggy bank was smashed, too,” her daughter whispered, voice barely audible. “All my pin money is gone.”
The news didn’t sit well with Evan. He’s getting bolder. The fact that the intruder was entering personal spaces bothered him.
“If there’s anything else, be sure and let me know.”
Verna Pilcher stepped in. “What for?” she squawked. “All you’ve done so far is a whole lot of nothing!” She waved her spoon so vigorously that it was in danger of taking flight.
“Cut me a little slack,” he said, exasperation creeping into his tone. “Please. I’m doing the best I can.”
Verna eyed him. “Sure you are, Sheriff.”
Stung by her sarcasm, Evan’s hand rose to his temple. Operating on caffeine and adrenaline, a stress headache had plagued him for days. By failing to catch the unknown suspect, he’d let the citizens down. He couldn’t stand the idea of innocent people living in fear. No one deserved to have their homes invaded or their livelihoods threatened.
Certainly not his former best friend’s widow.
He sneaked a glance toward Isla. Huddled on the sofa, her arms were wrapped protectively around her children. Her eyes, wide and haunted, mirrored a deep well of grief.
A jolt of protectiveness surged through him. More tangible than the badge he carried, the burden of duty pressed heavily on his shoulders. This wasn’t just another case. Isla was a woman devastated not once, but twice, by cruel fate.
With a resolute breath, he made a silent vow. Though he couldn’t turn back time or erase what had happened, he could ease her anxiety by standing as a barrier against the chaos threatening to engulf her.
* * *
Isla’s hands trembled as she swept up the glass littering her kitchen floor. The invasion of her home was frightening, leaving her with nothing but an overwhelming sense of loss. Acting with ruthless disregard, the thief had worked hard to pry open her back door.
Blinking back tears, she pushed the remnants of glass into a dustpan. The damage was devastating. Her vater had crafted the door from rich, golden oak as a gift for her wedding. Planed and sanded to a silken finish, the door’s true marvel was its stained-glass face. Built for each entrance of the house, the twin set symbolized the love and devotion he wished for his daughter’s new home.
Now her father’s labor of love was in pieces. Gideon Stohl had later died from an accident in his workshop. While the frame could be rebuilt, the original door was ruined. All that remained was its lone mate. The pair would never stand together again.
Dumping the shards into a nearby trash pail, she wiped her hands on her apron. The kitchen looked better cleaned up. She studied the empty chair at the head of the table. Eleven months ago, the center of her world had been ripped away. Diagnosed at stage four, Owen’s cancer had been discovered too late to attempt treatment. He’d died within weeks of learning his nagging cough was something much worse. His laughter, his steady presence—all were gone, leaving behind a void that filled every corner of the small home.
A lump rose in her throat. I don’t know how much more I can take.
She’d done her best to hold things together. A cobbler by trade, Owen had never made a lot of money. But combined with her sewing shop, they’d had enough to comfortably raise their youngies. On her own, she was struggling. Each day was a battle to balance the cost of fabric and supplies with the need to feed and clothe her children. Since Owen’s passing, the world seemed frayed, her life unraveling no matter how hard she tried to hold it all together.
The weight of loss pressed down on her, a quiet desperation settling as the walls seemed to close in. Every cent she’d saved was gone. She had no one to turn to, no close familie left to lean on. Owen’s parents, though kind, were burdened by their own struggles. After her daed passed, her mamm had remarried and followed her new husband to an Amish settlement in Maine. Her siblings, too, were busy building their own lives, distant both in miles and heart.
