The Return Read online

  © 2017 by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 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—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—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 978-1-4934-0726-2

  Most Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Published in association with Joyce Hart of the Hartline Literary Agency, LLC

  Praise for Anna’s Crossing

  “Based on true events, this novel is a winner, especially for Amish-fiction enthusiasts.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Those who summon the courage to read about the raw immigrant experience on this treacherous crossing will find a deeply satisfying story of conviction and hope.”

  —Booklist

  “The touch of romance and many plot twists in Anna’s Crossing keep Fisher’s story entertaining.”

  —BookPage

  “Anna and Bairn’s sweet romance will satisfy readers with an interest in Amish history, as Fisher offers a look at the inhumane suffering they endured in their search for religious freedom.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Unexpected twists and turns; themes of trust, faith, and letting go of the past; and a surprise ending add up to a thoroughly enjoyable read for Amish fiction fans.”

  —CBA Retailers + Resources

  Praise for The Newcomer

  “Full of adventure, suspense, an air of mystery, and sweet romance, the plot holds all the elements of an engaging story.”

  —Christian Library Journal

  “The sights and sounds of the developing colonies and Philadelphia in 1737 complement Fisher’s delightful rendering of such historical figures as Benjamin Franklin and enrich a more emotional, character-driven tale about identity, doubt, and belonging.”

  —Booklist

  To the Benedicts,

  my German Baptist family, who first came to the New World at the invitation of William Penn and settled in a corner of Penn’s Woods. Benedict means “good word.” You’re all that and more.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Endorsements

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Sneak Peek at the First Novel

  Discussion Questions

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  References

  About the Author

  Books by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  I take literally the statement in the Gospel of John that God loves the world. I believe that the world was created and approved by love, that it subsists, coheres, and endures by love, and that, insofar as it is redeemable, it can be redeemed only by love. I believe that divine love, incarnate and indwelling in the world, summons the world always toward wholeness, which ultimately is reconciliation and atonement before God.

  —Wendell Berry

  Cast of Chacters

  Note to readers: Many of these characters were first introduced in Anna’s Crossing, and their stories were further explored in The Newcomer. Twenty-five years have passed since the little church of Ixheim stepped off the Charming Nancy ship in Port Philadelphia and settled into the New World. In The Return, you’ll meet some new faces and get reacquainted with some familiar ones, though time might have weathered and grayed them a bit.

  Tessa Bauer—fifteen-year-old daughter of Anna and Bairn Bauer, their only child.

  Anna König Bauer—midforties, wife of Bairn, mother of Tessa. To quote Bairn, “She’s the true minister in the family.”

  Bairn Bauer—midforties, minister to the Stoney Ridge Amish church. Husband to Anna, father to Tessa, brother to Felix. Highly skilled carpenter. Considered by many to be too lenient a minister, which suits him just fine.

  Felix Bauer—midthirties, Bairn’s younger brother, a widowed father of twin boys, breeder of horses, a deacon in the Stoney Ridge Amish church. Convinced that Bairn gives him all the worst of the ministry jobs.

  Hans Johann Bauer—early twenties, foster brother to Felix and Bairn, raised by their mother, Dorothea. Regarded as a talented blacksmith, one of the most important jobs in colonial America.

  Dorothea Bauer—elderly and frail, widowed, mother to Bairn and Felix, foster mother to Hans.

  Catrina Müller—midthirties, twice widowed, tutor to Felix’s sons.

  Maria Müller —elderly, widowed, mother to Catrina. The self-appointed busybody of the church.

  Betsy Zook—seventeen years old, a fairly recent immigrant from Germany, lived on the frontier with her family.

  Willie and Johnny Zook—Betsy’s younger brothers, ages seven and nine, respectively.

  Caleb—half-Mennonite, half Indian; his mother had been taken captive by the Indians; he became a slave to a Shawnee tribe.

  John Elder—a Scots-Irish Presbyterian minister known as “the fighting parson.” Lives in nearby Paxton.

  Faxon Gingerich—German Mennonite neighbor to Bairn and Anna Bauer. Ordered the building of the Conestoga wagon. Tessa calls him Faxon the Saxon.

  Martin Gingerich—Faxon’s son, seventeen years old, sweet on Tessa. She calls him rumpled Martin.

  Prologue

  Up the Schuylkill River

  November 16, 1762

  As Betsy climbed up from the creek carrying two buckets of water, she heard the sound of her brothers’ laughter, and then a man’s deeper laugh. She stopped abruptly to listen, and cold water sloshed out of the buckets, spilling over her feet. She cocked her head, straining to listen; sound traveled downhill. Surely, the voice didn’t belong to her father. He’d gone to Germantown early this morning to buy a new horse and wasn’t expected until long after dark. And, of course, her father believed laughter and gaiety were the devil’s handiwork. She heard the deep laugh again. Then she smiled.

  Hans. He had come.

  She quickened her step, moving as fast as the two heavy buckets allowed. Hans or no Hans, she had no desire to return to the soggy creek bank because her mother would need more water for the day’s chores.

  As she climbed the hill, her heart started to race and only partially because of exertion. Hans had come! He’d been to the Zook farm just a fortnight ago. He’d sent a letter to Betsy in the meantime, full of tender words and loving promises.

  Six months ago, as her family had boarded that awful ship to sail to the New World, she never imagined that a man like Hans Bauer would be on the other side of the ocean, just waiting to meet her, w
aiting to fall in love with her. She had dreaded the journey—and it was every bit as horrific as she had heard about and feared and even worse—yet what she hadn’t considered was that God’s goodness would prevail.

  Betsy stopped at the top of the hill to catch her breath. From where she stood on the crest, she could see Hans and her two brothers, Johnny and Willie, toss a pinecone back and forth to each other. Her mother leaned on the doorjamb of the open door to their crudely built log home, watertight for the coming winter but still so raw and unfinished. She was smiling, her mother, and Betsy was touched by the sight. There’d been little to smile over since little Marie had died on the ship. Hans had brought much to Betsy’s family—joy, love, hope for the future.

  She heard the jingle of a harness and turned to find a peddler and a donkey-pulled cart slowly making their way along the narrow Indian trail. She’d seen this man before. Her mother had bought an iron kettle from him a few weeks back. He waved to her and she set her buckets down. They didn’t speak each other’s languages, but a smile always worked. She pointed to the bucket of water and cupped her hands, mimicking that he should help himself to a drink.

  The peddler eased himself off the cart. “Thank y’, lassie. I’m a wee bit parched.” He drank and drank, then let his donkey drink from the bucket. Oh dear. Another trip to the creek. She glanced down at the farmhouse. Mayhap Hans would go with her, and they could have time alone, without Johnny and Willie and their silly teasing.

  The peddler wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve. He peered at Betsy’s prayer cap, barely covering her thick blonde hair, then took a few steps to the back of his cart. In it were two old battered trunks, tied with rope. He undid one knot and lifted the lid, rummaged through the trunk, all the while mumbling to himself. With an “Aha!” he found what he was looking for. He spun around and reached an open palm out to Betsy. In his hand was a hair clip. “A bonny lass deserves somethin’ pretty.”

  She shouldn’t accept such a fancy thing. Her father would be furious if he knew she took a gift from a peddler—even Hans would frown. But the clip was lovely, and it would be a sweet surprise for her mother on this beautiful autumn day while her father was away in Germantown. A secret between them to remind each other that it was always darkest just before dawn.

  She reached out and took the clip from the peddler. “Denki,” she said, and gave him a smile. “Viel denki.” Many thanks.

  He smiled, pleased, and re-tied the rope on the old trunk before climbing back on his cart. Clucking to his donkey, he went along his way. Betsy tucked the hair clip in her prayer cap, a hidden touch of fancy, and saw something off in the distance. Her skin prickled. A man, an Indian, was watching her from the far edges of the forest. She froze, held her breath. When she looked again, he had disappeared. Here and then gone.

  Were the tree shadows playing tricks on her? Her brothers claimed they were always seeing Indians. Pure foolishness, their father insisted. She heard the fading jingles from the donkey’s harness. Surely a peddler wouldn’t be casually making his rounds if he’d heard word of restless warriors, and he’d be the first to hear. She shook off her dread. There was nothing to fear! She picked up the buckets and hurried down the hill to greet Hans.

  1

  Beacon Hollow

  Lancaster County, Pennsylvania

  April 20, 1763

  Tessa Bauer stopped in her tracks when she heard the horse’s huffing sound. Moving slowly, she hid behind a large tree and watched the stallion slide gracefully through the forest. It was the fifth time she’d seen the legendary horse. The phantom stallion, he was called. No one believed she’d actually ever seen him, no one except Felix, who believed everything she told him. He was sweet like that, her uncle Felix.

  She’d grown up hearing all kinds of tales and rumors about this magnificent horse. The story had spun that he was a spirited Flemish stallion brought to Pennsylvania shortly after William Penn’s arrival. The horse was meant for the Penn stables, but as the stallion was brought ashore, he managed to break loose and vanish into the deep wilderness. Over the years, rumors of sightings floated from Philadelphia to Lancaster Town, and greedy men would rally together to attempt a capture. All efforts proved futile, of course, because this was no ordinary horse and they were quite ordinary men.

  And then five years ago, in late spring, a wild horse broke down Felix’s pasture fence to mate with his broodmares just as they came into season. Felix was outraged at the intrusion and rebuilt the pasture into a near-fortress. Alas! Too late. The broodmares had been compromised.

  Eleven months later, Felix was grinning ear to ear. There was no doubt in his mind, nor in Tessa’s, that the newborn foals had been sired by the mighty and mysterious stallion. Even at birth, the foals were enormous. As quickly as Felix could, before his mares went into season, he lowered the pasture railing and prayed the stallion would return.

  And so he did. For the last five springs, in the cover of night, the stallion returned to Felix’s broodmare pasture. Felix had never seen him, not once, not like Tessa. He had tried—once he had accompanied Tessa into the woods to look for him. To wait and watch, but he wasn’t patient, her uncle Felix, and stallion hunting required patience. The first time Felix’s stomach rumbled for dinner, he gave up and set out for home. But he was grateful to the Flemish stallion, or more likely its son or grandson—whichever one it was that paid calls on his beguiling broodmares. He prayed it would continue. He dubbed this new breed of horses the Conestoga horse, named for the valley the wild stallion roamed.

  Tessa stilled. She heard crunching. Slowly, so slowly, she peeked her head around the tree and saw the stallion had discovered the carrots she had left him, dug out of a storage barrel from her family’s root cellar.

  Oh my. He was a stunning animal, truly breathtaking.

  If she reached out a hand, she could touch him, stroke his glossy black coat. He must know she was close by. His ability to smell her, to sense her nearness . . . he must know. Dare she try? She leaned forward, reaching a hand out, when suddenly an eagle let out a shriek overhead and the wild horse startled, then bolted. He stopped, turned, and looked at Tessa—right at her, as if he recognized her!—before he trotted away and disappeared into the dense woods.

  Wait, just wait, until Tessa told Uncle Felix the news. Spring had come, the wild stallion had returned. And she had made some headway in drawing close to him, at least enough headway that he looked less as if he was preparing to bolt. That was an improvement from last year’s brief and unsuccessful encounters.

  She hurried through the woods to get home. In one large jump, her long legs crested the rushing creek that ribboned her family’s farm. As she climbed up the creek bank, she felt a rare, fleeting moment of gratefulness to have inherited her father’s height. Bairn Bauer stood six foot six inches, and Tessa, at age fifteen, was five foot ten inches tall and still growing. But the moment of gratitude faded as suddenly as it had come, just as it always did. She hated towering over others, especially men and boys.

  As she passed the sheep’s pond, she slowed to a stop and bent over to study her reflection in the still water. The face she saw there was disappointing. A high forehead, short nose, cheeks sprinkled with freckles, deep-set eyes, a too-wide mouth. So plain, so very plain. Too plain to attract a man’s notice, especially a man like Hans, who had won her heart over, for he was her hero.

  Hans Bauer was a foster brother to Tessa’s father, Bairn, and to her uncle Felix. He had been raised from birth by Tessa’s grandmother, Dorothea, and shared her interest in horses. He was the blacksmith for the church, as well as many farming neighbors, as his skills at the forge were unsurpassed. Best of all, he was slightly taller than Tessa and handsome—more handsome than any man in Pennsylvania bar none—with a chiseled face, snapping brown eyes, a splendid chin, and wavy auburn hair that fell to his shoulders. Handsome Hans. She knew that giving such significance to a person’s physical beauty was the way of the world and not their way, not the way of the st
raight and narrow, but she couldn’t help herself. Tessa could never remember a time when her heart wasn’t utterly devoted to Hans.

  Sadly, he hardly noticed her.

  She looked again at her reflection in the sheep pond. So grave, so serious. Perhaps if she smiled more. Her mother often said that a woman’s beauty rested in her smile. She practiced a few smiles and thought she looked rather ridiculous. She could hear her mother’s voice as clearly as if she were seated beside her: “Tessa, beauty is of very small consequence compared with good principles, good feelings, and good understanding.”

  Tommyrot. Beauty was beauty.

  She jumped to her feet and ran toward Beacon Hollow, her home. As soon as she reached the lane that led to the large stone house, she slowed. There was Faxon Gingerich, their Mennonite neighbor across the way, bearing down on her atop his plow horse. Faxon the Saxon, she called him, though not in shot of his hearing. Beside him was his son, Martin, whom Tessa considered to be a boy of low character. She hadn’t seen Martin in months and months, which suited her nicely. They were nearly the same age; he was a year or two older, though she was always head and shoulders taller than him. Tessa’s father, who disliked farming but loved carpentry, had hired Martin for the past few autumns to harvest the corn. The first year Martin was hired on, he started a vicious rumor that giants ran in Tessa’s family, and given that she was a tiny bit sensitive about her height, she still hadn’t forgiven him.

  They halted their horses when they met up with her; she stood before them with her hands linked behind her back. Faxon the Saxon barely acknowledged her, but she expected as much. She was young, she was female, and she was not Mennonite. Three strikes, to his way of thinking. His gaze swept over the large yard, from the carpentry shop over to the sawmill down by the creek, seeking out evidence of her father’s presence.

  Martin sat awkwardly on his horse, his ill-fitting clothes dangling on him as if he hung on a hook. His pants were too short and his coatsleeves were too long. He wore no hat and his hair was unruly and wind-tossed, flying off in all directions. He was a rumpled mess. Rumpled Martin.