The Devoted Read online

  Jesse tilted his head. “Why in the world would you want to learn how to drive a buggy?” Why would anyone bother if they weren’t Amish?

  “Because I’m planning to become a convert to the Amish church.”

  Jesse swallowed a laugh. Later, he would have to tell his sister Ruthie about this guy. So many people thought they wanted to become Amish, until they actually came to an Amish community and saw what it really looked like, up close and personal. Within a few days, 100 percent of Amish wannabes left for home. One hundred percent. “You know, my dad’s the bishop.”

  “Right. David Stoltzfus. He picked me up at the bus stop yesterday afternoon. I also need someone to tutor me in Penn Dutch.”

  “You’re trying to learn the language?” This fellow was a funny duck.

  “Yes. In thirty days. So I need someone who would be very determined, very hard on me. Someone who won’t cut me any slack. Any suggestions?” His gaze swept over Windmill Farm, ending at the sheep pasture. “I don’t have time to waste.”

  “My sister Ruthie. She’s as tough as they come. By day two, you’ll be begging for mercy.”

  “Excellent. Just the kind of tutor I need.”

  Jesse rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “Have you told my dad about your plans to convert?”

  “Yes, sure. Absolutely. He said we could talk more about it as I settled in. In fact, I’m staying in your room. While the Inn at Eagle Hill is . . .” He searched for the right words.

  “Under police investigation.” Jesse scratched his head. “Well, I suppose I could teach you how to handle a horse and buggy in thirty days.” Who knows? Maybe this fellow would end up being the first Amish wannabe who actually converted.

  “I’ll pay top dollar.”

  That changed everything. Jesse smiled at Patrick Kelly. “Well, then. I definitely think we could make some kind of arrangement.”

  Ruthie set the bucket underneath Moomoo, their sweet and docile Jersey cow, and sat on the milking stool. She wiped Moomoo’s teats with an iodine solution, dried them, and leaned her forehead against the side of the cow as she pulled to start the flow of milk. Morning and evening, this mindless routine in the barn gave her time alone to think.

  It was a strange thing about being a teenager. You were supposed to be figuring out your life, but you had no idea what that could mean. Or how a decision you made today could affect your life in ten years, or twenty, or fifty. Or what to do when you had an inkling that something was wrong.

  Like . . . why did she think Luke was hiding something about where he was the other night, when the stranger died at the inn? It wasn’t anything he said, it was the way he averted his eyes when she asked him where he’d been. Those blue eyes of his always seemed to swim with a secret.

  Was Luke with another girl? Probably. But that couldn’t really be considered cheating after she told him she was no longer his girlfriend. She had no claim on Luke and made sure he knew that.

  She heard someone call her name and lifted her head above the cow’s back. It was the inn’s displaced guest, Patrick Kelly. He stood in the open barn door with the afternoon sun streaming down behind him, making his appearance almost . . . angelic. She smiled at such an odd impression. She wasn’t sure what an angel would look like, but she had assumed he would be dramatic looking. And that definitely did not fit Patrick’s description. The very opposite!

  His was a finely chiseled face: high sculptured cheekbones, a long narrow nose, wide-spaced brown eyes with thick, long lashes, rimmed by dark brows that matched his short brown hair. He had a lean, lanky build—so unlike the stocky, muscled German men in her church. His skin was milk pale, so different from the perpetual suntanned look of an Amish farmer.

  Even his hands were unusual. Most Amish, man or woman, girl or boy, had thick fingers, shaped and honed by hard work. Patrick had long, tapered fingers, and his palms were without calluses. She had noticed how soft and smooth they were when she shook hands with him last evening. Those soft hands, they struck her as an odd thing for a man.

  Plus, he must be crazy. Why would anyone—anyone!—convert to Amish when they weren’t born Amish? It was crazy. She had almost laughed out loud when she heard him tell the family what his plans were last night, but fortunately, she caught herself just in time.

  She felt a little guilty about wanting to laugh, as if she was trying not to laugh at a funeral. He seemed so earnest, but what a ridiculous notion! If her brother Jesse were at last night’s supper, they would have made a bet to see how long it would take, or what trigger, before Patrick packed his bags to head home. One hot day spent harvesting field corn? Two? Or maybe the first Sunday morning three-hour church service on a backless bench. He’d be on the next bus to Canada. Gone!

  Ruthie made herself think the comment and not say it. That would be her new rule, going forward, starting right at that moment. She was going to try to keep her critical opinions to herself. As her dad often reminded her, Mer kann denke was mer will, awwer mer daerf net zu laut denke. Think what you please but not too loud.

  Patrick Kelly walked around to where Ruthie sat by the cow. “I was wondering if you might be willing to give me lessons in Penn Dutch.”

  Ruthie had to look over her shoulder to see him. “And a hello to you too.”

  He smiled. “My apologies. I can be a little task oriented. I’m eager to get started. There’s no time to waste.”

  “Why me?”

  Gliding the flat of his hand along Moomoo’s bony spine, he walked to the front of the cow so she didn’t have to keep craning her neck to see him. “Your brother Jesse recommended you.”

  “You’ve already met Jesse?”

  “Yes. He was top on my list of people to meet in person. He’s going to teach me how to drive a buggy.”

  She had to swallow a smile. “You have a list of people to meet?”

  “Yes. Does that seem odd?”

  “No, not at all.” Yes. This guy was weird.

  Weird, but in sort of a charming way.

  But then again, there was that bird.

  Nyna the Mynah. After dinner last night, he coaxed the bird to talk and it spewed out short Bible verses. Birdy, Lydie, Emily, and Molly were over the moon about it. Ruthie thought it curious—in her orbit of friends, she couldn’t think of any guy who would have the patience to teach a bird to mimic words. Yes, Patrick Kelly was . . . weird.

  “What do you think?”

  She took her time answering as she finished milking, focusing her attention on the cow. “That brings up another point. If you do convert to the Amish, what are you going to do for a living? Everyone works hard, you know.” She pulled the pail from beneath the cow. Steamy wisps from the hot milk, fragrant and fresh smelling, floated between them.

  “I’m not at all concerned about that.” He stared at her, saying nothing, and she waited for a feeling of awkwardness to set in at the lengthening silence. But it didn’t. The oddest sense of ease flowed between them, and something told her such a situation wasn’t an unusual occurrence for him—this tendency not to fill every moment with words. “For now, I’ve saved up enough money to last for the duration.”

  What did that mean? The duration. She was just about to ask when he added, “I’ll pay for the lessons. I don’t expect you to give up your valuable time without compensation.”

  Why not? Right now, it felt good. Or not good, exactly, but unusual and interesting, which might be the most she could hope for this summer . . . other than the distressing homicide at the Inn at Eagle Hill. But there didn’t seem to be anything more she could do about that particular situation. She poured the milk into a large stainless steel container. “I guess so.”

  “Oh boy.” Patrick grinned. “That’s great. Just great! There’s no time like the present. Let’s start today.”

  4

  The morning sun shone brightly, hinting of a hot afternoon. David Stoltzfus arrived at the Bent N’ Dent and unlocked the door, breathing in deeply the smells of fresh-dried herbs
and spices that permeated the store. His favorite smell. No, better than that. It was his favorite place.

  One of the things David enjoyed about running a store was its reflection of everything he loved about being Amish. A store was the hub of a community’s wheel. In less than 1,000 square feet, he tried his best to provide anything and everything that might be needed, which meant that every inch, floor to ceiling, was utilized.

  It was all based on the goal of being helpful. To David’s way of thinking, being helpful was an act of grace. Tangible evidence of the loving, kind character of God. That was why he was very open to most—but not all—of the ideas of his son Jesse, along with Hank Lapp, as they sought to expand customer service. A home delivery service was one of the first plans that actually worked—unlike the used self-serve frozen yogurt machine, jerry-rigged to work by aid of a generator, that kept shooting liquid yogurt out the top. Hank Lapp was no longer allowed to make unsupervised purchases for the Bent N’ Dent.

  The original plan was for Yardstick Yoder, fastest boy in Stoney Ridge, to make those deliveries. It worked quite nicely for a short time, until Yardstick was offered a job making deliveries for the Hay & Grain at triple the hourly wage that he made at the Bent N’ Dent. David was sorry to lose Yardstick as an employee, especially because his Bent N’ Dent customers were quickly hooked on the home delivery concept. More often than not, David ended up being the delivery boy. In a good way, he touched base with many families he would normally see only on Sundays. In a less-than-good way, it meant he was often home later than expected. Fortunately, Birdy was a very forgiving wife.

  She was more than forgiving. She was a wonderful wife, a faithful companion. Just last night, she was in her favorite chair, mending the hem of Lydie’s dress, as he sat at his desk, thinking through a sermon based on Genesis 1. He read aloud verse 21: “‘And God created great whales, and every living creature that moveth, which the waters brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged fowl after his kind: and God saw that it was good.’” He swatted an annoying mosquito that kept circling and buzzing around him. “Really? Every creature?”

  “Yes,” Birdy said firmly, without looking up from her mending. “We are all creatures from the same Creator. Mosquitos and great whales have their place in the goodness that God has provided.”

  The goodness God has provided.

  Birdy was right—that was what the Bible said: And God saw that it was good. Even mosquitos—a creature David despised. When he thought of the creation of the animal world, he generally thought only of those creatures that inspired marvel and mystery—the sight of a bald eagle soaring in the sky, the bright colors of a graceful monarch butterfly bouncing around the kitchen garden. Never once had he considered a mosquito to be a creature of awe. Terror, annoyance, but never awe. Never part of the goodness God provided.

  It dawned on David how he tended to classify the created world according to his conveniences, his likes and dislikes. He rethought the focus of his sermon, to encourage his church members to see everything as interconnected and complementary in the world of God’s goodness. Without realizing it, Birdy provided that kind of inspiration to him. He had asked God for the gift of a wife. God had given him a gift beyond anything he could imagine asking.

  He started the coffeepot brewing for the old codgers who should be arriving soon. He checked the messages on the answering machine in his storeroom office, hoping to hear something from Matt Lehman about what caused the death of the stranger at the Inn at Eagle Hill.

  Nothing.

  David settled into his desk in the storeroom, filling out some orders, when his sister Dok peeked her head through the partially open door. “Have a minute?”

  “For you, always.” He pulled out a chair for her. It still amazed him that his sister was in Stoney Ridge—of all places!—and that they had been reconnected after years of silence and separation. Her Amish upbringing made her a favorite among the hospital staff—as soon as they realized she could speak Penn Dutch, a nickname emerged: Dokdor Fraa, Penn Dutch for “lady doctor.” It was shortened to Dok, a handle that David’s own family quickly picked up because it made it easier for all to distinguish between Ruthie, his daughter, and Ruth, his sister for whom she was named.

  This morning, Dok was dressed in blue scrubs, which was not at all unusual, even when she wasn’t at the hospital. David was often caught by the irony of seeing his sister in the modest, nondescript garb. Dok, who so wanted to be independent from anything Amish, was still most comfortable in a type of uniform. “Want a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes, thanks. By the way, how are you managing your ulcer? Any new pain or discomfort?”

  David poured her a cup of coffee and handed it to her with a frown. “Are you here as a doctor or as a sister?”

  She smiled. “Both. Always.”

  Something was on Dok’s mind, but he knew not to press. She would tell him in her own sweet time. He waited patiently, watching her settle into the chair across from him and stretch her legs out. In her midforties, his sister was quite a lovely woman, with a delicate, heart-shaped face. A sweet Valentine face, he realized, that belied her feisty spirit. Her hair was strawberry blond, like Ruthie’s and Emily’s, with eyes that were blueberry blue. She had the Stoltzfus strong nose and high cheekbones, much like his own.

  She leaned back in her chair and tented her fingertips. “David, something happened a few weeks ago at the hospital. Something that I’ve been waiting to discuss with you until after it was all done.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “A patient came into the emergency room. A ninety-three-year-old woman with dementia. She had fallen and twisted her ankle badly.”

  David nodded.

  “She’s Amish. From your church. Lives with her sisters, also quite elderly, who watch over her.”

  His mind ran through possible identities and came up with one face. “Ella?” He was aware that she had hurt her ankle and was using a walker, but it wasn’t a serious injury. “That happened a while ago.”

  “Yes.” Dok rapped her fingers on the desk. “Her primary care physician was notified.”

  “Dr. Finegold?” Max Finegold had a medical practice down the road from the Bent N’ Dent. The Amish went to him, but reluctantly.

  “Exactly. Dr. Finegold. He insisted that Ella be sent to a nursing home. He said she wasn’t safe. I objected, strongly. I explained that she has her sisters’ help and, by remaining in her home, she would be in familiar surroundings. I didn’t think he should take her away from everyone and everything that was meaningful to her. I suggested that he order some physical therapy. Maybe some occupational therapy too.”

  “What did he say?” David didn’t really need to ask. He could guess. Max Finegold was always at odds with the Amish way of handling illness and injury, birth and death.

  “He said, and I quote,” she lowered her voice to a growl, “‘She doesn’t need physical therapy. She’s not going to remember how to do anything.’” Her voice returned to normal. “And then he started to fill out an order to have her sent to a nursing home.”

  This part of the story he was not aware of. “So . . .”

  “So I told him that it was time for him to retire. That he’d gotten too old to learn.”

  David’s brows lifted. “And how did he take that suggestion?”

  “He slammed down his pen and told me that he agreed with me. And that if I think I’m so all-knowing, why don’t I buy his practice so he can move to Florida and golf year-round.” She grinned. “He might have used more expressive language.”

  Oh, boy. David folded his arms across his chest. “What happened then?”

  She shrugged. “Well, a few days later, I bought it from him.” She glanced at him. “Stop staring at me like that.”

  David didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t believe what she had just said. “You bought his practice?” Max Finegold’s practice? His office was just down the road from the Bent N’ Dent! Why, from David’s of
fice window, he could see when Dr. Finegold’s car rolled in or out, or watch his patients come and go. It was that close in proximity.

  “Yes. You don’t seem particularly pleased.”

  “It’s not that. I’m just . . . stunned.”

  “I’m not hanging up my spurs.”

  “Had you been thinking about starting your own practice?”

  “Not really. I guess it was an impulsive act, but it had something to do with Ella. And with all the elderly people who come into the hospital with a problem. The hospital tackles them like they are the problem. Like aging isn’t normal. I’ve seen so many people yanked from everything familiar and sent off to nursing homes. I prefer to keep them in their homes, to make adjustments so they still have their independence, their sense of dignity and belonging. I want to make lives meaningful in old age. The Amish . . . for all they do wrong, I think they do old age right.” She paused, watching him. “You still look skeptical.”

  “Not skeptical. Still stunned, still absorbing this news. I thought you enjoyed working in the emergency room.”

  “I have enjoyed it. I’ve seen more and learned more in a few years than I could ever learn in office practice, but I’m growing a little weary of the hectic pace.”

  “It might not be all that different out in the country. Dr. Finegold always complains about those middle-of-the-night house calls.”

  “Maybe . . . it’s not just the pace. I’m tired of not knowing my patients. They come in, I treat them, send them to their regular doctor for follow-up. I never have a chance to follow the patients to their homes, to see how they’re doing. Maybe having a private practice would be more satisfying for me. I just feel as if . . . maybe there’s something missing.”

  That was an expected confession to hear from his sister, because that was the very reason she had chosen to work in an emergency room. She used to say it was less complicated. It pleased him to hear her flip-flop on this issue. Something was calling her back to her roots. “Community.”