“That doesn’t explain how you came to be in Hope Springs.”
“Two months ago, Jason and I were working on a scaffold when it collapsed. He fell three stories. I managed to hold on to a cable until I was rescued. As I was swinging there, my fingers growing numb and slipping, I heard my mother whisper in my ear. She said, ‘Hang on, Adam, God has other plans for you.’ I’m not making it up, I heard her voice.”
“I believe you. What happened to your brother?”
“He was killed instantly. After that, I came back to my dat’s farm.” To another funeral and an empty ache that never went away.
The accident and the loss of his brother had forced Adam to reevaluate his own life. His Amish roots had been strangled by his sense of self-importance and the money his high-paying job brought in. He had left God behind for a fat paycheck and a used car.
“I’m so sorry.” Emma’s breath rose in frosty puffs. Her cheeks glowed rosy pink from the cold, but she made no move to go inside. Sympathy filled her eyes as tears gathered in the corners. He sensed she understood the terrible price he’d paid for his folly.
Suddenly, he became aware of a connection between them, something he’d never felt before with any woman. How could he have thought she was plain? There was so much beauty and peace in her eyes.
“Your dat must have been happy to have you home.”
Sadly, Adam shook his head. “Nee. He’s not convinced that I’ve changed. He thinks I will run back to my good job and easy life if I can’t earn a decent living here.”
“Will you?” she asked, an odd quality in her tone.
“I will not go back to my English ways. I won’t lie, I miss some things about that life, but now God is with me every day.”
“Your dat will see that in time.”
“I’m not sure. He forgave me for the pain I brought on our family, but he no longer trusts me. I would do almost anything to be worthy of his respect again.”
Chapter Eleven
The winter sky held only a hint of pink in the east as Emma pulled open the barn door on Monday morning. Under her arm, she carried a rubber hot-water bottle. Even through her coat she could feel its warmth. It reminded her of the warmth that had enveloped her when Adam shared so much about his life.
She stood there thinking about him, about his struggle with his faith, and the way he’d chosen to share it with her touched her deeply. She couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Inside the dark stable, she paused to light a lantern on the workbench beside the door. She held it high to light her way past the black buggy to the single stall beyond it. A soft whinny from Cream welcomed her as the mare did every morning.
Hanging the lamp from the hook, Emma checked the water tank, happy to see only a skim of ice on the surface. The temperature was still below freezing, but not by much. After doling out the mare’s grain and cleaning the stall, Emma quickly climbed the ladder into the hayloft. It was warmer up where the hay trapped the heat from the horse’s body below. A sudden chorus of mewing erupted from a wooden box covered with a scrap of blanket in the corner.
“I’m here, little ones, don’t cry.” Emma sat cross-legged on the floor and raised the edge of the blanket. The mewing cries rose in volume.
She pulled out the cool water bottle and unwrapped it from a length of gray flannel. Laying it aside, she wrapped the warm bottle she carried and tucked it in the box for the four tiny kittens crawling around in search of her and their breakfast.
“You are so impatient,” Emma crooned as she picked them up, one by one, and settled them in the well of her skirt between her knees. The biggest one, a yellow fellow with long fur, began climbing her coat with his needle-sharp claws.
Emma swaddled him in another length of flannel and pulled a doll bottle full of the special formula the vet had given her from her pocket. It took several tries before he got hold of the nipple.
“Look at you. You’ve got more milk on your face than in your tummy.” The others had settled back to sleep in a multicolored ball in her lap.
To her complete surprise, the kittens seemed to be thriving. Each time she made her way to the loft she expected to discover the worst. The two-hour feedings had stretched to three hours now that they had put on some weight.
They had been only a day or two old when she found them. The local vet discouraged her from trying to hand-raise a litter of barn cats, but when she insisted he gave her the supplies she needed. Along with instructions, he gave her one piece of advice. He said, “Don’t get attached to them because it will only bring you grief when they die.”
Grief was nothing new to her. She took the supplies and followed his instructions to the letter. Now the kittens were her special secret. Her barnyard babies.
Not real babies. Not like the ones she would have had if William had lived, but they had mewed and wiggled and clawed their way into her heart. They were so helpless. They needed her, as she needed them. Even more than she knew.
A sudden noise made her look toward
