When Hope Blossoms (2 page)

The child spun, a few sprigs falling from her arms. Her gaze fell on Tim, and a smile lit her pixie face. “Hi, mister. Look! I’m getting flowers for my mama.”

Up close, Tim realized just how many branches had been stripped of their buds. Buds that wouldn’t become blossoms. Blossoms that wouldn’t become apples. He balled his hands into fists. “These flowers aren’t meant for picking.” He barked the comment more harshly than he’d intended.

The child blinked up at him, her mouth forming an O of alarm.

Tim drew in a deep breath. He glanced around. “How did you get here?”

She tapped one tennis-shoe-covered foot on the grass. “I walked.”

Tim frowned. Walked? How much distance could a little kid like her cover? Not much, he’d wager. “Where is your mother?”

The girl rocked gently to and fro, her skinny braids swinging with the motion. “At my house.”

The reply was less than satisfactory. “Where is your house?”

Twisting her head, the child squinted over her shoulder toward the west. “Over there. Somewhere.”

Tim looked in the same direction, pondering possibilities. The only house close enough for a child to manage the distance was the old Sanford farm. He’d heard some scuttlebutt in Weaverly about people from Ohio purchasing the Sanford acreage as well as three or four houses in town, but he hadn’t paid much attention. His focus was always on his orchard. Now he wished he’d listened more carefully to the town gossips. If he’d had any idea the newcomers from Ohio were Mennonites, he might have—

He shook his head. Would he have sold the orchard and moved? Not likely. He loved this place too much to leave it, even to avoid contact with Mennonites.

He turned to the girl, who stared into the tree again. She was a cute little thing—innocent-looking with those big blue eyes and shabby braids. But she didn’t belong on his land, picking the buds from his trees. “I want you to go home. And from now on—”

A startled yelp sounded from behind Tim’s shoulder, followed by a scrambling noise. A second child—a boy, older than the girl—fell from the branches with a wild flailing of arms and legs and landed flat on his bottom in the thick grass beneath the tree.

A
loud cry escaped the boy’s mouth, followed by an intense intake of air that indicated the wind had been knocked out of him. The little girl squealed, “Parker!” She dropped her armload of twigs and scampered forward.

Tim got to him first. The boy had curled up like a giant roly-poly bug, holding his stomach and gasping as desperately as a fish on a creekbank. Tim dropped to his knees next to the boy and pressed him flat, advising in a sharp tone, “Calm down. Breathe through your nose.” The boy stared at Tim with wide brown eyes, his mouth flapping open and closed. Tim gave him a little shake. “I said breathe through your nose!”

The boy’s shoulders jerked spasmodically, but he clamped his jaw closed and took short, uneven breaths. Slowly, his red face faded to a muted pink that closely matched the tree buds. When he appeared to be breathing normally, Tim took hold of his shoulders and helped him shift to a seated position. The boy grimaced, planting both palms on his lower back. He groaned.

The little girl folded her arms over her chest and clicked her tongue on her teeth. “Parker, you were s’posed to climb down from the tree, not jump.”

The boy—Parker—hung his head. “I’m sorry.” His voice, low and soft, held shame. “I didn’t mean to do it wrong.” His face lifted, his repentant brown eyes meeting Tim’s. Something in Parker’s expression tugged at Tim’s heart. He swallowed hard, unable to tear his gaze away from the boy’s pleading face.

The girl stomped her foot. “An’ you made me lose my buttons. Now we gotta pick more.” Her dirty hands lifted to the drooping branches above her head.

“No!” Tim jolted to his feet and swept the branches out of the girl’s reach. “You can’t pick those.”

The child tilted her head, her brow all puckered. “But why? The little buttons are so pretty. Like pink marbles.” Her infectious giggle rang. “Momma’s most favorite color is pink. I wanna take them to Momma.”

Tim wanted to take the children to their mama. He turned to Parker, who had rolled to his hip and was struggling to stand. Concern tickled the back of Tim’s mind. Considering the short fall—the lowest branches were barely as high as Tim’s chin—and the cushioning grass beneath the tree, he hadn’t expected the boy to be hurt. But his slow movements indicated pain.

Tim caught the boy’s upper arm and lifted him to his feet. Upright, he stood as high as Tim’s armpit. Tim judged him to be between ten and twelve years old, but his mannerisms made him seem younger. “Are you okay?”

“Huh?” Parker stared at Tim for a moment, openmouthed.

Had the fall knocked the kid senseless? Tim repeated, “Are—you—hurt?”

Parker bobbed his head. “My rear end hurts.”

Tim held back a snort of amusement. Served him right, climbing up in the trees and picking the branches clean of buds. “Can you walk?”

The boy shuffled forward with his back shaped like an apostrophe and his face pinched into a frown. “Ow. Ow.”

He’d intended to put the children on the other side of the fence and send them on their way, but it would be cruel to make the boy walk the quarter-mile distance to the Sanford farm with a sore back. Besides, maybe he really had jarred something. Tim might be held accountable if the kid suffered some kind of long-term effect. Not that Mennonites would sue, but . . . Tim sighed. It meant losing work time, but he could transport the children to the Sanford place in the rusty golf cart he used to get around the orchard.

“Stay here.” He pointed at the little girl and scowled. “And don’t pick any flowers . . . er, buttons. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Like an obedient puppy, the little girl plopped down on the grass and crisscrossed her legs. Parker hovered over her like an old man with osteoporosis. Tim doubted Parker would sit. He trotted to his mower, climbed aboard, and rode the thing as quickly as he dared to the house. From there, he unlocked the shed, hopped into the golf cart’s seat, and muttered a warning—“You better start, you crotchety old thing.” It started, and he grinned.

Less than ten minutes after leaving the two kids sitting beneath the Golden Delicious apple trees, he returned. They hadn’t budged. He shifted to the edge of the cracked vinyl seat and patted the empty spot beside him. “C’mon. Get on.”

The little girl bounced up, grabbed the boy’s hand, and pulled him to the cart. She clambered in, but the boy hesitated. The girl hunched her shoulders and giggled. “Get in, Parker. It’ll be fun.” She shot Tim a bright smile.

Tim rolled his eyes. “Parker, you can walk or ride. It’s your choice.”

Finally, Parker grabbed the iron armrest on the seat and heaved himself into the cart. He fell into the narrow space next to the girl, releasing a yelp when his backside connected with the seat. Tim sucked in a sharp breath. Not that he held any fondness for these two little urchins who’d robbed his tree of the potential for a good three dozen apples, but he still didn’t want the boy to be seriously hurt. He’d try to avoid bumps on the way to the Sanford place.

The little girl chattered as they drove slowly along the dirt road, but Tim didn’t reply. No sense in encouraging the kid to think of him as a friend. In fact, he intended to inform their mother to keep them home where they belonged. Most Old Order moms were diligent when it came to supervision. Unless things had changed a lot since he was a boy. His own mother had never let him venture far from her sight. He ground his teeth. Now these kids had him thinking about Mom.

They reached the lane leading to the Sanford farm, and Tim slowed the cart to make the turn. As he aimed the nose of the cart for the house, he spotted another child wandering between the house and the barn. Her white cap and trailing ribbons as well as the simple dress let Tim know without a doubt the family who’d claimed the farmstead was definitely Old Order Mennonite. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

The girl held her cupped hands beside her mouth. He assumed she was hollering, but he couldn’t hear her over the cart’s rumble. She came to a halt and turned to look in his direction. Her eyes flew wide. Then she took off at a run, disappearing behind the house.

Tim pulled up the cart next to the house and shifted it into park. “Hop out,” he ordered the pair on the seat, “and go get your mom or dad for me.” He’d have a firm talk with the new owners, and then he’d leave them be. For good.

“Mom! Mom! Some man is here! He has Parker and Adri with him!”

Bekah’s shrill voice reached Amy’s ears, and she nearly collapsed with relief. Having been warned about an abandoned well in the pasture behind the house, she’d left Bekah searching the outbuildings around the house and headed out to the pasture herself. She’d found the well and its wood cover, but there was no sign of the children. She was planning where she should look next when Bekah’s call came.

Amy waved both hands over her head. “I’m coming!” She broke into a run, the uneven ground and her wind-tossed skirts slowing her pace despite the sturdy tennis shoes on her feet. The stout breeze loosened the pins holding her cap, and she clamped one hand over her head as she ran. She rounded the house, her heart leaping for joy when she spotted all three children standing next to a rusty, open-sided cart. A tall man wearing a baseball-style cap similar to those worn by the Mennonite men sat in the cart’s seat with one leg extended to the ground. Apparently he’d been the one to bring the children home. Gratitude swelled in her chest, and she ran directly to the little group.

Throwing her arms around both Parker and Adrianna, she kissed their sweaty heads and then aimed a smile at the stranger. “Thank you so much, sir. I’ve been so worried!” She shifted her gaze to her son and youngest daughter, searching their dear, dirty faces. The fearful worry that had held her captive for the past half hour abruptly switched to aggravation now that she knew they were safe. She frowned at the pair. “Shame on you for wandering off that way. From now on you stay right here on our property, do you hear me?”

They both nodded, their expressions contrite, and her irritation melted. She hugged them again. Parker let out a yelp. Amy pulled back. “Parker, honey, what’s wrong?”

“He jumped out of a tree and fell on his bottom,” Adrianna said, her bright voice devoid of concern.

Amy gawked at the boy. “You were climbing trees?”

“We were getting you flowers.” Adrianna answered for her brother again. “But that man”—she pointed a dirt-smudged finger to the man who remained half-in, half-out of the sorry-looking cart—“wouldn’t let us bring ’em to you.”

The man slowly straightened, rising to his full height, which was intimidating up close. His frowning countenance added to his unapproachable appearance. “I caught these two on my land, snipping branches from one of my apple trees.”

Amy turned toward the children. “That was very, very dangerous. Parker, I want you to promise me you won’t climb any more trees.”

Parker gave his customary “Huh?” Then he blinked twice and nodded. “Okay, Mom.”

Amy took hold of Adrianna’s shoulder. “And you should never pick flowers without asking permission first. Tell Mr.—Mr.—” She blew out a huff, turning again to the man. “Your name, please?”

“Roper. Tim Roper.”

Amy turned Adrianna to face the man. “Tell Mr. Roper you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Roper.” Very little repentance colored Adrianna’s tone, but Amy decided to address the issue more fully later—after he had departed. Adrianna pulled on Amy’s skirt. “I’m thirsty. Can I have a drink?”

Bekah stepped forward. “I’ll take them in and help them wash up.”

The trio headed for the house. Amy watched them go, noting Parker’s stiff gait. Maybe she should make a doctor’s appointment for him, just in case. Falls could be dangerous, as she knew far too well.

Eager to return to her children, she gave Mr. Roper a smile. “Thank you again for bringing them home. We’re new here, and I’m sure their curiosity carried them away. It won’t happen again.” She started for the house.

“It better not.”

The man’s disparaging tone halted Amy. She slowly turned to face him.

He scowled, folding his arms over his chest. “Those trees are my livelihood. I can’t have your kids over there, picking the branches bare. All my other neighbors respect the boundary. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your kids on your own side of the fence.”

Mr. Roper’s blunt, condescending manner of speaking raised Amy’s hackles, but a biblical admonition winged through her conscience:
“A soft answer turneth away wrath.”
She drew in a slow breath, giving herself a moment to pray for patience before replying. “I apologize, Mr. Roper. If there’s anything I can do to make up for the damage to your tree, I—”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “No need. Just keep them home from now on. It isn’t safe to let kids run wild that way.”

His words cut Amy to the core. How many times had she berated herself for the long-ago day when she’d let Parker run after Gabe rather than keeping him close to home? If she’d made a different choice, maybe he’d be whole. Maybe Gabe would still be with them. Her chest constricted, hindering her breathing as tentacles of guilt wrapped around her heart.

“Now that we’re clear, I need to get back to work.” Mr. Roper whirled on his bootheel and slid onto the seat of his cart. He gave the key a twist, and the engine coughed. With a scowl, he twisted the key again. A stuttering
click-click-click
came in response. He slapped the steering wheel, then let his head drop back, releasing an aggravated grunt.

Although Amy preferred to escape to the house, she couldn’t leave the man sitting in her driveway in a dead cart without offering assistance. She took a hesitant step forward. “Can I—”

“Does your husband have an extra can of gasoline sitting around?” His gaze whisked across her cap and the black dangling strings. “Or maybe a vehicle—a truck or tractor—he could use to tow this thing to my place?”

Amy gulped, taken aback by the brusque question. “I . . . I’m a widow, Mr. Roper.”

His face flooded red. He grabbed off his hat, leaving his short-cropped brown hair standing in sweat-stiffened spikes. “I beg your pardon. I just assumed, since you purchased a farm, that . . .”

Amy understood his confusion. Dad had questioned the wisdom of her choosing the farmhouse rather than one of the houses in town, but she’d grown up on a farm. She’d loved the open space and feeling of freedom in living away from town.