“It’s not Amish,” Mose said.

  “Naomi calls you handsome,” Aaron said. “I heard her say it.”

  “What?” Mose felt his face warm.

  The door was open as he came up the steps, only the screen between them and the kitchen, and Naomi stood in the doorway. She pushed open the screen to welcome them inside with a smile.

  “Naomi does what?” she asked, and she stepped back to let Mose inside. Her face was pink from the warm day, and he couldn’t help but notice the freckles across her creamy skin as he slipped past her. He cleared his throat and shrugged.

  “Oh, n-nothing,” Mose said.

  “You said he was handsome,” Aaron said. “Like the tourist ladies say that I’m handsome. Right, Naomi? You said that he’s handsome.”

  Naomi’s face suddenly blossomed into red, and Mose couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “I—” She rolled her eyes. “I only said that you were no longer a little boy like I remember you, and...” She sighed. “I can’t tell a lie, Mose. I did say that you were handsome.”

  “Yah?” Mose shot her a grin.

  “Don’t you let that go to your head, Mose Klassen,” she said, turning her back on him and heading back into the kitchen. “I’m sure you’re well aware of your own good looks. I won’t be mentioning them again, I assure you.”

  “At least not in front of little ears,” the other woman said, and she laughed when Naomi shot her a look. “Aaron, go on upstairs and wash up. And don’t forget to wash your face, too.” Then she gave Mose a nod. “I’m Claire Glick. I’m Naomi’s employee.”

  “Well, more than an employee. We both live here and work the B and B,” Naomi said.

  He wanted to ask more questions, but they would have come out haltingly, and he didn’t want to do that in front of this other woman, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “Have a seat, Mose,” Naomi said. “Dinner is almost ready.”

  “I’m just going to help my son get washed up,” Claire said. “He’ll come down wet, and not actually clean.”

  Mose smiled faintly and nodded. Claire went up the stairs after her son, leaving Mose and Naomi alone in the kitchen. Mose watched Naomi for a moment—her rounded figure, a few stray curls springing free from her kapp. She was beautiful in that wild, natural way that intimidated him.

  Naomi brought a bowl of mashed potatoes over to the table and set them on top of a knitted pot holder, then she met Mose’s gaze and the color in her cheeks deepened again.

  “I’m embarrassed,” she said.

  He shrugged. “D-don’t be.”

  “Let this be a lesson to you, Mose,” Naomi said, heading back toward the oven and putting on oven mitts as she went. “You may very well have all sorts of women talking about your good looks behind your back. If that doesn’t give you confidence, I don’t know what will.”

  But he’d never overheard any kind of talk like that, and right now, he wasn’t overly concerned about other women’s opinions of his looks. Appearances changed over time, and not normally for the better in a man’s case. It wasn’t a good idea to pin his hopes to things like that... If anyone else had said it, he would have brushed it off. But with Naomi?

  Her cheeks were still pink. She was embarrassed still.

  “Good l-looks,” he stuttered, “shouldn’t matter.”

  “Very true,” she said, casting him a glance over her shoulder. “And we women would do much better to simply talk about a man’s character and leave the rest alone. I wasn’t saying anything too bad, Mose. I was just surprised to see what you look like as a grown man. I’m sure I’m a bit of a surprise, too.”

  “Yah.” Except, Naomi was intimidatingly pretty.

  “And you have a mirror, don’t you?” She turned back to the stove. “It isn’t like you aged into a billy goat or something!”

  She laughed at her own joke, and he couldn’t help but smile. Yah, with Naomi it was different. It was like when she used to tell him he was strong as a horse when he carried sticks for her to build a playhouse, or when she’d tell him he was smart, just because he’d nodded at something she’d said. With Naomi, even frivolous compliments sank a little deeper.

  And she’d called him handsome.

  Chapter Three

  Naomi looked up at the ceiling where Aaron’s laughter was filtering down. Claire was remaining true to her word about being scarce while Mose was visiting, but she didn’t need to be too obviously avoiding them, either.

  She looked back at Mose, who was studying the tabletop. She’d said too much. She normally did, and it was probably time she stopped treating Mose like a brother and saying things so openly.

  “It...it...it...” Mose stopped.

  “It...what?” Naomi asked.

  “It...” He pressed his lips together for a moment. “It...smells...good.” He heaved a sigh.

  “Thank you. I’ve been cooking hard for you. I think you deserved the fatted calf, coming back like this.” She shot him a smile.

  “Yah, I... I...” He pressed his lips together, his frustration evident on his face. “Sorry. It’s...h-hard.”

  “Don’t you apologize for simply opening your mouth and talking,” Naomi said. “Everyone knows I do it often enough.”

  He smiled at that, and he leaned back in his chair, looking more relaxed.

  “Lamb?” he asked.

  “Yah. A shoulder roast with mint jelly, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and some salad. You know, I can’t get anyone else to eat salad around here. Claire doesn’t like it much, Aaron won’t let it past his lips. So I hardly ever make a nice tossed salad. Please tell me you like salad.”

  Mose’s smile turned impish, then he shrugged. “Yah. I...like it.”

  “You’re lying,” she said with a laugh.

  “I’ll like yours,” he said. The words were halting, but the grin was perfectly smooth. Naomi rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t force yourself to eat something you don’t like for me.” But she couldn’t help but return his smile. “How are your parents?”

  “Getting older,” he said. Again, the words were halting, but she was getting used to it.

  “That’s a blessing,” Naomi said. Both of her parents had passed on already.

  “How are...are...your brothers and sisters?”

  For the next few minutes they chatted about family, avoiding the one family member who was on both their minds—Klaus—and Naomi noticed that as Mose got more relaxed, his stutter was less pronounced. He still got stuck on some words that just wouldn’t come out, and when that happened, the stutter would get much worse.

  “It’s okay,” Naomi said. “What were you going to say?”

  He just shook his head. “It’s not...not...not...” She could see the frustration all over his features. “...not...worth it.”

  But she’d wanted to hear his stories. It was worth it to her, but she understood. Here she was making small talk, and the effort it took him to bring out the words was probably not worth the trite, polite thing he was going to say. Not for him, at least.

  A copy of The Budget lay on the kitchen table, and Mose opened it up to the page where his column was.

  “I read it, you know,” she said.

  Mose looked up, not surprised exactly, but perhaps bashful.

  “You have a bright mind,” she said. “You’re able to simplify the Ordnung, show the reasoning behind the rules, give your thoughts... We all love that column.”

  “Even you?” he asked. And this time the words were fluent.

  “Yah, even me.” She smiled uncertainly. “Why, because I’m so liberal?”

  He shrugged. “Aren’t...you?”

  “I’ve been told I am,” she replied. “I don’t think I am, though. I believe in our way of life. I love our culture, and our faith. I just think we should do more.”

  “More?”

  “More for our neighbors,” she said. “Isn’t that the Christian way? We’re supposed to love our neighbors, and do good for them.”

  “We do,” he replied.

  “We love our neighbors, and we keep them at arm’s length,” she replied. “We make sure that we let them know that they are different. We speak another language around them. We dress differently—and don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying we should relax our ideals at all! But if you were an Englisher looking in at us...would you feel welcome?”

  Mose let out a slow breath. “We are different.”

  “Of course we are. But we use those differences as a fence. And that’s the problem.”

  “We...we...have to protect our ways,” Mose said.

  “To the exclusion of others?”

  “It’s what keeps us unique and different.” His stutter was still present, but he pushed past it in his attempt to speak. “If we wanted to be like the Englishers, we could all just become Mennonite.”

  “Ha ha, very funny,” Naomi said with a rueful smile. “But don’t the preachers say we are called to spread Gott’s love, as well as to protect our way of life? Who exactly are we spreading His love to?”

  “To each other,” he said.

  “What about nonbelievers?” she pressed. “We sell them our wares, we feed them our pies, and they are perfectly happy to move on. They are intrigued by our buggies and horses, and... I don’t even know what else.”

  “Laundry,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Laundry—” He pointed to the window. “On the...line.”

  “Oh.” She wrinkled up her nose. “Huh. Okay, so they’re interested in those things, but that isn’t what makes us so special. It’s Gott in our lives. But what have they learned about Gott? Nothing.”

  “Gott works in...mys-mys—” Mose leaned back and didn’t finish.

  “Yah, He works in mysterious ways,” Naomi agreed, not to be diverted from her argument. “But are we doing our part? We close ourselves off to protect ourselves from being influenced. I understand that. But what about our influence on others?”

  Mose’s eyes flickered with new interest, and again, he stuttered, but his words kept coming. “They are drawn to us, though. They come to see us. They come to see how we live, and how we raise our children.”

  “Yah!” she agreed. “They come, but we live behind the fence. And while we let them take a look, we don’t let them participate.”

  “In what?” he frowned.

  “In living, Mose!” She threw her hands up. “If they want to be like us, they’d have to learn our language, learn our way of life. They’d have to learn to farm, care for livestock... Standing on their side of the fence and watching us go about our lives, what good does that do any of them? What is most important about our Amish ways besides our faith in Gott?”

  “Community,” he said. “But...but...”

  “Yah—” She didn’t wait for him to finish this time and she plowed ahead. “But they aren’t part of our community! Not really! And how can they be? We don’t welcome them in. We keep them at a distance!”

  Mose’s eyes flashed, and he didn’t answer her. Had she convinced him? Was he swayed by the strength of her argument? He pressed his lips together and rubbed his palms down his thighs. He wasn’t convinced... She felt a wriggle of guilt.

  “But you were going to say something, before I interrupted you,” she said.

  “N-n-nothing,” he said.

  “It was something,” she said.

  “You’ve...m-m—” He had to shut his eyes this time to get his control back. “...made up your m-m-mind.”

  This hadn’t been her plan—to just bowl over him like that. She’d meant to let him say his piece, to even goad him into saying his piece! And now she felt a flood of regret.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

  He just shook his head, his expression softening.

  “No, really, Mose,” she said. “Do you know what me being completely convinced I’m right gets me? Absolutely nothing. Because no one else agrees.”

  And it very likely kept her single, too. It wasn’t her place to be full of opinions and want to change things. Amish communities didn’t change—that was their unique strength, and if any inching forward happened, it came with the elders and the bishop having long discussions. It didn’t start with one person’s opinion.

  “If a man stands on a table,” Mose said slowly, stuttering over some words, but pushing forward all the same. “And if you grab his hand, are you more likely to pull him down, or for him to pull you up?”

  “To pull him down,” she said, and she sighed. “I do understand that the Englishers would likely change us, too. I know that it’s easier to be pulled down than to improve someone else. I know we have to protect our ways, or we’ll lose everything that we hold dear. I just...” She batted a loose curl out of her eyes. “Does your heart ever pull you somewhere, Mose?”

  Mose’s lips turned up in a slow smile, and his dark gaze caught hers. There was something about that direct look, strong, confident, and her heart skipped a beat. But before he could answer, she heard Claire and Aaron on the stairs.

  They both looked over as Claire came down, Aaron in tow. The boy’s face was rosy from being washed.

  “Let me get the roast out of the oven,” Naomi said, and she headed for the big, black stove. She used the oven mitts to open the door, and then pulled out the roasting pan.

  “That looks perfect,” Claire said as she came up behind Naomi. “Let me get the gravy into a bowl.”

  “Thank you, Claire.” Naomi cast her friend a weak smile.

  “Everything okay?” Claire asked softly.

  “I’m scandalously liberal, Claire,” Naomi said softly.

  Claire rolled her eyes. “You aren’t really.”

  But tell that to the men. For all of her talking, sometimes Naomi found it easier to express herself with a gesture, like cooking. Words could tangle her up and get in her way, but a good meal filled bellies and hearts at the same time. She didn’t really expect Mose to understand where she was coming from, because no one else did, either. And the more she tried to explain herself, the worse she looked.

  Mose was misunderstood because he couldn’t get his ideas out. She was misunderstood no matter how much she tried to explain herself.

  * * *

  Mose didn’t talk much through the meal, but the food was so good that no one did until plates were polished. The lamb was tender and spiced to perfection. The mashed potatoes and gravy were the best he’d ever had, and he made a point of dishing himself up a heaping serving of salad, which, to his surprise, was incredibly tasty because she’d added an oil and vinegar dressing as well as some crumbled goat cheese and candied walnuts. That was a whole lot fancier than Amish women normally cooked, but he had to admit that it was delicious. When the meal was over, he accepted a plate of molasses and oatmeal pie, a comfortingly simple Amish dish.

  When they were finished eating, Naomi gathered the plates and brought them to the sink, and Claire headed toward the side door.

  “I’ll get started on chores outside, Naomi,” Claire said.

  “Out-outside?” It was the first time Mose had uttered a word since the beginning of the meal, but it suddenly occurred to him that these two women were doing everything—the men’s chores as well as the women’s. And here he was an able-bodied man with a belly full of good food, and he wasn’t going to let a woman go do a man’s work while he was present.

  Claire froze in surprise, and the two women exchanged a look.

  “I’ll...I’ll do...it.” He rose from his chair, wishing that the words were coming out of his mouth more easily, but there wasn’t much to say. There was a stable out there, horses, and all the regular chores that he’d been a part of since he was Aaron’s size. The little boy looked up at Mose with an expression of surprise, too. There was no man in this house to show the little fellow what men did.

  “Th-th-there’s men’s work,” he said to the boy. “And th-th-there’s work for w-w-women.” It was more than he wanted to say in front of anyone, and he hated the sound of the stuttering, but he felt that there was something to be taught here, and the boy needed to understand what a man’s job was around here. He pointed out the window. “We men...work...out there.”

  Mose had more to say than that—like how if a man could make things easier for a woman, he should do that, and how a man used his body to keep a home running, and there was pride in that—but he’d already stumbled over his words enough, and he didn’t have the strength to keep going. So he turned and headed for the door.

  The women didn’t say anything as he put his hat back on and stepped out into the evening cool. A blue jay chattered at him from high in a tree, and he headed across the gravel and grass toward the wooden stable beyond. He didn’t turn back to look at the house until he arrived at the stable. Then he allowed himself one glance over his shoulder and spotted Naomi in the window. Her fingers fluttered in a wave, and he waved back, feeling a little self-conscious, then walked into the stable. The door bounced shut behind him.

  For a moment he just stood there. He felt more comfortable in a stable than he did trying to avoid polite conversation in a kitchen, and the solitude wrapped around him like a comforting blanket.

  Gott, I feel like a fool, he prayed.

  He couldn’t get words out, and everyone could out-talk him, or talk over him. Naomi, too. Somehow, it made it worse that she was actively trying not to, because she had an advantage over him. A woman had to hold herself back in order to not trample him in a conversation. It shouldn’t be that way, but it always had been.

  But give him a pen and paper, and there was no stutter. There was nothing holding the words back when he wrote. And there was no talking necessary when he worked, either...unless you counted driving that wagon, in which case the Englishers loved nothing more than trying to engage him in conversation.