“He made me feel beautiful,” Haddie added quietly.

  Abigail met Haddie’s gaze, and they exchanged a sad smile. There was a good twenty years between them in age, but there were some things women understood.

  “He sounds like a good one,” Abigail said. “Do you have kids?”

  “I have a son.” Haddie placed another roll of packaged butter aside. “Just the one.”

  “Taylor is my only child, too,” Abigail said. “Does it get easier?”

  “Not really,” Haddie replied. “But you do start to realize that as hard as it is, you can do it. So you get a little more confident.”

  This teenager was just a child in some ways, and in others, she was very grown up. Motherhood did that. Abigail moved over to the window, and she looked out toward the stable, where Haddie’s horse was contentedly chewing on some oats.

  “You like horses?” Haddie asked.

  Abigail nodded. “Yeah...”

  “You can go out and pet them. Mine is named Lily. She’s a real sweetheart. I have some carrots in the icebox if you want to win her over with treats.”

  Paul wordlessly opened the icebox and pulled out a few carrots. Abigail took them with a smile and headed out the side door. Haddie watched Abigail approach the horses as she wrapped another roll of butter.

  “How’s it going with her?” Haddie asked.

  Paul crossed his arms over his chest. “Good. I think. I’m surprised she opened up to you about Taylor’s daet. She wouldn’t say anything to me about him. I didn’t even know his name.”

  “I took her by surprise, I suppose,” Haddie said. “That, and I’m a woman. We women tend to get to the heart of the matter.”

  “So he broke her heart...” Paul said softly.

  “Of course, he broke her heart!” Haddie retorted. “How could he not? Do you really think a girl that age gives herself to a boy and keeps her emotions separate? It’s not possible. She might claim to feel nothing at all, but that boy fathered a child with her, and then broke her heart. No question.”

  Paul licked his lips. “I’d like a chance to speak with that young man.”

  Those were strong words coming from an Amish man. Violence was never acceptable, even in defense of a daughter. But a lengthy lecture intended to eviscerate a young man’s overinflated idea of his own importance? That was not only acceptable, but it was also dished out liberally when needed.

  Haddie shrugged. “I doubt it would make any difference. You’re better off focusing on your daughter and granddaughter.”

  Paul nodded and was silent for a moment. Haddie continued wrapping butter, her fingers knowing the work. Every roll that she added to the pile made her feel like she was accomplishing something.

  “I appreciate you talking to her,” Paul said at last. “I could come by tomorrow to help Timothy with that bench, if you want.”

  “That would be very nice,” she replied. “He needs to make that right. I know his heart will feel lighter once he does.”

  Paul put his hat back on his head and moved toward the side door. He paused with his hand on the knob.

  “You said that—” Paul turned back and met her gaze “—Job made you feel beautiful.”

  “Oh...” Haddie went back to scooping butter, her face feeling warm. “He did. He made me feel like the prettiest woman in any room.”

  “He was a good man,” Paul said, his voice gruff. “But just to be honest, you tend to be the prettiest woman in any room to begin with.”

  Haddie looked up at him, surprised. He stood there, his dark gaze locked on her, and she felt her breath seep out of her. She had no words to answer him. She’d often thought that Paul was a handsome man, but she had no idea he’d thought similar things about her... Paul pulled the door open.

  “You’re just the kind of woman who doesn’t notice,” he added.

  From the front of the store, the bell tinkled, letting her know that another customer had come in, and Paul closed the door shut behind him as he headed outside. She let out a shaky breath.

  Did Paul really mean it? He wasn’t the kind of man to say anything he didn’t mean.

  “Hello?” a voice called.

  “Coming!” she called back.

  There was butter to sell, but she felt her heartbeat skipping happily as she pushed open the swinging door and went back to the sales floor.

  Paul thought she was pretty.

  Chapter Six

  Paul pulled the door shut behind him, his heart hammering in his chest.

  Had he just said that...out loud?

  What was it about Haddie Petersheim that made him say the things he was thinking? Maybe it was his relief that Haddie had been able to get his daughter to open up, or perhaps just the emotional upheaval of all the changes in his life lately, but he just didn’t seem capable of keeping his mouth shut!

  His spontaneous compliment for Haddie plagued him all that night, and by the next day, he’d made a private deal with himself that he’d be nothing but proper and Christianly from this day on.

  He worked with his brother and nephews in the dairy, and when school let out, he hitched up his buggy with some wood and supplies in the back and headed toward town. He had promised to help Timothy with the bench. They’d decided to build a new one since it would be a good skill for the boy to learn.

  As his buggy rattled over the bumps in the gravel, his mind kept going back to his daughter and Haddie, and how she’d talked to Abigail in a way that he couldn’t. He hadn’t expected getting to know his daughter to be easy, but he had hoped that some sort of unspoken bond would exist between them. He was her father, after all! But Abigail seemed more comfortable talking with Haddie after only one meeting than she did with him.

  Maybe Gott gave girls a mamm and a daet for a reason. There were things that simply stayed in the women’s domain. Not that it felt fair. He was the only living parent Abigail had left, and he wanted to do everything he could for her.

  Downtown Redemption was busier than usual today. A tourist bus had just arrived, and streams of Englishers came down the street, pointing phones this way and that. One woman pointed a phone directly at him and tried to look casual, as if she hadn’t just taken his picture.

  He sighed. He was just a regular man trying to live his life, and the curiosity of outsiders over Amish ways could get tiring after a while. He knew that the tourists’ interest in their way of life was important to keeping their businesses afloat, but it could be a difficult balance sometimes, especially when he was absorbed in his own problems.

  Paul steered his horse into the alley behind Petersheim Creamery, grateful to be back out of sight again. He unhitched his horse and stabled it next to Haddie’s quarter-horse mare. He gave them both some extra oats, and then headed toward the side door of Haddie’s shop.

  He knocked, and when there wasn’t an answer, he opened the door and stepped inside. Barnabas was lying next to the woodstove, and he looked up lazily as Paul came in.

  “Hello, old boy,” Paul said.

  Barnabas dropped his head back down. That old hound wasn’t much of a guard dog, unless he was guarding against kittens, it would seem. Timothy’s book bag was lying on a side table, and his coat was hung up on a hook. From the other room, Paul could hear Haddie’s voice.

  “I know it’s hard, son,” she said. “I miss him, too.”

  “Simon Ebersole says that his daet takes him milking every morning.” Timothy’s voice was full of emotion. “And Simon says his daet is showing him how to drive a buggy already. And his daet—”

  “Timothy, I can show you all sorts of things,” Haddie said. “If you want to milk a cow, I can bring you to the neighbors and I’m sure Abram Peachy will let you milk his as much as you like. We don’t have a cow. We didn’t have one when your father was alive, either. If your father were still here, he’d be showing you how to make butter. It’s the family business. You learn what your parents do.”

  “You learn what your daet does,” Timothy countered.

  There was a beat of silence and Paul winced. Timothy was missing his father something fierce, and nothing Haddie said was going to be right.

  “Well, your daet made butter. And I make butter. And you’re learning to make butter, too.” Haddie’s voice was firm. The swinging door opened, and Haddie came through and startled when she saw him.

  “Oh, you’re here,” she said with a faint smile.

  “Yah, I knocked...” He shrugged. “I hope it’s okay that I let myself in.”

  “It’s fine.” She batted a hand through the air, then called over her shoulder, “Timothy, Paul is here!”

  “Is everything okay?” Paul asked.

  Haddie sighed, then shook her head. “It’s a tough day.”

  Before she could say more, Timothy came into the kitchen. His hair hung down into his eyes, and he pushed it away from his face.

  “I hear we need to make a bench,” Paul said.

  Timothy’s face reddened. “Yah.”

  “What happened?” Paul asked.

  “It—” The boy dug his toe into the floor. “It just broke.”

  “Workmanship these days...” Paul shot Timothy a teasing smile. “It’s just going downhill. You look at a bench sideways, and it breaks apart. I tell you, in my day, we knew how to make a bench.”

  “It wasn’t quite like that,” Timothy said with a laugh, then he shrugged. “I jumped on it. I was getting away from another kid.”

  “Why did you need to get away from him?” Paul asked.

  “He was chasing me.”

  Paul rolled his eyes jokingly.

  “With a dead mouse!” Timothy added. “He said I had to smell it.”

  “That’s incredibly filthy,” Haddie said. “You can get sick from putting dead animals near your face, or not washing your hands. Did you tell your teacher, Timothy?”

  Timothy froze, looking up at his mother like a stunned sheep.

  “Did you tell her?” Haddie pressed. “Because I think she needs to know the whole story, don’t you?”

  “No,” Timothy said, his voice low. It wasn’t clear what he was saying no to, but Paul recognized the hesitation.

  “Which kid?” Paul asked quietly.

  “It doesn’t matter. It was just a game. And I jumped on the bench, and it broke. That’s it.”

  Paul glanced up at Haddie and saw the worried look on her face.

  “The end of the story leaves us with a broken bench,” Paul said.

  “Yah. I tried to fix it.” Timothy’s cheeks reddened again. “It didn’t work.”

  “What did you use?” Paul asked.

  “Some school glue.”

  Paul’s heart went out to the boy. The very thought of Timothy hunched over a broken bench trying to glue it back together filled his heart with sympathy. Had the other kinner laughed at him? Timothy didn’t know how to fix it, but he sure did want to make it right.

  “Well, I’ve got wood, and I’ve got tools, and we’ve got a bench to make,” Paul said, putting some enthusiasm into his tone. “As men, we mess up sometimes. It happens to the best of us.”

  “Did it happen to you?” Timothy asked.

  “Often,” Paul replied. “But we make it right. That’s what makes a man a man—he doesn’t let a debt go unpaid. And you, my young friend, owe a bench. Right?”

  Timothy nodded, but his eyes had started to look hopeful. “Yah, I do.”

  “We’re going to repay that debt,” Paul said. “And you’ll be square with your teacher again. We’ll make sure of it.”

  Timothy smiled faintly. “Okay. Yah. That would be good.”

  He looked over at Haddie. “Do you want us to work outside? If he works in the store with me, I can keep working on the shelves while giving him some direction.”

  “Inside is fine,” Haddie replied.

  “Go on out to my buggy and start carrying the wood in, okay?” he said to the boy.

  Timothy headed out the door, and Paul caught Haddie looking at him with that same worried expression on her face.

  “Is he being picked on?” Haddie asked.

  She seemed so worried about her son that he suddenly had the instinct to slide an arm around her. He curbed it, of course. He didn’t have a right to touch her in any way, but he wasn’t so different from Timothy right now—he wanted to make things better.

  “He might be being picked on,” Paul said. “But he won’t just come out and say it, because that would be telling on the other boy. There are codes of conduct here. Boys don’t rat each other out.”

  “Ah.” Haddie sighed. “I could insist that he tell me, or talk to the teacher...”

  “Oh, it doesn’t need to be that dramatic,” Paul said. “Just because he won’t tattle doesn’t mean that the information can’t come out in a different way. When men work, they talk.”

  “That wouldn’t be tattling?” she asked.

  “That would be men sharing. Telling your mother is tattling.” He winked.

  “That isn’t fair,” she said with a faint smile.

  “Neither is the fact that my daughter seems more comfortable around you than she is around me. But I do understand how it stings.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to get between you, or—”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said, cutting off her words. “You’re a great help. My daughter likes you a lot. She thought that Amish women would judge her or look down on her for being an unwed mother. You showed her the kindness and acceptance that she didn’t think she’d find.”

  “Her mother didn’t show us in a good light, did she?” Haddie asked.

  “I don’t think she did.”

  “Well, Abigail can see the reality of our community now,” Haddie said. “She can make up her own mind.”

  Paul nodded. “Yah. And I hope she sees what I do. I hope she sees reason enough to stay here.”

  Haddie met his gaze, and her eyes softened. “Gott willing.”

  Those words encapsulated so much of an Amish life. Their hopes, their prayers and their ambitions were all held in Gott’s capable hands. And Gott’s ways were not their ways. Paul nodded.

  “Yah, Gott willing.”

  Paul looked out the window and saw Timothy pulling the last plank of wood from the back of his buggy. It clattered on top of the other two planks.

  “I’ll go help him,” Paul said. “I have a feeling ten-year-old boys are easier to sort out than seventeen-year-old girls.”

  Haddie didn’t answer, but she did smile.

  “It will be okay,” Paul said, catching her eye. “We’ll start with making a bench and see how we progress.”

  “Thank you, Paul,” she said softly.

  And for that one expression of thanks, he would have built that boy a whole schoolhouse, he realized. Haddie wasn’t quite so alone as she thought. He was a part of her community, and that was beginning to mean something more to him that he wasn’t quite ready to look at.

  Paul headed out the side door and crossed the trodden snow to where the boy was hoisting up a plank of wood.

  “You carry that one,” Paul said. “I’ll get these two.”

  It would be hard for Timothy to carry the plank alone, but the effort would make it worth more in a boy’s eyes. When Timothy presented this bench to his teacher, he’d know he’d made things right with his own sweat. Hard work mattered to the Amish because it was more than a way to hold families close to home—it was a way to cleanse out a heart, too.

  * * *

  The bell above the door tinkled, and Haddie went into the front of the shop, where Paul and Timothy were setting up to work alongside Paul’s shelf-building. They could have worked outside in the snow, but since all of the material was inside the store already for Paul’s work on the shelves, she’d agreed to allow them to work here. As she served her next few customers, Paul and Timothy brought the wood inside and Paul laid the boards on top of the sawhorses. He pulled out a piece of paper and a little nub of pencil, and started to draw, then tipped the paper so Timothy could see.

  The Englisher customers tended to buy small packages of flavored butter. One bought a whole sampler that included five different flavors and a package of crackers. Amish customers bought some flavored butter, but mostly large quantities of plain butter for baking and eating. Big families went through a lot of butter.

  When the customers had gone, Haddie went back into the kitchen and continued working on a new batch of orange butter—another big favorite with her Englisher clientele. She had a batch of churned butter in her icebox, and she pulled out some fresh oranges to zest for a new, special butter blend she’d been wanting to try.

  As she worked, she listened to Paul and Timothy talking.

  “So we have to measure, you see?” Paul was saying. “For a three-seat bench, you’ve got to leave enough room for elbows, not just posteriors.”

  Haddie chuckled at that, and she heard Timothy laugh, too. Then there were a couple of beats of silence.

  “Do I do it?” Timothy asked hesitantly.

  “Yah, you measure it.”

  “Where’s the measuring tape?”

  “Here—”

  This would be good for Timothy, and she felt a pang of guilt that she hadn’t gotten him working with another man in the family since Job’s death. The time had swept by in some ways, and crept past in others. But all through the last two years, Haddie had a business to run. She didn’t have time to figure out if Timothy’s woodworking skills were suffering when her larger concern was keeping food on the table.

  “Okay, so are you confident that you’ve measured correctly?” Paul’s voice was brisk.