Emma Blooms At Last Read Free Page B

put down more than half the money up front.
    Wyman punched in Ray’s phone number, hoping his levelheaded Mennonite partner would offer him some advice. Because Ray had already borrowed a large amount to buy the Brubaker place, Wyman had insisted on financing the new elevator with the money from that sale and the Clearwater business account, without expecting Ray to kick in any more. Out of sheer Amish tradition and principle, Wyman refused to get a loan from an English bank to make this deal work—or to feed his family. Generations of Brubaker men had remained staunchly self-sufficient, supporting one another rather than going to outside sources for funding.
    The phone clicked in his ear. “Hullo?”
    â€œJah, Ray. How was your weekend?” Wyman relaxed, knowing he could trust his partner’s feedback, his sense of perspective. “I suppose you and Sally and the boys are gearing up for Trevor’s wedding . . .”
    *   *   *
    O n the other side of the barn wall, Amanda listened as her husband chatted with his partner. She and the twins had been gathering eggs in the adjoining henhouse, and when she’d heard Wyman holler,
“A hundred thousand dollars?”
she’d sent the girls outside to scatter feed. It wasn’t Wyman’s way to raise his voice. His calm demeanor and sensible approach to problems were two of the traits that had attracted her when they’d courted.
    â€œGot a call from Reece Weaver this morning, and I don’t know what to make of it,” Wyman was saying into the phone. “He’s telling me he needs another hundred thousand dollars—half of it
today
—because he ran into bedrock and some other unexpected issues . . . Jah, this is on top of the seven hundred thousand on his bid.”
    Amanda sucked in her breath at such a large amount of money. Wyman was a careful planner, a solid businessman, and his rising voice said it all: he was upset about this new development—and very concerned about where so much additional money would come from.
    â€œWhen we were going over the items on his bid, didn’t you think Reece had covered all the angles?” Wyman asked. “I can’t have him coming by the house or leaving any more phone messages about needing money, so I’m meeting him at the elevator site this afternoon . . .”
    Ah. So Wyman was protecting her from this situation, was he? Amanda understood that because, like any Amish husband, he believed it was his responsibility to support their family. But she knew firsthand about making their pennies stretch far enough . . . about the fear that she might not be able to pay the propane bill or buy shoes for her three young daughters. For four years after her first husband had died, she’d been their sole support by making pottery to sell in area gift shops.
    Wyman sold his home place, left everything he’d loved all his life, so you could be happy here in Bloomingdale,
Amanda reminded herself.
You can’t let him face this crisis alone . . . even if he won’t tell you about it. He may be the head of this family, but
you
are in charge of keeping everyone fed and together, body and soul. Better get back to work at your wheel!
    Amanda stepped away from the wall as the twins bustled into the henhouse with the empty feed bucket. In the cold air, the wisps of their breath framed their precious faces. “Let’s take the eggs to the house, girls. Maybe Vera or Mammi will help you bake your cookies,” she said gently as she stroked their pink cheeks. “Your mamma’s going to start making her dishes again.”

Chapter Two
    A
lways a bridesmaid, never a bride
.
    It was barely five o’clock in the morning, not nearly daylight yet. As Emma Graber peered at the white-draped tables in the greenhouse, where the wedding feast for her brother James and Abby Lambright would take place