When Hope Blossoms Read Free

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