Courting Caleb

Book 2: Amish Mail Order Grooms

by Kelly Long

Genres: Amish & Mennonite; Christian Romance; Clean & Wholesome Romance

Synopsis

In a small Appalachian community with few single men, young Amish women take fate in hand and help forge their own paths to happy marriages . . .
 
Wanted: An Amish Mail Order Groom. Age 20‑30. Must understand that courting will follow the marriage ceremony in gut order. Seeking one who is reserved, quiet, and bookish.
 
It worked for her best friend, so why shouldn’t Abigail Mast, the local potter of Blackberry Falls, follow suit and advertise for a groom? But her plan goes awry when two men arrive in answer to her ad. The bishop’s unexpected solution: Abigail should court them both and make a decision by Valentine’s Day. Just as the clay she works with reveals its true purpose in time, surely she will discover which man is most suited to be her
husband . . .
 
Caleb thought his bruder was crazy for answering an ad and agreeing to marry a complete stranger. Yet there’s no denying he’s found a gut wife and a happy life. Rather than agree to the unsuitable match his father has made for him, Caleb answers another ad from faraway Blackberry Falls. There he discovers a woman who makes him forget his past—and a rival groom-to-be. Will Gott free all involved to make the right decisions for their heads and their hearts?
 
Praise for Kelly Long and her novels

“Long’s writing style is smooth and engaging, her characters true to the period yet timeless in their hopes and flaws and personal battles.”
—USAToday.com

“Delivers a sense of escape from today’s hustle and bustle into a gentler and simpler world.”
—Publishers Weekly

“Long creates storylines that captivate her readers.”
—RT Book Reviews

Release date: April 26, 2022

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

It was a cold, late-November afternoon as Abigail Mast, the potter of Blackberry Falls, gently lifted a paintbrush and touched it to the dab of pink paint that she’d made from juiced mulberries. She brushed the color onto the mug she held in her opposite hand and steadily shaped the first petal of a rose. The action was calming, and she needed peace—especially today. She shivered as a gust of wintery air blew in through the open door and swirled past her ankles. She liked the door open to catch the air even on the most intemperate of days.

“Abigail Mast?”

The mug fell from her hand and smashed on the hardwood floor of her cabin. She glanced up to the open doorway and frowned at the stranger who stood there. He was big and broad shouldered and Amisch, based on his clothing. The afternoon light glinted on his overly long blond hair. At least he has his hat in his hands, she mused. He can’t be all that threatening. She was used to living alone on the fringe of the community and she preferred it that way.

“Who are you?” she asked, putting her paintbrush down. She bent to scoop up a piece of the fired clay and he quickly joined her, getting down on one knee.

“Here . . . let me help you.” He tossed his hat onto the nearby table, narrowly missing the wet paints, and then set to picking up the remnants of the mug. She couldn’t help but be aware of the fresh pine scent that clung to him and frowned at herself for even noticing.

“Danki,” she said when he’d made a small pile of the pieces on the table. “Now, who are—”

He looked up at her with startling blue eyes framed by thick lashes. “I’m . . . the answer to your ad.”

“My ad . . .”

He blinked, and she was once more struck by the unusually intense color of his eyes.

“Jah, the ad—for the Amisch mail-order groom. I’m the one.”

She rose to her feet and he hastily got up off his knee. “But . . . I don’t understand,” she said.

“You did write the ad? I—thought I’d respond in person.”

She gazed up into his handsome face and shook her head slightly. “But . . . he’s already here.”

“Who?”

“The Amisch mail-order groom. He arrived this morning.. . .”

Caleb felt a sinking in his stomach as he came to grips with the words she spoke. Idiot . . . Of course another man is here already. I should have written....

“Where have you come from?” Abigail asked with a frown, as if searching for a way out of the dilemma.

“Renova,” he said absently. “My bruder Matthew married someone from here a few months back.”

“Ach, you mean my gut friend, Tabitha Stolfus.”

He looked at her, taking in the sheen of her brown hair, which was nicely parted and mostly covered by her kapp. She was tall and held herself erect with perfect posture, yet the top of her head barely came to his chin.

“Does Matthew know that you’re here?”

Caleb sighed to himself and shook his head. “Nee—I came rather suddenly.” He watched her wet her lips. “I suppose—”

“Great walleyed catfish and pork bellies! Who do we have here?”

Caleb turned to see a spry, elderly Amischer with a thick gray beard standing behind him.

“I’m Caleb King.... I came to see Abigail because—”

“Because, uh, he’s Matthew King’s bruder. He wondered if I knew the way to Tabitha and Matthew’s,” Abigail replied quickly.

Caleb turned back to watch as a flush stained the fine features of the woman before him. Clearly, lying didn’t come easily to her and the thought made him strangely glad. He wasn’t about to betray her to the auld man.

“Jah, my bruder Matthew . . .”

Caleb paused and Abigail hurried on. “Uh, sei se gut, excuse me, Caleb. This is Bishop Kore.”

Caleb shook hands as he rapidly considered the circumstances . Lying to the bishop.... It was enough to get a body shunned, but still, she risked it. Was it possible that she had not sought permission to write the ad? “Bishop, sir, perhaps you would show me to my bruder’s. I’ve got my horse and dog out back here.”

“Jah.” The bishop nodded. “MoonPies and Popsicles! Let’s geh!”

Caleb resisted the urge to study Bishop Kore’s bald pate, wondering what ailed the auld man’s mind, but then, Abigail Mast was acting as if such talk was normal. Caleb followed the bishop out of the cabin and briefly turned back to look at her. There’s something about her that makes me think of swimming in deep water. But then he shook his head and walked out into the sunshine of the wintry day.

“I cannot believe that this has happened! Two of them! What are you going to do?” Mercy knew her voice rose an octave as she stared at her younger sister. Abigail looked as serious and thoughtful as usual, and this only irritated Mercy more. She could never fully understand Abigail’s calm yet closed personality.

“They say still water runs deep,” Mercy muttered.

Then she straightened and glared at her sister once more. “Abigail—I’m serious. What are you going to do?”

“Perhaps marry Phillip Miller. He got here first. . . .”

Mercy put her hands on her hips, pinching her ample curves to calm her temper. “I don’t know why you have to marry either one of them. What kind of thing is it to send in the mail for a husband? Your life is full enough at the pottery, isn’t it? Why do you—”

Mercy stopped speaking abruptly as her fourteen-year-old sohn, Joshua, entered the cabin with a blast of cold air. Mercy sighed to herself as she considered her buwe’s tall frame and shock of wheat-colored hair. He was every inch his father and Mercy had to admit to herself and to Gott that she wished Joshua resembled her instead of the shiftless Englischer whom she had thought loved her.

“I got the goats done, Mamm. Can I head out to do some ice fishing now?”

Mercy frowned. “With Tad?”

Tad Stolfus was a troublemaker if she’d ever seen one. The buwe had been in and out of mischief since the day he’d turned ten and rode Grossmuder Mildred’s pet hog, Henrietta, through the cemetery and burial service of auld man Tucker.

“Jah,” Joshua confirmed. “With Tad. Okay?”

She nodded reluctantly. “But be back by supper and make sure you’ve got a few trout to put on the table.”

“Sure will, Mamm. Danki. Goodbye, Aenti Abigail.”

Mercy watched her younger sister embrace Joshua and wondered once more how she was going to help Abigail out of her mess with men.

“You don’t need to worry about this, Mercy. I’ll figure things out,” Abigail said briskly once Joshua had closed the door behind him.

“How?”

“Well,” Abigail mused, “Gott says that He is working things out for good in our lives if we love Him, so maybe there were meant to be two mail-order grooms.”

“You cannot marry two men!”

Abigail gave her a sudden smile. “Nee, but perhaps I can court two. I hadn’t wanted the bishop to know about the ad, but now I think it will be all right. I’m going to talk with him this very minute.”

“Court? Two? Wait! Let me geh with you.”

Mercy snatched up her black cloak and followed Abigail outside even as she muttered to herself about the burdens of being an aulder sister.

Phillip Miller never thought he’d be bathing in a waterfall, in fresh falling snow, to get ready for his marriage ceremony. In fact, he’d never imagined being married at all. He was a farmer, through and through—the very earth was his mistress. And even in the winter, he thought of heirloom seeds, plant catalogs, and the design and layout of next year’s gardens. But as he lathered his jet-black hair with a chunk of gritty homemade soap, he mused that a man had to have support on a farm at times. A wife—not just a hired girl—and sohns, he supposed. To help till the ground. He thought briefly of his soon-to-be wife’s rather solemn but pretty face and he wondered how he’d ever bridge the gap between that seriousness and making sohns with her....

He’d just flicked suds out of his eyes when he caught the sound of cheerful whistling coming through the deluge of icy cold water around him.

He squinted at the bank where he’d left his clothes and glasses atop his coat and made out the blurry shapes of what he thought were two buwes. Better safe than sorry, though.... He had no desire to wade out of the creek and frighten a woman with his nakedness....

“Uh . . . buwes?” he called over the rush of water.

“Jah?” two youthful voices responded, and Phillip felt safe to move. He slogged over the icy and slippery rocks of the full creek and climbed the bank. He eyed the buwes for a moment while he got his glasses on, then hastily drew on his pants and wrangled his blue shirt over his wet back. Boots, suspenders, coat, and hat followed in due order, and then Phillip cleared his throat as he struggled to keep his shivering to a minimum.

“Ice fishing, are you? What are you using for bait? I’m Phillip Miller, by the way.” He held out his hand and had it wrung in succession by the two buwes.

“I’m Tad,” the shorter, dark-haired buwe said with a laugh in his voice. Phillip smiled good-naturedly because he could see the merry trouble brewing in Tad’s brown eyes, and he reminded himself to keep an eye out for the buwe in any questionable circumstance.

“I’m Joshua.” The second youth’s voice was carefully polite, and he seemed bashful. “We’re using grubs to fish.”

Phillip nodded. Here then is the faithful friend, the sometime victim and usually unknowing accomplice to Tad’s scheming. . . . Phillip understood the role, having grown up with a Tad of his own.... He quickly turned his thoughts from his boyhood and pulled on his black gloves. “All right, buwes. Hope you’ll have gut fishing. I have to geh—I’m late for my wedding.”

Caleb was struck by the quality of the craftsmanship that he saw as he stood in his bruder’s home. The main room of the cabin seemed full of intricate wood carving, from the arched beams of the ceiling to the detailed rungs on the ladder that led to the loft.

“All courtesy of my gifted frau,” Matthew said with a smile, and Caleb felt himself pulled close to his aulder bruder for a quick hug.

Caleb felt tears sting at the backs of his eyes. It has been so long since someone has touched me with kindness. . . . He knew he could have sought out many girls back home—both Amisch and Englisch—who would have eagerly satisfied his normal need for human contact, but somehow, a hug from the bruder he admired touched him more at the moment.

“It’s gut to see you,” Caleb managed; then he bent to embrace his petite sister-in-law, Tabitha. He was struck by her physical beauty as he imagined any man would be, but there was also a confidence about her and an air of purpose. Still, he couldn’t stop the image of Abigail the potter from leaping into his mind. Something about her seriousness drew him . . . but it was all for naught now that the true mail-order groom had arrived in Blackberry Falls.

Caleb noticed that Bishop Kore, who had been genially standing to the side in the rush of greetings, now hopped on one foot to open the door and ushered in Abigail and another woman. There was a flurry of laughter and snowflakes that seemed to bubble around Caleb, making him wish that he might join this seemingly happy community.

Then he heard a strong knock at the door.

“Ladles and soup meat! We’ve got the last beaver to the party!” The bishop opened the door once more and a tall man with damp black hair entered. He seemed to gravitate toward Abigail.

Caleb knew at once that this was the groom who had answered the ad properly.

“Well, now,” Bishop Kore suddenly thundered in a voice loud enough to cause Caleb to blink. “Claw-foot tables and onion baths! We have got a situation here. . . .”

Caleb felt the strange desire to say something—anything—because he knew instinctively that Abigail the potter had been found out. But the auld bishop was on a roll....

“Abigail, is there something you’d like to discuss?”

Caleb watched Abigail’s pretty face flush, but her mouth was set with visible determination.

“Jah, Bishop Kore. I must confess to all here involved that I decided to send an ad to the Renova Record for a mail-order groom.”

“Aha!” The bishop punctuated his exclamation with a slight tapping of his toes. “And you had multiple replies, right?”

Caleb found his voice. “Nee, sir. I was not . . . did not write a reply. I came without an invitation, so Abigail has only one prospective bridegroom. I should geh out and put up my horse in the barn and leave you all to celebrate a wedding together.”

He nodded briefly and was about to leave the pleasantly warm room when the bishop roared at him.

“Nee, buwe! You’ll stay right here! Now, is it my understanding that both you and you”—he waved a hand in the dark-haired man’s direction after pointing a stubby finger in Caleb’s chest—“want to marry Miss Abigail? Is that right?”

Caleb nodded and the other man did likewise.

“All right,” Bishop Kore continued. “I say that Abigail needs to court both of you—not to end in two marriages, of course. But rather, to work with what Derr Herr has provided. Now let’s see, it’s nearly December.... We’ll give you until Valentine’s to make a proper decision as to who to marry and, in the meanwhile, you, Caleb, will reside with Birchbark up on the far side of Blackberry Falls.”

Caleb thought maybe that he’d imagined it, but there was a faint, collective groan from those gathered. But he had no time to hash it out in his mind before his opponent—so to speak—was ordered to stay with someone called Grossmuder Mildred for the duration of the double courting.

“Now—” Bishop Kore gave everyone a genial smile, apparently back to acting like a mild but narrisch auld mon instead of a thundering preacher. “I think this should be gut. You’ll have to work out your own times for the courting and, buwes, I expect you both to contribute to the community here in some manner. No questions? Gut again. I’ll see you buwes to your respective hosts.”

Caleb felt dazed as he nodded in Abigail’s direction and followed the bishop outside. It had started to snow seriously now, and he was glad for the familiarity of his horse and his dog. But, he wondered, with a vague unease, what good could possibly come from living with someone called Birchbark. . . .

Abigail watched the men troop outdoors and felt unexpected laughter bubble up inside her chest so that it was difficult to keep a straight face. She longed to hug her arms around herself but didn’t like to show such obvious emotion. Besides, Mercy was working herself up into a frenzy now that the bishop had gone.

“This is absurd!” her sister declared.

“Ach, I don’t know,” Matthew offered with a smile as he pulled his petite wife into the circle of his outstretched arm. “My bruder would never allow himself to be roped into the absurd. The strange, maybe. But never the absurd.”

Abigail smiled at Tabitha and Matthew. She knew that her best friend’s husband loved to tease, but Mercy clearly wasn’t in the mood. In fact, her sister gave another huff of disapproval, then excused herself from the cabin.

“All right, ladies,” Matthew said lightly. “I think that’s my cue to take myself out to do some chores. I know you want to discuss this strange idea of mail-order grooms.” He bent to kiss Tabitha, winked at Abigail, then pulled on his coat and hat and left the cabin.

“Now”—Tabitha laughed—“before I head down to the mill, tell me how you managed to hook two men with one ad.”

Abigail shook her head. “I’m not sure.... How is the mill, by the way?”

Tabitha had recently been given leadership of her fater’s mill, an unusual role for an Amisch woman, even though many Amisch women ran businesses of their own. But Abigail could tell that Tabitha was not to be led away from the point at hand.

“You’re going to court two men, and only Bishop Kore can imagine how that might work. Do you have any inclination toward one or the other?”

Abigail drew a deep breath. “Nee, how could I?”

“Hmmm . . . . .