Amish Country Tours: Amish Country Tours, Amish Romance Series (An Amish of Lancaster County Saga), #1

AMISH COUNTRY TOURS

Amish Country Tours, Amish Romance Series (An Amish of Lancaster County Saga) – Book 1

by

Rachel Stoltzfus

If you enjoy this book, please look over the other Christian books from Global Grafx Press, and other great books from Rachel Stoltzfus.

Published by Global Grafx Press, LLC. © 2015

The Pennsylvania Dutch used in this manuscript is taken from the Revised Pennsylvania German Dictionary: English to Pennsylvania Dutch (1991) by C. Richard Beam, Brookshire Publications, Inc. Lancaster, PA 17603

The Bible quotations used in this manuscript are either taken from the King James Bible or the English Standard Bible.

Copyright © 2015 by Rachel Stoltzfus

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including scanning, photocopying, or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright holder, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

AMISH COUNTRY TOURS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

AUTHORS NOTE: AMISH COUNTRY TOUR IDEAS

AMISH COUNTRY TOURS – BOOK 2

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

Thursday, March 26

I struggle to peddle my bicycle up the hill toward the post office as it starts to rain. This hasn’t exactly been the best of days; the buggy has broken down, I have a custom-ordered crib quilt to ship, that I spent most of the night finishing, and today is the final day to mail my property taxes to avoid another penalty. Which would require more money – that I don’t have.

Ordinarily, I love the rain, but it makes for a difficult uphill ride in a long, wet dress with cars speeding by. I say a prayer as another car passes, splattering me with mud. I suppose I could have borrowed Deacon Byler’s buggy. But the Byler family comes from a strict, old-order community and I didn’t want the shame of him finding out that I couldn’t pay my taxes when they first became due and didn’t ask the church for help. God forgive me for my pride, but the farm was Jacob’s dream long before we married and all five of my children were born there. I fear that if my family becomes too much of a burden on the community, we could be asked to sell the farm and then my children would ne longer have the legacy their daed intended for them to have.

As I continue up the hill I think about the uncertain futures of my children. When Jacob died, they didn’t just lose a man who loved them. In many ways they also lost an entire family heritage and the foundation of who they might become.

My sons lost the man who would teach them to hunt and to work the land, to provide for their own families someday. Whether or not they ever choose to rely on those skills as a primary means of income, Jacob and I always agreed that they were fundamental necessities to surviving in any economy.

They also lost the role model who could teach them carpentry and cabinet making if any of them ever wanted to forge a different path. Jacob was good with horses too and dreamt of building stalls someday to train and breed them. My sons would have, at the very least, had options for their futures. Who will teach them now? How will they become good husbands?

I can’t forget that my daughters have lost something irreplaceable too. They lost the one man in their lives who would set the bar for the men they would choose to marry someday, and the relativity of their own roles in a marriage. Who would set the male example for any of my children now?

All that my family had lost in Jacob’s death was bad enough without losing our home too! As a mamm I feel it’s my God-given responsibility to do whatever I can to keep that from happening.

Lost in my thoughts, I’m startled by another passing motorist and react by swerving slightly. The front tire of my bicycle wedges itself into a rut along the outside edge of the pavement. It has been etched into the blacktop by the steel wheels of the many Amish buggies that travel this road into town. I struggle with the handlebars to steer myself out of it but the hem of my dress catches in the chain, and my bicycle and I, go toppling over into the muddy gravel on the side of the road.

‘Pride goeth before a fall.’ I can hear my daed say, just as if he were sitting on the wet ground next to me. The only difference being that daed would have been laughing at the situation and I’m much too frustrated to laugh at the moment.

I scoot myself over to retrieve my purse from the grass and my package which is now lying in a puddle, then struggle to free my dress from the steely jaws of the bike chain. It’s my newest dress and I don’t want to tear it because I don’t have the spare time or the desire to make another. In just two more months I will ne longer be required to clad myself in black from head to toe as a symbol of mourning. In fact, I hope to never own another black dress for as long as I live.

I loved my husband dearly and I accept that it’s my wifely duty to honor his memory by keeping with the traditions of our faith – but the mourning attire only seems to prolong my grief and sadness. It only honors his death, not his memory. Because in life, Jacob always preferred seeing me in lighter colors.

Just as I begin to pray for God’s help, another car passes by and splashes me with muddy rainwater. I hang my head down and sigh. I realize that I’m probably going to have to give in and rip my dress free before someone runs me over. Just as I put my foot against the frame and begin to tug, I hear the rhythmic clop and prattle of a horse and buggy coming up behind me.

Oh Lord, please let it be anyone but Deacon or Esther Byler, I pray, but as the words escape my lips, I’m too ashamed of myself to even turn around and look to see who it is.

Are you okay? a man’s voice calls out to me.

I turn as the man climbs out of the buggy and steps towards me. My dress got caught in the chain, I explain, squinting to look at him through the rain pelting my face.

He tries to rotate the wheel but it doesn’t budge. Hold on, he says over the pounding rain. He runs back to the buggy and returns with a pair of pliers.

Your chain is jammed. I’ll get you loose but you’ll have to get it fixed before you can ride it again, he explains as he frees me from the bike. Can I offer you a lift somewhere?

I’ve got to get to the post office in town but I live back in Hope Landing, I explain.

I’m going near the post office now. If you don’t mind an extra stop, I can take you home afterwards.

I don’t mind, I assure him, as he carefully pulls me to my feet.

He helps me onto the seat with my package, loads my bicycle to the buggy and steers us back onto the roadway headed for town.

I’m Sarah Fisher.

I’m John Troyer. Your hand is bleeding, are you sure you’re okay?"

I’m fine; I must have scraped it on the pavement when I fell. I had hoped I could make it back home before the rain started. I wrap the front hem of my apron around my hand self-consciously.

It must be a pretty important package to go to all of this trouble on a day like today.

"It’s a crib quilt for an expectant mamm. I’m a quilter. The baby’s due in a few days."

Are those your quilts at Yoder’s store?

I have a few quilts for sale there, but the ones on display were made by Deacon Byler’s wife and daughter. I’ve been quilting since I was old enough to thread a needle but only started selling my quilts after my husband died last May.

John Troyer is a tall, handsome man in his middle thirties with a deep voice, a gentle smile, and kind, hazel eyes. His full head of dark brown hair is about the only physical feature that reminds me of Jacob. But he seems to carry that same purposed, thoughtful demeanor that I always admired in my husband, even in a crisis. Where are you from Mr. Troyer?

Please, call me John.

I smile modestly.

I bought the old Schwartz farm on the south end of Hope Landing.

"Och, how long have you been in the community?"

Four months now but I still have a lot of family in Hopkinsville so I’ve still been attending church services there.

That explains why we’ve never met. I knew the Schwartz property was for sale but I didn’t realize anyone had moved in.

I’m slowly making the transition from Hopkinsville. I’ll be at the Lapp’s barn raising coming up next Thursday. And I was thinking I might attend next month’s community dinner.

I’m sure Hope Landing will feel more like home once you get to know everyone.

He stops in front of the Post Office and comes around to help me out of the buggy. If you’re going to be here for a few minutes, I can run over to the tractor supply and come back. I just need to pick up a part that I ordered.

"Ya, that’s fine. I’ll probably have to make a new label and get a new box anyway; this one’s kind of soggy."

I’ll be as quick as I can.

He leaves and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass post office doors as I step inside. I look a fright, from shoes to bonnet, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. I pull the quilt out of the old box, still safe in the plastic bag I wrapped it in, and step up to the cashier when it’s my turn.

The postman helps me select the quickest shipping method, which also happens to be the least expensive, for the size and weight of the package. He gives me a new box and I fill out a new label before retrieving the property tax payment envelope from my purse. I pay the postage for both items and go back outside to wait for John.

It’s still raining and the temperature has dropped several degrees, but I feel more unnoticeable here than in the busy post office. I stay close to the building under the overhang of the roof to keep as warm and dry as possible. Had I been able to manage holding an umbrella and steering a bike at the same time, I would have brought one, but there was ne way I could have.

I turn my back to the glass to