A Season for Tending: Book One in the Amish Vines and Orchards Series Read online

  BOOKS BY CINDY WOODSMALL

  ADA’S HOUSE SERIES

  The Hope of Refuge

  The Bridge of Peace

  The Harvest of Grace

  SISTERS OF THE QUILT SERIES

  When the Heart Cries

  When the Morning Comes

  When the Soul Mends

  NOVELLAS

  The Sound of Sleigh Bells

  The Christmas Singing

  The Scent of Cherry Blossoms

  NONFICTION

  Plain Wisdom: An Invitation into an Amish Home

  and the Hearts of Two Women

  A SEASON FOR TENDING

  PUBLISHED BY WATERBROOK PRESS

  12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200

  Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Cindy Woodsmall

  Cover design by Kelly L. Howard; photography by Kelly L. Howard and Jutta Klee

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.

  WATERBROOK and its deer colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Woodsmall, Cindy.

  A season for tending : a novel / Cindy Woodsmall.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-73003-9

  1. Amish—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.O678S43 2012

  813’.6—dc23

  2012021263

  v3.1

  In memory of Raymond Woodsmall Sr. (1897–1977)

  and my father-in-law, Raymond Woodsmall Jr. (1922–2011)

  and dedicated to Uncle Jack Woodsmall

  These men are the original apple orchard overseers.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Apple orchards are a large part of the Woodsmall family history, and while writing the Amish Vines and Orchards series, I relied on the skilled experience and vivid recollections of a former apple farmer, Jack Woodsmall of Sterling, Massachusetts.

  For nearly fifty years, Raymond Woodsmall Sr., my husband’s grandfather, was an overseer of an apple orchard in Leominster, Massachusetts. My father-in-law and his younger brother Jack worked on that apple orchard from the time they were little boys until they left home to serve in the military.

  That orchard is called Sholan Farms, and the original farmhouse was built in the 1730s. Although Raymond Woodsmall Sr. never owned the land or the house, he moved into the original farmhouse before the Depression as a young man in his prime and remained there as an overseer of the orchard until he was no longer capable of such hard work. He then made room for a younger overseer and moved from the original farmhouse to a smaller place on the land, but he continued helping with the orchard until a few years before he died.

  My husband grew up making yearly visits with his family to that farmhouse where his grandparents lived, and he spent hours walking the orchard with his grandpa and sitting under apple trees, mesmerized by the stories his grandpa told. Our children sat around the dinner table listening to their dad share those same stories.

  Grandpa Woodsmall saw the apple orchard through droughts, floods, blizzards, pestilence, and the worst tragedy of all, the Great Hurricane of 1938, which nearly destroyed the orchard. He and his two sons worked long, hard years to restore the apple trees.

  Time passed, and his two sons joined the military. They never returned to work the orchard again.

  In 1982 the house sustained damage from a fire, and what was left of the home was dismantled, sold, and shipped to unknown destinations. Later, the orchard was abandoned. It was during this time I first walked that land. While viewing the acres of dying trees, I longed for what had once existed.

  Clearly others were stirred too. In 2001 the Sholan Farms Preservation Committee (SFPC) purchased the land. Soon afterward, a new group was formed, Friends of Sholan Farms (FOSF), and they took on the task of revitalizing as much of the orchard as possible. Today on twenty acres of the original sixty-acre farm is a thriving orchard where families from across the States can come and pick their own apples. The land now produces four thousand bushels of apples per year. I know Grandpa Woodsmall would be pleased.

  Welcome to Amish Vines and Orchards.

  Come with me into the Amish Country of Pennsylvania, into an apple orchard farmed in the same way Grandpa Woodsmall and his sons farmed all those years ago. Let’s take a journey that will be a tapestry of what was, what is, and—perhaps—what will be.

  ONE

  It’s time …

  Emma’s voice rose from the past, encircling Rhoda and bringing a wave of guilt. Unyielding, unforgiving guilt.

  Rhoda plucked several large strawberries from the vine and dropped them into the bushelbasket. “Time for what?” she whispered.

  The moment the words left her mouth, she glanced up, checking her surroundings. She quickly looked beyond the picket fence that enclosed her fruit and herb garden but saw no one. Her shoulders relaxed. When townsfolk or neighbors noticed Rhoda talking to herself, fresh rumors stirred. Even family members frowned upon it and asked her to stop.

  It’s time …

  Emma’s gentle voice echoed around her for a second time.

  “Time for what?” Rhoda repeated, more a prayer to God than a question to her departed sister.

  God was the One who spoke in whispers to the soul, not the dead. But whenever Rhoda heard a murmuring in her mind
, it was Emma’s voice. It had been that way since the day Emma died.

  The sound of two people talking near the road caught Rhoda’s attention. Surely they were real. She rose out of her crouch, pressing her bare feet into the rich soil, and went in the direction of the voices, passing the long rows of strawberries, blueberries, and blackberries and her trellises of raspberries and Concord grapes. Heady scents rode on the spring air, not just from the ripening fruits, but from her bountiful herb garden that yielded rosemary, sage, scarlet bergamot, and dozens of other plants she’d spent years cultivating. Dusting her palms together, she skirted the raised boxes that held the herbs and peered through a honeysuckle bush.

  She was relieved to see actual people speaking to each other. Then she recognized them, and her fingertips tingled as her pulse raced. Her mother’s eldest sister walked beside Rueben Glick, a man who wanted to make her life miserable.

  “Surely her Daed will listen to me this time.” Aunt Naomi clutched her fists tightly. “He indulges her. That’s the real problem.”

  Rhoda had no doubt they were talking about her. Since Emma’s death two years ago, the church leaders had avoided responding to all the trouble that Rhoda caused, however unintentional. They offered grace and mercy as her family tried to deal with their grief from the tragedy. But Rueben and Naomi made it their responsibility to keep Rhoda’s family aware of how the Amish and non-Amish in Morgansville felt about her.

  “I can bring a witness this time, more if need be.” Rueben’s tone was confident, with a familiar edge of bitterness.

  More than anyone else in Morgansville, Rueben detested her. But unlike the others, he was only too happy to speak his mind directly to her and her family. And Rhoda knew why. He wanted to make her pay for turning his girlfriend against him. Rhoda had plenty of things to feel guilty for, but Rueben losing his girlfriend was not one of them.

  Her aunt paused at the corner of the fence, studying Rhoda’s house. “There should be no need for a witness, especially from those who are not Amish. The quieter we keep this matter, the better.”

  Rueben had found witnesses who weren’t Amish? How? She tried her best to keep anyone from knowing her business. She never even shared with her family her comings and goings based on intuition. Dread pressed in on her, and she bit back her growing contempt for Rueben Glick.

  “Kumm.” Her aunt crossed the driveway with Rueben right beside her. Naomi tapped on the screen door and waited. The fact that she didn’t let herself in was a sign of the troubled feelings between her Daed and his sister-in-law.

  Not counting Rhoda, six adults and five children were living in the house right now—her parents, two of her brothers, and their wives and children. Regardless which adult answered the door, Naomi and Rueben would take up matters concerning Rhoda with only her father.

  Mamm came to the door and invited her sister and Rueben into the house.

  Rhoda moved out from behind the honeysuckle bush, curiosity and anxiety mixing inside her. What accusation did Rueben have against her this time? Regardless of the new charge, this visit would put more tension inside an already overloaded household and would only isolate her more. No matter how many people lived with her or how deeply loyal they were, she stood on an island by herself, forbidden to acknowledge the largest part of who she was.

  She meandered toward the gate, running her fingertips across the various herbs as she went. A few bloomed now, in May, but come July these plants would be bursting with vivid color. More important, they would provide people with natural relief from certain illnesses. She paused in front of the red clover, but despite its name, this particular clover was splashed with lovely purple blooms.

  Many of these plants—the clover, dandelion, and thistle, to name a few—were considered nuisances. Like Rhoda herself. But each herb offered health benefits under the right circumstances. Maybe she was like them in that way too. Her people used to believe her, used to trust her with their health. If they would only give her a chance, perhaps she could help them again.

  “Rhodes?”

  She blinked, coming out of her thoughts and realizing that someone had been calling her name. She turned toward the road that ran along one side of her berry patch.

  Landon was sitting in his old pickup on the main road, banging on the door. Officially, he worked for her, but he was also one of her few friends. “There she is, back from Oz again.”

  Although she hadn’t seen the movie, he’d explained enough that she understood Oz was somehow connected to witches. And he was talking about it out loud, right here in the thick of busy Morgansville. She put her index finger to her lips.

  Landon grinned. “Okay, I’m hushing—not that it’ll do any good.”

  A short line of cars stacked up behind him, and someone honked. He drove forward twenty feet and pulled into her driveway. Once out of his truck, he walked toward her. “In my two years of working for you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you doing nothing while standing inside this garden.” Before opening the gate, he grabbed one of the empty baskets stacked outside the picket fence. “What has you so distracted?”

  She turned away and walked down the long path at the end of the rows. “Just wondering if I ordered enough canning supplies to last through the month.” She kept her back to him so he couldn’t read her face and know she was fibbing. She returned to her strawberry bush, crouched down, and began dumping more of the velvety fruit into her basket.

  He went to the other side of the row and started picking. “You were studying the red clover. Rotating it out seems like it was a good idea. Looks like we’ll get a bumper crop this year. That should give you lots for making that ointment.”

  “Ya,” she mumbled, wishing she knew what was going on inside her house. Did Rueben have proof that she’d disobeyed the church authorities and her parents?

  When the back door slammed, she jolted. But it was just one of her sisters-in-law taking another load of freshly cleaned diapers to the clothesline.

  “First you’re in la-la land, and then you jump at nothing. What gives, Rhodes?”

  Landon knew her better than most. Emma had once known her best, but what good had that done Emma? If Rhoda had been half the sister Emma deserved, she would still be alive.

  Rhoda moved the basket down the row. “How are things at the mail store today?” Maybe if she got him answering questions rather than asking them, she could avoid his probing. The tactic worked most days.

  “Still slow. If the economy doesn’t pick up soon, working for you may be the only job I have.”

  “I wish I could afford to pay you for more hours.”

  “Me too, although both of us in that tiny cellar working long hours week after week might cause one of us to disagree with the other, ya?” His grin lifted her spirits a little.

  One of the things she enjoyed about Landon was his ability to speak his mind with total honesty. She loved truthfulness between people. Stark. Radiant. And powerful.

  Unfortunately, it seemed to be in short supply—from her most of all.

  “What’s going on with you today?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Rhoda.”

  His use of her real name caught her attention, and she turned to face him. He pointed at his eyes, demanding she look at him. “It’s not your fault.”

  She stared at him. Would she ever be able to believe that? Since Emma’s death, she hadn’t found one moment when she could accept it as true. There was nothing she could do to free herself. And if he knew everything she did, he wouldn’t say that to her.

  Images flashed through her mind—fire trucks, policemen with guns strapped to their hips, groups of women whispering on the sidewalk. Even now, a crushing sense of guilt and panic rose within her again.

  All her sister had wanted was for Rhoda to help her bake a cake for their Daed’s birthday. And Rhoda had promised she would. Throughout the morning Emma kept asking Rhoda to stop weeding her garden and to go buy the items they needed. Eve
n though she was seventeen years old, Emma hated going places by herself. Strangers frightened her. And Rhoda kept putting her off, assuring her they’d have a great time making the dessert when she was finished tending the garden.

  Finally, fed up with waiting, in an unusual act of self-reliance, Emma stormed off to the store without Rhoda, her eyes filled with tears.

  A strawberry flew through the air and hit Rhoda on the shoulder, followed in quick succession by a second and a third one. “Stay with me, Rhodes,” Landon called to her.

  She blinked. “Sorry.”

  “You tried to save her, almost broke your leg—”

  “Rueben’s here.” Rhoda had no desire to listen to Landon’s version of that day. She wasn’t a hero. More like a murderer. And what she’d done had divided this town, making both Amish and Englisch distrust and fear her. “He’s inside with my aunt Naomi.”

  Landon chuckled. “On a witch hunt again, I take it.”

  “That’s not even a little bit funny, Landon.”

  “Come on, Rhodes. You know I tease because it’s all so ridiculous. Gimme a smile. You can’t change what they think. What’s Rueben’s problem now?”

  “Remember when several Amish communities were at that regional function a couple of months ago?”

  “Yeah. Your Mamm insisted you go, and you came back with your feathers ruffled at Rueben. But that’s about all I know.”

  “He spent two days harassing me and making fun of me. On the second day he got bolder, saying things to me he shouldn’t, in front of a large group of singles, including his girlfriend. He was being a bully, and I lashed out.”

  “What’d you say to him?”

  She picked up her basket, ready to head toward the gate. “I looked into his eyes and knew a secret he wasn’t telling anyone. His guilt was easy to see—if anyone had a mind to look. I called him on seeing another girl while he was out of state helping some Amish farmers. He denied it at first, but I knew when he was telling the truth and when he was lying by the guilt on his face. He thought that I’d spoken to the girl directly, that maybe she’d come to this area, and he owned up to his cheating. As I walked off, I let him know that I had no proof whatsoever, that he’d simply told on himself.”