Heaven Can Wait: Dutch Country Brides, #1

By Cheryl St.John

Raised within the confines of a strict religious community, Lydia Beker longs for a simple touch, dreams of seeing more of the world. When handsome farmer, Jakob Neubauer and his family visit the bakery where she works, she is fascinated, but Outsiders are forbidden to her.

Jakob is attracted to Lydia, as well, and she makes the difficult decision to leave everything she knows behind to marry him. He offers love and passion, but will she ever fit into his world?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexandrite Press
• Release date: Jan 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988904507

Cheryl St.John

Cheryl's first book, RAIN SHADOW was nominated for RWA’s RITA for Best First Book, by Romantic Times for Best Western Historical, and by Affaire de Coeur readers as Best American Historical Romance. Since then her stories have continued to receive awards and high acclaim. In describing her stories of second chances and redemption, readers and reviewers use words like, “emotional punch, hometown feel, core values, believable characters and real life situations.

Book preview

Heaven Can Wait

Cheryl St.John

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Copyright © 1994, 2013 by Cheryl Ludwigs. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

Dedicated to the memory of the late Diane Wicker Davis,

who recognized the potential and pointed the way.

Thank you for your vision to form

Romance Authors of the Heartland/HWG.

I value and love my writers friends.

Special acknowledgement to Karen Scott (Karen Knows Best)

for her insight on improving this story.

Chapter 1

April 1888

The Outsider was the most beautiful woman Lydia Beker had ever seen. Wearing a dress the vibrant blue of a spring sky on a frosty morning, the young woman's eyes glittered the luxuriant green of the goose meadow after a generous rain. Thick, shiny hair cascaded from the back of her head in long spun-gold coils.

Lydia smoothed the crisp white apron covering her drab gray day dress and imagined the silky, cool texture of satin. She tucked in wayward tendrils of mahogany hair escaping the confines of her white Norman cap. From the kitchen doorway, she observed the four Outsiders eating pie at the only occupied table in the bakefront. Fascinated by their unique dialect and by their conversation, she lingered as she polished the silver.

Well, this is all pretty appealing, said one of the two young men, who were obviously brothers. Everything's simple, basic. These colonists are agricultural and economic geniuses. Did you know they even have a steam engine in their cotton mill?

His praise of her home and the pleasant sound of his voice stabbed Lydia with a wicked glimmer of pride.

The pretty woman set down her fork. The pie is good, but their lifestyle seems very plain.

The other brother grinned. Emily, Jakob wouldn't last a day without a cup of coffee. And his fancy boots aren't the accepted footwear around here.

The boots in question were gray snakeskin. The woman's feet were encased in exquisite leather high-top shoes. Lydia's own sturdily made black shoes had to weigh ten times as much. Guiltily she imagined slipping her feet into those dainty shoes, sitting beside the young man called Jakob and boldly resting her fingers on his arm.

Nikolaus is getting tired. The woman named Emily hugged a baby to her breast and kissed the top of his head. Lydia guessed that he was about a year old. He patted his mother's cheek with a chubby hand. A familiar longing threaded through Lydia with a haunting intensity.

Caring for her younger brothers and sisters had only intensified her yearning. As soon as they grew out of babyhood, she'd been forbidden to caress and cuddle them. She vowed that in the privacy of her own home, she would love and touch her child to her heart's content—if she ever had a child.

The fortunate Emily snuggled the baby, and Lydia swallowed her envy.

Lydia continually fought her vibrant spirit, striving to discipline her will according to rigid Rappite doctrine. In Accord, every believer was the same. Every structure, every walkway, the same. Every day was the same.

But Lydia was not the same.

Again she wondered why the comfort and solitude of the Harmony Society left her incomplete. Why did she crave an elusive something to fill the secret void in her cold life? She longed to see a city, with its variety of businesses and homes and its bustling inhabitants dressed in colorful clothing and hats, and to hear children's laughter, to see horses and buggies—

Oh, Nikolaus! the woman exclaimed. The child had accidentally kicked a tin cup from the table's edge, and Lydia scurried to mop up milk with a towel.

She smiled hesitantly into the baby's wide blue eyes. He pointed a finger at her and laughed. Her heart warmed.

Thanks, ma'am. The older man, dressed in faded dungarees and a plaid work shirt, smiled. Lines formed at the corners of his eyes like cracks in a parched streambed.

"Bitte. More pie would you like?"

He raised a huge hand in refusal, but his sons nodded.

I'll take another slice, Jakob said, and presented his empty plate. His voice awakened vulnerable longings Lydia had worked hard to bury. He held on to the plate a second longer than necessary, and her gaze flew to his bright blue eyes. Alive with warmth, they smiled at her. His full lips turned up and tiny lines appeared at the corners of his eyes, as though he smiled often. How different from the somber men of Accord.

She brought each of the brothers another piece and filled their milk glasses.

You certainly have a gift for tasty pastry, Jakob told her.

A tiny hope sparked to life. How wonderful it would be to know a man who smiled.

Warmth crept from Lydia's plain gray collar up her neck and suffused her cheeks. Rarely in her twenty years had she spoken to anyone from outside the colony. This stranger was not only an Outsider, but a man, and she couldn't disguise her discomfort. She nodded, quickly carrying away the empty plates.

It's shameless to encourage the poor girl, Emily scolded, her voice carrying across the barren room. She's probably never had a man make cow eyes at her before. She's a plain girl, unaccustomed to silly flirtation. You embarrassed her.

Cow eyes? Jakob asked.

The men shared a laugh.

Lydia's step faltered. She forced herself into the kitchen and placed the dishes near the sink. She raised both palms to her burning cheeks. She'd never experienced the confusing humiliation that washed through her now.

She was a plain girl.

Back at the table, Jakob's glance raised to the kitchen doorway. Plain doesn't matter. The widow Parkhurst wore a dress from Paris, France, and she's still a pruneface. He leaned toward his father. Pretty, isn't she?

Johann Neubauer's faded blue eyes lit with amusement. Yep. Be nice to have dessert more often, wouldn't it?

Jakob grinned. Courtin' her wouldn't be for her pie.

Emily glanced toward the kitchen and raised a brow.

Her husband, Anton, propped his fork on the edge of his plate. A woman who can bake like this would be mighty welcome, from where I'm sittin'.

Emily leaned toward her husband. It seems to me the girl has a pleasant enough life here. I can't imagine what would entice her away.

The brothers exchanged a glance.

She placed the sleeping child in Anton's arms and walked to the kitchen doorway.

Lydia looked up from slicing pie in surprise.

"I'm Emily Neubauer.

Lydia Beker. Pleased I am to make your acquaintance.

The gentlemen are impressed with the pies. Emily's gaze took in the kitchen. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to share the recipe.

My pleasure. I will write the ingredients down for you. I have paper and ink in here. Lydia wiped her hands on a towel and scampered farther into the kitchen.

Emily strolled the length of the long, narrow worktable that stretched down the center of the room. Risen mounds of dough lined rows of trays. An older woman, the image of Lydia, stirred an enormous kettle. Trouble I am having with this stove today, she said to her daughter. It is overheating.

I will call on one of the men to service it, Lydia replied. I will go as soon as I write a recipe for our guest.

What's back there? Emily pointed past the wall of redbrick ovens.

The storeroom.

I could certainly use some tips on service space. Baking, too. All cooking, I guess. I'm afraid I'm not much good in the kitchen. She came to stand beside Lydia. I hope my husband and brother-in-law didn't offend you. They are hopeless teases.

I am not offended.

Good. Your lifestyle seems very different from ours. Your homes and stores and clothing. I find it all quite interesting, though. Your life here looks safe.

Safe, yes. Your dress is the most beautiful I have ever seen, Lydia told her.

Lydia, the older woman corrected her sharply.

Lydia met the other young woman's eyes. "This is my mother, Frau Beker."

Pleased to meet you, ma'am, Emily said.

Lydia's mother only nodded. Lydia looked away. She finished writing and handed Emily the paper. The recipe.

Emily accepted the recipe and turned toward the bakefront. Thank you.

The men waited near the front door, their broad shoulders filling the doorway. The sleeping child lay draped over his father's shoulder.

Much obliged, ma'am. Jakob worked his hat in a circle, long fingers curling the brim absently. I'm partial to the apple.

At the sight of his hands—strong hands, browned by the sun—a curious, unsettling flutter sprang to life in Lydia's stomach. He smiled without pretense, and she studied his face. It was tanned and lean-cheeked, with a broad forehead under a shock of hay-colored hair. His nose was long, but not dominant and his lips were full and mobile. Bright blue eyes studied her in return with unblinking interest.

Let's take Nikolaus out to the wagon, Emily said to her husband and father-in-law and ushered them out the door.

Jakob Neubauer was going to batter his hat if he didn't stop turning it this way and that. It was plain he wanted to say something now that they were alone. Lydia's heart fluttered.

Are you here every day? he asked at last.

She nodded.

I'll visit again.

We sell pies you may take home, as well.

I wonder if....

She glanced up.

If....

A sound burst from behind Lydia, and an odd rush of air sucked all the curtains inward at once. Lydia frowned and turned. From the kitchen came her mother's piercing cry. "Feuer! Fire is heading for the storeroom!"

Lydia ran to meet her.

The stove is shooting flames! Her mother's pupils were dilated with fear.

"Go for help, Mutter, Lydia directed. I will get water from the kitchen pump. Hurry!"

Lydia spun and raced into the kitchen, the Outsider close on her heels. Black smoke belched from the stove. The curtains and woodpile were already ablaze. Lifting two enormous kettles from a shelf, she pumped water. She'd never noticed how long it took to draw the first splatter. Barely an inch in the bottom of the metal container! With both hands, she again raised the metal lever and pumped.

Jakob brushed her aside and grabbed the pump handle. Run outside! Tell my brother to haul water from the trough.

Water gushed into the kettle at the same instant an explosion rattled the floorboards, again sucking the air from the building. Lydia caught her breath and whirled.

Flames licked across the floor, nipping at her hem. She wet a towel and batted at her skirt until the fire was out. Pulling her apron over her nose and mouth, she stared into the flapping flames, which were growing taller and closer in irregular bursts. The fire had reached the storeroom, where bags and barrels of grain and dry goods were stored. It would only be a matter of minutes until the fire spread dangerously further.

Jakob threw a container of water on the flames, and they hissed and smoked. She remembered the flour bin and furiously scooped white dust, dousing whatever she could reach.

Perspiration ran down her back. How long until more help came?

Another cracking noise made her jump and she dragged her gaze to the flames licking across the wooden casing of the door that led back into the bakefront.

Now both routes of escape were blocked.

Within seconds, billowing, dense smoke churned from the storeroom, blinding her. Instinctively she dropped to her hands and knees and crouched under the long table. She coughed into a fistful of her apron. Her eyes stung. Her lungs felt as if they were packed with dirty wool.

Saying a brief prayer, she asked God for a quick death. She'd die with a prayer on her lips and regret in her heart. She'd never see the outside world or feel a silky blue dress against her skin... never ride in a buggy... never have a baby... never love a man with smiling blue eyes....And now the smiling Outsider was doomed, as well, and only because he'd joined her to help.

Every breath was sheer agony. Tears streamed from her eyes and she choked on the searing air. Sie Gott...

Something damp and smothering dropped over her head. Strong fingers pried her grip from the table leg.

Through her tears and the thick, black smoke, Lydia made out the Outsider bent over her. Watch your head! Put your arms around my neck.

Responding instinctively to his gruff command, Lydia crawled from under the table and groped for his neck. Her fingertips found his shirt and followed solid, muscular shoulders to his throat. She threaded her hands behind his neck, and Jakob lifted her effortlessly. Lydia found herself cradled against the stranger's massive chest. It was the closest she'd been to another person since infancy.

Hold on, he ordered. Lydia clung to his strength, and he shielded her face and head with the soggy fabric.

The Outsider ran as if the hosts of hell were on his heels. Searing heat nipped Lydia's legs and feet. Acrid smoke stole her breath, replacing it with a red-gray haze of panic. She gritted her teeth against a sharp pain in her chest. Why had he taken this risk?

The red haze deepened. Dazed, Lydia struggled for consciousness. A deep-timbred voice resonated against her flattened breast. A magnificent voice. Jakob's. His arms, like bands of steel under her knees and around her back, bound her against his chest, warm and decidedly solid beneath his shirt. A lovely way to die.

They raced into the sunlight. He gulped in great, heaving gasps of air. Lydia rose and fell against his broad chest with each convulsive breath.

Jakob's knees buckled, but he held her tight, breaking her fall. He twisted to lie face up, and she sprawled on top of him.

His heart raced against her open palms. His chest was broad and hard and... and... oh! She could feel him. She hadn't died. A coughing spasm racked his body beneath her, and a helpful colonist assisted Lydia to the grass. Dazed, she sat up. Swelling banks of smoke uncurled into the innocent sky over Main Street.

She coughed repeatedly, each expiration sheer agony. Lydia fought to shrug off the dreamlike quality of her vision. Mutter assisted her to a sitting position and raised tear-filled eyes heavenward in thanks, then stared in awe at the two Outsiders joining them.

You all right, son? the father asked.

Here and there, under soot and ash, a frazzled patch of Jakob's hay-colored hair shone in the sunlight. His eyes appeared sharp and blue and his teeth were startlingly white. He raised a large, reassuring hand and placed it on his father's shoulder. At his feet lay the limp, blackened tablecloth he'd placed over her head.

I never knew breathin' could feel so good and so miserable at the same time. His palm flattened against his shirtfront, and his voice rasped from deep in his chest. He grimaced, and his teeth stood out in his charred face in a parody of a smile.

Looks like they're handling the fire. His father batted affectionately at the soot on Jakob's clothing with his rumpled hat. Think you're up to the ride home? Annie's probably waitin' dinner.

Jakob couldn't leave yet. He must know how much his actions meant to her. She'd been prepared to die, and he'd given her a new chance at life.

Nein! Lydia choked painfully on the single word. The older man turned toward her immediately; Jakob looked first to his father, then to Lydia. Wait, she insisted, her lungs on fire. I must thank you.

Jakob squinted against the sunlight for a long, motionless moment. She blushed wildly under his stare. I'd be willing to call it even for a drink of water.

Lydia nodded to a freckle-faced girl standing nearby, and she ran to do his bidding.

Lydia stumbled to her feet and faced the man who had risked his life by following her into that kitchen. Words were inadequate. She knew nothing of him, save that he favored apple pie. She didn't know where he came from or where he was going, yet a tenuous bond had formed between them. A link that somehow surpassed familiarity.

And she was afraid.

Afraid she wouldn't see him again. Afraid she'd been given a second chance at life, only to have it continue as it had. How can I repay you?

Jakob managed a lopsided grin. Pulling a kerchief from his rear pocket, he swiped ineffectually at his face. How about a pie for my pa next time we're through?

Hope kindled within her. She lifted her hand for the kerchief. He followed her to the trough near the street's edge, and, after soaking the red cloth, she wrung the water out on the grass and held it toward him. Allow me, please?

The moment stretched between them, the sunny day evaporating into a hushed blur. There was no sound except the thumping of her heart in her ears; no sight but that of his merry blue eyes gauging her; no feelings but those of wonder that he didn't take the kerchief, then dismay at the realization that he was daring her to touch the cloth to his face. She imagined doing so, and her breath stuck in her chest. She pictured wiping the cool cloth over the heated skin of his lean cheeks, the curve of his brow, across his shapely lips....

He was looking at her as though he wanted her to—

The freckled girl returned with water, interrupting their silent reverie. The tall Outsider took the mug and drank thirstily, his Adam's apple bobbing in his tanned throat. Lydia had never seen such an enchanting sight.

He handed her the empty mug, accepted the damp kerchief and ran it across his face and throat. Lydia regretted not having had the courage to enjoy the task herself.

Shame about your bakery, he said, squinting at the smoke.

In His mercy God spared us, she replied. Wood and food can be replaced.

He nodded his agreement.

A springboard loaded with seed bags and supplies pulled alongside. A large, well-fed pair of horses, their maize-colored coats lustrous from many brushings, bobbed their heads.

Wie bald Ruckkehr Sie? Lydia said softly before he could move away. Jakob looked at her without comprehension. Your return will be soon? she translated.

I'll be back soon, he replied. He leapt up onto the wooden seat beside his father and touched the brim of his hat politely. The horses pulled them away.

Lydia had always believed that those of the outside world were self-indulgent, proud, haughty, concerned only with their own profit. But there was nothing self-seeking about the Neubauer son who had risked his life to rescue her from a certain death. Outsiders were vain and untrustworthy hypocrites—weren't they?

Was Jakob the exception? Or was he the rule? It would be unfair to condemn Outsiders without firsthand knowledge. Her comfortable cloak of assumptions had holes the size of Pennsylvania shot through it.

She turned and watched her father direct the cleanup. Hatless and dressed in shirtsleeves, he looked odd without proper attire. His voice rose authoritatively.

According to her father, it was sinful to waste time on inconsequential matters. Most of the time she disciplined herself to say and think and feel all the proper things.

But Jakob Neubauer was not inconsequential—not to her. Through him, God had given her a new life. She didn't believe in coincidence. She must make the most of this blessing, and not allow the opportunity to crumble into ashes, like the inside of the bakery.

He would be back.

Chapter 2

A sky blue parasol shading her, Emily let her gaze drift from the acres of monotonous fields raked into windrows to her husband's broad back. Perched on the wagon seat above her, he swayed with the motion of the springboard. Would Anton have risked his life for her like Jakob had for the Rappite girl? She should know something like that. She often recognized his disappointment in her. In their marriage. She wished she knew how to fix it.

Growing up in Savannah Stockwell's establishment in Pittsburgh, Emily knew what it was like to be different. To be unaccepted. As a child, Emily had never comprehended exactly what her mother did that incited the respectable women of the city to peer down their noses and hold their skirts aside as she passed. Emily only understood she was different.

As an adult, she'd come to know her mother's vocation: whore. Emily had vowed to do whatever it took to get herself far from that place, to live a life completely different. And she had.

Nobody here knew about her mother or where Emily had been raised. She'd fabricated a convincing story of a well-to do, doting father who had been unjustly accused of embezzling funds from the bank of which he was vice president and was now imprisoned. The tale included a mother so humiliated that she'd been placed in a hospital.

Poor Emily, devastated herself, had needed to get away from the city and its ever-present reminders. That was when she'd seen the ad in the Pittsburgh Gazette. Envisioning the marital offer as her ticket out of the city she so desperately wanted to escape, Emily had written immediately.

Two weeks and two letters later, she'd boarded a train bound for Butler as Mrs. Anton Neubauer. Anton was good-looking, clean and nice. Most importantly, he'd married her and made her respectable. After a one-night honeymoon on the rails, Anton had taken her home.

But she'd never quite fit in with his family.

Jakob's hoarse cough dragged her attention back to the present. Johann pounded him on the back. Y'all right?

The wagon lurched in and out of a rut, and her husband turned to check the load, meeting her eyes. His were a darker blue than Jakob's. Anton didn't smile as often as his brother, and his laugh was more reserved.

Confusion and insecurity haunted her days and nights. She'd never had an example of husbands and wives. She didn't know the last thing about family or interaction with others. She wanted Anton to love her. She needed him to love her. But she didn't want to appear needy—or worse. A mail-order bride was nearly the same as a whore. Whores received cash; she'd collected a place to live and a mask of esteem.

Anton stopped the wagon to adjust a stack of seed bags. He leaned over the side to caress Nikolaus's hair affectionately. Emily imagined him touching her with such obvious tenderness. Anton's gaze, deep-set and unfathomable, met hers.

He was probably a good husband. He didn't know yet how much he needed her though. There was a way to make him see, and she'd find it. Just as she'd found a way out of Pittsburgh.

* * *

It pleases me you are allowed to work outside the kitchens, Lydia. You must feel as stifled as I did all those years, Rose Beker said.

Since the fire, Lydia secretly enjoyed the opportunity to work in the gardens and nursery with her brother Nathan, who was scarcely a year younger than she. Grandmother, it's not our lot to wish for pleasures and desirable positions. Father says we must be of one mind and one accord. She stopped and perused her grandmother's beloved face. I'm not certain what I think and feel anymore.

Wizened eyes flashed a smile. Your grandfather used to say young people's sap flows in the spring. I recognize that in you.

Lydia cleared their lunch dishes. She dared to share her thoughts only with her grandmother. She could fool everyone else, and once in a while herself, but she never fooled Rose Beker. I shouldn't have said what I did.

Nonsense. The old woman patted the air in a silencing gesture. Things were different when your grandfather was alive.

Lydia nodded. Her grandparents had been among the original settlers of Accord when the town's founder, Father George Rapp, relocated twenty years before. Matthaus had become discouraged by the harsh self-denial Rapp taught, unconvinced that celibacy was the only road to heaven. I know you miss him.

Her grandmother shook her head sadly. When we moved here from New Harmony, we had plenty of lean years. With all you have, Lydia, you can't imagine. Endless days of work, meager meals...

Lydia detected a note of wistfulness in her grandmother's voice.

I was twenty, Rose continued. Same age as you.

Sometimes I wonder how you left your family and everything familiar to come here.

Walk me to my room for my nap and sit.

In the bedroom, the elderly woman lay on her narrow cot. Bending, Lydia pressed her cheek against her grandmother's soft, dry one, and experienced a familiar pang of guilt. Such displays of affection brought harsh reprimands. How could something so natural, something that felt so good, be so sinful? Grandmother was her precious friend. Her only friend.

Grandmother gave her the only acceptance and love she'd ever known. In the past several years, Lydia had realized how lonely and deprived her life was. She entertained thoughts that were out of place in her world. It had been her burden to bear to see herself as inconsistent with the mold she'd been made from.

She was missing out on so much! She read every book she could find, and stayed abreast of current local and national events. Vater Beker encouraged awareness, but not participation. Longings such as hers were strictly prohibited.

A child, perhaps a home of her own, would help fill the distressing void, but she dreaded marrying a cousin or a young colonist. In Accord, no one was special. Shouldn't a husband be special? Shouldn't children be special?

Of late, her father had been pushing her to promise herself to a colonist. She must marry soon or move to the singles dormitory. She was well past school age, and it was unacceptable for her to continue living with her parents.

I must go. I have flour to blend this afternoon. Smoothing Rose's quilt, Lydia enjoyed the familiar feel of the stitches. One day this wedding quilt would belong to her. Not long after, she'd hold a baby of her own. As always, the dream comforted her.

* * *

Jakob pushed his hat to the back of his head and squinted. Behind him, acre after acre of hayfield lay plowed in geometric windrows. He was pleased with his morning's accomplishment. As always, he experienced a deep satisfaction from his work with the land. Land that his father and grandfather had worked. Land that would one day be worked by his sons.

Off to his left, a parade of Holsteins plodded through the morning mist from barn to pasture. From the sloping hill east of the barn, he watched his calico-wrapped sister-in-law, Franz's wife. With sheer grace, Annette raised one arm and pulled the perfectly balanced sweep, letting a bucket down into the cool depths of the well.

A wife of his own would do the same chores, would hold dinner for him while he washed at the pump. He conjured up the picture often. Often enough to stir his blood. Since the fire, the vision had a face—tranquil and fine-boned, with ivory skin—and a name.

Lydia.

He remembered the lingering feel of her clasped against his body as he'd run through the smoke and licking flames. Delicate. Desirable. Strange—he couldn't recall the heat or the choking, blinding smoke as vividly as Lydia Beker's softness and her gentle, womanly scent.

He'd chastised himself at least twenty times a day. He should have stopped her and sent her out the front door