A Widow's Hope

By Vannetta Chapman

His scars are visible. Hers are hidden… An Indiana Amish Brides match.

After tragedy claimed her husband's life and her son's ability to walk, Hannah King doesn't want a new man. She has her family, a home and mounting debts. Scarred Amish bachelor Jacob Schrock offers Hannah the job she desperately needs. But while Hannah helps Jacob resolve his accounting issues, can she and her little boy also heal his wounded heart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Aug 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781489269041

Vannetta Chapman

Vannetta Chapman writes inspirational fiction full of grace. She is the author of sixteen novels, including the Pebble Creek Amish series, The Shipshewana Amish Mystery series, and Anna’s Healing, a 2016 Christy Award finalist. Vannetta is a Carol award winner and has also received more than two dozen awards from Romance Writers of America chapter groups. She was a teacher for fifteen years and currently resides in the Texas hill country. Visit Vannetta online: VannettaChapman.com, Twitter: @VannettaChapman, Facebook: VannettaChapmanBooks.

Book preview

Chapter One

Monday mornings were never easy. Though Hannah King heard her four-year-old son calling, she longed to bury her head under the covers and let her mother take care of him. She’d had a dream about David. It had been so real—David kissing her on their wedding day, David standing beside her as she cradled their newborn son, David moving about the room quietly as he prepared for work.

But he wasn’t in the room with her, and he never would be again. A late-summer breeze stirred the window shade. In the distance she could hear the clip-clop of horses on the two-lane, a rooster’s crow, the low of a cow. Summer would be over soon. Here in northern Indiana, where she’d grown up, September was met with a full schedule of fall festivals and pumpkin trails and harvest celebrations. She dreaded it all—had no desire to walk through the bright leaves, or decorate with pumpkins or bake apple pies. Fall had been David’s favorite time of year. Matthew was born in September. The accident? It had occurred the last week of August. That terrible anniversary was one week away.

This year, the thought of autumn overwhelmed her. Her entire life left her feeling tired and unable to cope. She was happy to be home with her parents, but she hadn’t realized the extent of their financial troubles until she’d already moved in. Their church in Wisconsin had used money from the benevolence fund to pay for Matthew’s surgeries, but her parents had paid for all of his rehab from their savings. Now they were operating month-to-month, and the stress was beginning to show. She needed to find a job, to help them with the bills, but how could she work when her primary responsibility was to care for Matthew?

She should at least make an attempt to find employment, but she wanted and needed to be home with her son. If she were honest with herself, she dreaded the thought of interacting with other people on a daily basis. She hadn’t enough energy for that.

Hannah pushed off the bedcovers, slipped her feet into a pair of worn house shoes and hurried to the room next door as her mother stepped into the hall.

I can take care of him if you like.

"Nein. I’m awake."

She should have said more, should have thanked her mother, but the memory of David was too heavy on her heart, her emotions too raw. So instead she quickly glanced away and opened the door to Matthew’s room.

Though her son was four years old, soon to be five, he still slept in a bed with rails along the side. This was mainly to keep him from falling out.

The thinnest sliver of morning light shone through the gap between the window and the shade, fell across the room and landed on little Matthew. He was lying on his back, his legs splayed out in front of him. Matthew smiled and raised his arms to her, but instead of picking him up, Hannah lowered the wooden rail that her dat had fastened to the bed and sat beside him. Matthew struggled to a sitting position and pulled himself into her lap. For a four-year-old, his arms were incredibly strong, probably to make up for the fact that his legs were useless.

Gudemariye, Mamm. The Pennsylvania Dutch rolled off his tongue, thick with sleep.

Good morning to you, Matthew.

He reached up and touched her face, patted her cheek, then snuggled in closer.

She gave him a few minutes. Long ago, she’d learned that Matthew needed time to wake up, to adjust to the world. When he was ready, he said, Potty?

Sure thing, Matt.

But before she could pick him up, her father was standing in the doorway. No doubt he’d been awake for hours, and he carried into the room the familiar smells of the barn—hay, horses and even a little manure. It was an earthy smell that Hannah never tired of.

I thought I heard young Matthew awake.

Daddi! Matthew squirmed out of her lap and launched himself at her father, who caught him with a smile and carried him into the bathroom across the hall. She could hear them there, laughing and talking about the upcoming day.

Hannah slipped back into her room, changed into a plain gray dress, black apron and white kapp. Once dressed, she hurried to the kitchen. If she’d thought she could help her mother make breakfast, she was sadly mistaken.

Steam rose from the platter of fresh biscuits on the table. Another dish held crisp bacon, and her mother was scooping scrambled eggs into a large bowl. Hannah fetched the butter and jam, set them in the middle of the table and then gladly accepted the mug of coffee her mother pushed into her hands.

Did you sleep well?

Hannah shrugged, not wanting to talk about it. Then she remembered her bishop’s admonition to speak of her feelings more, to resist the urge to let them bottle up inside. Easy enough for him to say. His spouse was still alive and his children did not struggle with a disability. It was an uncharitable thought and added to her guilt.

She sipped the coffee and said, I fall asleep easily enough, but then I wake after a few hours and can’t seem to go back to sleep, no matter how tired I am.

Normal enough for a woman in mourning.

It’s been nearly a year.

Grieving takes a different amount of time for different people, Hannah.

I suppose.

Her mother sat down beside her, reached for her hands.

Did you have the dream again?

Ya. Hannah blinked away hot tears. She would not cry before breakfast. She would not. How did you know?

Instead of answering, her mother planted a kiss on her forehead, making her feel six instead of twenty-six. Then she popped up and walked back across the kitchen, checking that she hadn’t forgotten anything they might need for breakfast. Holding up the coffeepot, she asked Hannah’s father and son, Coffee for both of you?

"Mammi. I drink milk."

Matthew’s laughter lightened the mood. Her father’s steadiness calmed her nerves. Her mother’s presence was always a balm to her soul.

The first week she was home, her dad had insisted on learning how to care for Matthew, how to help him into his wheelchair. Now Hannah turned to see her father and son, her father standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his hands on the back of Matthew’s wheelchair. Both looked quite pleased with themselves and ready to tackle whatever the day might bring.

* * *

Jacob Schrock didn’t need to hire a driver for the day’s job. Though the Beiler home was technically in a different church district, in reality they were only a few miles apart. That’s the way things were in Goshen, Indiana. There were so many Amish that his own district had recently divided again because they had too many families to fit into one home or barn for church.

Theirs was a good, healthy community. A growing community.

Which was one of the reasons that Jacob had plenty of work.

The night before, he’d loaded the tools he would need into the cargo box fastened on the back of his buggy. The lumber would be delivered to the job site before lunch.

Bo stood stamping his foot and tossing his head as if to ask what was taking so long. Jacob hitched the black gelding to the buggy, glanced back at his house and workshop and then set off down the road. As he directed the horse down Goshen’s busy two-lane road, his mind raked back over the letter he’d received from the IRS. How was he going to deal with the upcoming audit and complete the jobs he had contracted at the same time? The accountant he’d contacted had named a quite high hourly rate. The man had also said he’d need a thousand-dollar retainer in order to start the job. Jacob had given serious thought to hiring the accounting firm in spite of their high fees, but in truth he didn’t make enough money to afford that.

Jacob had asked around his church, but no one who was qualified had been interested in accounting work. The one young girl who had expressed an interest had quit the first day, and who could blame her? Jacob’s idea of filing consisted of giant plastic bins where he tossed receipts.

Jacob loved working for himself, by himself. He’d rather not have anyone in his small office. The bulk of his income came from residential jobs and a few small business contracts, but his heart and soul were invested in building playhouses for children with disabilities. He needed to juggle both, and now, on top of that, he needed to prepare for the audit.

Twenty minutes later he pulled into the Beilers’ drive. It wasn’t a home he’d ever been to before; that much he was sure of.

Jacob parked the buggy, patted Bo and assured him, Back in a minute to put you in the field. Be patient. Bo was a fine buggy horse, if a little spirited. Jacob had purchased him six months before. The horse was strong and good-tempered. Unfortunately he was not patient. He’d been known to chew his lead rope, eat anything in sight and paw holes into the ground. He did not handle boredom well.

Grabbing his tool belt and folder with design plans, Jacob hesitated before heading to the front door. This was always the hardest part for him—initially meeting someone. His left hand automatically went to his face, traced the web of scar tissue that stretched from his temple to his chin. He wasn’t a prideful man, but neither did he wish to scare anyone.

There was nothing he could do about his appearance, though, so he pulled in a deep breath, said a final word to the horse and hurried to the front door. He knocked, waited and then stood there staring when a young, beautiful woman opened the door. She stood about five and a half feet tall. Chestnut-colored hair peeked out from her kapp. It matched her warm brown eyes and the sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks.

There was something familiar about her. He nearly smacked himself on the forehead. Of course she looked familiar, though it had been years since he’d seen her.

Hannah? Hannah Beiler?

Hannah King. She quickly scanned him head to toe. Her gaze darted to the left side of his face and then refocused on his eyes. She frowned and said, I’m Hannah King.

But...isn’t this the Beiler home?

"Ya. Wait. Aren’t you Jacob? Jacob Schrock?"

He nearly laughed at the expression of puzzlement on her face.

The same, and I’m looking for the Beiler place.

"Ya, this is my parents’ home, but why are you here?"

To work. He stared down at the work order as if he could make sense of seeing the first girl he’d ever kissed standing on the doorstep of the place he was supposed to be working.

I don’t understand, he said.

Neither do I. Who are you looking for?

Alton Beiler.

But that’s my father. Why—

At that point Mr. Beiler joined them, telling Hannah he would take care of their visitor and shaking Jacob’s hand. Surely he noticed the scar on Jacob’s face, but he didn’t dwell on it. You’re at the right house, Jacob. Please, come inside.

Why would he come inside? Hannah had crossed her arms and was frowning at him now.

He’d never have guessed when he put on his suspenders that morning that he would be seeing Hannah Beiler before the sun was properly up. The same Hannah Beiler he had once kissed behind the playground and several years later asked out for a buggy ride and dinner. It had been a disastrous date for sure, but still he remembered it with fondness. The question was, what was she doing here?

But then he peered more closely at Alton. Yes, it was Hannah’s father for sure and certain. Older, grayer and with wrinkles lining his face, but still her father.

I haven’t seen you in years, Jacob said to Alton.

Do we know each other?

Barely. Jacob chuckled, though Hannah continued to glare at him. Hannah and I went on a date many years ago.

It was hardly a date, Hannah chimed in.

I took you in my buggy.

Which hadn’t been properly cleaned, and your horse was lame.

I should have checked the horse more carefully.

We never even made it to dinner.

I’m surprised you remember.

And I had to walk home.

I offered to walk with you.

Hannah rolled her eyes, shook her head and headed back into the house.

She hasn’t changed much, Jacob said in a lower voice.

Oh, but she has. Alton opened the door wider so that Jacob would come in. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.

It has been ten years.

They passed through a living room that appeared to be sparsely but comfortably furnished. Jacob could smell bacon and biscuits. His stomach grumbled and he instantly regretted that he hadn’t taken the time to eat a proper breakfast.

So your dating Hannah must have been when we were at the other place, on the east side of the district.

Indeed.

Obviously we’ve moved since then. Alton stopped before entering the kitchen, seemed about to say something and then rubbed at the back of his neck and ushered Jacob into the room.

Claire, maybe you remember Jacob Schrock. Apparently he took our Hannah on a buggy ride once.

Jacob heard them, but his attention was on the young boy sitting at the table. He was young—probably not school-age yet. Brown hair flopped into his eyes and he had the same smattering of freckles as his mother. He sat in a regular kitchen chair, which was slightly higher than the wheelchair parked behind him. No doubt moving back and forth was cumbersome. If he had a small ramp, the chair could be rolled up and locked into place. He should talk to Alton about that. It would be easy enough to create from scrap lumber.

Hannah was helping the child with his breakfast, or perhaps she was merely avoiding Jacob’s gaze.

The boy, though, had no problem with staring. He cocked his head to the side, as if trying to puzzle through what he saw of Jacob. Then a smile won out over any questions, and he said, Gudemariye.

And to you, Jacob replied.

Hannah’s mother, Claire, motioned him toward a seat. Of course I remember you, Jacob. Though you’ve grown since then.

"Ya, I was a bit of a skinny lad." This was the awkward part. He never knew if he should share the cause of his scars or wait for someone to ask. With the child in the room, perhaps it would be better to wait.

Hannah continued to ignore him, but now the boy was watching him closely, curiously.

"You’re taller too, if I remember right. You were definitely not as tall as Alton when you were a youngie. Now you’re a good six feet, I’d guess."

"Six feet and two inches. My mamm used to say I had growth spurts up until I turned twenty." Jacob accepted a mug of coffee and sat down across the table from the boy.

Who are you? he asked.

I’m Jacob. What’s your name?

"Matthew. This is Mamm, and that’s Mammi and Daddi. We’re a family now." Matthew grinned as if he’d said the most clever thing.

Hannah met Jacob’s gaze and blushed, but this time she didn’t look away.

It’s really nice to meet you, Matthew. I’m going to be working here for a few days.

Working on what?

Jacob glanced at Alton, who nodded once. I’m going to build you a playhouse.

* * *

Hannah heard the conversation going on around her, but she felt as if she’d fallen into the creek and her ears were clogged with water. She heard it all from a distance. Then Matthew smiled that smile that changed the shape of his eyes. It caused his cheeks to dimple. It was a simple thing that never failed to reach all the way into her heart.

And suddenly Hannah’s hearing worked just fine.

A playhouse? For me?

For sure and certain.

How come?

Jacob shrugged and waited for Alton to answer the child.

Some nice people want you to have one.

Oh. Cool.

"Dat, we can’t..."

We most certainly can, Hannah. The charity foundation contacted me last week to make sure it was all right, and I said yes. I think it would be a fine thing for Matthew to have.

Will I be able to move around in a playhouse? Like, with my wheelchair?

You most certainly will, Jacob assured him.

You’re sure?

I’m positive.

Because it don’t always fit good. Not in cars or on merry-go-rounds. Sometimes not even in buggies and we have to tie it on the back.

Your chair will fit in your playhouse. I can promise you that.

Matthew laughed and stabbed his biscuit with his fork, dipped it in a puddle of syrup he’d poured on his plate and stuffed the gooey mess into his mouth.

Hannah’s head was spinning. Surely it was a good and gracious thing that someone had commissioned a playhouse for Matthew, but would it be safe for him to play in one? What if he fell out of his chair? What if he rolled out of the playhouse?

How could her father agree to such a thing?

And why was it being built by Jacob Schrock? She hadn’t thought about him in years, certainly hadn’t expected to see