Emma Miller - A Man For Honor

Luke had acted without thinking. He’d pulled the unconscious driver to safety and then broken a window to assist a mother and several small children out of the sinking bus. He’d gone back into the rapidly submerging vehicle twice to help other trapped passengers before state troopers and paramedics arrived. One of the officers had asked who he was, but not wanting to draw attention to himself, he’d refused to give his name. And that had only made things worse because the news media had made a big thing of it. Now everyone was hunting for the mystery cowboy, calling him a real-life superhero.

“Hey, mister! Are you the super cowboy?” a woman headed toward the doors to the convenience store asked as he stepped out. “You look just like him.”

Luke strode down Lepore Street. He was supposed to meet someone from the Seven Poplars Amish community at the bus stop, but he wasn’t hanging around. He’d find his own way to Sara Yoder’s home.

Beads of freezing sleet stung his face and hands, but he kept walking. Winters in Delaware weren’t as cold as those in Kansas, and he could dry off when he got to the matchmaker’s. He hoped someone had some spare clothes he could change into, because the trousers he was wearing were ripped and stained, and his duffle bag with spare clothes was still in the bus’s luggage compartment, probably resting at the bottom of that drainage pond.

Luke had just crossed the street and turned onto North State when he caught sight of a mule and buggy coming at a sharp pace. Guessing that that must be his ride, he waved the driver to a stop. To his surprise, the only occupant of the buggy was a plump, middle-aged Amish woman with dark curly hair, a nutmeg-colored complexion, and eyes as dark and shiny as ripe blackberries. “Sara?”

She nodded. “You must be Luke,” she said in Deitsch and then switched to English. “Jump in before we cause a traffic jam.”

He glanced up and down the street. Not a single vehicle was coming in either direction. He looked back at Sara as he swung up onto the bench seat. The interior of the buggy was plain black, neat and well maintained, pretty much what he’d expected of the woman he only knew from correspondence. “Dover hasn’t grown all that much in the time I’ve been gone,” he said.

“Atch. According to my neighbors, it has grown. They say the traffic has increased,” she replied. “I moved here from a rural area of Wisconsin a few years back, so Kent County still seems busy to me. You’re certain you want to trade the wide-open spaces of the Midwest for our little state?”

He nodded. “Ya, I do.”

“You said in your first letter that you grew up here.”

“I did, and I’ve always thought of Kent County as home,” he answered. “Kansas can be pretty dry. I miss the green and the rain.”

A line of cars slowed behind them, but Sara didn’t seem to notice. “Rain we have aplenty,” she said after a bit.

“And a strong church community.” He stretched out his long legs and rubbed absently at his aching shoulder. When the collision happened, he’d been thrown violently against the corner of the seat frame across the aisle. Nothing seemed broken, but he guessed he was going to have quite a bruise. “At least, that’s the way I remember it,” he finished.

“It is. And everyone will welcome you. We’re always glad to add to our family. You say you’re a master carpenter?”

“More of a cabinetmaker, but I can do any type of construction.”

Sara looked at him with frank curiosity. “I’m curious as to why you’d need my services. A nice-looking man like you with a good trade? Back in Kansas, mothers must have been parading their daughters in front of you. Girls must have been lining up hoping you’d take them home from a singing.”

But not the woman I want, he thought. To Sara, he said, “I’m ready to marry and start a family, but I thought the whole process would be easier if I used a matchmaker.”

“Mmm.” Sara’s brow arched. “I’ve checked up on you. Wrote a couple of letters. Your bishop tells me that you’re baptized and a solid member of your church.” She pursed her lips. “A matchmaker can certainly make it easier finding the right wife, but why me? Why not someone in Kansas?”

“The nearest Amish matchmaker to where I lived just celebrated her eighty-second birthday, and she doesn’t hear or see well. Besides, I want to move back to Delaware and marry a woman from here.” He glanced at her. “You have a good reputation. People speak of you as one of the best, and you specialize in hard-to-place cases.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you a difficult case, Luke Weaver?” She gave him an appraising look. “I’ll admit you do look a little worse for wear.”

“Ya.” He ran a hand over the three-cornered tear in the knee of his go-to-church trousers. There was a stain on the other leg he suspected might be blood and his wide-brimmed black wool hat had taken a beating. The brim was sagging and it was shrinking as it dried; it wasn’t meant to be submerged in water.

“I suppose I do,” he admitted. He considered whether or not to explain his condition to Sara. His first impressions of her were good, but he didn’t know that he was ready to tell anyone what had happened on the highway the previous night. The idea of talking about it made him uncomfortable; he’d done what any man would have done. End of story.

Sara turned off State Street onto Division. Traffic was still light for the center of town. A few pedestrians stopped and watched as the mule and buggy passed. A little boy in a fire-engine red rain slicker and yellow boots waved from the sidewalk, and Sara waved back.

“A lot of new construction in Dover,” he commented as the grand Victorian houses gave way to commercial buildings and smaller frame homes. “I’m hoping I’ll be able to find steady employment.”

“There’s always work for a carpenter,” she replied. “A good friend of mine has a construction crew. You’ll meet him at church tomorrow.” Her shrewd gaze raked him again. “If you’re planning on joining us for worship. It’s being held at Samuel Mast’s, not far from my place. You know Samuel?”

“I do. Good man. And ya, I do want to attend service. If you can find me something decent to wear. We, um...had some trouble... The bus.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid my duffle bag with all my clothes is lost. I don’t want to impose. I know I’ve picked an awkward time to arrive, two days after Christmas, but...it was time I came.”

“Not a problem. I can find clothes, and I’ve got a warm bed for you. All my prospective brides have either married or gone back to their families for the holidays. It’s much too quiet in my house. Even our little schoolteacher has gone visiting relatives. As I told you in my letter, I have a bunkhouse for my hired hand and male clients from out of state. Some stay for the weekend, others a few weeks or longer. It’s far enough from the house for propriety, but close enough so that your meals won’t be cold before you get to the table. Prospective brides stay in the house with me.”

“The bunkhouse sounds great. I appreciate it,” he said. “And I appreciate you coming to get me. It’s a miserable day for you to be on the road.”

Sara reined the mule to a stop as the light ahead turned from yellow to red. “I could have sent Hiram for you. He’s my hired man. But his judgment’s not the best. He might have decided to take the buggy down the DuPont Highway to stop at the mall. And the madhouse of a highway is no place for a mule, even a sensible one.” She glanced at Luke. “And the truth is, I was looking for an excuse to get out of the house.”

They rode in comfortable silence for a few minutes and then Luke spoke up again. He wasn’t one to keep quiet on things. Sometimes he was criticized for speaking too easily from his heart, with his feelings. It wasn’t something necessarily encouraged in Amish men, but he was who he was. “I hope you’re going to be able to help me make a match,” he said. If she couldn’t, he didn’t know what he’d do.