Emma Miller - A Man For Honor

“Please stop,” Honor admonished as she turned away from the window, letting the curtain fall. It was foolish to keep looking for Luke. He wasn’t coming. She didn’t want him to come. She didn’t know why was she looking for him. “I warned the three of you about fighting over the bottle.” She crossed the kitchen and took the bottle out of Tanner’s hands. “If you can’t get along, none of you get to feed her. Go and wash your hands. With soap.”

The children scattered. The lamb bleated and wagged her stub of a tail. The old wooden playpen that had once confined her oldest son had been pressed into service as a temporary pen for the orphan lamb that had been silly enough to come into the world the previous night. It wasn’t really an orphan, but the mother had refused to let it nurse, so it was either tend to it or see it die.

And the truth was that Honor had a soft spot for animals. She couldn’t bear to see them in distress. She had to do whatever she could to save them. And the barn was too cold for a smaller-than-usual lamb with a careless mother. So it was added to the confusion that already reigned in her kitchen. It wasn’t a good option, but she could think of no other.

Honor held the bottle at an angle, letting the lamb suck and wondering whether it would be possible to put a diaper on the fluffy animal. Probably not, she decided. She’d just have to change the straw bedding multiple times a day. At least here in her kitchen, near the woodstove, she wouldn’t have to worry about keeping the little creature warm. And the rain had stopped, assuring that both animal and children wouldn’t have to endure trickles of water dripping on their heads. “Thank You, God,” she murmured.

There was a clatter of boots on the stairs and the three boys spilled into the kitchen again. “We’re hungry,” Tanner declared. He held up his damp hands to show that he’d washed.

Greta wandered into the room behind them, baby Anke in her arms. Anke giggled and threw up her hands for Honor to take her.

“Just a minute, kuche,” Honor said. “I have to finish giving the lamb her breakfast.”

“I want breakfatht,” Elijah reminded her.

Greta had made a huge batch of oatmeal earlier, but she’d burned it. It wasn’t ruined, simply not pleasant. Raisins and cinnamon could make it edible, Honor supposed. But then she weakened. “I’ll make you egg and biscuit,” she offered.

“With scrapple,” Justice urged. “Scrapple.”

Justice liked to say the word. He didn’t like scrapple, wouldn’t eat meat of any kind, but the other boys did.

The other two took up the chant. “Scrapple, scrapple!”

Justice grinned. Sometimes, looking at him, Honor wondered just what would become of him when he was grown. He was a born mischief maker and unlikely to become a bishop. That was for certain.

The lamb drained the last of the formula from the bottle, butted her small head against the back of Honor’s hand and kicked up her heels.

“She wants more,” Tanner proclaimed, but Honor shook her head. Lambs, like children, often wanted to eat more than was good for them. She went to the sink and washed her hands, then looked around for a clean hand towel.

“All in the attic drying,” Greta supplied. “Still wet.”

Honor prayed for patience, dried her hands on her apron and turned on the flame under the cast-iron frying pan. “Get the eggs for me, will you, Greta?” she asked. That was a request she regretted a moment later when the girl stumbled, sending the egg carton flying out of her hand and bouncing off the back of a chair. Eggs splattered everywhere and the boys shrieked with excitement. Anke wailed.

Greta stood there and stared at the mess, looking as if she was about to burst into tears. “It was the cat’s fault,” she insisted. “Or maybe I slipped on a wet spot on the floor.”

One remaining egg teetered on the edge of the table. Justice made a dive for it and missed. The egg rolled off. Tanner grabbed it in midair and the egg cracked between his fingers. The cat darted toward one of the broken eggs, only to be confronted by the dog. The cat hissed, and the dog began to bark, barely drowning out the shouts of the children.

“Clean it up, please,” Honor told Greta. “And stop crying. It’s only eggs.” She scooped her daughter out of Greta’s arms as a loud knock came at the back door. “Ne,” she muttered, closing her eyes for a moment. “It can’t be.” Maybe it’s someone from Sara’s, come to tell me that Luke changed his mind, she thought as she pushed open the back door.

But there he was, taller and handsomer than he’d seemed last night. He had just shaved; an Amish man didn’t grow a beard until he married. She could smell the scent of his shaving cream. His blond hair, showing from beneath the too-small hat, was as yellow as June butter. She drew in a deep breath.

“Are you going to let me in?” he asked. And then that familiar grin started at the left corner of his mouth and spread, as sweet and slow as warm honey, across his face. “You look surprised to see me, Honor. I told you I’d be here.”

Behind her, the kitchen chaos continued: Greta whining, the boys quarreling, the cat hissing at the dog and the lamb bleating. For a few seconds, she felt as if she were trapped in a block of ice. She couldn’t let him in. There was no way she could invite him into her house...into her life. She’d lived through Luke Weaver once. She could never do it again. She’d crack and break like those eggs on the floor if she tried.

“Honor?” His green eyes seemed to dare her to turn him away. Or were they daring her to let him in?

She turned and walked slowly back to the kitchen, where the frying pan was smoking. Justice had pulled off his shoes and was dancing barefoot in a mess of egg yolk and crushed shell, and Elijah was trying to climb into the lamb’s playpen.

“Turn off the burner!” Honor called to Greta. “The pan’s too hot. There’s smoke...” She trailed off and did it herself.

Patience, she cautioned herself. If she wasn’t gentle with Greta, the girl would run weeping to her bed and she’d be no help all the rest of the day. Not that she was much help, but at least she was another pair of hands. And there were never enough hands to do all that was needed in the house or outside on the farm.

She thrust the baby into Greta’s arms. “Put her in her high chair and give her a biscuit. Break it up, or she’ll try to get it all in her mouth at once.”

She realized that Justice and Tanner were staring at something behind her. She glanced back and saw that Luke had followed her into the kitchen. A leather tool belt—weighed down with a carpenter’s hammer, screwdriver and pliers—was slung over one shoulder. In his other hand he carried a metal toolbox. What was he doing in here? She’d closed the door on him, hadn’t she? She opened her mouth to ask him what he thought he was doing, but clamped it shut just as quickly. She’d left the door open behind her...an invitation.

“Is that coffee I smell?” he asked.

“If you want some, pour it yourself. Cups are up there.” She pointed to a line of mugs hanging on hooks.

“You remember that I like mine sweet.” His tone was teasing.

“Cream is in the refrigerator. Sugar on the table.” She turned her back on him, refusing to acknowledge his charm. She waved the smoke away from the stove.

“Honey?”

She snapped around, a hot retort ready to spring from her throat. But then she realized he was grinning at her and pointing to the plastic bee bottle on top of the refrigerator. Honey. Luke had always preferred honey in his coffee. She retrieved Elijah from the playpen, saving the lamb from certain destruction. “Ne,” she admonished. “You cannot ride her. She’s not a pony.”