The Amish Cowboy's Homecoming Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Glossary of Amish Terms

  Note from the Author

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Never an Amish Bride, by Ophelia London

  Pine Creek Courtship, by Amity Hope

  Christmas Grace, by Mindy Steele

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Mary Decker. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  10940 S Parker Road

  Suite 327

  Parker, CO 80134

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Stacy Abrams

  Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes

  Cover art by Photographer Tom Hallman,

  kudla/shutterstock and nuchstockphoto/shutterstock

  Interior design by Toni Kerr

  Print ISBN 978-1-68281-571-7

  ebook ISBN 978-1-68281-593-9

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition May 2021

  Also by Ophelia London

  For Adult Readers

  Honey Brook series

  Never An Amish Bride

  Perfect Kisses series

  Playing at Love

  Speaking of Love

  Falling for Her Soldier

  Making Waves

  Sugar City series

  Love Bites

  Kissing Her Crush

  Wife for the Weekend

  Abby Road

  Crossing Abby Road

  For New Adult Readers

  Definitely, Maybe series

  Definitely, Maybe in Love

  Someday Maybe

  For Teen Readers

  Aimee and the Heartthrob

  Glossary of Amish Terms

  auf wiedersehen – goodbye

  bobbeil – baby

  bruder – brother

  daadi hous – grandpa’s house

  daed – father

  danke – thank you

  dochder – daughter

  fraa – wife

  gaul – horse

  Gott – God

  Grossdaadi – grandfather

  Grossmammi – grandmother

  guder daag – good day

  guder mariye – good morning

  guder owed – good evening

  gut – good

  guti nacht – good night

  hör mir zu – listen to me

  jah – yes

  kapp – hat/bonnet

  kinnahs – children

  Liebchen – sweetheart

  maam – mother

  mach’s gut – goodbye (“make good”)

  meine liebling dochter – my very special daughter

  nichts – good night

  nummidaag – afternoon

  Rumspringa – Amish “running around” period

  Wie geht’s – How are you?

  Wunderbar – wonderful

  Note from the Author

  Ten years ago, my sister moved to Hershey, Pennsylvania, a thirty-minute drive to Lancaster County. Ever since my first visit to Amish Country, I’ve lived in awe and admiration of the “plain” culture and its unique lifestyle. In researching for the Honey Brook series, I spoke with a woman named Mary Garver, who grew up near an Amish village and still has many close friends who are Amish. Along with some hilarious stories—one about her being one of four people named Mary sitting at a dinner table of five people—she gave me wonderful insights about that particular community’s Ordnung, along with other rules and traditions specific to them. For example: individuals reading from the Bible aloud, “hands off” courtships, and the use of electricity for business purposes. From that, I learned that Amish congregations/communities can vary greatly in their unique customs and practices—which are often unwritten and not taught in church. This fascinated me further, yet what I did see in all the different groups was a love and devotion to God, family, and hard work. I’ve grown to love the Amish people and their desires to live good lives full of service and fortitude. The Honey Brook series is dedicated to them.

  To my Covid bubble: Kevin, Ashlee, & Puppy.

  Chapter One

  Isaac King slowly ran his finger down the center of her nose, ever so gently.

  “Morning, sweetheart.”

  He felt her take in a breath, responding to his simple touch.

  When she made a sound, he stepped closer, placing a hand on the side of her face. “I know, I know,” he whispered, looking into her eyes. “I hate to leave, but it’s something I have to do.” With both hands now, he gently caressed all the way down her neck. Then, when there was nothing more to say, he touched his forehead to hers, taking in a deep breath. She smelled of earth and energy but mostly like…oats and molasses.

  “Easy there, girl.” Isaac laughed as the surefooted, petite Haflinger horse shook her head. “You know I could never leave you for long. It’s just a day or two, and then we’ll see what happens—probably nothing.” He exhaled, trying to stay optimistic. He looked up into the blue-sky morning, feeling a slight flutter in his stomach.

  This could be it, he thought, though not wanting to get his hopes up too high. This could be my way out. Our way out. With a lump in his throat, he glanced toward the house. No one was awake yet. That was good. He’d said his goodbyes to Sadie last night before he tucked her in bed. That had been hard enough—he didn’t want to go through it again.

  After giving his gaul—the one he’d had since he was just a boy—one more stroke down her nose, he knew it was time to stop procrastinating. Sunny wouldn’t be coming with him on this trip, though she’d accompanied him everywhere else he’d ever gone. She was getti
ng on in age, and this time, he wouldn’t be needing a horse to just pull a buggy. Scout would be his travel mate.

  From just thinking the fella’s name, he heard the deep neigh coming from two stalls over.

  Isaac grabbed his saddle, reins, and the rest of the tack off the back of the gate. “Jah, jah,” he said while approaching his white mount. “You excited, boy?” He laughed, patting his strongest, hardest-working horse—the one he could always count on. The one who would see him through what might be the most important moments of his life.

  After leading Scout out of the barn, Isaac gave him a few extra minutes of brushing. Yes, he was stalling again. “Okay, time to go.” He threw another glance toward the house. If he didn’t hurry, his in-laws would be waking up soon and maybe try to talk him out of this. The buggy was already packed for an overnight stay if needed, and he had a fresh change of clothes on a sturdy wooden hanger in the way back of the carriage. He smoothed the front of his hair down and slid on his favorite straw hat. The one shaped more like an Englisher “cowboy” hat than a traditional Amish one, with the round brim.

  He easily recalled when that hat had been given to him as a gift. As he clicked his tongue, prompting Scout to walk, he pulled down the front brim, ready for business. He could’ve had one of his Mennonite friends drive him the thirty miles in a car, but the four-hour buggy ride would give him time to think, more time to mentally prepare.

  He’d been over every angle dozens of times. He’d sought counsel from his brother and good friends, but mostly he’d prayed his heart out. This route, this very road he was on right now, was the path that felt right. This brought a certain amount of peace to his heart, though potentially taking his little family away from home might be the hardest thing he’d ever have to do.

  The early-morning spring sunshine shone down an hour or so later—time to give Scout a break, and Isaac needed to stretch his legs. Maybe do some jumping jacks, try to pop that tight area on his lower back. He might’ve worked the new draft horse too hard yesterday. If Isaac himself was sore, Nelly would be, too. His stomach dropped slightly, always regretting when he overworked a horse—he cared so much about the animals, especially the ones that had come to him from rescue situations. Those were always extra special to Isaac.

  He gave Scout a few additional rubs and scratches down his neck. When the retired racer had first been brought to him, the poor horse had been worked nearly to death. Even though violence had never been a part of his personality, Isaac would’ve loved five minutes alone with the person who’d done that to a helpless gaul.

  All these thoughts were still going through his mind when he arrived in Honey Brook. Following the careful directions given to him, he took the last stretch down a long, winding road past several well-kept dairy farms. While at the top of the hill, Isaac easily saw the horse ranch—the large telltale pasture ring in the front of the property giving it away. As he drew near, he noticed someone was in that ring with a horse. Probably John Zook, the owner of the property and the man who just might be his future boss.

  Wanting to quietly observe the man’s technique—wondering how well it would match up with his own—Isaac slowed the buggy, then tied Scout to a nearby hitch. The closer he got, the more he noticed how tall the horse was. The caramel-colored gelding looked to be about twenty hands high. A giant.

  Isaac neared the white fence, his curiosity getting the better of him. But now, the closer he got, he noticed it wasn’t that the horse was tall; it was that John Zook was short. Very short and quite slim, more like a teenage boy than a grown man. Isaac tilted his head. Was John Zook wearing a…dress? That was definitely a blue top with a long black apron. The skirt of the dress, however, was hiked up, tied in the back. And were those pants underneath?

  Isaac felt a smile slowly spread across his face when he realized it wasn’t a grown man or a boy working with the horse but a young woman, though she was petite and probably no more than nineteen years old at most.

  “Good day,” he said, using the Englisher greeting instead of “Guder daag,” the traditional Amish phrase, though he was pretty sure she was Amish. She dropped the long stick she was holding and spun around. He hadn’t meant to startle her. Even her horse let out a little whinny.

  “Oh,” she said, sounding out of breath while pushing back loose strands of hair that had fallen out of her kapp. “Morning.” She looked at him for another moment then began dusting off the layer of dirt from the front of her dress. After probably realizing it was no use, she lowered her chin and smiled—but it seemed that smile hadn’t been meant for Isaac. By the way she was looking off to the side, she was smiling at something personal. A private memory?

  For some reason, this intrigued Isaac.

  Without speaking again, she returned to her task, working the pretty gelding to trot in a circle.

  Isaac leaned an elbow on the top rung of the fence and watched, a bit captivated now, for she seemed to know what she was doing. Though the stick never touched the horse, she kept it right at his peripheral vision, so he would know it was there but receiving no harm.

  “This the Zook’s Horse Training Farm?” Isaac asked.

  “Aye,” the woman said without looking at him. The ties of her black prayer kapp were caught in a breeze as more of her hair came spilling out. It was brown, reminding Isaac of someone else in his life—someone who used to be in his life. “If you’re looking for John Zook,” she added, “he’s in the house.”

  She switched the stick to her left hand so she was holding the lead rope in her right. Without missing a beat, the obedient horse did an elegant turn, his hoofs keeping perfect time, trotting in the other direction, steps high.

  Isaac was taken aback. He hadn’t known many Amish who preferred the English style of riding over the more common Western, especially if all you needed was a strong horse to pull a plow or an obedient one to lead a buggy.

  “Impressive,” he couldn’t help saying. “How did this gaul come to you?”

  “Pardon?” she said, tossing back her skirt in a manner that seemed unexpectedly feminine.

  Isaac stepped onto the bottom rung of the fence so he could observe her more closely. “Where did you get this horse?”

  Before replying, the woman began slowing the gelding’s speed, gently pulling in the lead one inch at a time. When he was close to her, she leaned in and whispered something Isaac couldn’t hear.

  “Honey Pot came as a new foal,” she finally answered, leading the horse toward the fence.

  Isaac couldn’t help lifting his brows. “Honey Pot?”

  The woman was close enough now that when she smiled again, he noted a dimple in her right cheek, making her look…maybe not younger but much more innocent…and rather pretty, despite her tomboy exterior.

  Even simply noticing that another woman was attractive caused an illogical knot of guilt to form in Isaac’s stomach.

  “I think it fits him quite well,” she replied, turning to the horse, running a hand down his neck. “Though I didn’t name him.”

  “So he didn’t come like that?”

  “Like what?”

  He was about to say “so well trained” but didn’t. “Nothing,” he said instead, not wanting to insult her if she’d helped train him in the English style. But how likely was that? Isaac knew very few—if any!—Amish women who took more than a passing interest in horse training.

  Martha didn’t, he couldn’t help thinking, that misplaced guilt returning. But then he forced a smile, thinking of Sadie. There wasn’t a bigger horse lover than her, and she was always very interested in what he did.

  “What’s the joke?”

  He looked over at the woman. She was shading her eyes from the bright afternoon sun. “Joke?” he asked.

  “Jah.” She patted Honey Pot. “The way you’re smiling, like you’re thinking of something funny.”

  “Not funny exactl
y,” he replied, noticing that the loose strands of her hair had flashes of red. And her eyes were blue. What was the sudden impulse he felt to wipe the streak of dirt off her cheek?

  Not wanting to reveal what he was thinking, he blurted, “Yes, I was remembering a joke.”

  She turned to face him squarely, one corner of her mouth lifting. “Jah?”

  “Uh.” Isaac dusted off his hands, stalling. “Ever heard the one about the Mennonite and his favorite cow?”

  After a short pause, the woman lifted her chin and started laughing. It was loud but also purely female, maybe because her voice was a lovely soprano, high like a bell. “Oh gracious!” she said between laughs. “You sound like my brother.” She waved a hand in the air. “And all his friends.” She cleared her throat and dusted off one shoulder. “Aye, I know all about the Mennonite and his cow.”

  While watching her, Isaac grew even more intrigued. Who was this woman? And how could she be both feminine and act like one of the guys?

  “Anyway,” she said when the silence stretched on for too long. “Best be getting back to work.”

  Isaac nodded. He needed to pull his thoughts together so he would be prepared for his meeting with John Zook. Last thing he needed was to be preoccupied by a dimple and a pair of captivating blue eyes.

  The woman clicked her tongue, causing Honey Pot to stand at attention. She then clicked another three times, and the horse began to trot in the same circle as before, front knees high, chin tucked. Despite how he needed to focus elsewhere, Isaac couldn’t stop watching.

  She lifted the stick, reached it out, and tapped at the horse’s chest. Suddenly, the gaul reared up. The woman stepped toward it boldly, tapping at its chest again. “Hör mir zu,” she said in a strong, commanding voice, though the horse continued to rear.

  Just as she lifted the stick again, Isaac leaped over the fence and grabbed the stick from her. “What are you doing?”

  She whirled around to him, those blue eyes flashing. “What do you think you’re doing? Give me that.”

  Isaac held the stick away from her. “Not if you’re going to be cruel.”

  “Cruel?” She pointed her chin toward the horse. “You consider that cruel?”