out in the kitchen again.
“Vas ist das?” he demanded, taking in the ruins of what had been a fairly neat kitchen when he’d gone to bed last night.
“Staunen erregen!” Amelia proclaimed. “To surprise you, Dat.”
Pancakes or biscuits, Caleb wasn’t certain what his daughter had been making. Whatever it was had taken a lot of flour. And milk. And eggs. And honey. A puddle of honey on the table had run over the edge and was dripping into a pile of flour on the floor. Two broken eggs lay on the tiles beside the refrigerator.
“You don’t cook without me!”
Fritzy’s ears pricked up as he caught sight of the eggs. That’s when Caleb realized the dog had been gulping down a plate of leftover ham from Saturday’s midday meal that the neighborhood women had provided. He’d intended to make sandwiches with the ham for his lunch.
“Stay!” Caleb ordered the dog as he grabbed a dishcloth and scooped up the eggs and shells.
“I didn’t cook,” Amelia protested. “I was waiting for you to start the stove.” Her lower lip trembled. “But...but my pancakes spilled.”
They had apparently spilled all over Amelia. Her hands, face and hair were smeared with white, sticky goo.
Then Caleb spotted his boot on the floor in front of the sink...filled with water. He picked up his boot in disbelief and tipped it over the sink, watching the water go down the drain.
“For Fritzy!” she exclaimed. “He was thirsty and the bowls was dirty.”
They were dirty, all right. Every dish he owned had apparently been needed to produce the floury glue she was calling pancakes. “And where are my socken?” he demanded, certain now that Amelia’s mischief hadn’t ended with his soggy boot. He could see the wicker basket was overturned. There were towels on the floor and at least one small dress, but not a sock in sight.
“Crows,” Amelia answered. “In our corn. I chased them.”
Her muddy nightshirt and dirty bare feet showed that she’d been outside already. In the rain.
“You went outside without me?”
Amelia stared at the floor. One untidy pigtail seemed coated in a floury crust. “To chase the crows. Out of the corn.”
“But what has that to do with my socks?”
“I threw them at the crows, Dat.”
“You took my socken outside and threw them into the cornfield?”
“Ne, Dat.” She shook her head so hard that the solid cone of flour paste on her head showered flour onto her shoulders. “From upstairs. From my bedroom window. I threw the sock balls at the crows there.”
“And then you went outside?”
“Ya.” She nodded. “The sock balls didn’t scare ’em away, so Fritzy and me chased ’em with a stick.”
“What possessed you to make our clean socks into balls in the first place? And to throw them out the window?” Caleb shook his finger at her for emphasis but knew as he uttered the words what she would say.
“You did, Dat. You showed me how.”
He sighed. And so he had. Sometimes when he and Amelia were alone on a rainy or snowy day and bored, he’d roll their clean socks into balls and they’d chase each other through the house, lobbing socken at each other. But it had never occurred to him that she would throw the socks out the window. “Upstairs! To your room,” he said in his sternest father’s voice. He could go without his noonday meal today, and the mess in the kitchen could be cleaned up tonight, but the animals still had to be fed. And Amelia had to be bathed and fed and dressed before he took her with him.
Amelia burst into tears. “But...but I wanted to help.”
“Upstairs!”
And then, after the wailing girl fled up the steps, he looked around the kitchen again and realized that his worst fears had come to fruition. He was a failure as a father. He had waited too long to take another wife. This small female was too much for him to manage without a helpmate.
“Lord, help me,” he murmured, carrying a couple of dirty utensils to the sink. “What do I do?”
He was at his wit’s end. Although he loved Amelia dearly, he didn’t think he was an overly indulgent parent. He tried to treat his daughter as he saw other fathers and mothers treat their children. He was anxious for her to be happy here in their new home, but it was his duty to teach her proper behavior and respect for adults. Among the Amish, a willful and disobedient child was proof of a neglectful father. It was the way he’d been taught and the way his parents had raised him.
The trouble was that Amelia didn’t see things that way. She wasn’t a sulky child, and her mind was sharp. Sometimes Caleb thought that she was far too clever to be four, almost five years of age. She could be affectionate toward him, but she seemed to take pleasure in doing exactly the opposite of what she was asked to do.
With a groan, Caleb raked his fingers through his hair. What was he going to do about Amelia? So far, his attempts at finding suitable childcare had fallen short. He’d hired two different girls, and both had walked out on him in less than three weeks’ time.
Back in Idaho, his neighbor, widow Bea Mullet, had cared for Amelia when Caleb needed babysitting. She had come three days a week to clean the house, cook and tend to Amelia. But Bea was in her late seventies, not as spry as she had once been and her vision was poor. The truth was, Amelia had mostly run wild when he wasn’t home to see to her himself. Once the bishop’s wife had even spoken to him about the untidy condition of Amelia’s hair and prayer bonnet, and another time the deacon had complained about the child giggling during service. He had felt that that criticism was unfair. Males and females sat on opposite sides of the room during worship and children, naturally, were under the watchful eyes of the women. How was he supposed to discipline his daughter from across the room without interrupting the sermon?
Amelia was young and spirited. She had no mother to teach her how she should behave. Those were the excuses he’d made for her, but this morning, the truth was all too evident. Amelia was out of control. So exasperated was he, that—had he been a father who believed in physical punishment—Amelia would have been soundly spanked. But he lacked the stomach to do it. No matter what, he could never strike a child.
Caleb shook his head. He’d ignored the good advice that friends and fellow church members had offered. He’d come to Delaware to put the past behind him, but he’d brought his own stubborn willfulness with him. He’d allowed a four-year-old child to run wild. And this disaster was the result.
“Good morning,” came a cheerful female voice, startling Caleb.
He looked up and stared at the young woman standing just inside his kitchen. She’d come through the utility room.
“The door was open.” She whipped off a navy blue wool scarf and he caught a glimpse of red-gold hair beneath her kapp. Sparkling drops of water glistened on her face.
Caleb opened his mouth to reply, but she was too quick for him.
“I’m Rebecca. Rebecca Yoder. We met on your barn beam the other night.”
She offered a quick smile as she shed a dark rain slicker. Beneath it, she wore a lavender dress, a white apron and black rubber boots—two boots. Unlike him. Suddenly, Caleb was conscious of how foolish he must look, standing there with one bare foot, his hair uncombed and sticking up like a rooster’s comb and his shirt-tails hanging out of his trousers.
“My door was open?” he repeated, woodenly.
Fritzy, the traitor, wagged his stump of a tail so hard that his whole backside wiggled back and forth. He sat where Caleb had commanded him to stay, but it was clear that given the choice he would have rushed up to give the visitor a hearty welcome kiss.
“Ya.