Faith Yoder secured her shawl tightly around her shoulders, climbed onto the front seat of the bicycle built for two and began pedaling toward Main Street. It wasn’t quite five o’clock in the morning and her brothers hadn’t yet risen to do the milking. Her headlight cast a weak glow, barely illuminating the empty lane in front of her. The rest of Willow Creek, Pennsylvania, was still asleep and the November moon was her only companion.
Or almost her only companion. As she made a wide turn onto the primary stretch of road leading into town, she spied a lone figure lumbering beneath the streetlamp a few yards ahead of her.
“Watch out!” she warned as her downhill momentum propelled her closer.
The man lifted his head but didn’t move from her path, so she quickly swerved onto the shoulder to avoid hitting him. Her front wheel wobbled off the road and into the shallow ditch, causing her to lose her balance.
“My oier!” she shouted and jumped clear of the heavy bicycle, which clattered on its side. The cargo she’d been carrying in a crate strapped onto the backseat—two dozen eggs—smashed against the pavement. “My oier are ruined and now my cupcakes will be, too!”
“You ought to be as concerned about hitting pedestrians as you are about making cupcakes,” the man replied in Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch as he hobbled to where she was searching the ground for any unbroken eggs.
“I didn’t hit you, so you can quit that limping,” she contended and peered at him under the dim circle of light cast by the streetlamp.
Although the young man’s hair was mostly hidden by his hat, a few dark brown curls sprang from beneath the brim. He wore no beard, which meant he’d never been married. He was average height, but his shoulders seemed unusually broad beneath his wool coat. She didn’t recognize him as being from Willow Creek. Most Amish women in their district wouldn’t have argued with a stranger on a deserted road in the wee hours of the morning, but Faith Yoder wasn’t most Amish women. Having grown up with six brothers, she knew how to hold her own.
“If you’re so worried about getting hit,” she continued, “you could exercise common sense and walk on the side of the road, not in the middle of the lane.”
The man seemed at a temporary loss for words. He gave her a once-over before replying, “It seems strange you’re lecturing me on common sense, when you’re the one riding a tandem bicycle pell-mell through the pitch-dark with a basket of oier strapped to the backseat. You might consider getting a headlamp.”
“For one thing, it’s not pitch-dark—there’s a full moon out. And for another, I have a headlamp,” Faith retorted, setting her bike upright and extending the kickstand.
But noting the sickly glow waning from the light on her handlebars, she recognized she probably bore the responsibility for their near-collision. Chagrinned, she added, “It does seem I need to replace my battery. I hadn’t noticed. I travel this road so often I probably could make the trip blindfolded. My name is Faith Yoder. What’s yours?”
She couldn’t tell whether it was a smile or a grimace that flickered across the man’s face. “I’m Hunter Schwartz, Ruth Graber’s great-nephew.”
Hunter Schwartz, of course. Faith had heard Hunter was bringing his mother from their home in Parkersville, Indiana, to care for Ruth. The elderly woman had broken her ankle and severely sprained her wrist after falling from a stepladder in the little cannery she owned across the street from Faith’s bakery.
Faith should have recognized Hunter from his childhood visits. If it hadn’t been so dark, she undoubtedly would have spotted the cleft in his chin and remembered his earnest brown eyes. Coupled with a valiant personality, his boyish brawniness had caused many of the young meed to dream of being courted by him the autumn he was sixteen.
“I’m sorry,” Faith apologized. “I didn’t recognize you. It’s been a long time.”
If Faith remembered correctly, the last time he’d been in Willow Creek was the year his great-uncle died. After the funeral, Hunter stayed for several months to fix Ruth’s roof and help with other household repairs. It was during harvest season, when many of the leit, or Amish people in the district, were tending their crops, and Hunter frequently helped out on the Yoders’ farm, as well as attended singings and other social events with Faith’s brothers. The following year, he’d gotten a full-time job in Indiana working for the Englisch, who limited his holiday breaks. From then on, Ruth said it made more sense for her to visit Hunter’s family in Indiana than for them to travel to Willow Creek, and he hadn’t been back since.
“Jah, about eight years,” he answered. “I didn’t recognize you either. You’ve, er, you’ve really grown.”
She’d really grown? Faith knew what that meant, and she smoothed her skirt over her stomach. There