Pebble Creek Amish Series , livre ebook

HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
The Pebble Creek Amish
978-0-7369-6837-9 (eBook)
All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other-without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author s and publisher s rights is strictly prohibited.
Contents
Home to Pebble Creek
Copyright 2013 by Vannetta Chapman
ISBN 978-0-7369-5915-5 (eBook)
A Promise for Miriam
Copyright 2012 by Vannetta Chapman
ISBN 978-0-7369-4612-4 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-7369-4613-1 (eBook)
A Home for Lydia
Copyright 2013 by Vannetta Chapman
ISBN 978-0-7369-4614-8 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-7369-4615-5 (eBook)
A Wedding for Julia
Copyright 2013 by Vannetta Chapman
ISBN 978-0-7369-4616-2 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-7369-4617-9 (eBook)
Christmas at Pebble Creek
Copyright 2013 by Vannetta Chapman
ISBN 978-0-7369-5916-2 (eBook)
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HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version , NIV . Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011, by Biblica, Inc. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Cover by Koechel Peterson Associates, Inc., Minneapolis, Minnesota
Cover photos iStockphoto / Thinkstock
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
HOME TO PEBBLE CREEK
Copyright 2013 by Vannetta Chapman
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, OR 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
ISBN 978-0-7369-5915-5 (eBook)
All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other-without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a non-transferable, non-exclusive, and non-commercial right to access and view this electronic publication and agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author s and publisher s rights is strictly prohibited.
Forget the former things;
do not dwell on the past.
See, I am doing a new thing!
I SAIAH 43:18-19
Contents
Glossary
Home to Pebble Creek
Glossary
Home to Pebble Creek

Pebble Creek, southwestern Wisconsin
November
J oseph Bontrager left Pebble Creek on my eighteenth birthday. He stood on my parents porch, explaining why he had to go, and my grief felt like a dead weight. It was all I could do to hold myself together as he spoke.
While going through my regular activities that morning, I would never have guessed that later that day, Joseph would appear in the fading light and tell me he was leaving for Madison. I couldn t begin to imagine what he would do there, though he might have told me. I remember very little about that conversation, but the pain that is as clear as this morning s sunrise.
At the time, I thought I became a woman that morning, with a woman s hurts and disappointments. I would find out many months later that I hadn t. In so many ways, I was still a child.
As Joseph rode away, I sank down onto the steps. The March evening was cold, and I clearly remember rubbing at the pain in my chest with my right hand. I recall thinking I was much too young to have actual heart problems. How could sorrow cause such physical pain? And what would I do with my life once Joseph was gone? He was the only boy I d ever cared for, and I had been waiting for him to fulfill my dreams.
Esther, you do not need to see Doc Hanson, my mother had assured me as I lay crying on my bed later that evening. What you need is to accept Gotte s wille .
The gentleness of her hands as she loosened my braids and combed out my hair softened the frankness of her words. She had known fully the extent of my dreams, and I believe she understood the pain I endured that day.
I did not die of a broken heart.
Instead, I continued teaching at the schoolhouse on the east side of Pebble Creek. At first I avoided my friends, but life eventually resumed its rhythm-Saturdays at home helping Mother, Sundays worshipping or visiting family, weekdays working beside Miriam King in our classroom. I taught the older grades-five through eight. They required my full attention and kept my mind busy. Joseph was always present, hovering in the back of my thoughts, but there were times I laughed, times I began to believe I could accept Gotte s wille as Mother had advised.
Then in the fall, nineteen months after he left, Joseph returned home to Pebble Creek.

The maple trees boasted a stunning display of leaves turned red, gold, and brown, and the ash trees nearest the schoolhouse were already bare of any foliage. I heard someone approaching that Tuesday afternoon. The distinctive sound of work boots crunching the leaves came through the window we d left open.
Miriam glanced at me. She sat behind a tall pile of papers. Often we have older students grade the work of younger students. Sometimes we have students in the same grade swap papers. Both are wonderful learning tools. But this particular project she d insisted on grading herself.
I ll see who it is. You keep grading.
She smiled in thanks and ducked her head over the students work.
I grabbed my shawl from the cloakroom and was wrapping it around my shoulders as I walked outside, which is probably why I didn t see Joseph. Instead I heard him, and his voice did terrible things to my heart. Suddenly hope and desire and fear bloomed inside of me.
Esther.
I stared at him mutely.
He stepped closer. I ve come home-home to Pebble Creek.
And? My feelings were a jumble of confusion, more scattered than the leaves at our feet.
And my first thought was to see you.
Anger joined my earlier emotions. And why would that be, Joseph? After a year and a half, why would you feel the need to see me?
Bewilderment clouded Joseph s features. Clearly this conversation was not going the way he had planned.
Why? Because I missed you, that s why.
You missed me?
Ya .
You missed me, but you never wrote a single letter.
He ran a hand along his jaw, and I noticed that he d changed since he d left. He was at least an inch taller and several pounds heavier. Gone was the lanky body of the teenager who had walked out of my life. He d become a man.
I know I didn t, Esther, and I m sorry.
You re sorry?
Joseph dropped his gaze and stared at his boots, but I was on a roll. I couldn t have stopped my words any more than the water flowing in Pebble Creek could have halted at a moment s notice. I was propelled forward by the intensity of my feelings.
I am.
Not a single call to our phone shack or letter or visit home in all that time.
If you d let me explain-
You can t explain breaking my heart! The words leapt from me, and suddenly I was afraid my tears would start. I didn t want to cry now. I didn t want to weep in front of Joseph.
Miriam had appeared at the schoolhouse door.
Esther? Is everything all right?
I nodded once, brushed past her, and fled to my bedroom upstairs.
Miriam was like the sister I d always dreamed of. Each time my mamm had become pregnant, she had birthed another boy. Miriam was more than my sister in Christ-she filled the hole left by seven rambunctious brothers. She was older than me, twenty-six already, but that fact seemed to strengthen our friendship. She was my height and weight, which is to say a little short and a little on the thin side.
During the week, we both lived upstairs in the teacher s apartment over the schoolhouse. Miriam and I shared the space, which was cozy and convenient. On weekends, we both returned to our parents homes.
The evening that Joseph had shown up, we ate our dinner in silence. I thought Miriam was going to let the scene she d interrupted earlier slide, but when we pulled out our sewing for the evening, she glanced at me knowingly and smiled.
Want to talk about Joseph?
Nein .
Weren t you happy to see him?
I don t know. I stared miserably at the quilt top I d begun piecing together. It was a crib quilt for my brother s soon-to-be-born child. It seemed I d just sewn one of the rabbit appliqu s upside down. Cutting the threads around the appliqu , I admitted, He broke my heart once. Why would I want to see him now?
To forgive him. The words were delivered softly and without judgment.
Ya , I know I should, but my heart-it still feels blistered.
Forgiveness isn t about feelings, Esther.
If those words had come from my mother, I probably would have rejected them. Somehow it doesn t help when someone happily married gives dating advice. The words hadn t come from my mother though. They d come from Miriam, who knew as much as I did about loneliness.
Which is how I found myself at the home of Joseph s parents the next afternoon. Joseph was working in the barn, and the smile on his face at the sight of me nearly broke through my reserve. Nearly, but not quite.
I spoke quickly, my words tripping over each other in my haste to speak and leave. I d worried over what I would say throughout the previous evening. Joseph, I apologize for my rudeness. Our c