Rebecca's Promise Read online

  Rebecca’s

  P R O M I S E

  J E R R Y S. E I C H E R

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Cover by Dugan Design Group, Bloomington, Minnesota

  Author photo by Brian Ritchie

  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, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  REBECCA’S PROMISE

  Copyright © 2009 by Jerry S. Eicher

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Eicher, Jerry S.

  Rebecca’s promise / Jerry Eicher.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7369-2635-5 (pbk.)

  1. Amish—Indiana—Fiction. 2. Fiancees—Fiction. 3. First loves—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3605.I34R425 2009

  813'.6—dc22

  2008041577

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 / RDM-NI / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CONTENTS

  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

  About Jerry Eicher…

  Other fine fiction from Harvest House Publishers

  CHAPTER ONE

  The buggy slowed as it approached the Duffy side road, then turned right toward the old covered bridge. The horse, a sleek black gelding John Miller purchased last fall at a farm auction, was tired from the fast downhill drive. Its nostrils flared, specks of foam lathered its chest strap as it obeyed John’s gentle tug at the reins.

  Rebecca, seated beside John, had tossed the top of her shawl on the shelf above the backseat of the buggy. The lower part of the shawl hung over her shoulder on John’s side. She left it there, not certain how to remove it in the tight buggy without touching John. Not that she would have minded, but she knew he stood strong when church rules were concerned, and never had he voluntarily touched her yet.

  Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Rebecca tuck a strand of her dark hair under her kapp and look off to her left—east to the community of Harshville. To the west, just around the sharp bends of the road and across a smaller creek, was her home. Lester and Mattie would surely be expecting Rebecca soon, but John was in no hurry to take her there. Instead an idea, long in the back of his mind, now took sudden, solid form. He knew this was the time and the place. At the realization of what he wanted to do, his hands tensed on the reins.

  To calm himself, he breathed in deeply the late November air, winter on its edge. Wispy clouds, driven by the eternal Ohio wind, scurried across the sky. He tried to hide his nervousness by glancing at the sky and opening the front of his black suit coat, loosening the hooks and eyes with one hand to let in the warmth of the sun.

  “Weather’s nice. Especially for this time of the year,” John offered, stealing a glance in Rebecca’s direction. Not that he was shy around her. They had been dating now for two years, but today he was taken anew by her freshness and form.

  Rebecca had captured his attention when he first saw her after her family had moved to Wheat Ridge from Milroy, Indiana.

  A right smart move for the family, the general consensus had been, because it validated their own choices to settle in the pleasant community. And so the Keim family had been accepted readily, as had anyone else who left where they were to move to the smaller Amish community here along Wheat Ridge.

  Lest someone else beat him to it, John had wasted no time in making known his interest in the Keim daughter. Rebecca wasn’t the oldest, although it had appeared so when the new family arrived because the two oldest children were already married with families of their own.

  “Yes, it is nice,” she allowed, turning to look at him, “although a few weeks ago, it was better. The trees had their full color.”

  He had turned toward her when she started to speak. That was when he knew he could look into her face without any embarrassment. Not that she seemed to object at other times, but he always tried to keep from showing too much emotion, lest she think him forward.

  He glanced away quickly when she was finished speaking, keeping the reins taut on the gelding. Yet the softness of her face stayed with him. It was as if she was thinking extra gentle thoughts today. He felt a desire to reach out to her, to brush her face with his fingers, but he held himself in check. It would not be right, he reminded himself sternly, or in line with his faith. Such actions led to downward paths and away from the Da Hah’s will.

  “Let’s stop at the bridge,” John said. Yes, today was surely the day he could do something about his feelings for Rebecca. As he slowed the horse, he hoped his nerves would not betray him too much.

  Bouncing slightly alongside the ditch, John drove the buggy half on and half off the road, stopping the gelding near a fence post. “This should work,” he commented to fill the awkward space around his own heart.

  Rebecca’s silence made John want to look her way all the more. But he dared not risk it again. His face might reveal his thoughts, and that must not happen.

  Then from the other side of the bridge, a red sports car came slowly down the hill. The bright color of the car caught John’s attention as he descended from the buggy. With his hand poised to reach for the tie rope, he studied the car as it approached. The occupants were a young boy and girl. The girl had her head on the boy’s shoulder. The English, John thought. They sure mess things up good with their way. In love and out of love each new day of the year. No fear of God in their eyes.

  Then John remembered his own feelings for Rebecca. May God help us, he silently prayed as he glanced toward the sky. Opening the small snaps on the back buggy door, his fingers found the tie strap.

  Forcibly relaxing his face, he walked to the other side of the buggy where Rebecca was already coming down, nimbly balancing on the round buggy step with her one foot while using the momentum of the leaning buggy to descend to the ground.

  “The weather has turned really nice.” He turned again to the weather to cover his nervous
ness. Why she affected him this way, he wished he knew. Was it what the English called “being in love”? Is this what the two in the red car felt too? He doubted it, finding the comparison between the two worlds too improbable.

  Rebecca lifted her eyes to his. “It’s nice,” she said again, holding his gaze. “This morning Dad thought it might turn warm, but you never know this time of the year.”

  “Well, it’s beautiful now,” John said, letting his eyes fall away from her and then back up toward the bridge. “Have you been here before?”

  “I come here sometimes,” she said quietly.

  “Really?” he asked, immediately interested. “By yourself?”

  “Mostly,” she allowed. “Sometimes Katie comes with me. Mostly though, I come by myself. My sister Margaret used to like coming here too when she was home.”

  “What do you do here?” he asked.

  “Well,” she replied, casting her eyes to the ground, “woman things I suppose. Look at the river. Watch the squirrels. Think about life. Nothing like skipping rocks on the water.”

  He glanced sharply at her and was rewarded with a slight chuckle. “Isn’t that what boys do?”

  His usual confidence vanished when her eyes turned on him. And yet he couldn’t let this moment be lost. He mustn’t say the wrong thing, but his response hung up in his throat. And then he decided to take the chance. Let the ripples go where they wished.

  “You shouldn’t judge us all the same,” he said. “Some boys do more than skip rocks on the water. We all grow up sooner or later…” He hesitated, not knowing quite what else to say. She was still looking at him.

  He had better get a firm grip on his emotions, he told himself, if he was to say what he intended to say.

  “Let’s go see the bridge,” he muttered quietly, turning in that direction. He couldn’t help notice that she was following quite willingly, her step right by his side, her form so near.

  “Where do you go when you come down here?” he asked, stopping at the edge of the road, the clear sound of running water beneath them.

  “Sometimes,” Rebecca said, “I go down to the water over there.” Her hand rose to point to the other side. “But the path is a little rough, and we are in our Sunday clothing.”

  He nodded. “Let’s try it though.”

  As they walked across the bridge, he was again taken by the sense of her presence. She was so close to him that her arm almost brushed against his, and the sound of their steps echoed in the enclosed area.

  The possibility that this might be the girl he would spend the rest of his life with overwhelmed him. He so wanted to take her hand, swinging there beside him, so near and yet so far. They were separated by a chasm, as deep as it was wide, of church rules and personal commitment. John was not about to bridge it, except under extraordinary circumstances. Those had not arrived yet.

  He kept his eyes straight ahead, not looking at her until he could think of something other than her closeness. Awkwardness was almost overwhelming him, but he could not become clumsy now. She was too fine a girl to be proposed to by some bumbling boy.

  As if breaking a spell, the sound of an automobile came from the road behind them. Slowly the same red sports car approached.

  “They went by us when we first stopped,” John said.

  “I thought so,” she agreed. “Lovebirds out for a Sunday afternoon ride.”

  He chuckled at the thought, again struck by the contrast between the two worlds. Could they be feeling what I am feeling? A boy and a girl in a flashy car? Could it be different than a boy and a girl in a simple buggy? It must be. Nothing else made sense to him. Turning, his eyes found her face. He accepted the love he saw, allowing it a place in his heart and feeling at home.

  “You think they are like us?” she asked him.

  “They can’t be,” he responded.

  “You’d be surprised,” she said. “A car doesn’t change people that much.”

  “Oh yes, it does,” he insisted, moving easily into a discussion of church beliefs. “It has to. It makes you a whole different person. If it doesn’t, then why’s it so important that we don’t have one?”

  She shrugged. “In that way, yes, it makes us different, but in this way,” she looked at him with her eyes now sparkling, “we are all the same.”

  Her answer both startled him and reassured him.

  “Let’s go see where you watch the river,” he said, pulling his eyes away from her.

  “It’s over there.” She raised her hand to point, all fingers extended in the gesture. To him the arch of her arm pointed not just toward the spot she intended but into the future itself. Almost wrapping itself in powers beyond flesh and bone, her hand pointed toward his hopes and dreams, toward a tomorrow he would gladly enter with her. Beneath him the bridge and the murmur of the water added to the voice of his emotions.

  Above him a few leaves still hung on the trees in their last attempt to stay the turning of the seasons. Like his single life, he thought, but he was not going to hang on to anything. He would let it go. Let it go for her and for their life together.

  Silently he let her take the lead. She stopped at a small ledge overlooking the river.

  “So this is where you come?” he asked without looking at her.

  She said nothing, but gave a slight nod. She pointed a little further down the road. “That’s where the path goes down.”

  “You think we should?” he asked.

  “Yes, let’s do.”

  As they reached the bank of the river, they stood silently watching. Then Rebecca raised her eyes to meet his, and John knew with a certainty that she understood what was coming. This was what she wanted too. This was what love was, and he welcomed it.

  Unable to stop himself, he reached out and gently took her hands. The sensation of her fingers in his shocked him, moving him into what felt like a frightful, forbidden realm. Yet it was right, he told himself. Did not this feeling confirm and validate the feelings he had earlier, which he was certain were from God? This love he felt for her and her love for him, it must be right.

  She never flinched or pulled back as he held her hands and formed the words, “Rebecca, I want to marry you. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes,” she said, without breaking eye contact. “I would like that very much.”

  He slowly let her hands drop from his. The last brush of his fingers thrilled her, creating as strong a feeling as when he had first taken her hands only moments before. This was a boy she could truly love for all the right reasons. He was strong, not just in body but in moral convictions and fortitude.

  “When do you want to?” she asked him, hoping he would embrace her and hoping he would not.

  “In the spring,” he said with certainty.

  “This coming spring?” she exclaimed in surprise. “That quickly?”

  He turned back toward her, a twinkle in his eye. “No, a year from next spring, after the winter’s gone,” he said softly. “That will give us plenty of time to plan. I can get more of the farm paid off.”

  She knew what he meant by the farm, having been to see it when he first purchased it two months ago—a simple white framed building for a house and a red barn on eighty acres on the ridge. In the back, a creek meandered through the land, feeding the pond on the property before flowing into the river.

  “Yes,” he said, looking out over the rippling water again, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, “the farm. When the winter is past.”

  Thinking it must be okay now that John had gone there, she tenderly slid her hand back into his. She knew it was all right when he tightened his fingers gently. After another long look into each other’s eyes, they turned their gaze outward across the water. Deep in thought, they planned what life would be like, content that they would be forever—he and she.

  They stood for a few minutes holding hands—the soothing sound of water and nature around them—until the noise of another approaching vehicle reached them, disturbing their world. Rebecca
felt his hold weaken, and she slipped her hand out of his.

  If it was an English car, it would not matter if they were seen holding hands, but even then, it was better that they didn’t. One never knew what rumors might come back to haunt one. A dropped word here or there, even from innocent English parties, could stir up trouble.

  John stepped away from her in preparation for the car’s passing, but she moved with him, nearly touching his shoulder. To his own surprise, he did not pull back.

  The vehicle on the road was a van, and as it passed, John recalled that he had seen it that morning at church. The black hats and bonnets of the people riding inside confirmed the memory.

  “Those people were in church this morning?” he both asked and stated.

  She glanced only briefly at the passing van. “Yes, I saw them,” she said without dropping her eyes from his face.

  “Visiting from somewhere,” he said, searching his memory for the clue. Usually names of even strangers stayed with him, but not this time.

  “Yes, visiting,” she said quietly, lowering her gaze that held an unexpected sense of recognition.

  What was it he had seen in that moment? Fear? Her reaction faintly registered, but it was enough for him to ask, “You know them, don’t you?”

  “They come from Milroy. In Indiana where we used to live,” she said, with what seemed like hesitation.

  “So?” he asked, still remembering the brief glint of fear in her eyes.

  In his mind a quick flash of the visitors appeared, at least those whom he could remember, and revealed nothing. He cleared his throat to say something and then recalled the face of the black-haired boy. The one with the stubble of a little beard on his chin that ached from its attempts at growth and slicked-down hair that curled up in the back. The sound that came out of his mouth was, “Ah,” in a knowing sort of way, as if he had discovered the great secret before him. “An old boyfriend from Milroy?”

  This brought her eyes up from the ground in a jerk. “Silly. That was Luke Byler. He wasn’t my boyfriend. Never would be.”