Bamberger was shocked speechless. Had she hit her head when she’d dropped into Jeremiah Stoltzfus’s strong arms after trying to grab another strip of wallpaper? She’d made a mess of this conversation from the get-go.
With the ancient Adirondacks to the west and the gentle Green Mountains to the east, the farm had been a haven for her from the first time she’d come to visit the man she called Grandpa Rudy. It offered the very thing she’d lost and didn’t think she’d ever find again. Home. How desperate she’d been for a sanctuary! And how precious it seemed as the promise she’d held within her heart for the past decade was being fulfilled.
She couldn’t mess it up. Already she’d made the mistake of not keeping a closer eye on Sunni. Her daughter had been born with a congenital curiosity not diminished by her physical challenges. Mercy’s determination that the little girl should do anything a regular kid could allowed Sunni to indulge her quick and inquiring mind. Telling Sunni not to investigate the rooms upstairs because the floors were unsafe must have convinced her to find out how dangerous they were.
Mercy was letting herself get distracted by a handsome stranger who appeared to be a few years older than her twenty-five years. His bright blue eyes that had been shadowed by his black wool hat identified him as one of the Amish farmers moving into the hollow. Grandpa Rudy had told her about the new settlement in one of his letters. He’d been writing to her every week since she was eleven years old, the year she’d been adopted by his son and daughter-in-law and given a chance to have a new life and the loving family she’d feared she’d never have again.
She was startled how far up she had to look to meet Jeremiah’s eyes. Few Amish men she’d met had been as tall as he was. If his ruddy hair hadn’t been cut in the plain style and he wasn’t wearing a simple light blue shirt along with black suspenders and broadfall trousers beneath his black coat, she wouldn’t have guessed this very good-looking man was Amish.
Scolding herself, she recalled how Graham Rapp was easy on the eyes, too, but he’d broken her heart by showing how much a “mama’s boy” he was by choosing his mother when Mercy refused to be second. She must not let herself be beguiled by an attractive man again. Not when so much was on the line with her plans for the farm and the changes it could make in many young lives.
But the Amish were well-known for their honesty. So why was Jeremiah talking nonsense about Grandpa Rudy selling him the farm?
“I think you’re mistaken,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t quake with the strong emotions rushing through her like lightning in a summer sky. “My grandfather didn’t mention anything about selling Come Along Farm.”
“Come Along Farm?”
“That’s the name he gave the farm when I was little. He urged us to come along and keep up with him while he did chores, so we called it Come Along Farm.”
“He didn’t tell you he’s selling me the farm?”
“No!”
“I’m sorry to take you by surprise,” he said gently, “but I’ll be closing the day after tomorrow.”
“Impossible!” Her voice squeaked, and she took a steadying breath. Sounding as young as Sunni wouldn’t help. And she didn’t want her raised voice to bring her daughter from the kitchen to investigate. The little girl was upset enough already to have to leave their Mennonite community and Mercy’s parents in central New York, and Mercy hadn’t missed the glares Sunni had shot at Jeremiah. When she and Graham ended their ill-advised engagement, her daughter had been caught up in the aftermath and no longer trusted men she didn’t know. Mercy’s attempts to reassure Sunni that the little girl had nothing to do with the breakup hadn’t helped.
“It’s not impossible. I’ve got the paperwork in my suitcase on the porch. If you want to see it—”
“I don’t have interest in seeing what can’t be legitimate. It sounds as if someone has played a horrible prank on you, Jeremiah. I’m sorry.” She was, because she guessed he’d traveled for hours or days to get there. “But the farm’s not for sale.”
He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. Taking a deep breath, he released it. In a calm tone she doubted she could emulate, he said, “There’s no sense in arguing. Why don’t you get your grossdawdi, and we’ll settle this?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
She blinked on sudden tears. “Because he’s dead.”
When Jeremiah’s face became ashen, Mercy wondered if she should tell him to take a seat. It must have been seconds, but it felt like a year before he asked, “Rudy is dead?”
“Yes.” She swallowed hard past the lump in her throat.
“When?”
“Last week. It was a massive heart attack. He was buried the day before yesterday.” As she spoke, she found it impossible to believe the vital, vigorous man was gone.
Rudy Bamberger had been more than a grandfather to her. He’d been her best friend, the one who had welcomed her into the family after her life had hit bottom. Rudy hadn’t been a replacement for Abuelita, her beloved grandmother who had raised her when she was called Mercedes in a tiny apartment in the Bronx. Abuelita had died two weeks after Mercy’s tenth birthday, and everything in Mercy’s life had changed, including her name. Yet, Grandpa Rudy had made her feel as if she belonged among the people who were so different from those she’d known in the city. His love had been unconditional, and she’d returned it.
“I’m sorry,” Jeremiah said with sincerity.
She wished he’d been trite instead of genuine, because one thing hadn’t changed. He wanted to take away the farm that was her final gift from Grandpa Rudy. How often she’d sat on the old man’s lap and talked about taking care of the apple orchard or making maple syrup as he did each spring or what color she would paint the big bedroom! He’d humored her, even when her paint choices went from pink to purple to red and black over the years.
But Jeremiah was saying her grandfather had intended to sell the farm to him.
“But Grandpa Rudy told me the farm would be mine after he passed away.”
“Then why would he sign a purchase agreement with me?”
Mercy shook herself from her mental paralysis. She hated admitting she couldn’t guess why her grandfather would break his promise to her.
“Mommy, what’s wrong?”
Shocked she hadn’t noticed Sunni in the kitchen doorway, Mercy put her arm around her daughter’s narrow shoulders. “Nothing that can’t be fixed,” she replied with a smile.
Over the child’s head, she shot Jeremiah a frown, warning him not to upset Sunni. She didn’t want her daughter to feel as if her world was being taken away from her—again—as it must have when Sunni traveled from Korea to what was supposed to be her forever home. It hadn’t been, because her adoptive parents, who’d changed her name from Kim Sun-Hee to Sunni, couldn’t handle having a daughter who wore leg braces. Sunni had been returned to social services as if she were a set of curtains that didn’t match the furniture. A disrupted adoption was the name given to it. Or a failed placement. The latter fit better, because it sure felt like a failure for the child involved.
