A Man For Honor

He nodded. “Ya, I do.”

“You said in your first letter that you grew up here.”

“I did, and I’ve always thought of Kent County as home,” he answered. “Kansas can be pretty dry. I miss the green and the rain.”

A line of cars slowed behind them, but Sara didn’t seem to notice. “Rain we have aplenty,” she said after a bit.

“And a strong church community.” He stretched out his long legs and rubbed absently at his aching shoulder. When the collision happened, he’d been thrown violently against the corner of the seat frame across the aisle. Nothing seemed broken, but he guessed he was going to have quite a bruise. “At least, that’s the way I remember it,” he finished.

“It is. And everyone will welcome you. We’re always glad to add to our family. You say you’re a master carpenter?”

“More of a cabinetmaker, but I can do any type of construction.”

Sara looked at him with frank curiosity. “I’m curious as to why you’d need my services. A nice-looking man like you with a good trade? Back in Kansas, mothers must have been parading their daughters in front of you. Girls must have been lining up hoping you’d take them home from a singing.”

But not the woman I want, he thought. To Sara, he said, “I’m ready to marry and start a family, but I thought the whole process would be easier if I used a matchmaker.”

“Mmm.” Sara’s brow arched. “I’ve checked up on you. Wrote a couple of letters. Your bishop tells me that you’re baptized and a solid member of your church.” She pursed her lips. “A matchmaker can certainly make it easier finding the right wife, but why me? Why not someone in Kansas?”

“The nearest Amish matchmaker to where I lived just celebrated her eighty-second birthday, and she doesn’t hear or see well. Besides, I want to move back to Delaware and marry a woman from here.” He glanced at her. “You have a good reputation. People speak of you as one of the best, and you specialize in hard-to-place cases.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you a difficult case, Luke Weaver?” She gave him an appraising look. “I’ll admit you do look a little worse for wear.”

“Ya.” He ran a hand over the three-cornered tear in the knee of his go-to-church trousers. There was a stain on the other leg he suspected might be blood and his wide-brimmed black wool hat had taken a beating. The brim was sagging and it was shrinking as it dried; it wasn’t meant to be submerged in water.

“I suppose I do,” he admitted. He considered whether or not to explain his condition to Sara. His first impressions of her were good, but he didn’t know that he was ready to tell anyone what had happened on the highway the previous night. The idea of talking about it made him uncomfortable; he’d done what any man would have done. End of story.

Sara turned off State Street onto Division. Traffic was still light for the center of town. A few pedestrians stopped and watched as the mule and buggy passed. A little boy in a fire-engine red rain slicker and yellow boots waved from the sidewalk, and Sara waved back.

“A lot of new construction in Dover,” he commented as the grand Victorian houses gave way to commercial buildings and smaller frame homes. “I’m hoping I’ll be able to find steady employment.”

“There’s always work for a carpenter,” she replied. “A good friend of mine has a construction crew. You’ll meet him at church tomorrow.” Her shrewd gaze raked him again. “If you’re planning on joining us for worship. It’s being held at Samuel Mast’s, not far from my place. You know Samuel?”

“I do. Good man. And ya, I do want to attend service. If you can find me something decent to wear. We, um...had some trouble... The bus.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid my duffle bag with all my clothes is lost. I don’t want to impose. I know I’ve picked an awkward time to arrive, two days after Christmas, but...it was time I came.”

“Not a problem. I can find clothes, and I’ve got a warm bed for you. All my prospective brides have either married or gone back to their families for the holidays. It’s much too quiet in my house. Even our little schoolteacher has gone visiting relatives. As I told you in my letter, I have a bunkhouse for my hired hand and male clients from out of state. Some stay for the weekend, others a few weeks or longer. It’s far enough from the house for propriety, but close enough so that your meals won’t be cold before you get to the table. Prospective brides stay in the house with me.”

“The bunkhouse sounds great. I appreciate it,” he said. “And I appreciate you coming to get me. It’s a miserable day for you to be on the road.”

Sara reined the mule to a stop as the light ahead turned from yellow to red. “I could have sent Hiram for you. He’s my hired man. But his judgment’s not the best. He might have decided to take the buggy down the DuPont Highway to stop at the mall. And the madhouse of a highway is no place for a mule, even a sensible one.” She glanced at Luke. “And the truth is, I was looking for an excuse to get out of the house.”

They rode in comfortable silence for a few minutes and then Luke spoke up again. He wasn’t one to keep quiet on things. Sometimes he was criticized for speaking too easily from his heart, with his feelings. It wasn’t something necessarily encouraged in Amish men, but he was who he was. “I hope you’re going to be able to help me make a match,” he said. If she couldn’t, he didn’t know what he’d do.

“No reason why I shouldn’t, is there?” She glanced at him again. “I’ll admit, Luke, you are something of a mystery to me. You do make me curious.”

He winced at the word mystery but said nothing.

“You know, young women seeking husbands are plentiful, but eligible bachelors with a solid trade seeking brides aren’t as easy to find. From what I see with my eyes, and from what I’ve learned from your letters and my own inquiries, you’re almost too good to be true.”

“I don’t know about that. I’m as flawed as any man. But I assure you, I’ve not told you any untruths.”

“I didn’t say you had,” Sara said. “My first thought would be that I can think of a good dozen young women who would jump at the opportunity to meet you. But something tells me that there’s more to you, that you’ve not told me everything I need to know if I’m going to make the right match for you.”

He grimaced. “There is something I haven’t said.”

“And that is?”

“There’s a particular someone I’ve set my mind on, someone special I used to know.” He stopped and started again. “Someone I haven’t been able to forget.”

Sara reined the mule off the street and into a parking place in a car dealership lot. She looped the leathers over a hook on the dash, folded her arms and turned to face him. “I take it that this someone is of legal age, Amish and free to marry?”

“She is.”

“But you didn’t think that I should have that information before you arrived?”

He tugged on the sagging brim of his hat. It was a shame it was ruined because he’d bought it new before he left Kansas. “I thought it would be easier if I could explain in person.” He looked away and then back at the matchmaker. “Her name is Honor. Honor King.”

Sara didn’t hide her surprise. “I know Honor. A widow. She doesn’t belong to our church community, but I have introduced her to several prospects. Honor’s husband passed a year and a half ago.”

“Nineteen months.”

Sara frowned. “And you know that Honor has children. Four of them.”

“Ya, I do. That doesn’t matter to me.”

“Well, it should,” she harrumphed. “It takes a special kind of a man to be a father to another man’s children. Especially as they get up in age.”

He felt himself flush. “I know that. What I said about the children, that didn’t come out right. Her children are part of her. I want to be a good father to them. And a good husband to her.”

Sara raised a dark eyebrow. “You’re familiar with Honor’s children? You’ve met them?”

There was something in her tone that made him hesitate. “Ne...but I hope to have many children.”

She sniffed. “Easily said by a man who has none. As the preachers tell us, children are blessings from God. That said, they can be a handful. Some more than others.” She pursed her lips. “Any other revelations you’d like to share with me?”

He hesitated. “Well...”

“Like this, perhaps?” She reached under the seat and came up with a copy of the Delaware State News. The photo snapped by one of the bus passengers stared back at him. It was clearly his face, with a fire truck and a Pennsylvania State Police car in the background. In his arms was a screaming child. Under the photo, a bold headline proclaimed Mystery Cowboy Rides to the Rescue!

“You saw it,” he said.

“Ya, saw it and read it. What I didn’t know was that I would be welcoming the mystery cowboy into my home. You know our community takes a dim view of photographs. They are forbidden.”

“In my church, as well,” he agreed. “But I didn’t give anyone permission to take a picture. And I didn’t ask for people to talk about what happened. There was an accident. I did what seemed right.”

“But it will make talk.” She allowed herself the hint of a smile. “A lot of talk.”

“I was afraid of that.”