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  © 2011 by Beverly M. Lewis

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

  Art direction by Paul Higdon

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  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, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3375-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This story is a work of fiction. With the exception of recognized historical figures, all characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Praise for

  BEVERLY LEWIS

  “No one does Amish-based inspirationals better than Lewis.”

  —Booklist

  “Author Beverly Lewis has come up with a new magic formula for producing best-selling romance novels: humility, plainness and no sex. Lewis’ G-rated books, set among the Old Order Amish in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, have sold more than 12 million copies, as bodice rippers make room for ‘bonnet books,’ chaste romances that chronicle the lives and loves of America’s Amish.”

  —Time magazine

  “Much of the credit [for the growth of Amish fiction] goes to Beverly Lewis, a Colorado author who gave birth to the genre in 1997 with The Shunning, loosely based on her grandmother’s experience of leaving her Old Order Mennonite upbringing to marry a Bible college student. The book has sold more than 1 million copies.”

  —Associated Press

  “As in her other novels, Lewis creates a vividly imagined sensory world. . . . And her well-drawn characters speak with authentic voices as they struggle to cope with grief and questions about their traditions and relationship with God.”

  —Library Journal

  (about The Parting)

  “Lewis’ readers can’t get enough of her tales about Amish life, and this latest installment won’t disappoint.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  (about The Forbidden)

  “The reigning queen of Amish fiction is back with another tale of secrets, love, and relationships. . . . Lewis has penned another touching novel with well-drawn characters and a compelling plot. It is sure to be in high demand by the author’s many fans and anyone who enjoys Amish stories.”

  —Library Journal starred review

  (about The Missing)

  “Lewis provides a satisfying conclusion to the Seasons of Grace series. Touching scenes make it easy for the reader to connect with the characters.”

  —Romantic Times Book Reviews

  (about The Telling)

  “Once again, Lewis has a hit with the first book in her new Rose Trilogy. The charming characters and captivating storyline underscore why Lewis has legions of loyal fans. They will all be anxiously awaiting the next installment.”

  —Romantic Times

  (about The Thorn)

  To

  Dr. Nan Buchwalter Best,

  always Cousin Betsy to me.

  With love.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Praise for Beverly Lewis

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part Two

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Books by Beverly Lewis

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  January 1986

  A solemn pallor covers the landscape of our lives since Bishop Aaron Petersheim was removed from his ministerial duties.

  Silenced, the brethren call it.

  The Lord’s fingerprint on a man is a fearsome thing. According to my father and those who question whether God’s will was accomplished, Aaron is blameless. Yet his reaction to the silencing is astonishing. Our longtime neighbor friend appears to be genuinely at peace, as if nothing has changed.

  “A man cannot determine his son’s destiny . . . whether Plain or fancy,” my father uttered as he rose from the breakfast table just this morning. “Neither is he responsible for the actions of a wayward child.”

  Because I’d wheeled my mother back to the bedroom to rest and Dat and I were alone in the kitchen, I assumed he was talking to me, my hands already deep in the soapy dishwater. He must’ve realized how much I’ve gleaned from the neighborhood grapevine. Folks are not only wagging their tongues but their heads, too. ’Tis mighty peculiar, this harsh discipline doled out to our beloved bishop.

  Despite that, no one breathes a word anymore about Nick Franco, his foster son. It’s as if Nick never lived amongst us here on Salem Road, rubbing shoulders with neighboring farmers or sharing the Lord’s Day at Preaching. As if he never existed.

  Even so, while all of us feel downtrodden about the ousting of Aaron, I’m honestly taken aback by the fact he doesn’t seem affected by what’s happened. He simply goes about his farm chores with a cheerful attitude, caring for the animals, butchering, and chopping wood for the cookstove. Sometimes with help from his sons-in-law or his male cousins, like a man shunned but permitted to stay, work, and worship with the People. It’s the oddest thing I’ve ever encountered . . . except for my married sister’s return from the world. Another dumbfounding situation, for sure and for certain.

  Hannah—or Hen, as most folks know her—is becoming reacclimated to her former Plain life here, all while caring for her Englischer husband in hope of his sight—and their love—returning. But the way I see it, she’ll lose any ground she’s gained the minute Brandon recovers. Next to the situation with our one-time bishop, my sister’s dilemma is the most perplexing I know.

  On top of everything else, Rebekah Bontrager has quickly become Silas Good’s new sweetheart-girl. That wouldn’t be so peculiar, except that Silas was my fiancé until we recently parted ways. Truth is, nothing was the same between us after Rebekah arrived from Indiana—and all three of us knew it.

  Just last week at Thursday market, I was minding my business and selling my handmad
e faceless dolls to tourists when who but Rebekah came right over to talk to me. She approached the market table rather boldly.

  “Denki for releasing Silas from his betrothal,” she said softly, her brown eyes mighty sincere. “It was awful nice of you, Rose Ann.”

  I merely nodded. Ach, I hardly knew what to say back to her. But what Rebekah added startled me even more.

  “I wish you the same happiness.” She lightly touched my hand.

  I couldn’t help but smile, though I didn’t see how that could possibly be, given most all the fellas my age were already married or engaged. Somehow I held even the slightest bitterness toward her at bay . . . what little there was. No point in that.

  “Kind of you,” I said.

  Rebekah’s shining face was a wunnerbaar-gut reminder that Silas and Rebekah are surely meant to wed. Honestly, I doubt I ever looked or felt so happy when I was engaged to him, fine fellow though he is. Well, maybe I did for a time, but that’s water over the wheel now.

  Before breakfast this morning, I was out behind Dat’s barn, where the wind had flattened the snow cloaking the pastureland. I noticed deer tracks and followed them over toward Petersheims’ property. My boots crunched into the frosty snow as I remembered the many wintry adventures Nick and I enjoyed, growing up here on these heavenly acres. All those years together, we were each other’s closest friend. And I admit to having wondered why my father, or whoever found the money tin buried down in the ravine, hasn’t mentioned the letter I wrote one month ago . . . the one that revealed my feelings for our former bishop’s son. I suspect it was Dat who somehow discovered the letter, although I’ll probably never know. Even if he wasn’t the one who removed it from Mamm’s old market box, not a soul in the community has fessed up to it. How awkward would it be if someone did?

  Sometimes I hope the Lord himself mercifully reached down and removed my impulsive letter from the battered tin. That would explain its disappearance, for sure.

  I lie awake at night, hoping whoever did take it stopped before reading the letter clear through. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have my private thoughts about rebellious Nick locked away once again, safe inside my poor heart!

  A brutal blizzard howled across Lancaster County in the night, dumping nearly a foot of snow on Salem Road and the surrounding farmland. The heavy snowfall quickly concealed the existing banks of crust and grime along the roadside. Icy ruts that ran between the stable and the barnyard were now hidden.

  Rose Ann’s oldest brothers, Joshua and Enos, hurried into the house from the barn along with Dat as snowflakes flew thick early Friday morning. The brims of their black felt hats were nearly white as the men came inside for hot coffee, red-faced, their eyes alight at the aroma. Eagerly they warmed their big, callused hands around the cups, chattering in Deitsch about the upcoming Gordonville Spring Mud Sale.

  Mamm sat primly in her wheelchair, wearing a green choring dress and long black apron, her brownish-blond hair pulled back into a perfect round bun at the nape of her neck. Her Kapp was perched on her head, the strings draped over her shoulders. From time to time, she gazed lovingly at Dat where he sat beside the gas lamp on this dreary day.

  The winter solstice had brought with it exceptionally cold temperatures and plenty of snow, as foretold by the neighbors’ chickens, which last fall had shed their feathers from the front of their bodies before the rest. Corn husks had been mighty thick at the harvest, too, and Aaron and Barbara Petersheim reported spotting caterpillars that were inky-black at both ends last summer. All of that had indicated a severe start to the bleakest season.

  Quite unexpectedly, a bolt of lightning crisscrossed the snowy backyard from the west, ripping through the bitter storm. The smell of sulfur instantly pervaded the atmosphere, making Rose tremble. Ach, such a rare thing in the wintertime. Is it an omen?

  “Did ya see that?” She rushed to the window.

  The wind howled noisily, too loud for her to hear the rumble of thunder sure to follow.

  “Never point at lightning,” Josh told her, a twinkle in his eyes as he came to stand beside her.

  “That’s silly.” Rose stared through the tufts of snow that clung to the window, looking out into the swirling world of white.

  Enos chuckled. “Most superstitions are just that.”

  But nothing could have predicted what Rose saw while standing at the icy window, peering out in the direction of the lightning strike. It was the unmistakable plume of . . .

  Could it be?

  Smoke was rising from the roof of the woodshed. She squinted and frowned. How can this be, in the middle of winter?

  Then suddenly, as if in answer to her unspoken question, the shingles on the woodshed burst into flames. “Ach, boys! Dat . . . oh, hurry, Dat!” Rose waved at the flames, stumbling for words. “Fire!”

  Josh and Enos grabbed their black winter hats and darted out the back door, not bothering to put on work coats or woolen scarves. Dat hurried along, too, instructing them to dump buckets of snow onto the flaming roof, although they already seemed to know what to do.

  “Rosie,” Mamm called, her small voice high pitched. “Stay right here with me, won’t ya, dear?”

  Quickly, Rose moved to her side and took hold of her trembling hand. “Thank goodness it wasn’t the barn.”

  “Or the house,” Mamm added, eyes wide.

  “Jah, ’tis just the ol’ woodshed,” Rose said. “They’ll have it out in no time.”

  “But the fire’s so high,” Mamm said. “How will they—”

  “Don’t fret, now.” Rose bowed her head and folded her hands. In another moment she heard Mamm’s soft murmurings as she asked the Lord God and heavenly Father to protect her sons and husband.

  Rose stayed right next to her mother. Just the thought of not being able to walk and being trapped near—or in—a fire gave Rose the shivers.

  After she’d added her own silent prayer, Rose raised her head to watch her brothers and Dat form a small line to douse the woodshed roof with snow. Josh was up on the tall ladder, but Rose could tell by the look on Dat’s face that he was not fearful.

  A dozen or more buckets were filled with the heavy snow and thrown onto the woodshed roof as the wind wailed and snow flew in all directions.

  Rose and Mamm watched anxiously as the men dumped even more snow than was necessary on the now-smoking roof, just to be sure. Or perhaps, was it for fun?

  Then, of all things, Enos threw a snowball at Joshua, who ducked, then leaned down and scooped a handful of snow as the boys laughed and carried on rambunctiously.

  “Ach, such silliness.” Mamm gave a relieved sigh, her hands no longer shaking.

  “Thank goodness the fire’s out.”

  “Praise be,” Mamm said softly.

  Rose moved the wheelchair away from the window. She observed her mother more closely. Dear long-suffering Mamm. It wouldn’t be much longer before she and Dat would travel over the Susquehanna River to York for Mamm’s back surgery. Only another thirteen days. Mamm seemed rather stoic about her situation as she counted the hours, hoping the constant pain from her buggy accident years ago could be alleviated soon. She had been given an epidural pain medication to decrease inflammation in the nerve endings, but the relief lasted mere days, so the doctor had dismissed such treatment as unsuccessful. In a case like Mamm’s, he said, surgery was warranted.

  “Folks daresn’t ever use wood struck by lightning to build a barn or house, ya know,” Mamm said, a glint in her golden-brown eyes. “Lest that building be struck by lightning, too.”

  Another superstition, thought Rose, wondering about all the strange sayings she’d heard as a girl. Her sister, Hen, had mocked such Amish old wives’ tales in her teens. Now, however, Hen had come nearly full circle, realizing too late that there was more to the Old Ways than superstition. Her sister wished with all of her heart for her English husband to join church with her. Far as Rose could tell, that seemed downright hopeless.

  As if sensing whom she was
thinking about, Mamm asked how Brandon was feeling today. “Hen says he still can’t see a stitch.” Rose paraphrased her sister’s remark from earlier that morning, when Rose was over in the Dawdi Haus where her sister lived, helping make bread. The small house was attached to their father’s large home.

  “Isn’t it odd?” Mamm replied. “Whoever heard of a man goin’ blind after a blow to the head?”

  “According to the doctor, Brandon had some swelling in his brain.” It is strange for the blindness to go on this long, Rose thought. But these are strange times. . . .

  “You and Hen seem to be getting along nicely, ain’t?” Mamm said. “Like when you were girls.”

  “Jah, I missed her something awful when she lived in town.”

  Mamm dipped her head. “We all did.”

  Rose told her Brandon was itching to talk to his business partner again. “Land development is booming, Hen says. And with Brandon still out of the office, he and his partner have discussed that they might have to hire someone to cover for him. Just till he can return to work.”

  Till his sight returns . . .

  A little frown crossed Mamm’s brow. “Surely that won’t be long.”

  Rose wondered what would happen when Brandon could see well enough to drive a car once more . . . and to live on his own in the house he and Hen had once shared. Separated again. She shuddered.

  “He must have cabin fever after all this time in the Dawdi Haus.” Mamm sighed. “I won’t stop prayin’ for him.”

  “Might still be weeks yet,” Rose reminded her of the original doctor’s assessment. She stared outside and watched the snow continue to fall. “It’s surprising he’s not as outspoken against stayin’ here as Hen first thought.”

  Mamm’s face brightened. “Could it be he’s getting accustomed to our ways?”

  “Not to discourage ya, Mamm, but I doubt it. He seems pretty low, almost despairing. More so each time I visit Hen and Mattie Sue.”

  “Poor man. Who can blame him?”

  It was odd hearing Mamm speak so sympathetically about Brandon when he had chosen not to have any contact with their family during the years of his marriage to Hen. But since he was Hen’s husband, what else could Mamm say?