“I’m gut, but danki.” She took short breaths in anticipation of any lingering pain. Finding none, she let her body relax. “Would you like to see the upstairs?” she asked.
He frowned. “Are you sure you can make it up the stairs?”
“I’m expecting zwillingbopplin. I’m not ill.” She hoisted herself from the chair and started for the stairs. “Go get your bag, and I’ll show you your room.”
He grabbed his bag from the living room and followed.
Sarah took her time climbing the stairs and insisted she was doing fine when Luke again asked if she was okay. When they reached the hallway on the second floor, she leaned against the wall and breathed deeply, feeling as if she’d trotted across the back pasture in record time.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Ya.” She caught her breath. “I have two more months of this. I’d better make myself a bedroom on my parents’ first floor.”
“I think that would be wise,” he said with a smile.
Sarah motioned toward the master bedroom. “This is our room.” She paused. “I guess I should say this was our room.” She scowled while studying her bed, which sat lonely and tidy, untouched since the morning Peter had perished. The beautiful green-and-blue log-cabin quilt her sister-in-law Sadie had crafted as a wedding gift seemed to mock her.
Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the last night Peter had held her close in the dark. She could almost feel his whiskers brushing her face, and she could almost smell his fresh, masculine scent.
But he lied! a small voice inside her chided. Your precious husband died and took all of his secrets with him. You’ll never know if anything he ever told you was true!
“If this is too painful for you, we can move to another room,” Luke’s voice whispered close to her ear.
Sarah kept her eyes squeezed shut. If she concentrated, she could imagine the voice speaking to her belonged to Peter. She’d give anything to hear him say, “I love you, Sarah Rose” one last time.
And she’d give anything to find out why he’d been dishonest with her.
“Which room would you prefer I use?” he asked.
Sarah’s eyes flew open, and she cleared her throat, forcing back the lump threatening to strangle her words. She had to find a way to let Peter rest in peace. She needed to pray for strength.
“Sarah?” he asked, stepping closer to her. “Do you need some time alone in here?”
“No,” she whispered, surprised by his understanding, wondering if he could read her mind. “I need to face the memories in this house eventually, and there’s no time like the present.” She headed into the hall and pointed toward the room next door.
“This was my sewing room.” Her eyes moved over the piles of material strewn about—the shirts and trousers she hadn’t finished making for Peter, and the maternity dresses she had begun. Her sewing machine sat on a small desk in the center of the room.
“I need to clean up the mess. I’ll have to tell Timothy to bring the material to Mamm’s,” she muttered, closing the door and moving to the next room, which contained a cradle and a few dressers. Bags of baby clothes from her sisters sat in the corner of the room awaiting sorting.
Her stomach twisted at the idea of being in this house, surrounded by bittersweet memories while organizing baby clothes for the twins who would never know their father.
And what would she tell her children about their father? Would she tell them they had more relatives in Ohio? Should she go to Ohio and meet the relatives herself before the babies were born?
She crossed the room and stared down at the cradle, wondering if she’d ever truly know who her husband had been. Her thoughts turned to her own family.
“Dat made this cradle for my oldest brother, Robert,” she said. “It’s been passed down to each of the Kauffman kinner and kinskinner.” Gingerly she pushed the cradle, which rocked back and forth, quietly scraping the
He frowned. “Are you sure you can make it up the stairs?”
“I’m expecting zwillingbopplin. I’m not ill.” She hoisted herself from the chair and started for the stairs. “Go get your bag, and I’ll show you your room.”
He grabbed his bag from the living room and followed.
Sarah took her time climbing the stairs and insisted she was doing fine when Luke again asked if she was okay. When they reached the hallway on the second floor, she leaned against the wall and breathed deeply, feeling as if she’d trotted across the back pasture in record time.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Ya.” She caught her breath. “I have two more months of this. I’d better make myself a bedroom on my parents’ first floor.”
“I think that would be wise,” he said with a smile.
Sarah motioned toward the master bedroom. “This is our room.” She paused. “I guess I should say this was our room.” She scowled while studying her bed, which sat lonely and tidy, untouched since the morning Peter had perished. The beautiful green-and-blue log-cabin quilt her sister-in-law Sadie had crafted as a wedding gift seemed to mock her.
Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the last night Peter had held her close in the dark. She could almost feel his whiskers brushing her face, and she could almost smell his fresh, masculine scent.
But he lied! a small voice inside her chided. Your precious husband died and took all of his secrets with him. You’ll never know if anything he ever told you was true!
“If this is too painful for you, we can move to another room,” Luke’s voice whispered close to her ear.
Sarah kept her eyes squeezed shut. If she concentrated, she could imagine the voice speaking to her belonged to Peter. She’d give anything to hear him say, “I love you, Sarah Rose” one last time.
And she’d give anything to find out why he’d been dishonest with her.
“Which room would you prefer I use?” he asked.
Sarah’s eyes flew open, and she cleared her throat, forcing back the lump threatening to strangle her words. She had to find a way to let Peter rest in peace. She needed to pray for strength.
“Sarah?” he asked, stepping closer to her. “Do you need some time alone in here?”
“No,” she whispered, surprised by his understanding, wondering if he could read her mind. “I need to face the memories in this house eventually, and there’s no time like the present.” She headed into the hall and pointed toward the room next door.
“This was my sewing room.” Her eyes moved over the piles of material strewn about—the shirts and trousers she hadn’t finished making for Peter, and the maternity dresses she had begun. Her sewing machine sat on a small desk in the center of the room.
“I need to clean up the mess. I’ll have to tell Timothy to bring the material to Mamm’s,” she muttered, closing the door and moving to the next room, which contained a cradle and a few dressers. Bags of baby clothes from her sisters sat in the corner of the room awaiting sorting.
Her stomach twisted at the idea of being in this house, surrounded by bittersweet memories while organizing baby clothes for the twins who would never know their father.
And what would she tell her children about their father? Would she tell them they had more relatives in Ohio? Should she go to Ohio and meet the relatives herself before the babies were born?
She crossed the room and stared down at the cradle, wondering if she’d ever truly know who her husband had been. Her thoughts turned to her own family.
“Dat made this cradle for my oldest brother, Robert,” she said. “It’s been passed down to each of the Kauffman kinner and kinskinner.” Gingerly she pushed the cradle, which rocked back and forth, quietly scraping the
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