Read Online Davey's Daughter by Linda Byler - Free Book Online Page A

would certainly not die. The firemen were there now, and they’d keep the house safe.
    The neighbors poured in, standing in the yard, white-faced, disbelief stamped on their features. This time something would have to be done, their faces said.
    To start a barn fire was one thing, but to take from a poor widow was quite another. It was a slap in the face to a community already downed by previous fires but a brutal blow for a woman who had already endured more than her share of grief and hardship.
    The flames leaped into the night sky, but the steady streams of water sizzled and sputtered, battling the tongues of fire far into the night. The water from the great nozzles was not used sparingly. And the haymow contained less than a third of the year’s hay, so that helped.
    In the course of the night, they soon realized there was more saved and less damage done because of the fire company’s timely arrival. Who had called?
    Dat testified to hearing the sirens when they were barely out of their own driveway. And Elams hadn’t even been awake yet. Someone English? Some Amish on the road late at night?
    Lydia Esh stood by the old tool shed, her work coat pinned securely with a large safety pin, and watched with hard resolve as the firemen worked to save whatever they could.
    In the light of the flames, the cows stood, backed up against the peeling board fence, and watched warily. A neighbor man had taken the Belgian stallion home to his barn, away from the terrifying blaze.
    Elam and Hannah came walking together, their faces grim with fear and — was it only weariness?
    Hannah came into the kitchen, clucked and fussed. She told Sarah that this time it was completely senseless. A widow.
    She praised Sarah effusively, saying of course she’d be the one here. But didn’t she have market tomorrow? Sarah nodded, but she she’d probably take off with an emergency like this in the neighborhood. She was willing to sacrifice a small portion of her wages if she could be of help to Lydia.
    The widow seemed so alone, so gaunt, so determined. She had no husband to lean on, standing alone by the tool shed, and Sarah wondered what must be going through her mind.
    Self-pity? Defeat? Prayer?
    She moved to the kitchen window, still holding the small boy, in time to see Omar walk over to stand beside his mother. She turned her face to him, then slowly reached out and clasped his hand, before releasing it quickly as if that small gesture of love embarrassed her.
    Then Priscilla also moved to her side, slid an arm beneath Lydia’s, and laid her head on her shoulder. Obviously moved, Lydia laid her cheek on top of Priscilla’s head, and they stood together, an example of shared experience, heartfelt mitt leidas (sympathy), a statue of neighborly love.
    But what really moved Sarah was the figure of Omar, the oldest son, who stood with his wide shoulders held erect, mature beyond his years, holding heavy responsibility before his time.
    As if Priscilla read Sarah’s thoughts, she moved to his side shyly but touched his arm and spoke. He inclined his head and answered, and that was where Priscilla stayed as the fire burned steadily into the night — at Omar’s side.
    Sarah turned and opened a cupboard door to look for a kettle to heat water for coffee. She found one and filled it, then searched for coffee with Hannah’s help. Quietly, trying to hide the truth from each other, they slowly closed door after door before settling back on the couch, their eyes speaking. There was no coffee. There was only a scant amount of flour and sugar, a bag of oatmeal, a box of generic Corn Flakes.
    “ Siss net chide (It’s not right),” Hannah breathed finally.
    Sarah shook her head dully.
    Hannah got up, saying she’d go get coffee and wake Matthew. It was embarrassing, the way he slept.
    Sarah had no idea Matthew was still in bed. My, he was quite a sound sleeper. Perhaps he was up, already starting the French toast he’d made on the morning of their