couldn’t bring up the thing she wanted to talk with him about.
Bishop Mose, like all ministers and bishops among the Amish, worked at his trade as the apostle Paul had, accepting their Christian duties in addition.
There were two steps up to the little wooden porch, hollowed with the passage of many feet over the years. The glass-paneled door bore a hand-lettered sign. Horse People Only, No Tourists, it read. Beneath those directions Mose had added, in firm black-marker letters, No Picture-Taking.
She smiled a little. Once, the signs wouldn’t have been necessary, but in recent years tourists had discovered the Amish of Pleasant Valley. Bishop Mose did business with the English horse-owners in the area, some even coming from as far away as Mifflinburg to get good handcrafted tack. But he could do without the tourists.
She opened the door, the bell jangling, and stepped inside. Bishop Mose stood behind the cash register, busy with a customer, but he gave her a quick, welcoming smile. Since the customer was English and not anyone she knew, she moved to the side counter, keeping her gaze politely averted from the business they were transacting.
The rich scents of leather and oil transported her back through the years. She’d been coming to Mose’s harness shop since her father brought her and Johnny when they were little more than Mary’s age. The shop fascinated her—the harness and tack hanging from pegs and lining shelves up to the ceiling; the mysterious, to her child’s mind, machinery that Mose used on the leather; and most especially Bishop Mose Yoder himself.
She slid a sideways glance as he bent over the counter, listening courteously to some story the Englischer was telling. As always, Mose wore a heavy apron over his black trousers and blue shirt to protect them from his work.
Had he really not aged since she was a child? Somehow she’d always thought him old, with his long beard and hair a snowy white and his face a patchwork of tiny wrinkles, much like a piece of his own leather.
Running her fingers along a fine Western saddle with elaborate leatherwork, she tried to figure out how old Mose must be. Close to eighty, surely, wasn’t he? An Amish bishop was a bishop for life, just as the ministers were, chosen by lot through God’s guidance. Had Mose started out looking like a patriarch of the Old Testament, or had the look grown on him as he ministered to his flock?
The customer finally headed for the door, apparently satisfied with the new bridle he had slung over his shoulder. He gave her a polite nod as he passed.
The door closed behind him, and Mose turned to her.
“Rachel. It’s fine to see you today. How are you? And the kinder?”
“We’re all well.” Now that she faced his keen gaze, she was doubly grateful she’d brought the harness. She handed it across the counter to him. “I hoped you might have time to fix the buckle on this for me.”
“Ach, I always have time for you, ain’t so?” He took the harness, running it through his hands as if he saw with them, as well as with his eyes. “I mind when I made this for Ezra. Five years ago, it must have been, at least.”
“About that.”
She glanced past him, toward the alcove behind the counter where the big sewing machines sat, all connected to a massive belt that ran through a hole in the floor to a generator in the cellar. Sometimes Mose had several men helping him there, when he was especially busy, but today all was quiet.
She was alone with him in the shop. She wouldn’t find a better opportunity to ask for his advice, if she could just get the words out.
Mose adjusted his glasses and began picking out the loose stitches that held the buckle, staying at the counter probably because he guessed that she wanted to talk.
She felt tongue-tied. How could she just come out with her mixed-up feelings about Gideon?
“Have you seen anything of John lately?” Mose gave her a keen glance, as if to assess whether her English
Bishop Mose, like all ministers and bishops among the Amish, worked at his trade as the apostle Paul had, accepting their Christian duties in addition.
There were two steps up to the little wooden porch, hollowed with the passage of many feet over the years. The glass-paneled door bore a hand-lettered sign. Horse People Only, No Tourists, it read. Beneath those directions Mose had added, in firm black-marker letters, No Picture-Taking.
She smiled a little. Once, the signs wouldn’t have been necessary, but in recent years tourists had discovered the Amish of Pleasant Valley. Bishop Mose did business with the English horse-owners in the area, some even coming from as far away as Mifflinburg to get good handcrafted tack. But he could do without the tourists.
She opened the door, the bell jangling, and stepped inside. Bishop Mose stood behind the cash register, busy with a customer, but he gave her a quick, welcoming smile. Since the customer was English and not anyone she knew, she moved to the side counter, keeping her gaze politely averted from the business they were transacting.
The rich scents of leather and oil transported her back through the years. She’d been coming to Mose’s harness shop since her father brought her and Johnny when they were little more than Mary’s age. The shop fascinated her—the harness and tack hanging from pegs and lining shelves up to the ceiling; the mysterious, to her child’s mind, machinery that Mose used on the leather; and most especially Bishop Mose Yoder himself.
She slid a sideways glance as he bent over the counter, listening courteously to some story the Englischer was telling. As always, Mose wore a heavy apron over his black trousers and blue shirt to protect them from his work.
Had he really not aged since she was a child? Somehow she’d always thought him old, with his long beard and hair a snowy white and his face a patchwork of tiny wrinkles, much like a piece of his own leather.
Running her fingers along a fine Western saddle with elaborate leatherwork, she tried to figure out how old Mose must be. Close to eighty, surely, wasn’t he? An Amish bishop was a bishop for life, just as the ministers were, chosen by lot through God’s guidance. Had Mose started out looking like a patriarch of the Old Testament, or had the look grown on him as he ministered to his flock?
The customer finally headed for the door, apparently satisfied with the new bridle he had slung over his shoulder. He gave her a polite nod as he passed.
The door closed behind him, and Mose turned to her.
“Rachel. It’s fine to see you today. How are you? And the kinder?”
“We’re all well.” Now that she faced his keen gaze, she was doubly grateful she’d brought the harness. She handed it across the counter to him. “I hoped you might have time to fix the buckle on this for me.”
“Ach, I always have time for you, ain’t so?” He took the harness, running it through his hands as if he saw with them, as well as with his eyes. “I mind when I made this for Ezra. Five years ago, it must have been, at least.”
“About that.”
She glanced past him, toward the alcove behind the counter where the big sewing machines sat, all connected to a massive belt that ran through a hole in the floor to a generator in the cellar. Sometimes Mose had several men helping him there, when he was especially busy, but today all was quiet.
She was alone with him in the shop. She wouldn’t find a better opportunity to ask for his advice, if she could just get the words out.
Mose adjusted his glasses and began picking out the loose stitches that held the buckle, staying at the counter probably because he guessed that she wanted to talk.
She felt tongue-tied. How could she just come out with her mixed-up feelings about Gideon?
“Have you seen anything of John lately?” Mose gave her a keen glance, as if to assess whether her English
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