Read Online The Keeper by Suzanne Woods Fisher - Free Book Online

visits to Windmill Farm. It had always been one of the prettiest farms he’d come across in his travels. The house sat at the top of a gently sloping bit of lawn shaded here and there with maple trees. The house itself was a graceful rambling structure built of creamy white siding and a fieldstone foundation. Twin chimneys rose from the roof, and a galloping-horse weather vane turned lazily in the breeze. Bird feeders and birdhouses were everywhere. And he meant everywhere! From sophisticated purple martin houses on long poles to hollowed-out gourds and pinecones smeared with peanut butter, hanging off trees. It was all Menno’s doings.
    Off to one side, a windmill—red!—an expansive barn, and a white fence surrounding a pasture where livestock grazed. Since he had first arrived in Stoney Ridge with his bees, years ago, that red windmill spinning its wheels at the top of the ridge was like a beacon to him. And a metaphor. What kind of a Plain farmer—other than Amos Lapp—had a red windmill? But Amos was like that—he had a love of life that was infectious. And Rome had grown fond of the entire family—irascible M.K., kindhearted Sadie, prim Julia, earnest Menno.
    As he passed the vegetable garden, he smiled. Now this was the Windmill Farm he remembered. The garden was neatly tended; flowers bookending tidy rows of young vegetables. There was a sense of peace here, of order and tranquility. It looked the way Windmill Farm should look—could look—if Amos were well. This garden . . . it had always been Julia’s domain, her pride and joy. It looked like a quilt top.
    And then he saw her, bent over, at the far end. Up so early! She didn’t seem to hear the thud of hooves and the jangle of the mule’s harness. He could have just hurried the mule along and vanished into the orchards, but he had to face Julia, sooner or later. This seemed to be the chosen morning for facing hard things; now was as good a time as any other. He stopped the mule and tied it to a hitch post. He watched her for a few moments, bracing himself for . . . for what? He doubted Julia would outright yell at him. More likely, she would be frosty. Well, he could handle frosty.
    He put his straw hat back on, fitting it snugly. Then he hopped over a few rows of spring onions to catch up with her. “Hello, Julia.”
    She popped up from leaning over a row of asparagus, slicing spears at ground level and laying them gently into a basket. She looked at him for a moment, deciding something. “I suppose it wouldn’t be spring without the Bee Man.” She put the basket down and crossed a few rows until she reached him. She came up so close to him that he could see little sweat beads on her upper lip. She wiped the sweat away with the back of her hand. “Hello, Rome. Looks as if life is agreeing with you.”
    He felt more than a little surprised at Julia’s calm demeanor. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but he didn’t expect calm. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she threw some asparagus spears at him. It was a rotten thing he had done, even if it was accidental. “No complaints. Did you win any prizes for your quilts this winter?”
    She stiffened and looked very uncomfortable. “I don’t have time to do much quilting anymore.”
    Rome was puzzled. Why was that such a bad thing to ask? Last summer, Julia’s quilt had been auctioned away in a fundraiser for a clinic benefit. That one quilt raised three times as much money as any other quilt auctioned off that day. Folks talked about it for weeks afterward. He had figured quilting was a safe topic, but her face had a tight look on it, like she had just tasted something bitter. Rome decided to try a fresh tack. “I just saw your father.”
    “Really? Was he outside?”
    Rome nodded. Julia’s face brightened with that piece of news, which told Rome that Amos must not be getting outside much. That explained the neglected condition of the farm. “That’s good. He has been a little . . .