In Plain View
Authors: Olivia Newport
Tags: #Christian Books & Bibles, #Literature & Fiction, #Amish & Mennonite, #Romance, #Amish, #United States, #Religion & Spirituality, #Religious & Inspirational Fiction, #Christian Fiction, #Inspirational
© 2013 by Olivia Newport
Print ISBN 978-1-61626-713-1
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62416-104-9
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62416-103-2
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover design: MÜllerhaus Publishing Arts, Inc.,
www.Mullerhaus.net
Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683,
www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses
.
Printed in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
Dedication
For Sonja
Acknowledgments
It is hard to know how to say thank you to all the people who helped bring this book into being. My agent, Rachelle Gardner, believes in me, which probably spurs me on more than she knows. How blessed I am to call her friend as well!
I have no doubt about Barbour’s commitment to make the book the best it can be. After all, they had the good sense to connect me with Traci DePree to work as editor on the Valley of Choice series.
My husband is always game to gallivant off somewhere with me, literally or cyberly, in search of information. Every writer should be so lucky.
And Sonja. What can I say?
Sometimes writing feels like a lonely enterprise, but when I lift my eyes from the screen I see a host of people cheering me on. I am thankful for each one.
One
A
nnie Friesen had a lot to learn about how to ride a bicycle in a dress that brushed her ankles.
The late-April day slushed with spring snow vacillating about whether to melt. Temperate Colorado mountain air beckoned a population sick and tired of huddling indoors all winter, Annie among them. Five miles stretched between her and the Beiler farm, five miles she was determined to traverse without depending on Rufus Beiler and his buggy to pick her up. She could walk or she could bike from her house in Westcliffe to the Beiler home, where Rufus’s family expected her for supper, and she would surrender herself to their long arms of hospitality and acceptance. the moment to begin the walk and arrive on time had passed thirty minutes ago, though.
Annie turned the bicycle around in the narrow, century-old garage and assessed its readiness for the first outing of the spring. The tires seemed acceptable, the pedals spun appropriately when she kicked at one, and the brakes squeezed when cued. she walked the bike into the sunlight and laid it down on the ground while she heaved the garage door closed. Then she situated herself on the seat, straightened the heavy wide-knit navy cardigan she wore, and hiked up the skirt of her deep purple dress as far as a good Amish girl dared.
Annie was not a good Amish girl. At least not yet. She did not even always wear Amish clothing. After eight months of friendship with the Beilers and regular attendance at the district’s worship services, she would have to rate her German as pitiful. She understood more every week, but she could not get her mind and tongue to cooperate in speaking. Private lessons were some help, though she often left more frustrated than when she arrived. Singing hymns from the
Ausbund
might as well have been reading a census listing, which meant she had a lot to learn about both patience and devotion. The
Ordnung
was a mystical obscurity she wished someone would translate to bulleted points in plain English. The hairstyles seemed severe—but only when she looked in a mirror, which she did less and less these days. The ties to her prayer
kapp
annoyed her whether she tied them or let them hang loose on her shoulders.
But she was trying. For one thing, she had given up driving her own car, which was up on blocks in her parents’ garage in Colorado Springs.
Annie checked the strap on her helmet—a promise she made to her mother when she gave up driving—then put her weight on the top pedal and leaned into the bike’s forward movement. The streets in town were wet but friendly enough for cycling. Once she got to the highway, though, Annie scowled at the sludge passing vehicles sprayed at her. She knew what the drivers were thinking because she used to be one of them.
What kind of idiot rides a bike on a high-speed road? If they can’t go the speed limit, they should get off the road
. She was lucky if drivers moved three inches toward the center of the two-lane highway when they whizzed past her.
Rufus had offered to pick her up. All winter long he fetched her when she needed to venture beyond the confines of Westcliffe, where she worked on Main Street and lived on a side street. But Annie did not want to depend on Rufus for her every move until she learned to care for a horse and drive a buggy of her own. The promise of spring allowed independence, as far as she was concerned. Milder weather meant she could come and go as she wished, as long as she did not mind the rigors of riding or walking at high elevation. This first ride of the season made her want to lengthen her stride and let her feet hit pavement in heart-pumping rhythm. Did good Amish girls run cross-country?
By the time Annie turned into the long Beiler driveway, she was refusing to shiver in her damp sweater, and the sodden hem of her skirt was slapping against drenched stockings. The best she could hope to do was keep her headpiece on straight. The Beilers had taken her into heart and hearth as she was, but she still wished she could arrive without looking a mess once in a while.
Seven-year-old Jacob was the first to spot her, as he always was. He loped down the wide porch steps and across the yard with one hand holding his straw hat in place and his black winter-weight wool jacket flapping open. Annie checked to be sure he was at least wearing shoes, knowing that as soon as The ground dried up he would leave his boy-sized brown work boots neatly under his bed.
“Annalise!” The boy flung himself into her arms even before she could properly dismount. The bicycle tumbled on its side and she let it go in favor of his enthusiasm against her torso. Jacob knocked her slightly off balance, and her cell phone spilled from a sweater pocket. Jacob squatted to scoop it up. “Do you ever miss your old phone? I liked your old phone.”
Her iPhone had been her lifeline to another world—e-mail, texting, Internet, Facebook, Twitter. She had done it all on her phone, and she never turned it off. She ran her whole company from that phone sometimes.
“I would trade a thousand phones just to know you.” Annie wrapped her hand around the simple flip-style phone. This one was not even turned on. So far, in the last six months, Annie managed to avoid any emergency calls. Otherwise she only turned it on for her weekly calls to her mother, a compromise that helped keep the peace. Her parents had the number Rufus used for his woodworking business, so if one of her parents had a true emergency, they could reach her.
Annie glanced toward the house, ready for her pulse to quicken at The sight of Rufus.
“The Stutzmans are here.” Jacob took her hand and tugged.
“Who?”
“The new family.”
Annie managed a smile for Jacob’s sake. She was expecting supper with only the Beiler family. They knew her well and patiently guided her through the path of learning Amish ways. The presence of another family, especially a new one, took the edge off her anticipation of the evening—and immediately she felt remorse at her ungenerous thought.
When Rufus Beiler heard the screen door slam behind his little brother, he lifted his eyes to the big window that looked out the front of the house. As it often was, Annalise’s
kapp
was cockeyed, an unintended habit that made him smile.