Amish Promises by Leslie Gould Page B

joke. Horsepower. Literally. He smiled.
    When he was growing up in Ohio, his friends used to call the Amish “Dutchy.” He wasn’t sure if it was derogatory or not. Though he’d seen them in and around town, he’d never known any Amish back then or since. Hanging out with Tim was a new experience.
    They soon rounded the corner into a parking lot. Beyond was a big warehouse-type building with prefabricated sheds, all barn red, lined up on the right. On the other side was a house with a patch of yard around it.
    Horses, attached to two buggies and a wagon, had been tied to hitching posts. There were also a couple of pickups and one car, which Charlie parked beside.
    As Charlie climbed down from his truck he breathed in the scent of pine and sawdust, and the hint of cows in the field behind the house. He’d been so determined to leave the rural area where he’d grown up, but now he couldn’t imagine why.
    A tall Amish boy—nearly grown—helped a man dressed in jeans, a Steelers jacket, and a baseball cap carry a sheet of plywood. Just inside the warehouse, in front of a garage-like doorway, an Amish man loaded a cart with cedar planks. Tim took the lead, and Charlie followed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat and whistling a few bars of a song that had been stuck in his head.
    As he stepped onto the concrete pad, Tim nodded to an Amish man wearing a work apron and speaking with an older gentleman dressed in coveralls. Tim grabbed a cart and began pushing it toward the back of the warehouse.
    He stopped at the two-by-fours first, and spent some time examining the boards. Before he began selecting what he wanted, the Amish boy approached. His face was broken out in acne, and when he spoke his voice was soft. “How is Simon doing?”
    Tim stopped and slowly turned. “Didn’t your Dat tell you? He was just over at our place, asking me a whole bunch of questions.”
    The boy’s face reddened, all the way up to his hat, and he pushed the sleeves of his burgundy shirt up along his forearm. “I haven’t had a chance to ask him.”
    Charlie surmised the man in the apron was the bishop who’d come to visit. Tim had seemed unsettled about his presence then and now too.
    â€œSimon’s doing all right.” Tim turned his attention back to the lumber.
    Charlie stepped forward and stuck out his hand to the young man.
    As the boy took it, Charlie introduced himself.
    â€œReuben Byler,” the boy responded.
    â€œNice place you have here,” Charlie said.
    The boy blushed again. “It’s my Dat’s. I just work here.” He glanced at Tim. “What are you two aiming to build?”
    â€œA ramp,” Charlie answered. “For my buddy. He and his family just moved into the house close to”—he nodded toward Tim—“the Lehman family.”
    â€œI know the farm,” Reuben said. “Mr. Williams’ place, right? Isn’t it his granddaughter and her family?”
    Charlie nodded. “Yep. Shani Beck. Her husband, Joel, is going to be in a wheelchair for a while.”
    Reuben seemed empathetic. “My Dat just helped the Millers design a ramp for their place. One of their kids is in a chair. Dat gave them all sorts of good ideas. I’ll go get him.”
    Tim said, “There’s no reas—”
    But Reuben was already on his way.
    â€œSeems like a nice kid,” Charlie said.
    Tim shrugged and began choosing the two-by-fours, passing over anything with a knot or split.
    Charlie stepped forward, taking the first two boards Tim approved of and loading them onto the cart. Tim picked up his pace, and as the Amish man wearing the apron approached, they were ready to move on to the slats.
    â€œI’m surprised to see you here,” the man said. “I thought you had work to attend to at home.”
    â€œJah, I do,” Tim said. “But my neighbors need some