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The Warmth of Sunshine

By Kelly S. Irvin

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Chapter 1
Tractor engines made music. Even if only Abigail Bontrager could hear it. The deep-throated rumble of Grandpa’s old tractor accompanied Abigail on Highway 96, the quickest route from the Yoder restaurant where she waitressed to her parents’ farm outside Haven six miles away. Others might fuss at the noise, but the sound served as a cheerful song to her ears after eight hours of dishes clattering, silverware clinking, and the steady buzz of mostly tourists talking at the Buggies and Bonnets Restaurant.
Diesel fumes carried on black smoke perfumed the air in stark contrast to the mingled aromas of fresh bread, pot roast, frying chicken, and chocolate cream pie baked to perfection. Yep. The smell was Plain perfume. Plus it reminded her of family. When Grandpa and Grandma moved into the dawdy haus, Grandpa no longer needed it.
Reveling in the sameness of it all, Abigail sang “Bringing in the Sheaves” at the top of her lungs to keep herself awake. The old John Deere’s vibrations loosened the aching muscles in her shoulders, arms, and legs. The thirty-two dollars in tips tucked into her canvas bag—along with the satisfaction of a job well done—more than made up for it. Other than dumping a piece of lemon meringue pie into a customer’s lap, today had been a good day. The money would help with expenses at home with a small portion set aside in her nest egg for that day when she would set up housekeeping with her future husband.
Not too distant future, God willing. Sei so gut, Gott.
The image of towheaded Owen Kurtz with the bluest eyes in all of Haven floated in her mind. Stocky body, deep tan, callused hands. Heat that had nothing to do with the Kansas late spring sun on her face warmed her. They’d taken a few buggy rides together. He hadn’t even held her hand yet, but something about him kept her awake at night, imagining the day he would.
A horn blared. Abigail smiled and waved at the impatient truck driver as he passed. Amazingly, he waved back. Mother said the high road had the best view. Mother was always right.
Abigail turned onto the gravel road that led to the farm. The winter wheat was heading in the field on her right. On her left the shorn plants indicated Father and the boys had put up the first cutting of alfalfa. Early May’s sunny days had been kind to their crops. Danki, Gott.
A dark-blue SUV sat at a precarious angle on the curve of the driveway in front of the sprawling house she’d grown up in. Someone had parked as if unsure of the proper etiquette. Or poised for a quick getaway. English guests for dinner? Mealtimes tended to be rowdy at the Bontrager homestead. Abigail’s three younger sisters would have it under control, but the oldest sibling should do her fair share. She rushed to park the tractor in the barn where Doolittle greeted her with his usual tail-wagging enthusiasm.
“I’m glad to see you too.” She brushed back the long black bangs that hung in his eyes. “Did you defend the fortress from grizzly bears and four-eyed monsters while I was gone? Gut hund, gut hund.”
“Woof, woof.”
It was a family joke. Doolittle mostly lived up to his name. “Indeed! You’re the best do-little dog around.”
Bobbing left and right to avoid tripping over the furry mountain of a dog as he ran circles around her, Abigail traipsed up the steps and through the back door into the kitchen. “Mudder, I’m here.”
The aroma of chicken and onions simmering greeted her. But not her mother. An enormous pot of chicken soup bubbled on the stove. It bubbled so hard it had splattered the stove top. Hard, burned spots marred its surface. Chopped raw potatoes, carrots, and celery covered the cutting board next to the stove. Mother had stopped in the middle of making one-pot chicken stew. She called it her favorite—because it made a ton and it was filling—a must with four growing boys to feed. A pan of fresh-baked soda biscuits cooled on the trivet next to the board. Two peach pies shared the open window’s sill. “Mudder? Jane? Rose? Hope?”
Doolittle meandered toward the pies.
“Don’t you dare.” Abigail shook her finger at him. He ducked his graying head and whined deep in his throat. She turned down the stove’s flame and headed for the great room that served as both dining and living room. Doolittle followed, of course. The murmur of voices reached her. “Mudder?”
The murmuring ceased.
Mother sat in the pine rocker next to the empty limestone fireplace. She’d chosen the chair farthest from where an auburn-haired English woman perched on the sofa. Abigail’s sisters were nowhere to be seen. Why weren’t they in the kitchen?
The woman rose. She held out both hands. “You must be Abigail.”
Mother moaned an awful, guttural sound. “Please, don’t. Let me.”
Doolittle rushed to her side. He whined again. He nosed her hands in her lap. She patted him without seeming to notice.
“Hello, I’m back.” Silly thing to say. Of course, they could see that. How did this stranger know her name? “The chicken was boiling. I turned down the flame.”
“I forgot . . . I forgot about it.” Mudder continued to smooth Doolittle’s thick fur. “This is Heather Holcomb, now Heather Hanson. She’s the daughter of the Holcombs who were neighbors to Mammi and Daadi way back before they moved into your onkel Warren’s dawdy haus.”
The Holcombs were nice. Grandma and Grandpa used to take them gingerbread men at Christmas and check on them after storms. They returned the favor with supplying cranberry-nut bread and offers of rides when the roads were bad during the winter. “Why aren’t the girls taking care of supper?”
“I sent them upstairs.”
That made no sense. Abigail opened her mouth.
“You look just like me.” The woman took two faltering steps toward Abigail. “I always imagined you would.”
Abigail looked nothing her. Her hair was bobbed below her ears, while Abigail’s waist-length hair—neatly coiled in a bun under her kapp—was more blonde than strawberry. Sure, the woman had blue eyes too, but lots of people had them. Mother and Father did. So did Jane. People always thought her younger sister and Abigail were twins even though they were born exactly eleven months apart.
Abigail peeked at her mother. Tears rolled down her plump face. Mother never cried. She found silver linings in every situation. When Grandma Evie died, Mother said she’d been whisked away to a better world. When lightning struck the barn and burned it to the ground, it was old and ramshackle and an eyesore. Besides, barn raisings were fun—the women laughing, talking, and working side by side to feed the men.
“What’s this about, Mudder? What does she mean, I look like her?”
“I’m sorry, we should’ve told you. Your daed and I meant to tell you, but we could never find the right time.” Mother’s voice cracked on the word father. Her nose was running. She swiped at her face with her sleeve. Another thing Mother would never do. “The older you grew, the less it seemed to matter. You’re ours. All ours.”
Of course she was. Who else’s would she be? “Tell me what?”
Mrs. Hanson stumbled forward, grabbed Abigail’s hands, and pulled her against her body, all bony angles and sharp points. Not anything like Mother’s round cushion of a body. “You’re my daughter,” she whispered into Abigail’s ear. Her breath tickled. “I’m your mother.”

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