maiden name. Her father is a minister, a very respected member of the community. That made her leaving even more scandalous.” She hitched her purse over her shoulder. “Stan and the girls will skin me alive if I don’t buy some of Mrs. Bontranger’s cinnamon pulaparts while I’m here.” Next to us, tied to the hitching post running the length of the bakery, was a square black Amish buggy with a bright orange triangular slow vehicle warning sign underneath the back window. A dark brown gelding with one white sock waited patiently, his tail flicking at flies. “Good boy,” I murmured, running my hand down the horse’s silky neck.
“You like horses?” Becky asked.
“Yes,” I said, following her into the cool, spicy-smelling bakery. “I used to ride every day on the ranch. I miss it now that I’m a townie.”
“You and Gabe have both had to make big adjustments this last year, haven’t you? We haven’t talked yet about just how you and he got together.” Becky opened the door to the bakery, standing aside to let me enter first. The smell of cinnamon and ginger immediately set my tastebuds to watering. “I’ve heard his version, but as much as I love my brother, I take a lot of what he says with a huge grain of salt. I have to admit, he surprised us all back here. We never expected him to get married again, much less to a cowgirl.”
“Rancher,” I said good-naturedly.
She gave an apologetic laugh. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
She looked at me curiously. “Maybe I shouldn’t bring this up, but since we’re talking about my brother, Mom says you aren’t taking Gabe’s name and that he’s not exactly thrilled about it.”
So he’d told them. I shrugged, not really wanting to go into it with my new sister-in-law, especially since we’d been getting along so well. Apparently this was going to be a stitch in more than one person’s side. “It’s not a big deal. I just want to keep my name.”
“You mean your first husband’s name.”
“ My name for the last fifteen years,” I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “It really has nothing to do with how I feel about Gabe.”
She gave me a crooked, appeasing smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I think it’s rather funny actually. Gabe’s always been too macho for his own good. It won’t hurt him to be brought down a peg or two.”
“This is not a political statement I’m making,” I protested, irritated now. “I just don’t want to change my name.”
She wisely dropped the subject and stepped up to the bakery counter.
The woman behind the glass case was as round and soft-looking as the fat dinner rolls she was packing eight to a bag. While she wrapped up Becky’s order, they discussed Tyler’s death in low tones. I sat at a small plastic table drinking a cup of fresh coffee and eating a hot, just-iced caramel roll. The Pennsylvania Dutch heritage of the owners was apparent in the selection of baked goods in the sparkling clean display cases—flaky gooseberry turnovers, dill bread, huge apple butter cookies, strawberry-rhubarb pie, cherry angel rounds, lemon crunch coffee cake. Unable to resist, I bought a loaf of pilgrim bread and some oatmeal-coconut cookies to take back to Gabe and Kathryn.
Inside the Cherokee, the early afternoon sun had turned the air as hot and steamy as a sauna. We packed our baked goods into a cooler Becky had brought along, and drove through the tree-shaded streets onto a small country road, passing acres of bare wheat fields and four or five neat white houses with deep front porches and wildly colorful flower gardens. At the beginning of Hannah’s long dirt driveway stood a hand-painted sign: “Eggs, tomatoes, fresh cream, milk—No Sunday sales.” Driving toward the farm, Becky had to brake quickly twice to avoid the flocks of chickens skittering across our path. Hannah’s house, like the others we’d seen, was a two-story white wood structure with four
“You like horses?” Becky asked.
“Yes,” I said, following her into the cool, spicy-smelling bakery. “I used to ride every day on the ranch. I miss it now that I’m a townie.”
“You and Gabe have both had to make big adjustments this last year, haven’t you? We haven’t talked yet about just how you and he got together.” Becky opened the door to the bakery, standing aside to let me enter first. The smell of cinnamon and ginger immediately set my tastebuds to watering. “I’ve heard his version, but as much as I love my brother, I take a lot of what he says with a huge grain of salt. I have to admit, he surprised us all back here. We never expected him to get married again, much less to a cowgirl.”
“Rancher,” I said good-naturedly.
She gave an apologetic laugh. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
She looked at me curiously. “Maybe I shouldn’t bring this up, but since we’re talking about my brother, Mom says you aren’t taking Gabe’s name and that he’s not exactly thrilled about it.”
So he’d told them. I shrugged, not really wanting to go into it with my new sister-in-law, especially since we’d been getting along so well. Apparently this was going to be a stitch in more than one person’s side. “It’s not a big deal. I just want to keep my name.”
“You mean your first husband’s name.”
“ My name for the last fifteen years,” I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “It really has nothing to do with how I feel about Gabe.”
She gave me a crooked, appeasing smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I think it’s rather funny actually. Gabe’s always been too macho for his own good. It won’t hurt him to be brought down a peg or two.”
“This is not a political statement I’m making,” I protested, irritated now. “I just don’t want to change my name.”
She wisely dropped the subject and stepped up to the bakery counter.
The woman behind the glass case was as round and soft-looking as the fat dinner rolls she was packing eight to a bag. While she wrapped up Becky’s order, they discussed Tyler’s death in low tones. I sat at a small plastic table drinking a cup of fresh coffee and eating a hot, just-iced caramel roll. The Pennsylvania Dutch heritage of the owners was apparent in the selection of baked goods in the sparkling clean display cases—flaky gooseberry turnovers, dill bread, huge apple butter cookies, strawberry-rhubarb pie, cherry angel rounds, lemon crunch coffee cake. Unable to resist, I bought a loaf of pilgrim bread and some oatmeal-coconut cookies to take back to Gabe and Kathryn.
Inside the Cherokee, the early afternoon sun had turned the air as hot and steamy as a sauna. We packed our baked goods into a cooler Becky had brought along, and drove through the tree-shaded streets onto a small country road, passing acres of bare wheat fields and four or five neat white houses with deep front porches and wildly colorful flower gardens. At the beginning of Hannah’s long dirt driveway stood a hand-painted sign: “Eggs, tomatoes, fresh cream, milk—No Sunday sales.” Driving toward the farm, Becky had to brake quickly twice to avoid the flocks of chickens skittering across our path. Hannah’s house, like the others we’d seen, was a two-story white wood structure with four
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