A Husband For Mari (The Amish Matchmaker 2) by Emma Miller Page B

see what can be done about the meal.”
    Just then, Roman yelped, “ Mam! Emanuel bit me!”
    “Emanuel!” Mattie took a step down the staircase.
    “I can handle this,” James insisted.
    She smiled gratefully. “You’re a peach.”
    He picked up the nearest small boy. “Time-out for both of you.” He pointed to a small wooden stool. “Three minutes for you, Roman, one for Emanuel.” The oldest child started to cry, but James remained firm. “Three minutes.” He put the second one on the sofa. “Stay there, Emanuel. If you get down before I say you can, no cookies after supper.” Emanuel might have done the biting, but if he knew Roman, the older one, had done something to offend the younger. Easier not to try to figure out who was at fault each time.
    James returned to the kitchen, found that most of the smoke had cleared out and closed the window. He removed his coat, hung his black wool hat on a hook by the door and rolled up his sleeves. “All right, Emanuel. You can get off the sofa,” he called.
    “Can I get up now?” Roman whined.
    “Not yet. I’ll tell you when.” James washed his hands, went to the stove and tasted the stew. The burned taste wasn’t awful, but it was there, and there was a thick layer sticking to the bottom of the pot. He carried the offending stew to the sink and poured it into the strainer. As he suspected, the stew in the bottom of the pot was unsalvageable, but large chunks of chicken, the carrots and the onion would be okay with a fresh gravy.
    By the time Mattie came downstairs, the two boys were playing peacefully with a miniature horse and wagon, and James had whipped up a batch of corn bread to go with the stew.
    Mattie was carrying one of the twins. “William won’t go to sleep.” She settled into the rocking chair in the corner of the kitchen and watched as he cut potatoes into small chunks, added them to the rescued stew, poured broth from a carton from the pantry into the pot and put the whole thing back onto the stove.
    “I didn’t get bread made today,” Mattie said. “Not even biscuits.” She sniffed, searched in her apron pocket, then sniffed again.
    James removed a clean handkerchief from his own pocket and handed it to her. “No need crying over burned stew, Mattie. It will be fine. You’ll see.” He rummaged around on a shelf for some bay leaves, pepper and tarragon. He stirred the spices into the stew and adjusted the flame under it. “Shouldn’t take too long to finish, And I’ve got corn bread in the oven.”
    “You shouldn’t have to do this,” Mattie managed, barely holding back tears. “It should be me. I’m not holding up my end.”
    James crouched down in front of her and patted her hand. “None of that, now. Who took care of me when I was growing up? It’s only fair that I repay some of your kindness by helping out. You’ve got your hands full with four children so close together.”
    Their mother’s death had made Mattie a mother to him when she was nothing but a girl and he was no older than Roman. They were closer than most brothers and sisters. She’d always been there for him, and he valued her wise council. With qualities like that, who cared if Mattie could cook or not?
    “You should let me hire a girl to help for a few weeks,” he told her.
    “Ne.” Mattie sighed. “I can’t let you spend money so recklessly. I’ll be fine.”
    James shook his head as he rose to his feet. “I never liked this idea, Rupert working away from home. You know he can come and work on my crew any day.”
    Mattie blew her nose again, threw the apron over her shoulder to cover herself and began to nurse little William again. “He wants to do this, James. Work is good. He’s getting overtime every week. We should have enough money to start building our cabin in the spring.” She smiled at the thought. “You should be happy. You’ll get your house back.”
    “It’s our house,” he replied. It had never seemed fair to him that his