A Reluctant Bride by Kathleen Fuller Page A

she’d said more than once when Sadie asked why she wasn’t using the register.
    Sadie stared at the cup of yellow pencils, the memories dissolving into anger. She hit the cup, knocking it over and spilling the pencils. They tumbled off the counter and rolled on the concrete floor. She didn’t bother to pick them up.
    She opened the door to the office and sat down in her father’s old emerald green desk chair, one he’d bought at an auction when Sadie was a little girl. She turned on the small battery-operated lantern on the desk. Light flooded the room. She stared straight ahead at the plain cork bulletin board her father had used to tack up his scribbled notes and reminders. Every inch of the board was covered, and some of the notes overlapped other notes. She couldn’t bring herself to look around the office, with its stacks of catalogs, order forms, and invoices shoved wherever space allowed. Daed had never been organized with his paperwork, yet he claimed to know where everything was. “I got a system,” he’d said time and time again, and sure enough, he was able to produce any document or catalog without hesitation.
    Rubbing her left temple, she opened the top drawer of the desk, and after rummaging for a bit, pulled out a pad of paper. She began writing down expenses—first the taxi fares she and Abigail had incurred since the accident, then the taxi fare to send Abigail to Middlefield. She wrote down the words ambulance , hospital , and rehabilitation center , but left the amounts blank. She’d get the bills soon enough for those. Then she estimated how much money the store had lost from being closed for two weeks. When she finished writing down the amount, she tossed the pencil onto the desk.
    She spent the next few hours looking at invoices and bank account statements, finding bills that were either due soon or hadn’t been paid and were overdue. She was shocked to discover how far in the red—a term she’d read about in that accounting book—the store’s finances were. She propped her elbows on the desk and put her hands on either side of her head. How could her father have been so irresponsible with money? Did her mother know? She couldn’t imagine her parents had any secrets from each other. Then again, she never would have imagined they would have been this deeply in debt.
    She sighed and lifted her head. Abigail couldn’t know about this. Neither could Joanna. And she couldn’t continue to let the store bleed out money. She and her sisters had no income without the store. They’d have nowhere to go if she had to sell their property to pay their debts.
    Every muscle in her body tensed. She needed help, and there was only one person she could turn to. The community had established a fund for any member in need. All the families that could contribute did so yearly, and Bishop Troyer managed the money. He was in charge of disbursing the emergency funds, and this certainly qualified as an emergency.
    The idea of going to him and admitting her father’s mismanagement not only galled, it felt like a betrayal. Like she was tainting her father’s memory. The bishop would be discreet—Sadie had never heard of anyone receiving the money, even though she knew that over the years there must have been times when the fund was needed. She pushed back from the desk and stood. She’d only ask for enough to cover the expenses from the accident. Somehow she’d figure out the rest. She locked up the store and headed for her buggy. It was suppertime, but this couldn’t wait.
    As she put on Apple’s harness, it slipped through her fumbling hands and fell to the ground. She picked up the harness and tried again. Maybe Sol wouldn’t be home. Maybe Aden would be far in the backyard with his bees. Maybe she wouldn’t have to explain too much to the bishop about her father’s mismanagement. Maybe he would write her a