Arms of Love by Kelly Long

find you.”
    Joseph sighed inwardly. The Kings lived on the opposite side of Lancaster, away from his home, and perhaps they had been meant by fate’s hand to detain him. He was not sure that he could have borne to see Adam walking alone along the dangerous road and pass him by. As always, his feelings wavered like a giant pendulum in regard to his second son, who looked so much like his own father—with those unusual, all-seeing golden eyes.
    He swallowed when he considered Adam’s offer of “any punishment.” The last time he’d whipped the boy had been years ago, and it had shaken him to his core. He hadn’t wanted to stop, hadn’t wanted the lash to cease hissing against the still starkness of the fallen snow. But he had stopped, gone inside, then went to the bedroom and dropped to his knees, sobbing aloud for what he’d done to his boy.
    “ Sei se gut , will you come?” Martha piped up, breaking into his thoughts, and he nodded. The child smiled, though her face was tearstained, and she moved forward to slip a hand into his. He was jolted by the gesture, by the feel of the tiny fingers curled so trustingly into his palm, and he hauled her up beside him on the seat. Then he turned to look down at the boy. “How old are you, sohn ?” he asked.
    “Eleven this March.” The boy had followed his sister onto the seat with ease.
    Suddenly Joseph remembered Adam at this youngster’s age. He grunted as he took the reins of the wagon with one hand. “A fine age. A fine age to be alive.”
    He ignored the curious look Abram gave him and had to concentrate hard on the road as Martha again placed her hand on his, leaning her slight weight against him. How long had it been since he’d ridden with one of his boys thus? Or with Ellen even? The road became blurry for a few moments.
    They arrived at the King farm and the children scrambled down, leaving Joseph to follow, deep in thought. He saw a small mound of dirt, freshly turned, near the back porch of the house, and decided that Dan had been a child. The thought made him sick to his stomach for some reason. But when he came upon the open grave, it was to find the still, small form of a golden puppy, curled up as if asleep.
    “It’s a dog,” he couldn’t help but exclaim.
    Frau King had come off the porch and heard him speak. “ Ya . ’Tis sorry I am to trouble you, Deacon Wyse, for such a small matter. I didn’t know mei kinner had gone to find you.”
    “It is fine,” he soothed, though his insides churned. “All of Derr Herr’s creatures are valuable.”
    “That’s what I told Abram,” Martha whispered.
    Joseph braced himself for the onslaught of emotion as the child once more trustingly touched his arm, one finger in her mouth.
    “He said it don’t matter, but it do.”
    It don’t matter . . . It does not matter . . . The words began to beat a swirling tattoo in Joseph’s brain, and he had to blink to stop the refrain. Why was he so upset over a dog, over a child’s mere touch?
    “ Ya , it matters,” he heard himself respond. “Now let us pray in silence for Gott’s grace in giving life to—Dan.”
    Joseph removed his hat and bent his head, trying to detach himself from the panicky feeling in his chest. The death of the wee dog seemed to overpower him, oppressing his senses, ’til he thought he might not be able to draw another breath. He raised his head abruptly and jammed his hat on.
    “A gut day to you, and a better tomorrow,” he said as he brushed by Martha, nearly gasping in relief to be out of sight range of the dog’s shiny-coated body. He got up onto the wagon seat and nodded to Frau King while avoiding looking down at the children. He hauled on the reins and turned the horses without looking back.

    Ruth laid the babes in the carved wooden cradle near the tiled fireplace and sat down to look about the room. The “keeping room,” the little Amish girlie, Abigail, called it. A sitting room is what Ruth might have said in her