Love Finds You in Sugarcreek, Ohio by Serena B. Miller

hoped the man would be gone before nightfall.

    Of all the scenarios Joe had anticipated when he chose to leave his identity behind in LA, being broke was not one of them.
    For the first time in years, getting ahold of some cash was a major issue. One option was to find temporary work in town. A few days of—what? Waiting tables at Beachy’s Country Chalet? A short-lived construction job?
    Even assuming he could find work, what would he do with Bobby?
    One thing he knew for sure: he needed to make himself invaluable to the Troyer sisters. He hoped that if he kept doing odd jobs for them, they wouldn’t kick him out quite yet. For now, they were his best hope of keeping Bobby fed and sheltered until he could figure out how to survive without being tracked down by the people determined to find him.
    “Are you finished?” Bertha hobbled to the edge of the porch.
    “Yes, ma’am. This is my last nail.” Joe gave it a whack and slid the hammer back into the leather tool belt.
    She peered down at the newly repaired steps. “You know carpentry pretty goot?”
    “My dad liked to build. He taught me the basics.”
    “Ach.” She nudged Bobby with the walker. “Helping your father. That is how a boy learns.”
    Bobby looked up at her with his innocent blue eyes. “Daddy says I’m a good helper-boy.”
    “Da ayya lowb shtinkt,” Bertha said with a smile.
    “Excuse me?” Joe asked.
    “It is an Amish proverb,” Bertha said. “It means, ‘He who praises himself stinks.’” She shrugged. “We try to keep our children from thinking too highly of themselves.”
    “I see.”
    Actually, Joe didn’t. It was his opinion that children needed every drop of confidence they could get. Fortunately, Bobby didn’t seem to have been affected by Bertha’s proverb.
    Her eyes narrowed as she gave Joe an appraising look. “Wouldja mind trimming the yard a bit?”
    “I’d be happy to.”
    She smoothed her hand over Bobby’s hair. “You come with me, boy. Lydia has some toys you will be wanting to see.”
    Bobby handed his father the bag of remaining nails and obediently followed Bertha inside. Just before the screen door closed behind them, Bertha called over her shoulder, “The fence rows could use a few whacks too. The scythe is hanging in the barn.”
    Fencerows? Scythe?
    It had not been his intention to spend the entire day doing odd jobs for the Troyer sisters. Not that he minded helping them out; they had been kind to him and he was grateful, but he needed to be finding a way out of this situation. And considering the suspicious nature of their niece, he needed to find a way out fast.
    He considered various possible plans as he carried the hand tools back to the barn and put them away. None of the ideas worked for him.
    It was quiet in the barn—and peaceful. It was also the first time he had been away from Bobby since they had begun their journey. He felt guilty over the momentary relief he felt at this short breather from his son and the constant little-boy questions. He loved Bobby desperately and completely, but the stillness inside that old barn was healing.
    Dust motes danced in a slant of sunlight inside the barn. He remembered his father once saying that God was aware of everything—each speck of dust and grain of sand—even down to knowing the number of hairs on his head.
    The silence and dignity of the old Amish barn enveloped him. It almost felt as though he had entered the sanctuary of a cathedral. He suddenly felt himself acutely missing the comfort of his father’s faith.
    Although he had taught Bobby to say grace before meals, personal, heartfelt prayer was something to which he had allowed himself to become a stranger. Formerly wrapped up in his hectic schedule, there had never seemed to be enough time. And after Grace’s death, he had become so angry and hurt that he had rebelled against the very thought of a loving God who would allow such a tragedy to occur.
    He knew better. Much better. He knew