The Keeper by Suzanne Woods Fisher Page B

eyebrows, pleased. “I think that qualifies as an invitation.” He turned back to Fern at the kitchen window. “Set another place at the table for supper tonight.”
    Rome waved off the invitation. “I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
    “I’m plenty accustomed to trouble around this place.” She closed the window.
    Amos turned back to Rome. “Don’t pay Fern any mind,” he whispered.
    She opened the window. “I heard that, Amos Lapp!”
    Amos ignored her. That woman could hear a feather fall to the floor! “You come on up to the house when you hear the dinner bell clang. I might not be up to our usual game of chess after dinner, but at least you’ll see the family.”
    Rome wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the kitchen window. “What did you say your housekeeper’s name was?”
    “Fern Graber. From Ohio. Hank found her. She’s only been with us a few days.” Amos let out a deep sigh. “Feels like months.”
    Rome stilled, and an odd look came over his face. Amos noticed, and wondered what he had said to make the Bee Man look uncomfortable, but he had used up all his energy for now. He had to go lie down. “See you tonight, Rome.”

    Rome climbed back on the wagon and picked up the reins. When he looked up, Fern Graber was standing in front of his mule. “I’m not going near the back end with all those bees.”
    He glanced at the hives in the wagon. “They won’t hurt you. Still too cold this morning. They won’t be active for another hour, when the sun is on the hives.”
    She looked as if she didn’t quite believe him, so he stepped down from the wagon and walked over to her. He crossed his arms against his chest. “So, Fern. How did you find me?”
    “Wasn’t easy.”
    “Maybe because I wasn’t asking to be found.”
    “Gehscht weit fatt, hoscht weit heem.” Go far from home and you will have a long way back.
    He exchanged a long look with her. “Es is graad so weit hie wie her.” It’s just as far going as coming. He climbed back up on the wagon. “I’d better get those bees out to the orchards.” He slapped the rein on the mule’s rump and gave a curt nod to Fern as he passed. He tried to look dispassionate as he drove on, but the truth was, seeing her disturbed him. This was why he left Ohio in the first place. He didn’t want any tethers to his past. Why couldn’t she have just let him be?
    Then his attention turned to Amos. The appearance of his friend added to his troubles. Amos’s skin was the color of frostbite, tainted gray, even though it was nearly May. He looked positively wrung out. Yet, still, when he peered into his friend’s weary face, Rome saw echoes of the lighthearted, carefree, and generous man he had once been. Rome wanted Amos to look the way he used to look, when he first met him, brimming with confidence, eager for another year of farming.
    For the last six springs, Rome would wind his way to Windmill Farm to find Amos out in the fields, hanging on to a plow behind a gentle draft horse, or examining his green corn shoots for any signs of pests. Or playing games with his children—Amos was famous for his sense of fun. But maybe this winter had taken a toll on Amos. Maybe his heart was worse off than Rome had heard. Amos looked hopelessly burdened.
    As Rome’s wagon traveled along the path that led to the cherry orchard, he surveyed the weed-choked fields. It stunned him to see how quickly the farm had fallen into disarray. Chickens scratched in the dirt beneath an old maple in the front yard. Next to the barn, Amos’s red windmill turned listlessly in the early morning breeze. Rome shielded his eyes and saw that a blade had broken. It seemed that nature was trying to reclaim the land. As he drove along the road, he passed Amos’s north orchards. Some parts looked so jungly that you needed a machete to chop your way through. Only the well-fed horses and sheep in the pasture looked prosperous.
    Every spring, Rome looked forward to his