But not the barn. His father had run in to save the animals and his mother had run inside to save her husband.
Or so that was the story he’d heard.
He walked the perimeters of the gutted, jagged building, amazed to see the pink running roses his mother had loved still growing against what was left of the barn.
Placing his hat firmly back on his shaggy hair, Josiah hurried toward the small wooden bridge someone had built over the meandering stream and crossed the pasture toward the Bawell house. Taking in deep breaths of the crisp early autumn air, he hoped coming back to Campton Creek had been the right thing to do. He wanted to start fresh, but he couldn’t do that in the place where he and his sister had been born and raised. Better to fix the place up and sell it so he could finally be free.
Soon he was on the big wraparound porch, the carpenter in him admiring this fine house. He knocked firmly on the solid oak door and waited.
And then he heard the sound of a baby crying.
Was one of the widows a mother?
The door opened and an older woman dressed in brown and wearing a white apron, her kapp pinned precisely over her gray hair, nodded to him. “Gut day. The shop isn’t open yet. If you’d like to wait around by the door—”
“Hello, ma’am,” he said, nodding back. “I’m your new neighbor over at the Fisher place. Josiah Fisher. I’m just letting you know I’ll be around doing some work and I also...”
He stopped when another woman appeared at the door, holding a baby.
Josiah took in the woman. Pretty and fresh-faced, she had gray eyes full of questions and hair that shined a rich golden brown. She wore a light blue dress with a crisp white apron. His gaze moved from her to the baby. The child’s eyes were open and she seemed to be smiling.
Josiah stepped back, shock and joy piercing his soul. “Is that your child?”
The young woman looked confused and frightened. Giving the older woman a long stare, she finally came back to him. “Neh, she is not my child.”
“Why do you ask?” the older woman said, her shrewd gaze moving over Josiah.
He didn’t want to scare the women but he had to know.
“Her bonnet,” he said, emotion welling in his throat. “My younger sister, Josie, had a bonnet like that one. Our mamm knitted it special for her but never let her wear it much—not plain enough for our daed.”
He gave the baby another glance that brought on an uncomfortable silence. “I don’t mean to stare, but she looks like my sister, same hair color and same eyes.”
The woman holding the baby took a step back, something akin to fear and dread in her eyes.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Josiah said. “It’s just that my sister...has been missing for a while now and I’d gotten information that she could be in this area. Seeing the bobbeli wearing that little bonnet brought back memories.”
The old woman opened the door wide, her eyes filling with recognition. “You’re that Josiah. Joe they called you sometimes. Your parents were Abram and Sarah Fisher? Used to live across the stream?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Josiah lowered his head. “They died in the barn fire ten years ago. Josie was nine and I had just turned eighteen.”
Glancing toward the old place, he went on. “I had left to help some relatives in Ohio when I got word of what had happened. I came home and took care of Josie. We moved to Ohio to be near kin but Josie left Ohio a couple years ago during her rumspringa.”
The women looked at each other and then back to him, sympathy in their eyes.
“Kumm,” the woman holding the door said. “We will talk about this.”
Josiah removed his hat and entered the sunny, warm house and inhaled the homey smells of coffee, bacon and biscuits, his heart bursting with an emotion he’d long ago buried and forgotten.
This house held hope.
Maybe God hadn’t sent him here to rebuild the homestead.
Maybe God had nudged him back to Lancaster County to find his missing sister.
“I’m Naomi Bawell and this is my daughter-in-law, Raesha,” Naomi said, guiding Josiah Fisher into the kitchen. “We have fresh coffee and some bacon and biscuits. Are you hungry?”
Josiah noted how she pronounced her name as Nah-oh-may. It rang lyrical inside his head. Naomi’s hair shined a grayish white but she had eyes of steel.
Josiah’s nostrils flared and his stomach growled. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“No bother,” Naomi said. “Have a seat at the table and we will bring you food.”
Josiah nodded. “Denke.”
He kept glancing at the young woman who held the bobbeli so close. She averted her eyes and pressed the baby tight with one arm while she served him coffee with her free hand.
Soon Josiah had a plate loaded with two fluffy biscuits and three crisp strips of bacon in front of him. But he couldn’t take a bite until he knew the truth.
“You said the babe is not yours?”
The room went still. Raesha Bawell’s pretty face paled to a porcelain white. She sat down across the table from him, her eyes on the now-sleeping baby in her arms.
“We found her on our porch night before last,” she said, her tone low and calm, her gray eyes stormy with emotion. And resolve.
Josiah’s heart beat too fast. He took in a breath. “Found her?”
Naomi nodded. “Ja. Someone left her in a basket with a few supplies and a note. We got her all fed and cleaned up and we called in the bishop this morning. He agreed she could stay here for a few days to see if her mother returns. If that doesn’t happen, we might need to bring in the authorities. We can’t harbor a baby that might not be Amish.”
“Josie—my sister—is still Amish. She has just lost her way.”
Raesha’s head came up, her gaze full of determination. “Eat your food, Mr. Fisher. It’s growing cold.”
Josiah bit into a biscuit, his stomach roiling but hunger overtaking him. Then he took a sip of the strong coffee. He knew they were waiting for him to say what was on all of their minds.
“The bonnet,” he finally said. “Could I take a look at it?”
Raesha glanced at her mother-in-law. Naomi nodded. Carefully, she lifted the dainty little knit cap from the baby’s head and handed it over to Josiah. Then she rubbed her fingers through the baby’s dark curls, her eyes full of sweet joy.
Josiah’s heart did something odd. It slipped and stopped, then took off beating again. This woman holding that baby—it was a picture he would always remember. Raesha looked up and into his eyes. The warmth from the baby’s head was still on the soft threads of the little bonnet. He clutched the soft, warm fabric while the woman holding the baby watched him in a calm, accepting way.
Then he glanced down at the pink bonnet, his eyes misting when he saw what he’d been looking for. “There,” he said, a catch of emotion clogging his throat. “My mamm stitched my sister’s initials in the tiny cap. DJF. Deidre Josephine Fisher. She did the same with all of our clothes but never made a big deal out of it in front of others since our father did not