Rebecca’s expression was innocent, but she couldn’t hide the light of amusement in her vivid blue eyes.
“From scraps,” she continued. “And I stuffed them with horse corn. So they aren’t really beanbags.”
“Corn bags!” Amelia giggled. “You have to play, Dat. It’s fun. You count, and you try to throw the bags into the coal-ander.”
“Colander.” Rebecca returned her attention to Caleb. “It’s educational. To teach the little ones to count in English. Mam has the same game at the school. The children love it.”
Caleb’s mouth tightened, and he grunted a reluctant assent. “If the toy is made and not bought, I suppose—”
“You try, Dat,” Amelia urged. “Rebecca can do it. It’s really hard to get them in the coal...colander.” She pushed an orange bag into his hand. “And you have to count,” she added in Deitsch. “In English!”
“I don’t have time to play with you now,” Caleb hedged. “The rabbits need—”
“We fed the bunnies,” Amelia said. “And gave them water.”
“And fresh straw,” Rebecca added. She moved to the stove and poured a mug of coffee. “But maybe you’re tired after such a long day at the shop.” She raised a russet eyebrow. “Sugar and cream?”
Caleb shook his head. “Black.”
“My father always liked his coffee black, too,” Rebecca murmured, “but I like mine with sugar and cream.” She held out the coffee. “I just made it fresh.”
“Please, Dat,” Amelia begged, tugging on his arm. “Just one game.”
His gaze met his daughter’s, and his resolve to have none of this silliness melted. Such a little thing to bring a smile to her face, he rationalized...and he had been away from her all day. “Three throws,” he agreed, “but then—”
“Yay!” Amelia cried. “Dat’s going to try.”
“You have to stand back by the window,” Rebecca instructed. “Underhand works better.”
With a sigh, Caleb took to the starting point and tossed all three beanbags into the colander on the first try, one after another.
“Gut, Dat!” Amelia hopped from one foot to the other, wriggling with joy. “But you forgot to count. Now my turn. You take turns.” She gathered up the beanbags and moved back about three feet. “One...zwei...three!” She burst into giggles as she successfully got one of the three into the target.
“A tie,” Rebecca proclaimed, and when he looked at her in surprise, she said, “Amelia gets a handicap.” She shrugged and gave a wry smile. “Both on the English and on her aim.” Rebecca stepped to a spot near the utility room door, a little farther from the colander than he stood, and lobbed all of the bags in. She didn’t forget to count in English.
“Rebecca wins!” Amelia declared. “She beat you, Dat. You forgot to count.”
Caleb grimaced. “I did, didn’t I?”
Rebecca nodded. “You did.”
“The lamb’s tail,” Amelia supplied and giggled again.
“Comes last,” Rebecca finished for her.
He chuckled and took a sip of his coffee. It was good and strong, the way he liked it. But there was something extra. He sniffed the mug. Had Rebecca added something? “Vanilla?” he asked.
“Just a smidgen,” Rebecca admitted. “My father liked his that way.”
Caleb nodded and took another sip. “Not bad,” he pronounced, and then said, “Since I’m new at this corn-bag tossing, I think I deserve a rematch.”
“The champion sits out,” Rebecca explained merrily. “So you have to play Amelia.”
Caleb groaned. “Why do I think that there’s no way I can win this?”
“I go first,” Amelia said, scooping up the bag. “Eins.” She tossed the first.
“One,” Caleb corrected. “You have to say it in English, remember?”
“Two! Drei!” she squealed, throwing the third.
“Three,” he said. “One, two, three.”
“I got them all in,” Amelia said. “All drei.”
“She did,” Rebecca said. “All three in. That will be hard to beat, Caleb.”
He pretended to be worried, making a show of staring at the colander and pacing off the distance backward. Amelia giggled. “Shh,” he said. “I’m concentrating here.” When he got back to his spot by the window, he spun around, turning his back to them and tossed the first beanbag over his shoulder. It fell short, and Amelia clapped her hands and laughed.
“You forgot to count again,” she reminded him.
Caleb clapped one hand to his cheeks in mock dismay. “Can I try again?”
“Two more,” Amelia agreed, “and then it’s my turn again.”
He spun back around and closed his eyes. “Two!” he declared and let it fly.
There was a plop and a shocked gasp. When Caleb opened his eyes, it was to see Martha Coblentz—the other preacher’s wife—standing in the doorway that opened to the utility room, her hands full, her mouth opening and closing like a beached fish.
Well, it should be, Caleb thought as familiar heat washed over his neck and face. The beanbag had landed on Martha’s head and appeared to be lodged in her prayer kapp. The shame he felt at being caught in the midst of such childish play was almost as great as his overwhelming urge to laugh. “I’m sorry,” he exclaimed, covering his amusement with a choking cough. “It was a game. My daughter... We... I was teaching her English...counting...”
Martha drew herself to her full height and puffed up like a hen fluffing her feathers. The beanbag dislodged, bounced off her nose and landed on the floor. “Well, I never!” she said as her gaze raked the kitchen, taking in Rebecca, the colander, the biscuits on the stove and the pumpkin lollipop on the table. Martha sniffed and sent the beanbag scooting across the clean kitchen floor with the toe of one sensible, black-leather shoe. “Hardly what I expected to find here.” Her lips pursed into a thin, lard-colored line. “Thought you’d want something hot...for your supper.”
Caleb realized that Martha wasn’t alone. A younger woman—Martha and Reuben’s daughter, Doris, Dorothy, something like that—stood behind her, her arms full of covered dishes. She shifted from side to side, craning her thin neck to see past her mother.
“Come in,” Caleb said. “Please. Have coffee.”
“Aunt Martha. Dorcas.” Rebecca, not seeming to be the least bit unsettled by their arrival, smiled warmly and motioned to them. “I know you have time for coffee.”
“Your mother said you were only here while Preacher Caleb was at the shop,” Martha said. “I didn’t expect to find such goings-on.”
“We came to bring you stuffed beef heart.” Dorcas offered him a huge smile. One of her front teeth was missing, making the tall, thin girl even plainer. “And liver dumplings.” The young woman had a slight lisp.
Caleb hated liver only a little less than beef heart. He swallowed the lump in his throat and silently chided himself for being so uncharitable to two of his flock, especially Dorcas, so obedient and modestly dressed. He had a long way to go to live up to his new position as preacher for this congregation.
“And molasses shoofly pie,” Martha added proudly, holding it up for his approval. “Dorcas made it herself, just for you.” She strode to the table,