Plain Admirer Page 4

  Only, it left her without even the faintest prospect for romance. There was no one in Hope Springs that made her heart beat faster.

  She closed her book and laid it aside. “Salome, do not scold your sister for speaking the truth.”

  Joann wanted to know love, to marry and to have children, but if it wasn’t to be, she would try hard to accept her lot in life. When did a woman know it was time to give up that dream?

  Salome scowled at Louise. Louise stuck her tongue out at her sister and then ran from the room.

  Salome turned back to Joann. “It was still a rude thing to say. Never mind that baby. Come fishing with us.”

  Joann shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “But your new fishing pole came. Don’t you want to try it out?”

  Joann sat up. “It came? When?”

  “The mailman brought it yesterday.”

  “Where is it?”

  Salome pointed to the cot in the corner of the upstairs bedroom. “I put it on your bed.”

  “It’s not there now. It wasn’t there when I went to bed last night.”

  “Maybe Louise was playing with it. I told her not to,” Salome said, shaking her head.

  Joann cringed at the thought. If the younger girl had damaged it, she wouldn’t be able to get her money back. She’d foolishly spent an entire week’s wages on the graphite rod and open-faced spinning reel combo. In hindsight, it was much too expensive.

  Oh, but when she’d tried it out in the store, it cast like a dream. Maybe she should keep it.

  No, she gave herself a firm mental shake. She couldn’t afford it now. If her hours were cut, she would have to make sacrifices in order to keep putting money in her savings account. Otherwise, she faced a lifetime of moving her cot from one household to another.

  Salome dropped to the floor to check under the other beds in the room. Finally, she found it. “Here it is.”

  Joann breathed a sigh of relief when Salome emerged with the long package intact. Taking the box from her niece, Joann checked it over. It bore several big dents.

  “Did she break it?”

  “I don’t think so.” Joann carefully opened one end and slid out the slender black pole. The cork handle felt as light and balanced in her hand now as it had in the sporting goods store. She unpacked the reel. It was in perfect shape.

  From the bottom of the stairs, Joann heard her brother call out, “Salome, are you coming?”

  “Yes, Papa. Joann is coming, too.” She ran out the door and down the stairs.

  Joann stared at the pole in her hands. Why not try it out once before sending it back? What could it hurt? It might be ages before she had a chance to use such a fine piece of fishing equipment again. She bundled it into the box, grabbed her small tackle box from beneath her cot, exchanged her white prayer kapp for a large black kerchief to cover her head and hurried after her niece.

  On her way out of the house, Joann paused long enough to grab an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table. Outside, she joined the others in the back of the farm wagon for the jolting ride along the rough track to a local lake. It wasn’t far. Joann walked there frequently, but she enjoyed sitting in the back of the wagon with the giggling and excited girls at her side.

  The land surrounding the small lake belonged to an Amish neighbor who didn’t care if people fished there as long as they left his sheep alone and closed the gates behind them. Joann had been coming to the lake since she was a child. Joseph Shetler, the landowner, had been friends with her grandfather. The two men often took a lonely little girl fishing with them. Occasionally, Joann still caught sight of Joseph, but he avoided people these days. She never knew why he had become a recluse. He still came to church services, but he didn’t stay to visit or to eat.

  The wagon bounced and rumbled along the faint wheel tracks that led to the south end of the lake. It had once been a stone quarry that had filled with water nearly a century ago. When they reached the shore, everyone piled out of the back of the wagon and spread out along the water’s edge. The remote area was Joann’s favorite fishing place. She knew exactly where the largemouth bass, bluegill and walleye hung out.

  She’d spent many happy hours fishing here peacefully by herself, but each time served to remind her of the wonderful days she’d spent there with her grandfather. He had been the one person who always had time for her.

  If she closed her eyes, she could still hear his craggy voice. “See that old log sticking out of the bank, child? There’s a big bass right at the bottom end of it. Mr. Bass likes to hole up in the roots and dart out to catch unwary minnows swimming by. Make your cast right in front of that log. You’ll get him.”

  Joann smiled at the memory. It had taken many tries and more than a few lost lures before she gained the skill needed to put her hook right where she wanted it. Her daadi had been right. She caught a dandy at that spot.

  She was always happy when she came to the lake. She kept a small journal in the bottom of her tackle box and made notes about of all her trips. She used the information on weather conditions, insect activity and water temperature to compile information that made her a better angler.

  Normally, she released the fish if she was alone. Today, she would keep what she caught and the family would enjoy a fish fry for supper.

  When everyone was spreading out along the lakeshore, she said, “I haven’t had much success fishing on this end of the lake. The east shore is a better place.”

  “Looks goot to me.” Hebron threw in his line.

  Joann shrugged and headed away from the lake on a narrow path that wound through the trees for a few hundred yards before it came out at the shore again near a small waterfall. This was where the fishing was the best.

  Carefully, she unpacked her pole and assembled it. From her small tackle box, she selected a lure that she knew the walleye would find irresistible and began to cast her line. Within half an hour, she had five nice fish on her stringer.

  She pulled the apple from her pocket and bit into the firm, sweet flesh. The sounds of her crunch and of the waterfall covered approaching footsteps. She didn’t know she wasn’t alone until her brother said, “Joann, I’ve been calling for you.”

  Startled, she turned to face him. “I’m sorry, Hebron, I didn’t hear you. What do you need?”

  “We’re getting ready to go. The fish aren’t biting today.”

  “I’ve been catching lots of walleye. Have you tried a bottom-bouncing lure?” She set her apple beside her on a fallen tree trunk and opened her tackle box to find him a lure like the one she was using.

  He waved aside her offering. “I’ve tried everything. What’s that you’re fishing with?”

  “An orange hopper.”

  “I meant the rod. Where did you get that?”

  She extended her pole for him to see. “I ordered it from the sporting goods store in Millersburg.”

  “Mighty fancy pole, sister.”

  “It works wonderfully well. Try casting it, you’ll see. You’ll be wanting one next.”

  “My old rod and reel are good enough.”

  She turned back to the water. “Okay, but I’m the one catching fish.”

  “Be careful of pride, sister. The Englisch world has many things to tempt us away from the true path.”

  “I hardly think a new fishing pole will make my faith weaker.”

  “May I see it?” he asked.

  “Of course. You can cast twice as far with it as your old one. Give it a try.” She handed it over, delighted to show him how well-made it was and how nicely it worked. She picked up her apple and took a second bite.

  Hebron turned her rod first one way and then another. “A flashy thing such as this has no place in your life, sister.”

  “It does if I catch fish for you and your children to eat.”

  “Are you saying I can’t provide for my family?”

  “Of course not.” She dropped her gaze. Hebron was upset. She could tell by the steely tone creepi
ng into his voice.

  He balanced the rod in his hand, nodded and drew back his arm to cast.

  Eagerly, she sought his opinion. “Isn’t it light? It really is better than any pole I’ve owned.”

  He scowled at her, and then threw the rod with all his might. Her beautiful pole spun through the air and splashed into the lake.

  “No!” she cried in dismay and took a step toward the water. The apple dropped from her hand.

  “False pride goes before a fall, sister,” Hebron said. “I would be remiss in my duty if I allowed you to keep such a fancy Englisch toy. Already, I see how it has turned your mind from the humble ways an Amish woman should follow. Now, come. We are going home. I will carry your fish. It looks as if God has given us enough to feed everyone after all.” With her stringer of fish in his hand, he headed toward the wagon.

  She stood for a moment watching the widening ripples where her rod had vanished. Now she had nothing to return and nothing to show for her hard-earned money. Like the chance to own a home, her beautiful rod was gone.

  Tears pricked against the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon on Saturday, Roman took off his sling and began the stretching exercises he did every day, four times a day. His arm remained a dead lump, but he could feel an itching sensation near the ball of his shoulder that the doctors assured him was a good sign. As he rubbed the area, the uncomfortable sensation of needles and pins proved that the nerves were beginning to recover. He had been struck by a pickup truck while standing at the side of his buggy on a dark road just before Christmas. The impact sent him flying through the air and tore the nerves in his left shoulder, leaving him with almost complete paralysis in that arm.

  Dr. White and Dr. Zook, the local physicians he saw, were hopeful that he would regain more use of his arm, but they cautioned him that the process would be slow. Unlike a broken bone that would mend in six or eight weeks, the torn nerves in his arm would take months to repair themselves. Even then, there was no guarantee that he would regain the full use of his extremity.

  Roman tried to be optimistic. He would work for his uncle until his arm was better. When it was, he would return to working with his father in the sawmill as he had always planned. He held tight to that hope. He had to.

  The outside door opened and his brother Andrew came in. He held a pair of fishing poles in one hand. “I’m meeting some of the fellows down at the river for some fishing and a campout. Do you want to come along?”

  Roman put his sling back on. He didn’t like people seeing the way his arm hung useless at his side. “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on. It will do you good. You used to like fishing.”

  “I like hunting, I like baseball, I like splitting wood with an ax, but I can’t do any of those things. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve only got one good arm.” The bitterness he tried so hard to disguise leaked out in his voice.

  “You don’t need to bite my head off.” Andrew turned away and started to leave.

  “Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  Andrew’s eyes brightened. “Then you’ll come? There’s no reason you can’t fish with one arm.”

  “I’m not sure I can even cast a line. Besides, how would I reel in a fish? That takes two hands.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that and I have an idea. It only takes one hand to crank a reel. What you need is a way to hold the rod while you crank. I think this might work.”

  Andrew opened his coat to reveal a length of plastic pipe hooked to a wide belt and tied down with a strap around his leg.

  Roman frowned. “What’s that?”

  “A rod holder. You cast your line and then put the handle of your pole in this. The inside of the pipe is lined with foam to help hold the rod steady. This way it won’t twist while you’re cranking. See? I fixed it at an angle to keep the tip of the rod up. All you have to do is step forward or backward to keep tension on the line.”

  Roman looked at the rig in amazement. “You thought of this yourself?”

  It was a clever idea. It might look funny, but the length of pipe held the rod at the perfect angle. “It just might work, little brother,” Roman said.

  “I know it will. With a little practice, you’ll be as good as ever. Come with us.” Andrew unbuckled his invention and held it out.

  Roman took it, but then laid it on the counter. “Maybe next time.”

  He didn’t want his first efforts to be in front of Andrew and his friends. A child could cast a fishing pole but Roman wasn’t sure he could.

  Andrew nodded, clearly disappointed. “Yeah, next time,” he said.

  He left Roman’s pole leaning in the corner and walked out. After his brother was gone, Roman stood staring at the rod holder. He picked up his brother’s invention. Surely, he could master a simple thing like fishing, even with one arm.

  There was only one way to find out. After checking to make sure no one was about, he gathered his rod and left the house. Since he knew Andrew and his friends were going to the river, Roman set off across the cornfield. Beyond the edge of his father’s property lay a pasture belonging to Joseph Shetler. Wooly Joe, as he was called, was an elderly and reclusive Amish man who raised sheep.

  It took Roman half an hour to reach his destination. As he approached the lake, he saw Carl King, Woolly Joe’s hired man, driving the sheep toward the barns. Roman knew Carl wasn’t a member of the Amish faith. Like his boss, he kept to himself. The two occasionally came to the mill for wood for fencing or shed repairs, but Roman didn’t know them well. When Carl was out of sight, Roman had the lake to himself.

  He glanced around once more to make sure he was unobserved. In the fading twilight, he faced the glasslike water that reflected the gold and pink sunset. Lifting his rod, he depressed the button on the reel and cast it out. He hadn’t bothered adding bait. He wasn’t ready to land a fish and get it off the hook with one hand. Not yet.

  He slipped the handle of his rod into the holder his brother had made. It was then he discovered that actually reeling it in wasn’t as difficult as he had feared. When he had all the line cranked in, he pulled the rod from the holder and flipped another cast.

  This wasn’t so bad. Maybe he should have brought some bait. He’d only reeled in a few feet when he felt his hook snag and hang up. He yanked, and it moved a few feet but it wouldn’t come free. What was he snagged on?

  Chapter Four

  Roman discovered just how hard it was to crank his rod with something on the other end. It wasn’t a fish, just deadweight. Suddenly, it gave a little more. He half hoped the line would break, but it held. Whatever snagged his hook was being pulled across the bottom of the lake. When he finally managed to wrestle it in, he stared at his prize in amazement. It was someone’s fishing pole.

  When he stepped down to the water’s edge, he noticed a half-eaten apple bobbing at the shoreline. There were fresh footprints in the mud at the edge of the water, too. He’d stumbled upon someone’s fishing spot, and they hadn’t been gone more than an hour or two.

  It was easy to tell that the pole hadn’t been in the water long, either. There wasn’t a speck of rust on the beautiful spinning reel. The rod and handle were smooth and free of slime.

  Whoever had lost the nice tackle had done so recently. Had Carl been fishing before Roman showed up? Was this his pole? It wasn’t a run-of-the-mill fishing pole. This was an expensive piece of equipment. Far better than the one Roman owned.

  He’d found it. Should he keep it?

  He carried his prize to a fallen tree and sat down. It didn’t seem right to keep such a high-priced rod and reel. How had it come to be in the lake? Maybe the unfortunate angler had hooked a fish big enough to pull his unattended gear into the water. Whatever happened, Roman was sure the unknown fisherman regretted the loss. He certainly would.

  He debated what to do. If he left it here, would the owner return to fish at this sp
ot, or would another angler chance upon it?

  He decided on a course of action. From his pocket, he pulled the pencil and small notebook he normally carried to jot down wood measurements. Keeping it handy was a habit.

  He wrote: Fished this nice pole from the lake. Take it if it’s yours or you know who owns it.

  That should suffice. He left the pole leaning against the log and weighted his note down with a stone. If the owner returned, it would be here for him. He’d done the right thing. He would check back later in the week. If the rod was still here, then the good Lord wanted him to have it.

  Gathering up his old pole, Roman tucked it under his arm and headed for home, content that he’d be able to enjoy an evening of fishing with his brother in the future without embarrassment. At least one thing in his life was looking up. Hopefully, his new job would be just as easy to master.

  * * *

  Joann followed her sister-in-law and her nieces into the home of Eli Imhoff on Sunday morning. She took her place among the unmarried women on the long wooden benches arranged in two rows down the length of the living room. Her cousin, Sally Yoder, sat down beside her.

  Sally was a pretty girl with bright red hair, fair skin and a dusting of freckles across her nose. While many thought she was too forward and outspoken, Joann considered her a dear friend. She often wished she could be more like her outgoing cousin. Just behind Sally came Sarah and Levi with Levi’s younger sister, Grace. Sarah sat up front with the married women. Grace took a seat on the other side of Joann. Levi crossed the aisle to sit with the men.

  Joann’s eyes were drawn to the benches near the back on the men’s side where the single men and boys sat. She didn’t see Roman.

  “Are you looking for someone?” Grace asked.

  Joann quickly faced the front of the room. “No one special.”

  “Is Ben Lapp back there?” Sally asked with studied indifference. She picked up a songbook and opened it.

  Joann wasn’t fooled. Sally was head over heels for the handsome young farmer. Ben was the only one who didn’t seem to know it.