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shirts. And I haven’t spoken to Rudy yet.” She had contributions from the Yoders, Nissleys, Chupps, Yutzys, Mullets, Troyers, and now the Gingeriches. Even Willem and Widower Samuels had found something to donate. Her mother’s scraps would fill in many gaps.
    “Do you really think Rudy will have something you can use?” Ruthanna stroked her stomach. “Most of his clothes look ready for the rag pile as it is.”
    “I know. I ought to make him a shirt.”
    “He’s sweet on you. You know that, right?”
    Abbie bristled. “I most certainly do not. Where do you get such nonsense?”
    “I see the way his eyes follow you when everyone is together.”
    “Without church services, that hardly ever happens. You’re imagining things.”
    “Would it be so bad if he were? Willem is not exactly…”
    “Willem is Willem.”
    “Right.” Ruthanna cleared her throat. “Are you sure you don’t want a cup of kaffi ?”
    “Positive. I’m perspiring as it is, and I still need to take eggs and cheese to some of the other families of the settlement.”
    Ruthanna breathed in and out slowly. “Do you think we’ll ever stop calling it that?”
    “Calling it what?”
    “The settlement. Nobody at home in Pennsylvania or Ohio uses that word.”
    “Because they are all in established districts, with ministers.”
    “That’s what I mean,” Ruthanna said. “If no minister ever comes, we’ll never be more than a settlement.”
    Abbie stood. “I am far too busy to let such doubts into my mind, and I suggest you banish them as well. You have a baby to get ready for!”
    Ruthanna received the kiss her friend offered her cheek and watched as Abbie skittered across the cabin and out the front door. Last year’s failed crop. A horrific winter. Spring hail. Summer drought. Yet Abigail Weaver believed.

    Rudy Stutzman leaned on a fence post and wiped his eyes against his shoulder to contain the dripping sweat. Even when he came out to work in his fields at first light, long before the sun slashed the sky with full-fledged rays, he was drenched in his own perspiration before breakfast. Indiana summers were hot, but mature oaks and elms dotted the countryside, and creeks and rivers ran with as much cool water as a man could ask for. Here Rudy reminded himself to swallow his spit because drinking water was scarce and he had the animals to think of—never mind sufficient water to irrigate.
    After the hail, Rudy had dutifully begun turning his soil again, inch by backbreaking inch. Not all of it. He did not have seed for a second planting even for half of his acres—not even a third. He only turned as much earth as he needed for sparse rows he could afford. Without any delusions that he would have enough crop to generate cash in the market, he settled for hoping for enough wheat to grind and mill. If the Weaver women were going to continue to bake his bread, he ought at least to contribute grain to the process. He had not intended to be anyone’s charity case when he came to this land he could only describe as desolate. Unyielding. Everthirsty. Stingy. Yes, desolate.
    Rudy wanted to throw off his hat, stick his head in a bucket of cold water, and gulp freely. And when he pulled it out again, he wanted to see the rolling green hills of Indiana, the smile of his mother’s face, fresh clean sheets on his bed. He still had the voucher for a train ticket that he bought the morning when Abbie Weaver pleaded with him not to leave. Alone in the evenings, he sometimes took it out of its envelope and fingered the edges.
    She still stopped him from going. If he left now, he would never see her sweet face again. In all the weeks since that day, he had heard nothing new about what was between Abbie Weaver and Willem Peters. Perhaps it was not as much as many people presumed.

Let me help you, Eber.” Ruthanna reached for the metal pail. Eber grunted and turned away from her without releasing his grip on the handle. “Do you think I cannot