Ellie had also filled him in on all she was doing to help Sol learn the key managerial duties for the orchard, including selecting the best varieties of saplings for the future replanting to be done late in the summer. She’d also set up meetings to introduce Sol to the local buyers, as well as to contacts at the Bird-in-Hand Farmers Market and Central Market in downtown Lancaster. Thankfully, handling the accounting ledger seemed to come easy for Sol, she’d said, seeming rightfully proud of her husband.

Together, they’re an ideal team, Lyle thought.

Lyle made his way across the yard to visit Daed later that afternoon. Once inside, he removed his gloves, hat, and coat, then sat down on the sofa. “Thought I’d see how you’re doin’,” he said, rubbing his hands together near the heater stove. The January air was even colder than it had been that morning.

“Well, ya know, every day there’s no more news ’bout Evan,” Daed said out of the blue, “is a day for hope. ’Least that’s how I see it.”

“Sometimes hope’s all we’ve got.” Anymore, Lyle felt like he was holding his breath. “You an’ I both know missing in action usually means the worst. I’m sure most of the family believes Evan’s been killed, left behind enemy lines somewhere. But like you, I prefer to believe he’s alive till we hear otherwise.”

Daed leaned forward, his long beard touching his knees. “It could be he’s even in hiding for safety from the enemy.”

Lyle took that in, still feeling heavyhearted. “No matter what, I can always count on your listenin’ ear, Daed.”

His father’s eyes searched his. “There’ll come a day when you and I can’t discuss things any longer, son.” He glanced at the ceiling. “I’ll be gone to Gloryland.”

Nodding slowly, Lyle leaned back and sighed, thankful for each and every day he and his father had together. A wondrous gift, indeed.

Toward the end of January, Ellie took matters into her own hands. She went to talk to George Stewart’s daughter, since she was the one who’d told Dat the price of the land wasn’t negotiable. She asked the young woman politely if the land was still available and was told it was. Then, bravely, she asked for her father’s mailing address in Florida. That night, unbeknown to Dat, she wrote a letter to the man. Even if there was little chance of a reply, she felt she should do this. What do I have to lose?

Dear Mr. Stewart,

You don’t know me, but I spoke with your daughter today about the acreage up for sale. My father, Lyle Hostetler, is an orchardist, and he’s interested in your land. But our family’s had quite a year. . . .