A second chance at love. Betrayal disguised as friendship.

Isaac Mast wants a wife to help manage two growing boys and a prosperous carpentry business. When a letter to a neighboring bishop introduces him to a woman almost to perfect to wed, he seizes the chance to end his bachelor life. She's exactly what he needs-grace, beauty, and a quiet, feisty spirit. But, recently widowed, the scars on her heart leave the young mother hesitant to trust again.

Mary Troyer loved once, and suffered betrayal. Slightly unconventional, she now lives for the happiness of her little girls. Pressed by her family to remarry, she reluctantly agrees to meet a man she didn't expect to be everything her first husband wasn't. Strong, a responsible provider, and determined to win her heart. But the same woman who damaged her first marriage is threatening this new, fragile love as well.

Issac will prove that Mary is worth fighting for, but will her heart open too late?

Amish Widow's Second Chance is a sweet romance for readers who enjoy blended families, a touch of angst, and a contemporary Happily Ever After.

CHAPTER ONE
Isaac Mast tried not to wince as his youngest brother Matthew stuck his spoon in the bowl of oatmeal—and the spoon stood up straight. Jacob, plowing through his bowl with the impressive stoicism of a fifteen-year-old, wordlessly passed Matthew the glass pitcher of milk, then shoved a small jar of brown sugar towards him. Isaac said nothing as the boy doctored his breakfast with yet more milk and sugar, stirred, and then made a valiant attempt to eat it.

The spoon clattered to the table.

“I can’t take this anymore,” Matthew exclaimed. “Isaac, when are you going to get a wife?”

Isaac stiffened, dark blue eyes narrowing. “Who’s been talking to you?”

Matthew scowled, staring down at the table. “I hear things. Bishop told Auntie that you need to take a wife and put us all out of our misery.”

“He didn’t say that.”

Jacob snorted. “That’s what you think.”

Matthew rolled his eyes. “Maybe not exactly like that. But Isaac—we need a wife. We can’t keep eating our own cooking. How can I apprentice at Beiler’s and I’m wasting away to nothing?”

Isaac frowned at him, pushing back from the table and rising. “There is more to a woman than cooking.” He paused. “Maybe I can hire some help—”

“Plenty of free help,” Jacob said. “You being such a good catch and all.”

“Take Matthew to Beiler’s, and I’ll see you at the shop,” Isaac growled, stomping out of the kitchen.

He’d done his best in the years since the accident that had killed their parents. He tried to parent in his daed’s manner, which worked less well than it should have. But their home still retained their mamm’s feminine touches, mostly because Isaac refused to change anything. But he knew his brudders were right. Jacob was well into his apprenticeship in their shop and worked hard when he bothered to show up. There was just too much household work to keep up with.

He could not oversee the carpentry business, and tend the kitchen gardens, and feed the chickens, and milk their lone cow, and keep the house tidy and do all the . . . the chores were endless. His auntie helped out as she could—but she had four kinner of her own and a crafting business. Matthew was right, too. He was lean, even for a boy his age, and having just begun his apprenticeship with Beiler, his appetite had increased. But not the quality of the food.

And there was Jacob.

Jacob, with his independent spirit bordering on rebellion. His mulish attitude when working in the shop, as if he wanted to be anywhere else. The men were patient, but no one enjoyed being around a young man who constantly worked with gritted teeth. Isaac didn’t know what to do, especially when his brudder disappeared for hours on end and refused to say where he was going.

Auntie was right. Any number of women in the community would be happy to lend a hand. Single women. Women Isaac had no interest in. Not that they weren’t good followers of Gott. But . . . he just wasn’t interested. He didn’t know what he was looking for in a wife, but he knew Gott hadn’t yet provided it. Isaac prayed for patience, the patience to wait on Gott’s will and endure until the right time came.

May it be soon.

* * *

Isaac dumped the folder onto an already overflowing desk, staring at the mess in disgust. Record keeping was not his talent; he was a carpenter, not an office worker. How could making furniture generate all this paper?

“Did you find the invoice, Isaac?” Joseph asked, sticking his head in the office.

“Nee. It must have gotten up and walked away.”

“Need it. That customer insists they made a cash deposit . . . if we don’t have proof they didn’t, we’ll have to eat the cost.”

Isaac almost kicked the sturdy desk with his toe. “I know.”

Joseph eyed him for a moment. “You need to replace Anke. We didn’t have these issues when she was here.”

Anke, their last receptionist/secretary/bookkeeper, had been worth her weight in gold. And evidently, her husband thought so as well, for after the birth of their first child he’d insisted his wife no longer work in the shop. Isaac couldn’t fault the man. Taking care of a family was a full-time job. And Isaac was grateful the man’s Englisch sensibilities had allowed Isaac to work with Anke unchaperoned. He just wished she’d trained a replacement before she left.

“Do you think if we ask her husband . . .” he began.

Joseph shook his head. “Nee. I hear she’s expecting again, anyway.”

Isaac sighed. One more problem to deal with. “I’ll start asking around. She can’t be the only woman who likes numbers. And . . . paper.” He waved a hand in a vague gesture.

“Ah . . . no, Isaac. I’m sure she isn’t.”

Joseph ducked back out and Isaac contemplated the issue for a moment, then grabbed a pencil and some notebook paper and jotted down a job announcement the bishop could make in church. And if he got desperate, he would post it in the local English help wanted section.

Who was he kidding? He was already desperate.

Shouting drew his attention. Isaac dropped the pencil and jogged out of the office and into the open work area. The warehouse was open plan, and divided into sections, one for each stage of furniture production. There was the usual din of tools and chatter, but Joseph stood by the front door talking to Levi Beiler, their expressions grim.

Isaac increased his pace. Was something wrong with Matthew?

“Isaac,” Levi said as he approached.

Mr. Beiler wasn’t a gregarious man, but he wasn’t a grim either. This was the most stoic Isaac had ever seen him. Isaac inhaled, nostrils flaring as the scent of . . . smoke?

“What happened?” he exclaimed.

Levi leveled a look at him. “I wanted you to hear from me first. Matthew is fine. He’s outside. But I wanted to talk to you first.”

“What did he do?”

“That’s an interesting question.”

“Levi, my life is already too interesting. What did Matthew do?”

“He may have started a small fire.”

“I—” Isaac spoke, stopped. “How do you ‘maybe’ start a small fire?”

“He said the joints were not his.”

“Joints? Marijuana joints!”

Levi grabbed Isaac by the arm as Isaac tried to push past him. There was room for temper because Levi wouldn’t be standing here if there was any serious damage—he’d still be at his shop. And if Matthew was outside, it was because the boy knew he was in Big Trouble.

“Take a minute, Isaac. The boy was ready to fall on his sword. I had to talk him into coming here instead of running away. I told him you were a mature, level-headed man and would appreciate his choice to face up to the consequences of his mistake.”

“Why would you tell him all of that?” Isaac asked hotly. “Now I have to live by it, or make you a liar.”

Levi’s mouth curved in a grim smile. “Ja.”

Isaac whipped the hat off his head, smoothed his hand through his hair, and settled it on again. Took a deep breath and reminded himself that his daed had shown great patience during Isaac’s own childhood and rumspringa.

But Isaac had never smoked marijuana or burned down a shop.

“Tell me again what happened.”

“There was a small fire. When we were investigating the cause, Matthew confessed.”

“How did he set it?”

“He didn’t.” Amusement shone briefly in Levi’s eyes. “Apparently he thought the mere presence of unsmoked joints in his bag meant they could spontaneously combust. I think he misunderstands the nature of how things get set on fire. His explanation was garbled, but something about forest fires and a bear he saw in an English magazine and cigarettes. He made some leaps of logic.”

“Let me see if I understand this...” Isaac blinked as he tried to put his whirring thoughts into some coherent form.

Joseph snorted, then covered the sound with a cough.

“A small fire started in your shop, cause unknown, but my thirteen-year-old brother, so riddled with a guilty conscious and a dearth of misinformation, assumed the unlit joints in his bag were to blame.”

“And confessed,” Joseph added.

Levi nodded curtly. “The boy has character. Don’t know if I would have told the truth at that age.”

“I’m glad you’re able to see the bright side of things,” Isaac said.

“Don’t be too hard on the boy,” Levi said. “He’s a good worker. We all lose our way sometimes and must be corrected.”

Isaac nodded and slipped out into the bright afternoon sunshine. Matthew slumped against the buggy, arms crossed as he stared at his feet.

As he approached, the boy looked up, shoulders straightening as he lowered his arms to his sides.

Like he was facing a firing squad.

Isaac sighed. He remembered facing his daed the same way a time or two, dreading the disappointment and stern lecture following a misdeed.

Remembered his fear of disappointing his daed, his hurt and simmering resentment.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Isaac asked.

Matthew eyed him, then shrugged, glancing at his feet again. “Not really.”

“That wasn’t really a suggestion. I promised Levi I’d listen to you first.”

“Will you promise you won’t pitch a hissy fit?”

Isaac scowled. “Where do you get this kind of language?”

Matthew gave him an impatient look.

“Fine,” Isaac said. “I promise to withhold judgment until you’re done giving me a creative explanation for what was found in your bag.”

“They aren’t mine.”

“I said creative.”

“There’s an English boy apprenticing, too. He asked me to hold them for him cause his mamm has been going through his room lately.”

“There’s a good reason for that, Matthew. You’re aiding his disobedience. I’m disappointed with your decision. You should have said no.”

Matthew’s toe dug into the dirt as he avoided Isaac’s gaze.

Isaac stiffened. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Do you really want to know? Ignorance is bliss.”

The boy was thirteen going on thirty. “Tell me, Matthew.”

His youngest brudder sighed. “The English boy is a friend of Jacob’s. And I think Jacob has been smoking too.”

* * *

Isaac stared at the wooden bowl filled with a tacky, grayish looking mess of... they were supposed to be potatoes. He knew he’d put potatoes in there. He just wasn’t sure what was coming out.

A knock on the door offered a welcome reprieve.

“Come in,” he said, a little more eager than necessary.

Auntie Lizzie walked in, a baby on her hip. She glanced at the bowl, shook her head, and set his cousin down.

“Call Matthew to mind the baby, I’ll help you with this,” Lizzie said.

“You heard about the boys?”

“Ja.” She bumped him to the side with her hip, a move so reminiscent of his mamm that for a moment he couldn’t speak. “I’m sorry, Isaac. I’ll try to help out more.”

Isaac shook his head. “You have a family of your own.”

“You’re my family.”

“You know what I mean, Auntie.”

She sighed, dumping the mess in the trash. “Are there any more potatoes? Good. Get them peeled. What’s in the oven?” She bent down, taking a peek. “Ah, not bad. A good brown color.”

Isaac peeled more potatoes, set them to boiling while his auntie busied herself in the kitchen. Her cheerful presence filled the room. She was younger than his mamm had been, so for a moment Isaac thought about what it would be like to have a wife in the house. Replaced his auntie with a faceless young woman. Sweet tempered and giving, but with a bit of fire. Hard working, industrious. Someone who liked conversation. Someone who could relate to the boys, but also deal with them firmly.

“Did you talk to him yet?” she asked finally. “Jacob.”

“Not yet. He knows a talk is coming.”

As soon as the boy had returned from his afternoon break, seen Matthew talking with Isaac, he’d stopped. Stared.

And avoided Isaac for the rest of the work day. Isaac allowed it, needing time to let his temper settle. He didn’t want to say things he’d regret later. Jacob had to face consequences, had to know his spiraling behavior would lead him nowhere. Isaac just didn’t know if he had the energy or will to show his younger brother the compassion he needed.

“I should find a wife,” he said, the word spilling out of his mouth.

Lizzie froze, then turned. “Oh Isaac, thank Gott.” She hugged him, the wooden spoon dangling from her hand. “I’ll help you. My quilting group meets tomorrow. I know that Sharon has three dochders of age—”

Isaac shook his head. “Nee, Auntie. I know all the women in this community. I don’t think any of them are right for me.” Especially not after his broken engagement with Amelia. He had refused to speak ill of her, and everyone assumed the fault lay with him.

Her eyes widened. “You aren’t thinking of an Englishcher are you?”

Isaac laughed. The horror in her voice... “Of course not.”

She was silent a moment. “Well, you could write to the bishops in a few other communities, ask for introductions.”

Isaac thought about it. “Hmm. That isn’t a bad idea.”

She studied him. “What kind of wife are you wanting?”

“I need a more... mature woman. The boys are a handful. A young girl right out of her mamm’s home might not be the best choice.”

“Hmm. A widow with kinner of her own, maybe. Or an older woman your age who hasn’t married yet. Surely Gott would bless you, though, for taking in a woman with kinner in need of a daed. I know of a few in neighboring communities.”

“I’ll write the bishops,” Isaac said. “And let Gott decide.”

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