A quick pull snapped the weakened point where the metal clip had worn a groove across the leather. “Acht,” Yost groaned. “Now, I’ll never get back in time for the chores.” Running into the milk house, Yost found a roll of wire and large pliers. Returning to the waiting horse, he patched the broken leather with a wire hook and tightened the rest of the straps with care. Leading his horse outside, Yost blinked in the bright Saturday afternoon sun and pulled his straw hat over his forehead. The horse stood unmoving as Yost fastened the tugs and threw the lines into the buggy. Climbing in, he hollered, “Get-up there,” and the horse plodded out of the driveway. Yost settled into the buggy seat and pushed back his hat, his brow troubled. Were even half the things true which he kept hearing about Teresa? If they were, they were still hard to believe. Yet, Mose’s boy, Amos, was not one to make up stories. If he said Deacon Ray’s son, James, was driving the Englisha girl to the hymn singings, then it must be true.
