Amish Christmas Twins

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  “Open it. You’ll understand.”

  She unwrapped the first figure wrapped in soft cloth and sucked in a breath. She stared at the shepherd with the lost sheep.

  The first figure Luke had ever carved. He’d refined it a little, but the man—who had originally been Jesus—stared down at that little lamb with a deep, abiding love. Then she ran a finger over every line Luke had carved in agony.

  Her eyes aglow, Elizabeth whispered, “It’s even more beautiful than the ones in Yolanda’s shop. Look at his expression. It just about breaks my heart.” Without looking up, she added, “This set is much too expensive. I can’t take it.”

  “Yes, you can. This is the original set. You’re the reason I carved these figures.”

  “Me?”

  “After I lost you, I had to keep busy, do something to bury my feelings. I carved my heartbreak into every line.”

  Tears sprang to Elizabeth’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “You didn’t hurt me. I hurt myself by being self-centered and hiding my feelings. I could have risked being honest. Unfortunately, I chose pride.”

  “So did I. Not only with you, but also in being angry with God.”

  “We both learned some hard lessons. You much more than me. We may never know why everything happened the way it did, and we can’t go back to change the past. We can only walk forward, trusting God to lead us.”

  “That’s true.” Elizabeth rocked Joy back and forth to stop her fussing. “And we’re going to need a lot of divine guidance to raise these two.”

  “I’ve already prayed about that.”

  “You did?”

  At the admiration in her eyes, Luke’s stomach flipped over. “We’ve taken on a big responsibility. We will—or at least I will—need a lot of help from God.”

  * * *

  “We both will.” Elizabeth smiled down at Joy. “She’s quiet now. Would you be able to hold both of them for a few minutes?”

  “Of course.” Luke sat on the couch, supported Hope’s head with the crook of his elbow, and took Joy in his other arm.

  Elizabeth swallowed hard. A short while ago, her heart ached at the thought he’d be a good father. Now it overflowed with joy. She still couldn’t believe Luke loved her and wanted these two babies. And she still hadn’t opened his Christmas gift.

  She reached into the box and unwrapped the carvings one by one. The longing expressions on their faces clearly showed how deeply Luke had loved her. Still loved her.

  Her eyes stung as she balanced on crutches to arrange the nativity set on the mantel. She inhaled the fragrance of the pine boughs and placed baby Jesus in the manger. The real meaning of Christmas.

  But God had given her so much more.

  Elizabeth settled back on the couch beside Luke. “Shall I take Hope this time?” She reached for her other baby daughter. Luke slid closer and wrapped his free arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders.

  Paper crinkled in his pocket. “I forgot about this. He pulled a tiny gift-wrapped package from his pocket. “I got this for you before I knew about”—he waved a hand in the direction of the nursery—“but now I wish I’d bought two.”

  Elizabeth lifted Hope to her shoulder and awkwardly unwrapped the small package.

  “Ach, Luke,” she breathed, holding the ornament.

  The sparkling baby swayed in the slight breeze, and Elizabeth’s heart almost shattered into a million pieces.

  She’d always miss her unborn child, but God had given her two new babies to love and care for, along with the most wonderful man in the world. And the Lord had started gluing all those shards of her heart back to wholeness.

  “I saw you holding that ornament,” Luke said, “the day I dropped off the nativity sets, so I sent Alan to buy it for you.”

  Luke had sent that Englischer? If only she’d known that two weeks ago. Back then, it had been too agonizing even to touch that glittering baby. Now she considered this ornament a blessing.

  Taking it from her, Luke stood. “I know the perfect place for this.” He headed to the fireplace mantel and hung it from the small central nail holding the pine garland. The baby shone in the light from the dancing flames.

  Elizabeth’s eyes stung. God had turned the pain she’d experienced that day into a thing of beauty. And he’d filled her life with Hope and Joy. And, most important, Luke.

  But best of all, God had forgiven her anger and rebellion, allowing her to have a fresh start. And she and Luke and the babies each had been given their own new beginnings.

  Twins Times Two

  LOREE LOUGH

  Twins Times Two is dedicated to Larry, best friend and reallife

  hero, who suggested I incorporate my maternal

  grandfather’s “I was gored by a bull!” story into this novella. I

  hope you’ll agree that it made a cool opening scene!

  Acknowledgments

  Heartfelt thanks to Jody Teets and residents of Pleasant Valley (New Order Amish community near Oakland, Maryland) for sharing fascinating facts and details about life in their picturesque mountain town; and to Carolyn Greene, who, during one brief brainstorming session, helped me iron the wrinkles from a pivotal scene.

  Chapter 1

  Late September, on the shores of Lake Broadford,

  Oakland, Maryland

  As he had every day for the past three years, the boss waved from the inn’s covered porch. “See you in the morning, Abby!”

  The shortened version of her name never failed to remind her of Ira—more accurately, her failed marriage—but overlooking it was a small price to pay to work for a man who fully accepted her Amish lifestyle. So, as she had every day for the past three years, Abigail smiled and returned the wave.

  The driver’s door hinges squealed, and as he had since her first day at The Broadford, Bill said, “I could fix that with a few squirts of motor oil . . .”

  Although the pickup rattled and creaked and used too much gas, it was all Ira had left her. Unless the squeal got so bad that the door wouldn’t open, she’d keep right on replying with, “Thanks, Bill. Maybe tomorrow.”

  The engine turned over on the first try, and she sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward. Unlike its former owner, the old Chevy had never let her down. Abigail whispered another prayer, because if her New Order Amish community hadn’t relaxed the no-gas-powered vehicles rule, she wouldn’t have been able to get to work. And without the steady paycheck, she’d have to sell the house she’d inherited from her parents.

  Life, she thought, merging with traffic on Route 291, sometimes felt like a row of toppling dominos.

  She cranked down the window and inhaled the thick, peat-like scent of the wood-fired smoke gently puffing from rooftop chimneys of homes scattered on the mountainside. In the distance, sooty clouds hung low over Keysers Ridge. Today, they carried rain, but in a month, maybe less, they’d deliver snow. Beautiful as it looked, draped across the Alleghenies’ peaks and valleys, it would make the trip between The Broadford Inn and Pleasant Valley anything but pleasant.

  Ten minutes. If the rain held off for just ten minutes, she’d get home in time to gather several armloads of dry wood, enough to start a fire in the wood stove. The perfect end to the crisp autumn day.

  Her mood deflated, though, when she spotted Jubal Quinn’s big red mailbox, half a mile up the road. Twice a day, she passed it on her way to and from The Broadford Inn. And twice a day, it raised guilty memories. The accident hadn’t been his fault. She’d known it even then, and yet she’d hurled hateful accusations at him that night in the ER. “A decent person,” Abigail muttered, “would apolo—”

  Movement up ahead captured her attention: Four boys straddled the top rail of Jubal’s paddock gate. She recognized them as Paul and Peter Briskey and their cousins, James and Thomas Hartz—two sets of twins, born to twin mothers—with a knack for attracting trouble. Just beyond the gate, Jubal’s prize bull, Goliath, patrolled the fence line. They’ve earned
the nickname Double Trouble, she thought.

  Abigail slowed the truck, yelled through the open window, “You boys! Get away from there!”

  All four blond heads turned, treated her to impish smirks, and went back to drawing straws. Evidently, they believed, like several Amishmen she could name, that God had created women to submit to men’s orders, not the other way around. An annoying mind-set . . .

  Abigail beeped the horn, and just as she’d hoped, the noise roused the bull’s protective nature. He now paced near Jubal’s dairy cows, grazing in the shade of a maple tree. She honked a second time. If nothing else, maybe the boys would realize that she had no intention of giving up and they would. They stayed put. Didn’t they realize the dangerous situation they’d put themselves in? She leaned on the horn yet again. And again. Would Jubal hear it and come running to put a stop to the racket that might interfere with his cows’ milk production? Abigail hoped so, because if anyone could rein in a foursome of unruly twins and an aggressive animal, it was the man who’d kept her wayward husband out of trouble so many times.

  Then the unthinkable happened....

  Pete dropped into the pasture and, laughing, dashed across the grass. It must have surprised Goliath even more than Abigail, for the bull spun around so fast that his rear hooves scattered dirt in a high arc.

  Pete made it safely to the other side and, breathing hard, said, “Your turn, Paul! I made it—so can you!”

  His brother stood stone-still, watching the bull wag his head from side to side.

  “Jump,” Pete goaded. “Jump!”

  “No!” she yelled, braking the truck. And then she shouted it: “No!”

  Ignoring Abigail, Paul obeyed his twin, and ran. And so did Goliath. The boy had barely cleared the top rail when the animal crashed, headfirst, into a fence post.

  Now Pete and Paul stood side by side, taunting their cousins. “Do not just stand there, fraidycats!” Pete bellowed. “Come on over! He is big and fat and slow. You can outrun him, same as we did!”

  When James and Thomas hesitated, Paul added, “It looks like rain. Better hurry up!”

  “Stop!” Abigail shouted. “Are you trying to get trampled?”

  Like Pete and Paul before him, James dropped and zigzagged across the field, just inches ahead of Goliath’s menacing horns. He scrambled over the fence while the bull circled back, as if he sensed that Thomas, too, intended to intrude upon his turf.

  “All of you are gek,” Thomas said.

  “Yes, they are crazy,” she agreed. “Do not listen to them!”

  He met her eyes, and for an instant, Abigail thought the boy might listen to reason. He glanced across the field, at the spot where the others stood chanting, “Doubting Thomas, Doubting Thomas . . . little girl, little girl!”

  “Pay no attention to them, Thomas. Stay put and . . . and stay safe!” To emphasize the warning, she pointed. “Look at that monster. When they crossed his turf, they made him feel threatened, worked him into a frenzy. Why, he is angry enough to kill!”

  The boy’s blue eyes widened as he took note of the bull, snorting, pawing the ground.

  And yet Thomas shoved off the rail, as his brother and cousins before him had, and ran.

  Unlike the others, Thomas stumbled, fell to his knees . . .

  Goliath tossed his head, widened his stance, and cut loose with a manic, guttural, Rrrumph-rrumph!

  Somehow, she had to distract the bull, lure him away from Thomas. Abigail whistled. Shouted. Clapped her hands. But the animal remained focused on the now-cowering boy. What choice did she have but to climb over the fence?

  The bull, sensing her behind him, jerked around and, facing her now, continued grunting and stomping.

  She whipped off her apron and moved forward, praying with every step that God would see fit to perform a miracle. Because if He didn’t . . .

  * * *

  Jube stopped working and turned an ear toward the door.

  No, he hadn’t been mistaken. Someone was out there, honking like an angry goose. Annoyed, he tossed the hammer onto the workbench and clomped toward the door. If the lazy, crazy fool kept that up, the cows wouldn’t give milk for . . . who knew how long!

  He heard shouting. Frantic boys’ voices, and . . . and a woman?

  Jube raced from the barn to the road. It didn’t take long to figure out what had been going on down there: Double Trouble had decided to try to outrun Goliath. From the looks of things, only three of them had safely made it to the other side. The fourth—Thomas—knelt in a puddle of mud and dung, smack-dab in the middle of the pasture. “When I get hold of that bunch, I intend to—”

  That’s when he saw Abigail Fletcher, black-booted feet planted shoulder width apart, waving her white apron. Brave, he thought, putting herself between the bull and the boy that way. Brave, but stupid: She’d succeeded in diverting the bull’s attention from Thomas . . . to her.

  “Stop that infernal flapping!” Jube roared, leaping over the fence.

  He closed in on the bull and smacked his butt, hard.

  “Whoa!” he commanded. “Whoa!”

  Goliath nearly knocked him over when the animal turned to face him. Instinct compelled Jube to grab him by the horns and hold on tight. “Run, woman!” he bellowed. “You, too, boy! Hightail it out of here!”

  Neither woman nor boy moved. In minutes—seconds, even— Jube would lose what little control he’d gained over Goliath. Desperate to break fear’s hold on their minds and bodies, Jube kicked dirt at them. “I. Said. Go!”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Abigail jerk Thomas to his feet and half-drag him to the fence. He heard two muffled thumps, telling him they’d jumped to safety on the other side. God willing, he’d join them. Soon.

  But the instant he released his grip on the horns, the bull seized his chance for revenge. In one minute, Jube stood on solid ground. In the next, he somersaulted through the air and landed, hard, on the other side of the fence. It took a while to catch his breath, and when he did, he rasped, “Are you all right?”

  Abigail nodded. “I am fine. And you?”

  He’d cracked ribs before and had a feeling he’d done it again. “Where is Thomas?”

  “Right here,” she said, helping the boy to his feet.

  “Are you hurt?” Jube wanted to know.

  By now, the other boys had gathered round. “He looks all right to me,” Pete said. His twin agreed, while James walked a slow circle around his twin. “Well? Answer the man. Are you hurt or not?”

  Thomas, on the verge of tears, squeaked out, “No, I do not think so.”

  Jube rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. “Thank the good Lord.”

  He heard Goliath exhale one last, satisfied snort. Levering himself onto one elbow, he watched the bull join the seemingly oblivious cows clustered in the opposite corner of the paddock. It wasn’t easy, getting to his feet, but he managed it. Fixing an angry glare at each boy in turn, he tried to ignore the ache in his chest and opened his mouth, intent on giving them the scolding of a lifetime.

  Pain stopped him cold.

  “Jubal! You’re . . . you’re bleeding!”

  He looked from the bright red stain on his shirt to her face, and couldn’t decide which touched him most . . .

  . . . the fright in her voice, or the look of genuine concern in her lovely eyes.

  Chapter 2

  Thomas’s heart beat in double time as his father walked back and forth in front of the cookstove. Hands clasped at the small of his back, he stopped, stared at him, at his twin, at his cousins. They’d been in trouble before, but this time? This time they’d gone too far. Why else had the parents gathered, looking more angry than usual?

  “Care to explain,” Ben began, “why you went to Jubal Quinn’s and harassed his bull?”

  Staring at the toes of his boots, Thomas heard his pulse beating in his ears. When none of the others spoke up, he said, “It will not happen again, Daed. You have my word.”

  “That
does not answer my question,” Ben said. “And how many times have your moeder and I heard that, eh?”

  Thomas’s uncle Noah grabbed their jackets from the wooden pegs in the entryway, passed them out, and opened the door. “You boys reek of muck and dung. Wait outside while the four of us pray about what to do with you this time.”

  One by one, the boys shrugged into their coats and filed onto the back porch. As soon as the door clicked shut, Thomas grumbled, “Told you it was a dumb idea.”

  “Yeah, well, who asked you?” his brother said. “Besides, you are the only one who fell down.”

  Thomas, realizing the futility of arguing with them, moved closer to the window. “Be quiet for once, and maybe we can hear their plan.”

  Shoulder to shoulder, they listened.

  “It keeps me up nights,” Priscilla began, “wondering what kind of men they will become if they keep getting into trouble. What if next time, the trouble is truly serious?”

  “I worry about that, too,” Leora agreed. “Sometimes, all I can do is cry.”

  The words hit like a punch to his gut. From this day on, Thomas decided, he’d refuse to go along with the others’ schemes. They’d call him chicken. Sissy. But better that than worrying his aunt and mother to the point of tears, ever again.

  “Now, now,” his father said. “It seems you have forgotten what people called both of you when you were girls.”

  Thomas’s mother’s voice trembled slightly when she said, “They called us terrors.”

  “Yet you grew up, became good wives and mothers . . .”

  “If we are so good,” his aunt said, “why are our boys so bad?”

  In the ensuing silence, the boys began to fidget. “Stand still,” Thomas whispered through clenched teeth, “or they will add snooping to our list of sins!”

  “Remember what turned us around, Leora?”

  “Ach, I will never forget. . . .”

  And then the whispering began. The boys held their breath. Pressed closer to the window. But the silence went on for what seemed like five whole minutes.