Amish Christmas Twins

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  The door opened with a whoosh, startling the boys, and they plowed into one another. Ben waved them inside, ordered them to sit at the table.

  “As we see it,” Noah began, “you boys have too much time on your hands. Time that you waste, thinking up ways to get into trouble. You behave like little children, selfish and concerned only with yourselves. This must stop. Now.”

  “First,” Ben continued, “we will visit Quinn. You will apologize, offer to milk cows, muck stalls, and—”

  “For how long?” James interrupted.

  The question earned a silencing glare from their mother. “For as long as it takes. You caused the bull to cut his head when he rammed the gate. And poor Jubal cracked three ribs, trying to save you. Why, Abigail said it took eight stitches to close the wound!”

  Thomas stiffened at the memory of the bloody tear on Mr. Quinn’s shirt. He also remembered how the ground had quaked with every stomp of the bull’s hooves, and the strings of saliva that whipped right and left with every shake of his shaggy head. Thomas pictured Mrs. Fletcher, too, waving her apron . . . until Mr. Quinn grabbed the bull by the horns. Goliath could have killed any one of them. Maybe even all three of them. Why didn’t you try harder to talk some sense into the others!

  “If you had stayed home, where you belong . . .” His aunt shook her head. “Yes, you will work for Jubal, doing whatever he asks of you, until he has healed.”

  Mr. Quinn owned dairy cows. Thomas exhaled a shaky sigh, because the sum total of what he knew about milking wouldn’t fill his mother’s thimble.

  Paul got up. “May we go now?”

  Pete stood, too. “The sooner we start, the sooner it will be over.”

  “Ah, but that is only Phase One of your punishment. When Jube is through with you,” their father said, “you will begin Phase Two.”

  The boys exchanged worried glances.

  “It will require serious thought,” Leora said. Looking at Thomas, she added, “As the most responsible one—and I use the term loosely—we trust you to lead the others in prayer, so that together, you will make a wise decision.”

  “A decision?” he echoed. “About what?”

  “About who in the community needs something.”

  “What kind of something?” Paul asked.

  “Pray, Nephew, so that God will guide you.”

  Ben nodded. “You will recognize the need when you see it.”

  “The person, too,” Priscilla said.

  “You will fill that person’s need by Christmas Eve,” her twin added.

  “Come,” Ben said. “It will be dark soon. Jubal will have rounded up the cows by now.”

  Leora reached for a pie. Tiny holes in the top crust formed the letter A. “Bring this to him. He is a bachelor. No telling when he last had home-baked apple pie.”

  “Well,” James said grumpily, “he is far from skinny, so he must know how to cook.”

  From the now-open doorway, Ben said, “Scrambled eggs and sandwiches. That is what a busy, unmarried man prepares for himself. Easy to make, easy to clean up. But pie? I think not.”

  The men led the way to the van, and the boys followed.

  Paul said, “I want to get this apology over with.”

  His twin agreed. “And find out what dirty jobs he will—”

  “Stop, you two!” came Thomas’s harsh whisper. “Are you trying to get us into more trouble?”

  The panel van served one purpose . . . to deliver baled hay and firewood to neighbors and townsfolk when the twins’ fathers weren’t working at Max Lambright’s construction company. The heater barely functioned, and the floor and seats were littered with bits of hay and sawdust. Thomas considered offering to hitch Chester to the buggy, but by the time he got the job done, they could be at Mr. Quinn’s. Besides, admitting how much he disliked the cold, smelly vehicle would only prove his father right: He was self-centered and immature.

  The ride to the dairy farm was silent, but when the big mailbox came into view, James pressed his nose to the window. “He’s right there, fetching his mail.”

  The other three looked over his shoulder, saw Jubal Quinn, flipping through a stack of envelopes.

  “Slide open the side door, boys,” Noah said. Rolling down the window, he called to Quinn, “Hop in, and we will drive you the rest of the way.”

  Quinn’s expression said, Why are you here? But he issued a one-word greeting and climbed in, wincing as he slid onto the bench seat.

  * * *

  “How long before that storm hits?” Ben asked Jube.

  “Cows are easier to milk when things are quiet and calm, so I hope it passes us.”

  Ben parked alongside the back porch, and as Quinn’s boots hit the ground, he grimaced again. Once in the kitchen, he tossed the mail onto the counter. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  Noah handed Quinn the pie. “The wife baked it this morning. Thought you might like it.”

  Both eyebrows disappeared beneath dark blond waves. “Thank her for me,” he said, placing the pie beside the mail. “I will slice it, and we can have coffee.”

  Ben raised a hand. “No, we cannot stay. Would you join us outside for a moment?”

  Jube went with them, but only in the hope of getting the lot of them out of his house, sooner rather than later.

  The men took turns explaining why they’d brought their sons here. Jube didn’t like the idea and said so.

  “Look at it from a practical viewpoint,” Noah said. “You are injured and need help, at least until you heal.”

  “He is right,” Ben agreed. “In reality, you will be doing us a favor. We are at our wits’ end with those four. God willing, the process will teach them to consider the consequences of their actions.”

  “What about their schoolwork, and chores at home?”

  “This is more important. Everyone admires you, Jube, including our boys. We hope they will learn from your good example.”

  He and Ben and Noah had known one another all their lives. Was that a backhanded reminder of the man he’d been before Ira died?

  Jube still felt largely responsible for the accident. Other than the dressing down Abigail had doled out—and the way she’d treated him since that night—he hadn’t really paid a price for what he’d done. Maybe at the end of “the process,” he could stop punishing himself.

  “All right,” he told them, “but only for a few days.”

  “You are a godsend,” Noah said. “How can we thank you?”

  “By not saying things like that.”

  He returned to the kitchen with Noah and Ben close on his heels, then sat at the table and waited.

  Thomas spoke first. “We are sorry, for everything.”

  “Especially the goring,” Pete said. “Did Goliath’s horn poke a deep hole in your side?”

  He bit back a grin. “More like a scrape.”

  James wanted to know if Dr. Baker had been too busy to fix him up. “Is that why Miss Fletcher had to do it?”

  “No, it was late in the day. Interrupting Emily’s family time would not have been neighborly.”

  Noah cleared his throat. “Speaking of neighborly, finish up, boys. Jube has things to do.”

  “We can start working tomorrow. There is no school on Saturday.”

  Jube stood and faced the boys. “All right, but just so you know, the day begins early on a dairy farm.”

  “How early?” Pete ventured.

  “Four o’clock.”

  “In the morning!?” the boys asked in unison. “But why so early?”

  “Because the cows are easier to handle at that hour. They are sleepy. Sometimes, they doze while I milk them. But even when they do not, I talk to them, quietly, which not only protects me from being kicked, but from being smacked by wagging tails.” He paused. “Have you milked cows before?”

  The boys chorused, “Never.”

  “Get a good night’s sleep, then. You will need your wits about you in the morning.”

  As they w
alked back to the van, Jube heard Thomas say, “Milking cows requires wits?”

  “I suppose so,” his twin said, “if you do not want to be kicked or whacked with a swishing tail.”

  The next days would be a lot of things, Jube thought, but boring would not be one of them.

  * * *

  It took longer than anticipated to scrub the blood from Jubal’s shirt. Frayed threads on either side of the rip held the stain, despite hours of soaking in white vinegar. Rubbing bar soap into the cloth made her fingers ache, but Abigail kept working. Achy fingers seemed a small price to pay for being saved from the furious bull.

  Abigail wrung icy water from the shirt, hung it from the laundry room clothesline, and headed outside to rake leaves from the front lawn. Swept them from the covered porch, too, then piled them onto an old blanket and dragged it to the stacked stone fire pit her grandfather had built using rocks unearthed from his vegetable patch.

  Which reminds me, I have not fed Patch today.

  The calico cat met her at the door and walked a figure eight around her ankles. “I know, I know. You are hungry.”

  The cat chirruped happily, and while she ate, Abigail mixed up a batch of sugar cookies. After they’d baked, she moved the sugar bowl, creamer, and salt and pepper shakers to the counter, and replaced them with her sewing basket. She had just started snipping loose threads from either side of the rip when someone knocked.

  “What a nice surprise, Willa,” she said, greeting her friend at the door. “Please, sit. Coffee for you, milk for Frannie?”

  “I’d love that,” Willa said, and began closing doors. “Frannie gets into everything these days, so this is more for your protection than hers.”

  At the mention of her name, the child looked up, saw the cookie-covered counter, and said, “Oooh . . .”

  “Sugar cookies,” Abigail told her, “fresh out of the oven. But first things first . . .”

  A shallow wooden box served as a booster seat, and a table runner became a safety restraint. “There,” she said, “all set!”

  “Big!” the girl said, clapping. “F’annie big!”

  “How long before the big day?” Abigail asked Willa.

  “Too long!”

  “I take it Max is still driving you crazy with ‘are you all right?’ and ‘what do you need?’ ”

  “Yeah, but just between you and me, I love it.”

  Not that long ago, Willa had been gaunt, angry, and suspicious. Now she glowed with joy and good health. Marriage and motherhood, Abigail believed, had been responsible for the changes. If Ira had lived, would a child have inspired a change in him, too?

  “Little birdie told me you had a run-in with a bull yesterday and a white knight came to your rescue.”

  “It has barely been twenty-four hours. How did you hear about it already?”

  “Just so happens that I ran into Priscilla at Hannah’s shop. She says you’re a hero, too.”

  “Stop, please. You would have done the same, under the circumstances.”

  “No way! What you did was bold and brave, so I won’t listen to any ‘sin of pride’ talk. You probably saved that kid.” She sipped her coffee. “And if that wasn’t enough, you stepped in for Emily and me, took care of Jube’s wound. How many stitches?”

  “Six. Eight.” Abigail shrugged. “I did not count.”

  “Was he a good patient?”

  The scene flashed through Abigail’s mind: Jubal, shirtless in his kitchen, making small talk about the weather, unfinished chores, had she heard about Matthew Yoder’s new plow—small talk, she assumed, to distract him from the sting of antiseptic, the prick of the needle, the pressure as she taped the bandage in place.

  “He was truly brave. You know that old saying, ‘grab the bull by the horns’? Well, that is exactly what he did . . . and why Goliath was able to throw him over the fence.”

  “Wow. Amazing. Bet you’ll see that every time you close your eyes.”

  Yes, if last night was any indicator. She’d also remember standing close enough to Jube to inhale a whiff of fresh hay, the way his big, warm hand blanketed hers, and his voice near her ear, whispering, “Thank you, Abigail.”

  “Mama?” Frannie said, interrupting her thoughts.

  The baby aimed a dimpled forefinger at Patch. “Wook, Mama. Kitty!”

  Abigail felt a bit like she’d spent the past moments in a trance.

  “Yes, isn’t she pretty?” she heard Willa say. “Her name is Patch. Can you say ‘Patch’?”

  “Pash?”

  The connection between mother and daughter was a beautiful sight to see. Lord, Abigail prayed, if it is Your will, bless me with love like this.

  “You okay, Abigail?”

  Blinking, she said, “Yes. Of course. Why?”

  “I dunno. . . .” One shoulder lifted. “You looked kinda sad and far away just now.”

  “No, I was just thinking.”

  “About your husband?”

  She’d been a widow more than a year when Willa came to town. Had someone told her about Ira’s less-than-Christian conduct?

  “No, not Ira.”

  “Sorry,” Willa said. “Didn’t mean to intrude.” She patted Abigail’s hand. “But I’m a great secret keeper . . . if you ever need to talk.”

  “I know.” Abigail threaded her needle and placed Jubal’s shirt in her lap while Willa helped herself to another cup of coffee.

  “Mind if I ask why you keep to yourself so much?”

  Abigail poked herself with the needle. She’d just spent an hour removing blood from the shirt, and to protect it from the droplet clinging to her fingertip, she popped it into her mouth.

  “There are half a dozen eligible bachelors in town. Why hasn’t one of them snapped you up?”

  Abigail took a stitch, pictured Jubal, bent at the waist, clutching his bloodied side, putting on a brave face for the boys, who looked at him with adoring puppy-dog eyes.

  “I am content with my life.”

  “Content. Mmm-hmm.” Willa winked again. “Wonder what he’ll say next time he sees you.”

  “Who? Jubal?”

  “Y’know, he’s Jube to the rest of us.”

  “Jube,” Frannie echoed. Willa untied her, eased her to her feet. “Pash,” the baby said, wiggling her chubby fingers. “Come, Pash.”

  “You were about to tell me why you’re the only one who calls him Jubal.”

  “I was?” She surprised herself by saying, “It’s respectful. I owe him that after . . .”

  And like vinegar from an overturned bottle, the truth spilled out: Three, sometimes four nights a week, she told Willa, Ira had gone into town to gamble and drink. “Ira and Jubal were best friends since childhood. There were no secrets between them. I was never good at arithmetic, but I could add two and two: Jubal knew about all of it, even Ira’s affair with that widow. I think he tried to stop him from entering her house that night. Ira hated being told what to do. That, I believe, is why they fought, why Ira drove off like a madman and . . .”

  Eyes closed, she pictured the bustling, brightly lit ER. Tubes and wires everywhere. Ira’s hand atop hers. “Not Jube’s fault . . . mine.”

  Jubal, saying, “Be quiet so the healing can begin.”

  And Ira, shaking his head. “No more lies.” He’d looked at her then and said, “I am so sorry. You deserved better than me, Abby.” Then his hand went limp and—

  “It’s okay, Abby. Don’t say any more. Sorry I roused all those awful memories.”

  Awful memories were all she had. Maybe if she shared them with a friend, they wouldn’t seem so horrible.

  “Jubal knelt beside the gurney, tried to say something— good-bye, I suppose, since they were so close—but I would not let him speak. I was furious. With Ira, for . . . for everything. With God, for not answering my prayers. With Jubal, for keeping so many secrets from me. The things I said . . .” Abigail exhaled a shaky sigh. “Hateful, horrible, heinous things. Things that hurt him. I saw it in his eye
s. Still see it in his eyes.”

  She looked directly at Willa. “I keep to myself because here, alone in my house, I need not face him and remember all the ugly things I said.”

  Willa sat back and, arms crossed over her chest, said, “I don’t know him well, but Jube seems like a good and decent man. I’m sure he understands that you didn’t mean those things, that grief made you say them.”

  Frannie chose that moment to climb into Abigail’s lap. Pudgy hands bracketed her face. “Aw, Abby sad?”

  Hugging the child tight, she forced a smile. “I am happy, see?” She grabbed a cookie and took a bite. Frannie did the same . . . right before she released a long, whispery yawn.

  Willa got up, collected the mugs and Frannie’s tumbler, and put them into the sink. Brushing cookie crumbs from the table into her cupped palm, she said, “This li’l girl needs a nap. And I have a mountain of laundry to do. Supper to start—I promised Max a pot roast—and housekeeping. I could write ‘Willa Loves Max’ in the dust on the end tables.”

  “Let me wrap some cookies for you to take home.”

  “Okay. But only because poor Jube can’t eat all of ’em.” She punctuated the comment with a girlish giggle. “Hey, why don’t you join us for supper? There’ll be plenty, and I know Max would love to see you.”

  “Maybe some other time. I have laundry to do, too.” Abigail patted Jubal’s shirt. “And this to finish.”

  Hours later, she inspected her work. The shirt looked almost as good as new. If someone didn’t know where to look, it wasn’t likely they’d notice the mend. She decided that as long as the ironing board was out, she might as well iron her blue dress and the aprons in her laundry basket. Tomorrow, on her way to the inn, she’d deliver the shirt, along with a tin of cookies.

  Between then and now, she could work on a suitable opening line.

  Chapter 3

  It was their first day on the job, and Jube stood behind the boys as they watched the van grind down the driveway. If they asked what was discussed during the private conversation between him and their fathers, he intended to quote 1 Thessalonians: “. . . mind your own business, be quiet, and do your own job.” When the red glow of taillights faded into the early-morning darkness, he said, “Did you boys have breakfast?”