Amish Christmas Twins

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  “Please. Sit,” she said, pulling out a chair, “while I wash up.”

  After arranging the materials in the order she’d use them, Abigail knelt beside him.

  “Does Bill ever schedule you to work weekends?”

  “Not usually,” she said, removing the existing dressing. “Only during the July Fourth and Valentine’s Day weekends.”

  “Englishers. What a peculiar celebration. A day for expensive chocolates, greeting cards, and flowers?” Jubal harrumphed. “I am glad to be Amish!”

  Abigail tilted the peroxide bottle until it saturated a gauze pad. Gently, she cleaned dried blood from his skin. “Yes. Seems to me a couple should show affection every day, not just once a year.”

  He nodded.

  “The stitches are holding nicely.” Standing, she attached tape to a large gauze pad, spread antiseptic ointment onto it, and got onto her knees again. “I can probably remove them on Monday or Tuesday,” she said, pressing the pad into place.

  His muscles tautened under her touch. “No need for that. I will visit Emily or Willa at the clinic, first thing Monday morning.”

  Disappointment shot through her like a hot arrow. “Why? You do not trust me?”

  “Yes, of course. I just . . . I hate to impose.”

  “Imposing? I am happy to do it. Need I remind you that the only reason you are hurt is because you saved my life!”

  Abigail got up so quickly that if Jubal hadn’t reached out, slid a hand behind her waist, she might have stumbled. The sudden movement strained his bruised muscles and cracked ribs, and seeing the flash of pain in his eyes made her feel even more guilty.

  “You saved me. Again. And hurt yourself doing it. Again. Will you forgive me?”

  She followed his gaze to where her fingertips rested lightly on his forearm. Until that moment, Abigail hadn’t realized that she’d touched him. She snatched back her hand, hid it in her apron pocket.

  “I was only too happy to do it,” he said, echoing her words. “Believe me, there is nothing to forgive. If anything, I am the one . . .”

  He stepped back, tugged at the hem of his shirt until it covered the bandage.

  “Well, I should go. There is laundry waiting for me. And leaves to clear from the gutters, before they clog the downspouts and cause a leak. I have to sweep the porches, too, or the leaves will stain the floorboards.” She was rambling and knew it but couldn’t seem to stop the nonsensical flow of words. “Plus there is the ironing. And Patch to feed, of course.”

  “Of course.” The hint of a smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “And vegetables to pick and put up.”

  A nervous giggle popped from her lips. “Yes. That, too.”

  “When the job is finished, I volunteer to help carry the jars into the root cellar.”

  This time, she quoted him. “Thank you, but I hate to impose.”

  She’d meant to tease him, but his wounded expression told her that the joke had backfired. You are such a domoor! It also told her that the apology she’d been planning to make was not God’s will. At least, not today. If He wanted her to do it at all, He’d have to present an opening that not even a simpleton like her could miss! Feeling clumsy and stupid and cruel, Abigail grabbed her shawl.

  “Time to go. Rest well, Jubal.”

  All the way home, she prayed that between now and tomorrow, when she returned to check his bandage again, she’d find the strength to set embarrassment aside and concentrate on what was best for Jubal.

  Because God knew she’d already hurt him enough.

  Chapter 4

  Abigail left so quickly, Jube could have sworn he felt a breeze. Left so quickly, in fact, that there hadn’t been time to thank her for mending his shirt, or baking cookies, or changing his bandage. He’d thought about it while washing dishes, while changing into his nightclothes, and still couldn’t decide if he was more angry than hurt, or the other way around. If he had to choose a word to describe the way he felt, it’d be “exasperation.”

  “Three years is a long time to hold a grudge,” he muttered around his toothbrush.

  Tomorrow, as soon as the boys finished milking, he’d send them home. They’d asked for a buggy-building lesson, but that could wait a day. A visit to the bishop could not. Micah Fisher had been first on the scene the night of Ira’s accident, and while waiting for the EMTs to pry Ira from the mangled wreck, the man had heard a full confession. Perhaps, as the only other person who knew the whole truth about that night—and the events leading up to it—Micah could help Jube make sense of things.

  After a night of disjointed dreams about Abigail, Jube woke tired and achy. Even after he chased a fried-egg sandwich with two cups of coffee, irritability hung clung to him like old cobwebs.

  The boys arrived early, wide awake and in good spirits. At one point last night, he’d considered telling Ben and Noah to find some other way to teach their sons a lesson. But he’d given his word, and not even the younger, more unreliable Jubal had ever broken that. As he’d told Abigail, he enjoyed the boys’ company. And if their remaining days unfolded as this one had, their unending questions would keep his mind off her.

  “Rose has a calf in her belly, doesn’t she?” Pete said.

  “As a matter of fact, she does.”

  “Violet, too?”

  “Only Rose. I try to keep it to one calf a season.”

  “But more cows mean more milk, and more milk means more money, right?”

  Jube chuckled. “The more cows I have, the longer it takes to run this place. And not all calves produce milk.”

  They gave that a moment’s thought before Paul said, “Ah. I get it. Bulls.”

  “And as you discovered yesterday, bulls are not easy to handle.”

  “But Goliath is your only bull. What do you do with other males that are born?”

  “Sell them.” He didn’t think it necessary to admit that some ended up in stewpots.

  “When will Rose’s baby be born?”

  “Mid-January is my best guess. I prefer spring for calving, but sometimes nature—and Goliath—has other ideas.”

  Their fathers worked in construction, so Jube had no clue how much the boys knew about livestock breeding. It was a lesson he had no business teaching them, so he quickly added, “Winter is hard on the little ones. They are not very surefooted, and their ears are susceptible to frostbite.”

  “But I see cows outdoors, standing in deep snow all the time,” Thomas said.

  “Yes, and some farmers think I pamper mine. I disagree. They raise beef cattle. Dairy cows,” he said, grinning, “are a horse of a different color.”

  On their own, the boys decided that Pete and Paul would scrub buckets, while James and Thomas helped filter and bottle the day’s collection. They’d been at it for all of ten minutes when Thomas said, “Can I ask you a question?”

  The timidity in the boy’s voice reminded him that many folks saw Jube as gruff and standoffish, and although he accepted his self-imposed solitary status, he didn’t enjoy it. He missed being with people, but joining in the fun meant that sometimes Abigail would be among the crowd. Abigail, whose disdain for him was palpable.

  “What question?”

  “Does Jethro ever work here?”

  “Not often.” He’d been eighteen when his younger brother was born . . . with Down’s syndrome. As Jethro grew and learned, he endeared himself to everyone, but none more than Jube.

  “You know that he has Down’s syndrome, right?”

  “We know that he is different. But that is okay. We like him!”

  “A couple of times, Jethro tried helping out, but cows are big and clumsy and noisy, all things he dislikes. When he visits, I do my best to keep him away from the barn.”

  “You are a good big brother,” Pete said.

  “I hope so. Jethro deserves only the best.”

  “Can I ask another question?”

  Jube started to suggest that he get back to work when Thomas asked, “Are you in love wi
th Miss Fletcher?”

  If he’d asked what caused Down’s, well, that might have made sense. But that?

  James said, “I think she is in love with you.”

  The sky was starry black, and the barn’s lighting turned the windows into ebony mirrors. Jube caught sight of his own reflection. . . slump shouldered, gap jawed, wide-eyed. You look as stupid as you feel, he thought, clamping his teeth together.

  “She looks at you funny, too. . . .”

  Too? When had he ever looked at her funny? And when had Thomas—when had anyone, for that matter—seen him and Abigail together long enough to notice the way they looked at each other?

  “How old are you boys?”

  Shoulders back and chins up, they stretched as tall as their five-foot frames would allow. “Thomas an’ me will turn fourteen come February.”

  “Thomas and I,” Pete corrected, and, ignoring his cousin’s dirty look, said, “We were all born in February, but Paul and I are a whole week older.”

  As girls, their mothers—twins born on Christmas Eve thirty-some years ago—had gotten into plenty of trouble. Had Priscilla and Leora filled their boys’ heads with silly, romantic notions?

  “So you are thirteen?”

  All four nodded.

  “Old enough, then, to know better than to poke your noses into other men’s business.” He stabbed the air with a forefinger. “Have you finished your jobs?”

  Pete said, “Buckets are scrubbed.”

  “And the cows have all been brushed.”

  “I am still filtering.”

  “And filling bottles.”

  “We want to finish the work fast,” Thomas said, “but we want to do it well, so that you will help us with the Christmas surprise.”

  He didn’t have the heart to make them wait. If there wasn’t time to talk with the bishop today, well, there was always tomorrow.

  * * *

  Abigail had been up most of the night, first tossing and turning, then pacing the floor. Would she summon the courage to say what must be said? You had your choice, you ninny, and you let it pass you by!

  What she needed, Abigail decided, was time spent in earnest prayer. Where better than at church, during the Sunday service?

  She managed to pay attention during the first hymn, as the preachers and deacons quietly deliberated who’d deliver the sermon. When it was decided, she joined Bishop Fisher and the rest of the congregation in giving thanks that they no longer needed to hide in caves and forests to worship God.

  Her mind wandered to the days when her community had met in one another’s houses. Farming required the Amish to work long hours, but they’d done more than make ends meet. They’d prospered. The community had grown so much that it became impractical to meet in one another’s houses . . . homes that now featured indoor plumbing, electricity, and modern-day appliances.

  Despite the sweeping changes, they held tight to many Old Order ways, keeping boys and men on one side of the church, girls and women on the other. If Abigail leaned right, just a bit, she could see Jubal, looking handsome, as always, on the other side of the room.

  Beside him, his younger brother looked adoringly up at him. And no wonder. For every one of Jethro’s seventeen years, Jubal had doted on him, bringing him to town, treating him to ice cream, buying books for him to read. Their mother once shared that she didn’t dare compliment another woman’s dress material, tea towels, or window curtains. “If Jube hears it,” Judith had said, “he buys it!” If any member of the community needed a ride into town, help with fence repair, or chasing down a runaway horse, Jubal was right there, offering assistance.

  He is a good man, that Jubal Quinn.

  Jubal, in a white shirt that brought out the blue of his eyes, whose beautiful baritone made it all the way to her side of the building, and who’d forever wear the mark of Goliath because he’d put himself at risk to save her and Thomas Hartz.

  The mark of Goliath, indeed! Even in her mind, the description sounded overly dramatic. If she wasn’t careful, a fit of giggles would disrupt the service.

  In her eyes, he was more handsome than Ira, whose dark, rugged good looks had made him the center of every Pleasant Valley girl’s dreams. How many times had she caught Jubal staring, as if he thought she’d hung the moon? And how many nights had she lain awake, wishing he’d come courting? Dozens, she thought. Maybe more. After months of futile hoping and praying, she told herself it must have been thoughts of the sister and father he’d buried that painted the forlorn expression on his face. She’d been two years past optimal marrying age when Ira asked for her hand, and fear that she’d end up like Spinster Nelson prompted her to say yes. Jubal had attended the wedding, and although he’d seen plenty of Ira, Abigail could count on one hand the times he’d seen her.

  Willa elbowed her, and when Abigail looked over, she winked. It meant she had caught her friend wool-gathering in the middle of the service.

  Get your mind straight! Heart thumping and pulse pounding, she bowed her head and joined in the hymn, “Blessed Redeemer.” And right in the middle of singing, “Seems now I see Him on Calvary’s tree,” a disconcerting thought popped into her head: If Willa had noticed her daydreaming, had Jubal noticed, too?

  One peek, and she’d know—

  Exercise some self-control! Isn’t his opinion of you already low enough?

  A long, shuddering sigh escaped her, and when Leora heard it, she squeezed Abigail’s hand. Her twin, leaning around her, said, “Everything all right, friend?”

  Abigail answered Priscilla with a nod as Willa elbowed her again. Now two things distracted her: how to explain yesterday’s hasty departure to Jubal and what to say when Willa asked why she’d been gawking at him.

  Two hours later, the service ended and church members gathered out back. It was sunny outside, and unusually warm for October. A westerly breeze had kicked up, propelling a few tablecloths and napkins into the air, and they floated back to earth like blue-and-red-checked parachutes.

  When the meal ended, the men gathered for a game of cornhole while the women stacked plates and bowls into wicker carriers. On the way to the parking lot with her basket, Priscilla caught up with Abigail. “Oh, how I dread riding home in that rickety old buggy. On the way here, the lurching and bumping chipped my favorite serving bowl!”

  The Hartzes and Briskeys lived side by side in identical houses and shared a huge panel van. When it wasn’t in use, delivering boards and other construction materials to Ben and Noah’s job sites, Leora and Priscilla used it to transport their goats, chickens, and hares to customers. Since its floorboards were always covered with sawdust and hay, it didn’t surprise Abigail that they rarely drove it to church.

  “Ben and I, and Leora and Noah, are saving up to buy horses for the boys, to surprise them for their birthday.” Abigail didn’t think she’d be as generous with sons who, for years, had run amok all through town.

  “But that is not why I hurried to catch up with you.” Standing in Abigail’s path, Priscilla said, “I wish I knew how to thank you for saving Thomas.”

  “No need to thank me. It was Jubal Quinn who saved him.”

  “But he told me that you were in the pen when he got there. I said to Ben, we ought to insist that Jube put that monster down. The whole community could enjoy a barbecue! But you know how men are.” She deepened her voice. “ ‘Mind your business, Prissy.’ ” Shaking her head, Priscilla added, “Have you had nightmares about it? Being face-to-face with that slobbering beast, I mean?”

  “No.” She could tell the truth, that the incident hadn’t been the bull’s fault. Goliath had been right where he was supposed to be when the boys showed up. Why, he could have ground them into dust if he’d had a mind to! “But I am grateful, too . . . that Jubal jumped the fence when he did.” Now that, Abigail thought, picturing the moment, is something I will dream about!

  “Speaking of Jube . . .” Priscilla moved in closer, lowered her voice. “I saw the way you were looking at
each other from across the church. Oh, what a perfect match you two would be. And it is high time, if you ask me.”

  What had she said? A perfect match? And high time for what?

  “No need to worry, Abigail. Your secret is safe with me. I doubt anyone else noticed. But even if they did, what could they say? Ira has been gone for years. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but he was hardly a stellar husband. Now Jube . . .” She exhaled a dreamy sigh. “He would make an exemplary husband!”

  Hardly a stellar husband? Did that mean Jubal wasn’t the only one who’d been aware of Ira’s carousing?

  By now, the women had reached Priscilla’s buggy, and again, she blocked Abigail’s path. “You are both young. Strong. Good-looking. Just imagine the beautiful children you would have!”

  “Who would have what?” Ben said from behind her.

  “Goodness, Husband. I will have to put a bell on you.” Giggling, she said to Abigail, “Now I ask you, how does a man this size move about as quiet as a cat!”

  He relieved his wife of the basket, slid it behind the buggy seat. “Thank you, Abigail, for what you did for Thomas.”

  How many times would she have to say it? “Jubal deserves all of the credit.”

  “The boys are to blame for his injury, and they will work for him until he has healed. Although no physical harm came to you, they also owe you a debt, so start thinking of things they can do around your place.”

  “No need for that. Really.”

  “Oh, but there is,” Priscilla said. “We have to impress upon them, once and for all, that everything they do impacts others.”

  The old “pebble in a pond” theory your opa was so fond of?

  “They are becoming young men,” Ben continued. “If we let them run roughshod over everyone and everything they come into contact with, what kind of men will they become?”

  Abigail understood, but even if she had a notion to agree with the offer—and she did not—her house and yard were small and easily maintained.

  The Hartz twins raced up just then. “Thank you again,” Thomas began, “for—”

  “I thank God that I was in the right place at the right time.”