“You can’t drive in this mess.”
“I know.” Abigail sighed. “But there are no rooms at the inn.”
Laughing, the boss’s wife gave her a sideways hug. “Very funny, honey. But not to worry. You can bunk down in the office. Thanks to Bill’s snoring, I know that couch is comfortable. And anyway, it’s only for one night, right?”
She’d only left Patch enough food and water for one day.
“I hope so.”
Lord, watch over Jubal, please?
* * *
Snow in late October was nothing new for the Oakland area. The three feet that had fallen throughout the day, inconvenient as it was, didn’t really surprise Jube. Several years ago, when an unexpected storm trapped him at his mother’s house, he’d shared Jethro’s room. His kid brother, happy for the company, had jabbered for hours, and Jube barely slept a wink. He had a feeling that was nothing compared to what he’d face between now and morning.
As usual, Noah had dropped the boys off at four, and after milking the cows, they’d all gone into town for the daily milk delivery. Nearly every merchant asked if Jube had heard about the forecast. He’d responded by assuring them that at this time of year, an inch or less would accumulate. And it would melt before the plows hit the roads. So when the boys asked to stay and work on the buggies, he’d said yes.
They took turns loading coal into Jube’s forge. Took turns operating the bellows, too, to maintain the heat. If he’d allowed them to, they would have put his tongs to use, steadying steel rods and sheets in the belly of the forge. Instead, they watched, wide-eyed and silent, as he carried red-hot metal to the anvil, where he snipped it to size and hammered it into shape. In six hours, he’d created one of the buggy chassis.
“We need to get home. I am starving.” When Thomas opened the door and saw how much snow had fallen, James said, “Oh. My. Goodness. Gracious.”
The cousins pressed close, staring slack-jawed at the white stuff that had blanketed everything in sight.
Pete groaned. “It will take us three hours to walk home in this!”
“We had best get started then.”
“No, Paul. You will stay here tonight.”
All eyes were on Jube when he added, “I cannot drive you, and your fathers cannot pick you up.”
“You have four extra beds?”
“As a matter of fact, I have five. One in the front bedroom, and two sets of bunk beds in the back.”
It was Thomas who said, “But you live alone. What do you need with that many?”
“One is mine. The others are for when Jethro stays the night.” And for any children God might someday bless me with.
Thomas frowned. “Our mothers will worry.”
“No,” Jube said again. “When you are not home by the usual time, they will say a prayer of thanks that we had the good sense to stay put.” He put on his jacket. “Better button up, though. It is fifty yards from here to the house.” Stepping outside, he said over his shoulder, “Be sure to latch that door behind you.”
Jube dragged his feet, plowing an easy path for them to follow, and laughed to himself when he heard them grunt and groan as the heavy doors slid together.
On the porch, they stomped snow from their boots. “Good thing we stacked wood up here yesterday,” Paul said. “I would hate to hunt for logs under a mountain of snow!”
Inside, they hung snow-covered jackets on pegs near the door.
“How about breakfast for supper?” Jube asked.
Four voices chorused with, “Sure!”
“Pancakes, with sausage and eggs?”
“Sounds great!”
“Good. Wash up and I will get busy.”
“I guess Daed does not know much about bachelors after all.”
Paul’s twin deepened his voice. “ ‘Scrambled eggs and sandwiches, ’ ” he quoted.
“We have yet to see what his pancakes and eggs look like,” Jube heard Thomas say. “Or what they taste like.”
The boys set the table without being told to, and before long, Jube delivered the food. “Good job,” he said, nodding at the way they’d arranged plates and flatware in front of each chair.
“You did a pretty good job, too,” James said, forking a pancake.
Paul closed his eyes and folded his hands, and the others did, too. After a quick, silent prayer over the food, the questions began: How soon would they make buggy harnesses? Would the seat covers be made of cloth or leather? Should they attach lanterns up front? Jube provided answers, and asked a few questions of his own: Now that both chassis had been assembled, what came next? What sandpaper grit was best for the buggies, themselves? Which would their parents like best, flat or satin black paint?
There were two pancakes and one sausage left when Thomas asked, “Where will we buy the wheels?”
“No need to buy what we can make.”
They exchanged puzzled glances. “Make them? Ourselves?”
Chuckling, Jube said, “It is time consuming, but not as difficult as the work you have already done.”
By nine, they’d cleaned the kitchen and stoked the fire, and seemed to have talked themselves out. “You have been up since before dawn,” he said, leading the way upstairs. “Time for bed.”
After loaning each a clean white T-shirt to sleep in, he showed them how to squeeze toothpaste onto their fingertips and brush their teeth.
“We would not get cavities by skipping just one night,” Thomas grumbled.
“But you would wake with breath foul enough to melt the griddle.”
They lined up at the sink, then again to whisper bedtime prayers. Then the squabbling began. All of them, it seemed, wanted the top bunks.
“Which twins were born first?” Jube asked.
“Me,” Thomas said.
“And me,” echoed Paul.
“Then you two get bottom bunks.”
“Hey, wait,” Thomas whined. “Older should get first choice!”
“That might be how you settle disputes at home, which is why here, we will err on the side of fairness.”
Satisfied or not, they climbed into bed as he stood at the door.
“We were thinking,” Pete said.
“Uh-oh. . . .”
“We want to announce the ree-rah-rih—”
“Recipients,” Thomas helped him.
“Yeah, that,” Pete said. “We want to announce the recipients of our good deed at a Christmas Eve supper.”
“Where we will do everything. Decorating. Cooking. Wrapping,” his twin added.
Thomas said, “Except for the buggies. But we know just how to hide them until the right moment.”
“We have saved up some money from the work we did over the summer.” James smiled nervously. “Last night, we put it into one pile and counted it. It should be enough to pay for the food.”
And if it wasn’t, Jube decided, he’d donate a few dollars to the cause.
The boys recited their grocery list: canned ham, green beans, and sweet potatoes, dinner rolls, butter, and pies for dessert. Jube anticipated the next question and offered to drive them to the market.
“Can we store the food in your refrigerator?”
“Of course.”
“And heat everything up on your stove?”
He nodded, and they cheered.
“I do not know what we did to deserve a friend like you, Mr. Quinn, but if we ever find out, we will do it over and over, to show God that we appreciate you.”
Jube felt the heat of a blush creeping into his cheeks and, to hide it, turned off the ceiling fixture.
“Get to sleep. You need to be well rested, because come morning, we will move mountains.” He laughed. “Of snow.”
The hall lamp provided just enough light to let him see four blond heads nestle into pillows. By his best guess, they’d be fast asleep before he made it to the parlor. In the weeks they’d worked together, Jube had learned a lot about them. He didn’t know what inspired the pranks that had prompted adults
to dub them Double Trouble, but he knew this: The Hartzes and the Briskeys had nothing to worry about. Their sons were well on their way to becoming good and decent men.
“You have worked hard, as hard as any man I could name,” he told them. “In my opinion, you’ve more than paid for your childish transgression. My side is mostly healed, so tomorrow will be your last day working for me.”
He could almost hear the wheels of their minds, grinding out more questions, so he quickly added, “Instead of milking and deliveries, chopping and stacking wood, you will spend your time here finishing the buggies. If you do not, Christmas Eve will come and go and you will not have fulfilled the second portion of your punishment.”
All four levered themselves up on an elbow. “Really?” they said in unison.
“Really.” He’d started pulling the door closed when he heard: “Mr. Quinn?”
He stepped back into the room. “Yes?”
“Would it be all right if we used the big shed, where we are building the buggies, for the supper? We will clean up before and after, set up the tables, everything. You only need to show up and eat.”
“My dining room table will seat ten, easily.”
“But . . .” James leaned over the top bunk. “But we hope to feed more than that.”
“How many more?”
They recited the names: Jube’s mother and brother, the bishop and his wife, Dr. Baker and her family, Max, Willa, and Frannie, their parents. “When we add the four of us, and you and Miss Fletcher,” he said, “that makes twenty-two.”
The number got lost as he mentally repeated her name. Miss Fletcher. Abigail. Frowning, he ran a hand through his hair. They’d grown up together, and since Pleasant Valley couldn’t rival New York’s population, they’d keep right on running into each other. Even with twenty others in attendance at the party, the big shed would feel smaller than his five-by-five bathroom, seeing her face-to-face for the first time in more than a month. During the four weeks between now and then, he’d pray. Pray long and hard for the strength not to behave like a stumbling, bumbling idiot.
“Something wrong, Mr. Quinn?”
“No, no. I am just wondering where you will find enough tables and chairs.”
“Like you said, why buy what we can make? We will use hay bales for chairs, and cover them with clean sheets. Our mothers will not miss them for just one day, and we will launder them afterward. We will eat on paper plates, and use plastic utensils and cups. Sweet tea is easy to make, and—”
Jube laughed. “Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought!”
Paul said, “We have a lot to prove, not just to our parents. Our behavior caused a lot of trouble, and we want to show everyone that we have left childish pranks behind, that we are grown-up enough to care for horses. When we get them, of course.”
“Our folks will be shocked,” his twin said, “when we tell them we do not want horses for our birthdays . . . that we want the money, instead, for another surprise.”
Jube didn’t understand and said so.
“The bishop’s buggy is in sad shape, too,” Thomas said, “so we want to use that money for materials, and build him a new one.”
Jube shook his head. Had he fallen asleep, standing up? Was all of this a pleasant dream?
“If God should bless me with children one day, I hope they will be like the four of you.”
“Hoo-boy,” Thomas said, slapping a hand to his forehead. “We had better pray for forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness?” his twin echoed. “For what?”
“For the sin of pride.” He paused, then added, “But thank you, Mr. Quinn, for your kind words.”
“We are friends—you said so yourself. So please. Call me Jube.”
They were still whispering happily when he hit the top step. And when he hit the bottom, he grabbed his Bible. “No time like the present,” he said to himself, “to start asking for help in dealing with Abigail.”
Outside, the snow was still coming down, hard and fast. As far as he knew, she’d never missed a day of work. He hoped she’d left early, that she was home now, safe and sound.
Was he a hypocrite, hoping such a thing, especially with his own angry words still ringing in his ears?
Admit it. You want her safe because from that first moment in school until this, you have loved her.
So maybe, just maybe, the Almighty would help him find a way to bridge the wide gap he’d put between them.
Chapter 8
“I was wondering if you have a few moments to talk. . . .”
Micah Fisher removed his wire-rimmed glasses, placed them beside his Bible. “Of course, Jubal.” He gestured toward the chairs in the front row. “Sit, sit.”
The confession spilled from him faster than water from a bucket. “Were my years of silence a sin of omission? Should I have told Abigail what I knew?”
Micah stroked his long gray beard and, nodding, said, “No, I would say it was not sinful to protect her from Ira’s actions.”
“But she was angry, so angry, in the ER that night.”
“It was a terrible night, to be sure. And now that Ira is gone, I do not feel it violates my promise to protect his confession.”
The words surprised Jube. “You mean he told you . . . everything?”
“Not willingly. Too many times, I smelled alcohol. Too often, I saw him lurking behind the widow Miller’s house. One day, I dragged him into the church and made it clear: If those things continued, he would be shunned.”
And yet, Jube thought, it continued.
Micah smiled. “You know, it is odd that you stopped by this morning. I had a visit, just yesterday, from another worshipper, who had similar concerns.”
Jube wouldn’t ask who that worshipper might have been, because if the bishop named Abigail it would awaken hope and Jube didn’t dare hope for more than civil interactions with her.
“I want to say something, son, and I pray God will open your mind to receive it, that He will bless you with discernment, that you might understand my intent.
“Your relationship with Abigail requires teamwork. You worked together to save those boys. To mend your wound. She nourished their bodies with food, while you nourished their minds by teaching them the value of hard work.” The bishop paused, then said, “Do you love her, Jubal?”
He stared at the floor.
“No need to answer, for I have seen the way you look at her, the way she looks at you.”
He met the bishop’s clear blue eyes, magnified by thick farsighted lenses.
“Have you asked God’s guidance on this matter?”
Jube had prayed, often and fervently, but couldn’t be sure he’d prayed correctly.
“And the answer?”
“If He answered, I did not hear it.”
“Because you are stubborn. Too stubborn to set aside hurt feelings and guilt and admit the truth. To Abigail.”
Abigail, who’d looked at him in a way that led the bishop to believe she cared about him. Could he believe it? Dare he believe it?
Eyes closed tight, Micah quoted Genesis: “ ‘God said, “It is not good that man should be alone; I will make him a helper . . .” Then the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon the man, and while he slept, God took one of his ribs and closed up its place with flesh. And the rib that the Lord God had taken from him, God made into a woman, and He brought her to the man. The man woke, and when he saw her, he said, “This at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called woman, because she was taken from man.” ’ ”
Was it a coincidence that, at that very moment, Jube’s injured side ached?
“Be honest with her, Jubal.”
Instantly, a list of reasons he shouldn’t materialized.
“I am getting old and forgetful.” One shoulder lifted; one hand reached out. “Sometimes, the elderly say things they do not intend to.” The hand now turned, its fingers forming the shoo gesture.
You have been dismissed, Jube
thought.
“Thank you, Bishop,” he said, donning his hat. “I will pray on what we discussed.”
“See that you do,” Micah said, wiggling his eyebrows.
* * *
A week before Thanksgiving, the congregation decided to gather in the church basement following the service. It was cold and snowy outside, but the sun was high in the sky, warming the air and inspiring a deacon to prop open the back door.
From where she sat, Abigail could see dozens of buggies, parked side by side along the drive. Cars, too, and a few pickup trucks, including her own. Beyond the vehicles was the plain white fence that surrounded the graveyard. She hadn’t visited Ira’s grave since the funeral, and although it looked identical to every other, she knew it was four from the front, five from the path. And, like every other, Samuel Yoder had carved three lines into the granite slab: name, marital status, years of birth and death.
“Abigail?”
Turning, she saw Priscilla and Leora approaching the door. It was widely known that the women were twins, but blond hair, blue eyes, and stout stature were the only similarities Abigail could see.
“Your shoofly pie was delicious,” Leora said. Leaning closer, she lowered her voice. “I had two slices!”
“I am happy you enjoyed it.”
Priscilla moved closer, too. “We . . .” She glanced at her sister, then began again. “We couldn’t help but notice you, staring into the graveyard just now. It must be difficult, without Ira.”
“I have adjusted, thank the Lord.”
“How long were you married before—” Leora stopped herself short.
“Nine years,” Abigail said. If he’d lived another month, it would have been ten.
“I say this as a friend,” Leora continued. “You are still young and vital, young enough to have children!”
“She is right, Abby. We have seen the way you look at Jube.”
“And the way he looks at you,” her sister agreed.
“We had hoped that time spent with him while our boys were at his place might encourage both of you to acknowledge your feelings.”
“Speaking of the boys, we thank you for all you did for them. Bringing food. Making lemonade. Bandaging blisters.”
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