As the clock ticked toward three in the morning, Abigail felt more alone than she ever had, even more so than that first night after Asher’s death. The ache seemed to reside deep in her bones, so deep that she had no tears for it.
She, Abigail Yutzy, was alone.
Best you learn to accept that.
The women who had visited her had been kind, and she thought real friendships might grow from the sympathetic group. But she needed to remember that each of them had families of their own—children and a husband.
She, on the other hand, had no one.
* * *
Thomas arrived a bit later than usual on Tuesday morning. He’d been helping his bruders-in-law put in their cover crop the day before, so he hadn’t made it into town as he’d planned. Instead, bright and early on Tuesday he drove into town, checked on the price he could get for Abigail’s crop, then directed Duchess to Abigail’s house.
He was pleased with the price quoted.
It was possible the money would be enough to purchase the items he’d mentioned as well as leave a bit for Abigail to get by on. He wondered if she’d heard anything from the attorney yet.
But when he pulled down the drive, all of those thoughts fled. Abigail was standing on the front porch and around her was a mound of...stuff. He could hardly make out what it all was. And why was it on her front porch?
Instead of going to the barn, he pulled up in front of the house. He had to hold back his laughter when he saw that she was wearing not only Asher’s shoes, but also a pair of his pants, one of his shirts and even a pair of his suspenders to keep it all up. From a distance, she looked like Round John over in Middlebury. Wisely, he didn’t mention that.
“Morning, Abigail.” He hopped out of the buggy and walked up the porch steps.
“Thomas.” She swiped at a lock of brown hair that had escaped her kapp.
“Problem?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She put her hands on her hips.
If she’d slipped her thumbs under her suspenders, he wouldn’t have been able to hold in the laughter. As it was, he clenched his jaw and looked away until he had his amusement under control.
“Can I help?”
“Well. Maybe.” She finally looked at him. “If you have time.”
“Ya. Um...should I put Duchess in the field, or do you think I might need the buggy to move some of this stuff?” Now that he was standing closer, he could see that there were tall stacks of newspapers and magazines, plus boxes of items that contained who-knew-what.
“I suppose a wheelbarrow would probably come in handy, but I don’t think we need Duchess.”
“Back in a flash, then.” He climbed into the buggy, drove to the barn and unharnessed his horse. By the time he’d pushed the wheelbarrow to the porch, Abigail was holding the small of her back.
“You okay?”
“Sure, ya.”
But when he climbed the step, he noticed that she had dark circles under her eyes and her gaze kept flicking back and forth between him, the stacks of stuff and the barn.
“Do we have a burn pile back there? I’d love to just burn all this stuff.”
“Oh.” He walked over to an open box, picked up the top item, which was a seed catalog from three years earlier, then tossed it back in the box. “I might have a better idea...”
But Abigail didn’t seem to be listening. Her eyes widened, and her hand went to her belly.
He straightened in alarm. “Say, you don’t look so gut.”
“Thanks, Thomas.” Her tone was joking, but she couldn’t quite meet his gaze. With both hands on her belly, she stared at the porch’s floor—as if she was listening, as if the child were somehow speaking to her.
“Maybe I should go and fetch Naomi.” Or someone, anyone who would know what to do because Thomas was seriously out of his comfort zone here.
“Nein.”
“Nein. That’s it?”
She offered him a weak smile. “They’re fake contractions.”
“How do you know they’re fake?”
The morning was cool, the clouds still threatening, but sweat slipped down the back of his neck. The last thing he wanted to do was be here when Abigail went into labor. He was afraid to hold his own nephew. He couldn’t imagine being trusted with a newborn, let alone delivering one. “I could go and call the hospital.”
Abigail shook her head, sat in the rocker and blew out a deep breath. “Give me a minute. It will pass.”
He stared at her in amazement. How could she be so calm? Wasn’t she worried? Wasn’t she scared?
“Water might be gut.”
“Ya. Sure. Absolutely.” He hurried inside and fetched a glass of water. By the time he’d returned to the porch, she looked markedly better.
“Fake contractions?”
“Yup.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. They’ve stopped. Braxton-Hicks contractions don’t last long, and they don’t get stronger.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
“Oh, you will. When you have a fraa of your own and are expecting your first boppli, you’ll hear all about it.”
He didn’t think so, but there was no need to go into that particular discussion now. “How do you know all that stuff? I mean, this is your first, so how do you know what Brack-Holly...”
“Braxton-Hicks.”
“Yes, those. How do you know what they are?”
“The doctor gave me a brochure. I’ve studied it top to bottom.”
“Whew.” He took off his hat and fanned his face. “You gave me quite the scare. Say, you’re going to need someone to stay out here with you when you get closer to your date.”
She waved away his concern. “I’m not worried about that today. I’m worried about all this...stuff.”
“What is all this?”
“Asher’s reading material, I guess.”
“That would be a lot of reading.”
“He never wanted to throw anything out. Said he might need it one day.”
Thomas poked around in another box. “These seed catalogs are several years old. They wouldn’t be much gut to anyone. Prices would be outdated, and the company might have even changed what they carry. I can see why you’d want to get rid of it, but why now? Why today?”
Instead of answering, Abigail chewed on her thumbnail. Finally, she met his gaze, stood and motioned him inside. He took one look around the living room and let out a long low whistle.
“I’ve never seen a crib next to a couch before. If that even is a crib. Why isn’t it put together?”
“Because the husband usually does that.”
“Oh. Right.” He didn’t mention the stack of baby things on the coffee table that was about to tip over. Apparently, the women of the church had come by and left Abigail with enough clothing and supplies for several newborns.
“Most people don’t put their crib in the living room. Most people have a nursery.” She scowled at him, then turned and walked down the hall, motioning for him to follow.
Though Asher had spent a lot of money on fancy fencing for horses he didn’t yet own, he hadn’t spent much on his house. It was surprisingly small. Thomas had only been in the living room and the kitchen, but he could tell from looking at the outside that it was what they called a starter home. Most houses were built small, then added to when they needed to accommodate a growing young family. Apparently, Asher hadn’t yet shifted his priorities from the horses to the child.
“We only have the two bedrooms. Mine...” She hooked a thumb across the hall. “And this one—Asher’s study.”
“Asher had a study?”
“Ya. When I first married him, it didn’t seem so odd.” She walked into the room and trailed a hand across the dust on an old desk. “After all, he was a single man living al
one. It made sense that he would have his office here instead of...”
“Instead of in the barn where most men keep this sort of thing.” He picked up a broken harness that sat next to a can of oil. “Why would he do this kind of work in the house?”
Abigail shrugged. “I don’t know. There were a lot of things about my husband that I didn’t understand.”
She bit her lower lip, and Thomas worried the waterworks were going to come on again. But instead, Abigail shook her head and rubbed at the back of her neck. “He was a gut man in his own way. He provided well for me.”
Provided maybe, but definitely didn’t prepare. Thomas didn’t voice the uncharitable thought.
“I want this room to be my nursery. The living room is...”
“Crowded.”
She laughed. “Ya. It is.”
“The barn is fairly roomy.”
“Why would I put my boppli in the barn?”
Thomas laughed. “I was thinking that I could clean out a corner, and we can put this desk and chair...and this halter...we can put it all out there. I don’t think these are things you’ll be needing anytime soon.”
“And the boxes of outdated newspaper and magazines?”
“Shipshe has a recycling center. We can even get a penny a pound for what we take there.”
“You don’t say?”
“If we fill up the buggy, we should have enough for a pretzel at JoJo’s.”
They spent the rest of the morning on the project. By the time they’d cleared out the room and moved the boxes off the porch, Thomas’s stomach was making loud grumbling sounds. Abigail slipped into the kitchen and made sandwiches. They ate them on the front porch as the sky darkened and the wind shifted.
“Cold front coming.” Thomas didn’t know why people tended to talk about the weather when they didn’t know what else to say. Maybe it was simply a safe topic. He’d never made a woman cry discussing the weather. Come to think of it, he’d never made a woman cry before Abigail, and he couldn’t say that he was the reason that she often ended up in tears. Perhaps it was her personality, or maybe it was the baby hormones. He’d heard about those from his schweschdern.
“The long dreary winter begins.”
“You’ll have a newborn baby. Trust me, you won’t even notice the weather you’ll be so tired.”
“You and your words of encouragement.”
He laughed, then told her how much money she could expect for the crop he’d harvested.
“That much?”
“Ya. I’m thinking I would only need half of it for the things I mentioned.”
“That’s gut. I guess. Is a cover crop really necessary?”
“It is. Keeps the soil in the ground, plus it provides nutrients for the crop we’ll plant in the spring.”
Abigail stifled a yawn.
“Don’t let me keep you awake, though you did ask.”
“Uh-huh. Say, any chance I could ride into town with you? Do you think the storm will hold off?”
“I do, and of course you can ride with me. We’re done loading the boxes. Anywhere in particular you need to go?”
“I spoke with Gabriela Martinez on the phone. She’s going to handle the probate of the estate, but she left some papers at the front desk for me to sign. Her office is on the same road as Davis Mercantile.”
“And the mercantile houses JoJo’s. Sounds to me like we have a busy afternoon ahead.”
An hour later, they’d delivered the old magazines to the recycling center, which had netted just under twelve dollars. It wasn’t much, but on the other hand, he hadn’t had to spend hours trying to burn the newspapers and magazines in a bonfire. It was while they were passing the hardware store that an idea struck him.
“Do you mind if we stop for a minute?”
“At the hardware store? Sure. I’ll just wait here.”
“Nein. I want you to come in with me.” He led her to the paint aisle. “It seemed to me that your new nursery could use a fresh coat of paint. What color would you like it to be?”
Her face had taken on a thoughtful expression. “Paint would certainly help a lot, but I don’t know if I’m up to painting an entire room.”
He moved next to her and handed her a paint chip of a buttery yellow. “I’ll paint the room, Abigail.”
She glanced up at him, and he thought that she would argue, but instead a smile spread across her face.
He had the irrational thought that she was going to stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. Instead, she thrust the paint chip back at him. “This one, then. I love this one. And some white for the trim.”
She would have used the last of the grocery money the bishop had given her to pay for the paint, but then the clerk said, “Want me to put it on your tab, Thomas?”
“That would be gut.”
They walked back outside to a light drizzle.
“I guess we didn’t beat the storm.”
“Rain will be gut for the fields.”
“For the cover crop?”
He nodded. “Once I get it planted.”
Thomas turned to look at her and felt his breath catch in his throat. She’d turned her face up to his. A smile danced across her expression, and she had a healthy glow—she had a maternal glow.
He swallowed the lump and stepped back, bumping into the buggy.
“Something wrong?”
“Nein.”
“You looked like you’d had a fright.”
“No. Uh-uh. Nothing to be afraid of. I was just...um...looking at the window displays—nice fall stuff.”
“Didn’t guess you to be a window-display kind of guy.” When they climbed back into the buggy, she teased him. “You have a tab? You must be a well-known handyman around this town.”
“Oh, I am. Folks line up for miles to beg me to work for them.”
The laughter felt good, so much better than the look of despair on her face that he’d seen when he first arrived that morning. The day wasn’t going at all like he’d planned. He’d meant to harvest the back garden of any remaining vegetables and then check the north fence. But what were those things when compared to preparing a nursery for a soon-to-arrive boppli?
And before they did that, they needed to go to the attorney’s office so Abigail could sign her papers. Then one last stop by JoJo’s for one of her famous pretzels and a cup of coffee or hot chocolate. Thomas had the distinct feeling that though Abigail had lived in Shipshe for nearly a year, she didn’t yet know the place. She didn’t really appreciate all the little community had to offer.
And JoJo’s Pretzels? It was a fine place to start.
Not that he was getting involved.
He’d had several stern talks with himself about that the day before. He’d even forgotten what he was doing a couple of times and found himself plowing a row he’d already plowed. The guys had teased him about that. But he’d straightened his head out regarding Abigail.
They’d be friends. He’d see that she was on her feet before he moved on to the next job. Might be a few months, but it wasn’t going to be years. That was a worst-case scenario.
Because spending a couple of years with Abigail would not be prudent. He was strong and stern with himself, but he was still a man. And she was a beautiful woman. Hopefully, within a few months the estate would be settled, she could hire permanent workers and he would be on his merry way.
Except suddenly, that didn’t sound as appealing as it usually did.
And the thought that kept tumbling through his mind was Yeah, I’ll be on my way. But on my way to where?
Chapter Six
Abigail was stunned at how quickly the next two weeks flew by. Thomas painted the boppli’s room and moved the crib into it. He spotted a changing table at a garage sale, cleaned it up and placed it in the room as well.
Abigail stood in the doorway of the room, looking at the freshly painted walls, crib with sheets that sported puppies and kittens, and the changing table that Thomas had carried in that morning.
Thomas.
What was she going to do about him?
He continued to have new ideas for the farm. Every single day, he’d stop inside after he’d finished his work. Every single time, they were less than five minutes into the conversation when he’d say, “I had an idea for...”
The man could not let things be for five minutes.
She admired his enthusiasm. And how could she complain? He was still working for free. Gabriela Martinez had filed the estate probate papers, but she had warned Abigail that the process was slow. “Best to prepare yourself for it to take a year, even eighteen months. If it’s less, we’ll celebrate.”
Gabriela had also filed an emergency petition requesting that Abigail be allowed to use the funds in the bank account. She hoped to receive a ruling on that within seven to fourteen days.
The days of September had given way to October, the temperature had grown cooler, and much-needed rain began to fall each day. Abigail should have felt more optimistic, more encouraged, but each day became a little harder than the one before it. Even with the prospect of having a little more cash, Abigail didn’t feel much like celebrating.
Her head ached, and she felt sick to her stomach.
Instead of folding the laundry that she’d managed to fetch from the line, she sat on the couch and closed her eyes. A soft rain had begun to fall outside, and the temperature had remained in the fifties—cold and dreary. It fit her mood. She slipped off her shoes and propped her feet up on the couch. She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew Thomas was squatting in front of her attempting to wake her.
Abigail sat up straighter and tried to shake away the cobwebs. “What time is it?”
“Nearly five.”
She sat forward, holding her head in her hands, trying to steel herself against the throbbing pain.
“What’s wrong, Abigail?”
“My head.”
“You have a headache?”
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