A Simple Christmas

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Appalled at such thoughts, Rosalyn resolutely followed Nora back toward the office. After they tagged her wreaths and displayed them, she needed to dust and be sure the store was as tidy as Nora liked it before customers arrived. She was a twenty-eight-year-old maidel, but she wasn’t nearly desperate enough to give Marcus Hooley another thought.

  But what would it matter if you thought about him just a But what would it matter if you thought about him just a little, to pass the time? To Marcus, you’re invisible, so nothing will come of it.

  Chapter Two

  Marcus backed out of the parking space, steered his car toward the road—and then stopped to take in the panoramic view of Willow Ridge from his hilltop vantage point. The farmland had a gentle roll to it, and he spotted black-and-white dairy cows in one of the pastures, along with a small herd of sheep on the acreage just south of it. The gardens behind the neat white homes had been cleared for the winter. Stacked, white beehives were visible among the trees of an orchard, and the deep orange and gold foliage of maple and sweet gum trees shimmered after the morning’s brief bout of freezing rain. A few buggies and cars were parked at Zook’s Market, which sported a blue metal roof. A café called the Grill N Skillet was doing a brisk business—and the aroma of roasting meat had made his stomach growl when he’d driven past it a short while ago.

  But it’s still a two-bit horse and buggy town—just a spot in the road. Even more rural and impossibly straitlaced than Bird-In-Hand, Marcus thought with an impatient sigh. Bird-In-Hand, Marcus thought with an impatient sigh. Maybe that redhead was right about gassing up and driving on. This place is already making you crazy.

  But where else can you go?

  Marcus shifted into Park. When he pumped the accelerator hard to stop his old car from idling too fast, the engine backfired and the tailpipe belched exhaust. He’d burned his bridges at the last horse farm he’d worked on, and it galled him that Luke’s bossy wife had pegged him right: he’d worn out his welcome with his most recent girlfriend. He wanted to believe that living English was his ticket out of plodding along in broadfall pants and suspenders all his life, doomed to manual labor without electricity or technology. But opportunities for training horses were none too plentiful outside of Plain communities—especially considering how he’d been fired from his three most recent jobs.

  Better to move on before Ben, Luke, and Ira get wind that you showed up. You don’t need the Hooley brothers preaching at you about going straight to hell unless you join the Old Order.

  Marcus gripped the shift knob, ready to roll down to the road, yet he paused. He could see Ben’s farrier shop a short distance away, tucked behind one of the nicest, newest houses in town. And from all appearances, Luke and Ira’s mill on the Missouri River was thriving only a couple of years after they’d come to Willow Ridge with little more than the clothes on their backs and some big ideas about growing specialty grains.

  Truth be told, when Luke and his younger brother had still been living in Pennsylvania, they’d raised a lot of Amish eyebrows because in their late twenties they’d shown no sign of giving up rumspringa—yet they’d come to Missouri and made good. And Ben had been roaming the Plain countryside in his farrier wagon at thirty-five. He’d joined the church before that, but he’d been blowing around like dandelion fluff until he’d landed in this little town and taken root.

  See there? They can’t say a thing about your refusal to settle down just yet. All three of them were older than you— and bucking tradition—when they came here. And Luke went Mennonite rather than joining the Old Order!

  Marcus reconsidered his options. His online research—and the fact that several of the local Plain businesses had websites—had suggested that there was more to this town than met the eye. The new barns and stretches of white plank fence pictured on Wyatt McKenzie’s website had made Marcus’s pulse race, and seeing the place from the road this morning had been the closest thing he’d had to a religious experience in years. McKenzie obviously had big bucks to spend, so why not make nice and play the game? Introduce himself to Wyatt and apologize profusely for not emailing the references he’d requested . . .

  But McKenzie sounded way too nosy and superior during that phone call, delving into your credit business—and saying you’d have to bunk above the stable until you proved yourself. Really? Who does he think he is, acting like he’d be doing you such a big favor?

  Marcus despised sitting in a car that rattled and shook, with the sum total of his earthly belongings in a suitcase in the trunk. He was a top-notch trainer—everybody he’d worked for was impressed by his ability to make their horses behave . . . at least until they chastised him for boozing it up too much and asking for advances on his pay.

  Clean up your act, Hooley. Three strikes and you’re out, his last employer, Enos Keim, had ranted. So Marcus hadn’t stayed around long enough for old Keim to hear about his most recent brush-up with the county sheriff. He’d left Lancaster County at sunset and driven all night to reach Willow Ridge. Wasn’t that a sign of his commitment to starting fresh? To turning over a proverbial new leaf?

  Marcus laughed at himself, aware that he was exhausted from the long drive. Who are you kidding? When these Amish guys—especially your cousins—learn of all the stuff you’ve pulled, they’ll want you roped and tied, bound and gagged by all their rules, and sitting on a pew bench for three-hour church services—

  But McKenzie’s not Amish.

  Marcus shifted the car into gear and eased it toward the road. The longer he sat in the parking lot, the more chance his cousins had to spot him. He at least wanted to see the McKenzie place—the training facilities as well as where he’d be bunking—before he decided to drive away for good. He’d stayed awake all night by talking himself into coming here, practicing all the right lines to use with McKenzie, so it’d be a waste of his time and effort if he didn’t at least scope the place out.

  At the bottom of the hill, Marcus turned left toward the county highway and jammed his foot on the brake. A chill went up his spine when a sea-green sedan pulled away from the shoulder of the road and sped down the blacktop—a car he’d occasionally seen in his rearview mirror as he’d crossed Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. It couldn’t be coincidence that someone had driven such an odd-colored car along the exact route he’d taken.

  Could it?

  “So who are you and what do you want?” Marcus muttered. He shook his head to clear away the cobwebs of sleep deprivation that curled in his brain. If he’d been thinking, he would’ve followed the sedan to get its license plate number. But thinking didn’t seem to be one of his dominant personality traits—which explains why you’re usually out of a job and out of money. Time to fix that.

  Marcus rolled down his window and inhaled deeply to bolster himself. Once again he caught the aroma of the meat roasting in the huge grills behind the café, and he decided to check out the restaurant after he’d seen what McKenzie had to offer. Folks there might notice his resemblance to Luke and figure out who he was, but maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe if they associated him with the Hooley brothers, whom they apparently respected, they’d give him a chance.

  Most of these people have no idea what you left behind you, Marcus reminded himself with a smile. He turned and drove slowly along the county highway. You’re the top-notch horse trainer McKenzie’s bringing in from Lancaster County, so you must be one special dude. Live up to that rep, and show these yokels how fabulous you really are.

  After he passed the picturesque gristmill that was churning the river with its wooden wheel, he spotted an opening in the white plank fence that marked the McKenzie property. He was surprised that there was no gate with a code to punch in—nothing to keep curious folks from entering at will, the way he was. Marcus drove slowly along the packed dirt track, visualizing how impressive the place would be once the private drive was paved and the lawn was landscaped and McKenzie’s mansion was built.

  When he spotted a fancy double-wide traile
r, he instinctively followed the trail that led toward the barns instead. No reason for McKenzie to know you’re here until you’ve looked around. If you don’t like what you see, you can be on the road and gone before Wyatt’s any the wiser.

  Instinct told Marcus to park the car behind some cedar trees that had grown wild around an outcropping of rock. Missouri farmland was more rugged and untamed than the manicured farms where he’d come from, and he liked that. He walked past a large pond where a few migratory Canada geese floated, watching him. By following the tree line toward two of the largest barns he’d ever seen, he figured he’d avoid detection.

  In a paddock near the barn farthest from him, five sleek bay Thoroughbreds came to the fence to follow his progress. He’d read on McKenzie’s website that he planned to train retired racehorses to pull Amish buggies, and the beautiful animals would bring top dollar once Marcus had finessed them into their new purpose. The muscled black Percheron foals he spotted near the other barn would take more effort, but he’d soon have the massive horses pulling wagons, plows, and other farming equipment—and they would be the envy of their owners’ neighbors.

  Marcus smiled as he drew near to the corral where the young draft horses stood munching on hay. “Hi, guys,” he called to them, delighted by the way their ears perked up. “You and me, we’re gonna be real good friends.”

  * * *

  Wyatt pulled his cell phone from his pocket and smiled at the name he saw on the screen. “Nora, how’s your day going?” he asked. “If I remember correctly, you’ve got a big open house coming up this weekend.”

  “I do,” Nora said. “Say, Wyatt, my day got off to an interesting start. Marcus Hooley breezed in about ten minutes ago and did not make a good first impression, so I thought I’d give you a heads-up. I suggested he talk to Luke rather than just showing up at your place, but he didn’t impress me as the sort who’d take a hint from the mouthy woman his cousin Luke must’ve married because he was desperate.”

  Wyatt’s eyes widened. “He said that to your face?” he asked as he walked toward the console of the security system sitting on his office credenza.

  “He did—a real charmer, Marcus is, and quite impressed with himself,” Nora put in. “But then, why wouldn’t he be, when he’s the greatest horse trainer on the face of the earth?”

  Wyatt groaned inwardly as he focused on the screen that was split into quadrants. More than once in the past couple of weeks he’d been tempted to call Marcus and tell him to look elsewhere for employment if he couldn’t supply three references or follow the simple instructions Wyatt had given him. “And there he is, approaching the Percheron barn. Thanks for your call, Nora. I’m on it.”

  “You’re welcome. We can hope he’s matured since he left my store—but I wouldn’t count on it.” Click.

  Wyatt watched the screen for a few moments, considering his course of action and waiting for the alarm to sound on the console and his cell phone. Within moments a duet of insistent beep-beep-beeps filled his small office, reassuring him that his previously untested security system worked the way it was supposed to. Marcus appeared unaware that he was on camera, and the alarm didn’t sound around the stables or paddocks because Wyatt didn’t want the horses to be spooked.

  “But you, young man, are about to find out who you’re dealing with,” Wyatt muttered.

  By the time he was stepping off the deck and walking toward the barns, a car bearing a Home Security sign was turning in from the highway—with a cruiser from the county sheriff ’s department following close behind it. Wyatt waved at the drivers, gesturing for them to proceed toward the Percheron barn. The cruiser’s siren was silent but its flashers were on. When two uniformed men hopped out and hustled toward Marcus, the expression on the kid’s face was priceless.

  “State your name and your business!” Sheriff Banks ordered as Officer McClatchey and a rep from the security company joined him to form a barricade around Marcus.

  Wyatt took his time, allowing the local law enforcement team to do its job. Considering how quickly they’d arrived, he guessed they had probably been having coffee at the Grill N Skillet when the alarm went off—but Marcus wouldn’t have known that. The kid’s arms shot up into the air as though he assumed he was under arrest . . . as though he’d been in this position before.

  “Hey, ease up! I’m Luke Hooley’s cousin, and I work for Wyatt McKenzie, training his horses,” he spouted off.

  A name dropper—and mighty presumptuous about landing a job here, Wyatt noted. Quick with an answer, but if he was my employee, why would the alarm go off?

  “Is that your red Chevy behind those cedar trees? If you work for Mr. McKenzie, why’d you park it clear out there?” Officer McClatchey asked without missing a beat. “Once we run a check on your license plate, we’ll have your identity—and your record—in a matter of minutes. Want to reconsider your story before we do that?”

  Marcus’s eyes widened but he recovered quickly when he caught sight of Wyatt. “No need to check my plates,” he blurted out. “Here’s Mr. McKenzie to explain everything—and I didn’t misrepresent the situation, right? I’m Marcus Hooley, Luke Hooley’s cousin, and you asked me to come train your horses. So here I am. I just wasn’t expecting such a—a flashy welcome.”

  Wyatt stopped a few feet short of Marcus, stepping into the semicircle of power when the other men made room for him. As the red and blue cruiser lights flashed behind him, he took his time assessing the tall, muscled kid whose winsome, earnest expression invited Wyatt to play along, to follow his script so the officers would get off his case. The dark hair draped over one side of Marcus’s lean, handsome face was longer than Wyatt preferred, but at least he saw no piercings or obvious tattoos. His clothes smelled a bit ripe and were creased as though he’d been wearing them for a long time—and the worn black leather jacket was cut in a vintage style that suggested he’d found it at a thrift shop. The kid was accustomed to using his looks and his easy charm to get what he wanted—

  Just like you did at his age, right? But he doesn’t need to know that.

  Wyatt didn’t smile. Marcus, like the horses he worked with, needed to understand who would lead and who would follow. He extended his hand, pleased that young Hooley had sense enough to give him a good strong grip that wasn’t more forceful than it needed to be. “Welcome to Willow Ridge, Marcus,” he said. “May I see the list of references I requested when we spoke on the phone, please?”

  Marcus coughed. “Yeah, well—”

  “So you know this young man?” Sheriff Banks asked.

  “We’ve spoken on the phone,” Wyatt clarified. “Thanks for coming so quickly, gentlemen. I can take it from here—but do run the check on his plates and send me what you find out, please. We might as well all be on the same page, considering Marcus’s unconventional way of framing the truth.”

  Marcus appeared ready to protest but stifled his retort—a point in his favor, Wyatt thought.

  Officer McClatchey nodded. “Nice to see how your new place is coming along, Wyatt,” he said. He assessed Marcus again before he headed up the hill. “I hope our next occasion to meet will be under more positive circumstances, young man.”

  The security rep shook Wyatt’s hand. “Your new system appears to be functioning properly,” he remarked. “Are the sensors and cameras set the way you want them? We could still install a gate with a keypad—or an electric eye at the entry to your property—considering how far Mr. Hooley got before he was detected.”

  “We could,” Wyatt agreed, “but I trust my Amish neighbors implicitly, and I don’t want them to think otherwise. Thanks for asking, though.”

  As the rep headed to his car, the sheriff was scribbling on a notepad. Clyde Banks was a burly, barrel-chested fellow—congenial, but his size and no-nonsense bearing gave most lawbreakers pause. “Wyatt, I’ll let you know what we find out about Mr. Hooley,” he said with a nod. “It’s to everyone’s benefit to be aware of past incidents and activities that might co
lor our impression of him.”

  Sheriff Banks studied Marcus for a moment. “If you’re associated with the Amish hereabouts, you’ll have every opportunity to do well—to make a go of training horses, or whatever you’ve come to do,” he said earnestly. “But we don’t tolerate folks who take advantage of our Plain residents—or who give our English residents trouble, either, for that matter,” he added. “Do your best not to attract my attention, and we’ll get along fine, Marcus. See you around.”

  Wyatt noted a flicker of resentment and rebellion tightening Marcus’s face, but once again the kid kept his smart remarks to himself. After the cruiser followed the security rep’s car off the property, Wyatt remained quiet to make the young man in front of him squirm a little. Marcus turned to observe the two-year-old Percherons in the nearby paddock. He seemed ready to chitchat, to break the pressure of the silence that was stretching between them, but he refrained.

  “Let me guess. You don’t have any references because you’ve offended—or cheated or lied to—the previous employers who’ve fired you,” Wyatt began in a low voice. “And last night you hightailed it out of Pennsylvania before you got caught doing something else objectionable or maybe illegal. How am I doing so far?”

  Marcus released the breath he’d been holding. “Nailed it.”

  “Is Sheriff Banks going to tell me you’ve got a criminal record? Or that he needs to extradite you to Pennsylvania to serve time in jail?” Wyatt continued, crossing his arms. “Will I find out that in addition to your credit card escapades, you have a drug problem or a habit of driving drunk?”

  Marcus’s dark eyebrows flickered as he remained focused on the horses. “I’ve been known to drink too much, yeah. Got a couple of DUIs a while back, but I did my community service and jail time for them. No drugs.”

  Wyatt believed he was being truthful, so he continued. “Nora Hooley tells me you shot off your mouth in her store this morning, making offensive remarks and claiming to be the best horse trainer on earth. Was she misrepresenting the situation?”