The kid’s shoulders dropped as though he hadn’t anticipated the lightning-strike rapidity of the grapevine in Willow Ridge. He exhaled, looking totally exhausted. “Nope.”
Knowing better than to believe the kid’s display of humility would last more than ten minutes, Wyatt continued grilling him. “So far, I haven’t heard one thing to recommend you for this training job, or that would allow me to trust you. Why should I even consider hiring you, Marcus—especially when you came sneaking around my property instead of knocking on my door?” he asked softly.
Marcus swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbled. He gazed at Wyatt with wary eyes that were an arresting shade of pale green. “Because I’m a lot better at handling horses than I am at handling myself ?” he suggested in a hoarse whisper. “Or maybe because if I don’t get this job, I don’t know what I’ll do . . . or where my next meal’s coming from?”
The kid’s voice throbbed with raw emotion that rang true—not that such honesty inspired Wyatt’s confidence about his ability with horses. But he’d believed Marcus was the trainer he needed from the moment the Hooley brothers had unanimously agreed that their younger cousin was uniquely qualified. Now there’s a fellow who could train a horse to stand on its head, if you paid him enough, Luke had declared.
Wyatt had searched online and had asked other men from Willow Ridge whom they would recommend, but candidates were as rare as hen’s teeth and he hadn’t felt compelled to contact any of them. He wanted Marcus, plain and simple—but he couldn’t allow the kid to think he was a shoo-in, or that he was above Wyatt’s basic behavioral expectations.
“Tell you what, Marcus,” he said. “We can get better acquainted over brunch at the Grill N Skillet, and then you can rest in the apartment in the loft of the Percheron barn or spend the rest of the day however you want. We’ll resume this interview tomorrow.”
Marcus blinked as though such leniency surprised him. “Really? You’re gonna give me a chance?”
“We’ll see what the sheriff finds out and go from there.” Wyatt held the young man’s gaze a moment longer. “Is there anything you want to tell me straight out before I hear it from Banks?”
Marcus thought for a moment. “Naw. I was stupid for buying that last case of beer and for telling my most recent boss, Enos Keim, what I thought of him while I was plastered. Nothing illegal, though.”
“And your most recent girlfriend?”
The kid rolled his eyes and looked over at the horses again. “Not a good scene. She accused me of taking cash from her wallet and said her credit card was missing.”
“Did you take it—the cash or the card?”
“Nope. Not this time.”
Wyatt let the statement stand. Such matters tended to resurface if they hadn’t been resolved. “Let’s get a bite to eat, and give you a taste of Willow Ridge and the folks you’ll be spending your time with,” he suggested. “Eventually, we’ll both figure out if you belong here.”
Chapter Three
As Marcus entered the Grill N Skillet, hunger and exhaustion slammed into him with brute force. Aromas of cinnamon rolls, fresh coffee, and frying bacon made him inhale deeply, desperately, and he was grateful that a table near the door was empty so he and Wyatt didn’t have to cross the crowded dining room before sitting down. He kicked himself for assuming that he could slip onto the McKenzie property—into the tiny town of Willow Ridge—and remain invisible for any length of time. He felt grungy and gritty-eyed with fatigue and he’d blown his first impression, big-time.
But things are looking up! he thought as an attractive young woman came to their table with a carafe of hot coffee. She wore a cape dress of deep red and a pleated white kapp that proclaimed she was Old Order Amish, but her sparkling brown eyes and flawless complexion made Marcus sit up straighter and smile.
“Gut morning, gentlemen,” the waitress said in a lilting voice as she deftly filled their mugs. “What’ll you have?”
Sit yourself down, babe, and let’s talk about that.
“Savilla, this is Marcus Hooley from Lancaster County, the man I’m considering as a trainer for my horses,” Wyatt said with a smile. “Marcus, Savilla Witmer and her brother, Josiah, own this café—which is known for miles around as the best possible place to feed your face. The Witmers took the place over when your cousin Ben’s wife, Miriam, had their first child.”
“Great place,” Marcus murmured. If Savilla was working with her brother, it meant she wasn’t married, so he tried not to say anything stupid. “What do you recommend? I’m starved out of my mind.”
Savilla’s laughter teased at him. “The buffet still has biscuits and gravy, homemade rolls, the makings for hash-brown haystacks, and an assortment of sausages and bacon—or you can order pancakes and eggs from the menu,” she replied, nodding toward the laminated pages in the table rack that held the ketchup and other condiments. “We’re easing into the lunch menu with hot veggies, ribs, and pork steaks fresh off Josiah’s grills, so you’re sure to find something you like.”
Oh, I already have, sweetheart. I could listen to you talk all day—
“We’ll go for the buffet,” Wyatt put in. “Thanks, Savilla. I’m always amazed at how many folks are in here no matter what time I show up.”
Savilla’s pretty face lit up. “Jah, we’re doing better than we ever figured on. Denki for coming in, Wyatt—and it was gut to meet you, Marcus.”
As she began refilling coffee mugs and chatting with other folks nearby, Wyatt leaned across the table. “Just so you’ll know—before you step in a pile of it again,” he said in a low voice, “Savilla’s sweet on the fellow your cousin Luke has hired to manage his farming operation.”
“Maybe I’ll change her mind about that,” Marcus shot back. He found it vaguely irritating that they couldn’t seem to discuss anything without mentioning his cousins, but he knew better than to say that. Luke, Ira, and Ben had recommended him for McKenzie’s training position, after all. “Let’s eat, and then I’ll crash for a while, all right? It’ll save both of us some trouble, I suspect.”
Wyatt nodded, gesturing for Marcus to head to the buffet. McKenzie greeted several folks seated at tables along their way, and Marcus was grateful that his prospective employer didn’t insist on introductions. He picked up a warm plate and covered it with hash browns before spooning on a thick layer of cubed ham and fried peppers with onions—and then he covered everything with a generous coating of cheese sauce and sausage gravy. On a second plate, Marcus placed a cinnamon roll oozing with frosting, two large biscuits, and a large helping of fried apples. He was glad McKenzie returned to their table quickly, because with so much hot, enticing food in front of him, it would’ve been difficult to wait politely.
“Dig in, Marcus,” McKenzie said as he sat down. “I envy your ability to devour all that food without thinking about the calories. I could do that when I was your age, but not anymore.”
Marcus jammed a forkful of his hash-brown haystack into his mouth, considering McKenzie’s remark. The man across the table looked to be forty-something, wearing a plaid shirt tucked into well-cut jeans that displayed a firm, fit physique. His face appeared as pleasantly weathered as the other male faces around them, yet his understated elegance set him apart from the crowd.
McKenzie could buy this entire town, Marcus realized. But he doesn’t let on. He blends in ... seems to get along with these Amish guys just fine.
“Seems we came to the right place, the way you’re tucking away your food,” Wyatt remarked pleasantly. “No need to rush—and there’s plenty more where that came from.”
“Really hungry,” Marcus murmured. He wanted to pick up the cinnamon roll and jam it into his mouth, but he took Wyatt’s hint and cut into it with his fork. “Didn’t eat on my way out here.”
He realized that he’d left a conversational loophole open, yet McKenzie didn’t quiz him about why he’d been in such a rush to leave Pennsylvania. Wyatt was savoring a mouthful of ham steak as though he
had all day to eat his meal—as though he was patiently waiting for Marcus to unwittingly reveal more about his habits and his past.
“Oh my God, this cinnamon roll is like nothing I’ve ever tasted,” Marcus groaned. “Am I just way too tired, or is the food here always this fabulous?”
Wyatt smiled. “You’ve got it right. Savilla—and Naomi Brenneman, the gal in the kitchen—make all the breads and side dishes and Josiah mans the smokers and grills,” he said. “Their combination of good, basic food and friendly service attracts people from all over the area. On weekends you often have to wait for a table.”
Chewing a mouthful of his cheese-drenched hash browns, Marcus took a moment to observe the people around them. “The places around Bird-in-Hand tend to be full of English tourists, but I see a lot of Plain guys here. Doesn’t anybody eat at home with their wives and kids like they’re supposed to?”
McKenzie smiled. “In the short time I’ve lived in Willow Ridge, I’ve learned that the Plain folks here are a bit more progressive and open to change than in other communities—and I believe that eating here is a way for them to show their support of the Witmers’ business,” Wyatt added. He gazed briefly at something behind Marcus and lowered his voice. “Just so you’ll know, here comes Luke and the fellow who farms for him.”
Marcus stopped chewing his mouthful of warm, buttery biscuit. He suddenly realized that McKenzie had a kind, generous nature despite his tendency to come on as a tough guy—and the wealthy horseman already understood him better than most folks. “Thanks, man,” he murmured.
Before Marcus could brace himself for the lecture he was expecting, Luke yanked out the empty chair to his left and sat down, playfully swatting Marcus’s arm. “It’s been too long, cuz,” he declared. “Welcome to Missouri! This is Will Gingerich, my farmer. Will, meet my cousin Marcus Hooley from Pennsylvania.”
As Will nodded and sat down, Marcus quickly assessed the fellow Savilla was supposedly sweet on. He seemed quiet. Looked pretty average in his broadfall pants, blue shirt, and suspenders.
“Will’s finished harvesting the popcorn and buckwheat crops, and he baled the last of the hay yesterday, so we’re taking a day off,” Luke said with a big smile. “So what’ve you been up to, Marcus?”
It sounded like a trick question, a trap Luke was setting. Marcus stabbed the soft, moist center of his cinnamon roll with his fork, figuring his food was a good excuse not to reply right away. Should he be honest? Well, I went on a bender and told my boss he was so narrow-minded and old-fashioned I couldn’t stand the sight of him anymore . . . except he’d used a lot stronger language than that. Or should he fudge and let Luke carry the conversation? Marcus closed his eyes in total enjoyment as he put the last big bite of his cinnamon roll in his mouth.
Luke watched him, his expression tightening with the passing seconds. “My beautiful, delightfully independent and outspoken wife says you want to ask me why I ever hitched up with her, and that you believe I must’ve been desperate.”
When Marcus swallowed before he’d chewed, the soft pastry formed a big lump in his throat. He sucked down some coffee, and began to cough. His gaze went fleetingly to the steam table, where a man who resembled Savilla was setting out big pans of sizzling pork steaks and sauced ribs. So this is how it feels to be grilled, he thought as he struggled to clear his throat of the sugary dough.
“You’re speechless at the sight of me?” Luke challenged in a low voice. “Or has Wyatt actually taught you how to keep your mouth shut? Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you went to see him before you let me know you were in town.”
Marcus coughed helplessly, and drank more coffee.
McKenzie smiled. “Let’s just say Marcus made a grand entrance. Set off the alarm system, and moments later the sheriff and his deputy came to meet him with their lights flashing. It’s been an eventful morning.”
Luke raised one eyebrow. “I was wondering why Banks and McClatchey shot out of here a little while ago.” He watched Marcus take another swallow of coffee, shaking his head.
“Let me tell you about my wife, Marcus. The first time I saw Nora she was climbing out of a bright red BMW convertible, wearing a tight T-shirt and shorts that left nothing to my imagination—and she’d just bought that big white house on the hill,” Luke recounted as he leaned his elbows on the table. “She was my new neighbor. I immediately decided I was the man who should show her around town—show her a really fine time—and she shut me down so fast, I didn’t know what hit me. Was I desperate?”
Marcus finally swallowed the dough in his throat, but he knew better than to answer that question.
Luke’s expression softened. “I was desperate. I wanted that redheaded, freckle-faced woman in the worst way,” he admitted. “I was gobsmacked when I learned she’d grown up Amish in Willow Ridge—a preacher’s girl, no less—and that her dat had condemned her for having a baby out of wedlock, and that she’d married an English fellow who left her for another woman.”
Marcus blinked. Could Luke possibly be talking about the gal he’d seen in the store? The one who’d worn a small black Mennonite kapp and calf-length dress?
“And after all that, Nora had the guts to come back and reconcile with her family,” Luke continued in a voice that thrummed with admiration. “She had the backbone to make her own way by opening a consignment shop featuring items from Plain crafters. And by not putting up with my adolescent attitude, Nora convinced me that I should finally grow up and get over myself.”
Marcus couldn’t miss the devotion that shimmered in Luke’s deep green eyes. Once again, he sensed he should remain quiet.
“For Nora, I changed—I even joined the Mennonite church. Can you believe it?” Luke asked, playfully snapping his suspenders. He focused on Marcus, his gaze unwavering. “I hope someday you’ll find a woman who convinces you to change your ways, cuz—somebody who makes you see the bigger picture—because I have a feeling you’ll keep right on messing everything up until somebody gives you a reason not to.”
Marcus’s head was spinning with the details of Nora’s incredible past, but he couldn’t miss Luke’s point. There was no denying his cousin’s sincere desire for him to make something of himself, either, despite the uncomplimentary truths he’d pointed up. “Okay, so I’m sorry I shot off my mouth at Nora—”
“Tell her that,” Luke interrupted quickly. “I don’t need your apology. I also don’t intend to clean up your credit messes or cover for you when you drink too much, and I hope I don’t come to regret recommending you to Wyatt.”
Marcus set down his fork. An uneasy silence settled around the table, and he didn’t know what to say to start the conversation rolling toward a more relaxed, less embarrassing topic than his penchant for finding trouble.
Will shifted in his chair, smiling. “I got the same sort of pep talk from the fellow who told Luke I should be farming for him,” he admitted. “The men in Willow Ridge expect you to toe a high mark—but it was certainly worth my while to follow Asa Detweiler’s advice and come here.”
“Asa and his brother run a furniture refurbishing business,” Wyatt explained as he cut into his ham steak again. “And frankly, every one of us at this table has endured some tough talk about people’s high expectations—usually at the times we least wanted to hear them. Ben has told me a few tales about Luke and Ira’s running-around days—”
“Jah, and now that Ben’s a preacher, he pays even closer attention to what we Hooley boys are up to,” Luke said with a laugh. He gazed at Marcus and then stood up. “I’ll leave you to finish your food. We’re all pulling for you, cuz. Anything you need, just let us know.”
“Sure thing. Gut to see you,” Marcus murmured. He watched Luke and Will walk toward the door, noting the way everyone they passed had a greeting or a teasing remark for them. When he glanced at his smeared, empty plates he felt so tired that he wondered where all his food had gone. “I usually go back for a second round at a buffet, but I’ve sorta lost my appetite
,” he admitted with a sigh.
McKenzie smiled, folding his napkin on the table. “Luke wants the best for you—we all do,” he added matter-of-factly. “I fully believe that you’ll rise to our expectations, Marcus. Ready to check out the apartment in the barn?”
A few minutes later they were headed back up the road to the McKenzie place, set apart by its white plank fences and majestic red barns. Wyatt didn’t chitchat a lot, and Marcus appreciated it. When they reached the top of the wooden staircase that led to the apartment in the barn, he nodded as McKenzie pointed out the front room, a kitchenette, the towels in the small bathroom, and the basic double bed in a room that wasn’t big enough to hold much additional furniture.
“Nothing fancy—no cable or Internet connection—but you’ve got hot water, heat, and electricity,” Wyatt remarked. “As time goes by, we’ll see about adding some improvements.”
“This is great. Thanks for letting me stay here,” Marcus murmured.
“See you tomorrow. Come on up to the house when you’re ready for breakfast in the morning,” Wyatt said, and then he left without any further ado.
The sparsely furnished apartment echoed with the closing of the door, and for a moment Marcus wondered if he’d been locked into another cell to sleep off his liquor after the cops had hauled him in for starting a fight in a bar.
Most of us live in prisons of our own making, one of his former Amish bosses had said when he’d bailed Marcus out. And we decide how much time we’ll spend there, or if we’ll move on.
Marcus had bristled at the old man’s lecture, yet as he glanced out the bedroom window overlooking Luke’s mill and Nora’s gift store with the rest of Willow Ridge as a backdrop, he sighed. He was really tired of screwing up.
“Tired of being told what a mess I am, too,” he muttered, “so maybe moving on is the best idea. Why do I want to hear this crap again? Why do I want to live under a small-town microscope with people knowing every little thing I do and say?”
A Simple Christmas Page 3