A Simple Christmas

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Jah, well, have a great day,” he muttered before he quickly made his way toward the door.

  Jah? When was the last time you said that? And what possessed you to make such a crude remark, idiot? Marcus’s thoughts challenged him. When he stepped outside, the chilly winter air was a relief after being in the store, which had grown stuffy. He half expected Nora to follow him and tell him exactly what she thought of his inappropriate remark, because she’d probably heard it from where she stood at the cash register.

  Large, lacy snowflakes tickled his cheeks. In the short time he’d been inside, the grass had become coated with a thin layer of snow. Although the flakes weren’t coming down fast, the gray sky and the low temperature suggested that the snow wouldn’t stop anytime soon.

  I hope it snows well into the night and keeps Rosalyn at home for a while, Marcus thought. An image of her trusting face and the hurt look he’d put on it accompanied him as he strode across the back lot of the store and past Luke’s mill, toward the McKenzie place. No point in me going to Nora’s store to see her anymore. She’ll always be a sweet, innocent Amish girl—way too sweet and innocent for a guy like me.

  * * *

  “Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open rig!” Rebecca sang happily. She and Wyatt had been out in a courting buggy Luke had loaned them, and the snow had caught them by surprise. “Look how pretty the evergreens are with the white lace gathering on their branches.”

  Wyatt smiled, keeping a firm hold on the lines as the horse clip-clopped along the blacktop toward Willow Ridge. “I’m actually looking forward to some winter weather, after living in the South for so long,” he remarked. “I can already tell, however, that I need to see Ben about some different shoes for these Thoroughbreds, now that they’ll be negotiating the curves and hills of snowy blacktop roads. Brewster seems a little unsure of his footing.”

  “He’s doing amazingly well, though,” Rebecca said as she tucked her arm under Wyatt’s elbow and sat closer to him. “And so are you, for a man who’s only recently learned how to drive a buggy.”

  His handsome face creased in a smile. “Marcus may be full of himself, but he’s an excellent teacher,” he admitted. He glanced behind them to check for traffic. “Let’s see how Brewster and I do on this lane that’s coming up. Gee, fella.”

  The horse’s ears pricked straight up and after a moment’s hesitation he made the right turn into the dirt-packed lane that led up to Atlee Glick’s place, just outside of town.

  Rebecca held her breath, not wanting to distract either the horse or the driver.

  After they’d gone about thirty feet, Wyatt tightened his grip. “Whoa, boy.”

  Brewster stopped immediately. When he shook his head and exhaled, his breath came out in white wisps of vapor.

  “Good job, Brewster.”

  They sat for several moments, waiting to see if the horse forgot his command and started moving. The bay with the black mane and tail remained stock-still, however, awaiting further instruction.

  “Good boy, Brewster. Back now,” Wyatt said quietly. “Easy, boy. Back up.”

  The obedient horse shifted in the harness and slowly reversed directions. When the rig reached the edge of the road, he awaited Wyatt’s pressure on the leather lines to determine which way he should turn. “You got it, Brewster,” Wyatt murmured. “Gee now, fellow. Back . . . back . . .”

  Rebecca nipped her lip to keep from crying out in her excitement. The Thoroughbred was performing as though he’d been an Amish buggy horse all his life.

  “All right, off we go, Brewster. Let’s head home now.”

  The horse shook his head and picked up his pace, soaking up Wyatt’s praise as he pulled them past Bishop Tom’s dairy farm. Black-and-white Holsteins raised their heads from the hay they were munching, watching the rig go by. In the distance, a border collie raced along a pasture fence to bark out its greeting as a herd of woolly sheep looked on.

  Wyatt slung his arm around Rebecca’s shoulders and hugged her close. “Every time I drive through this area, I feel as though I’m in a live picture postcard,” he said. “I’m still waiting for reality to set in—for something to distort the absolute perfection of my new life. Do you have any idea how happy I feel whenever I’m with you, Rebecca?”

  Her pulse raced and she snuggled closer to him. “I have a whole new definition of happiness these days,” she murmured. “Must be the company I’m keeping.”

  As they continued along the road, Rebecca sensed Wyatt wanted to say something else, but she didn’t press him. It was enough to let her heartbeat settle into the steady clip-clop, clip-clop of Brewster’s hooves, and it didn’t matter that her coat and jeans would be soaked through with the snow by the time she got home. Wyatt watched for car traffic at the intersection and expertly steered them onto the county highway. They passed Andy’s clinic, and then the Schrocks’ quilt shop, which shared part of the Grill N Skillet’s building, directly across the road from Mamma and Ben’s house. Once they’d crossed the bridge near Luke’s mill on the river, Wyatt guided the horse between the distinctive white gateposts that marked his property. Moments later they were pulling into the barn where the Thoroughbreds would live until they were sold to new Plain owners as exquisite buggy horses.

  With a gentle tug on the lines, Wyatt halted the horse. In the unlit dimness, his gray-blue eyes gazed all the way into Rebecca’s soul. “I love you, Rebecca,” he whispered. “I don’t know why I’ve been so hesitant to say it out loud, because I’ve known how I feel about you practically since the moment we met.”

  Rebecca cupped his face in her hand and kissed him. His feelings for her had never been a secret, but she was glad she’d let him say the words first rather than stealing his thunder—or making him feel he should say them back to her. “I love you, too, Wyatt,” she murmured. “It’s not something either of us take lightly, or take for granted.”

  He rested his forehead against hers. “Never ceases to amaze me, the way you often say exactly what I’m thinking, dear heart.”

  They sat together in the shadowy barn for several long, lovely minutes. For Rebecca, it was the long-awaited beginning of a sweet dream that was about to come true.

  Chapter Nine

  As Rosalyn sat in church on Sunday, she was relieved that Marcus hadn’t felt compelled to attend the service—even though he clearly needed to return to the ways of their faith. Every time she’d gazed at the cornhusk angel, she’d felt such delight that he’d fashioned the Christmas figure for her. But then she would recall the next words that had come rushing out of his mouth and she’d blush with discomfort all over again.

  Horses and women. I can have them eating out of my hand at the drop of a hat.

  Squirming on the pew bench, Rosalyn reminded herself that Marcus’s embarrassing remark was the last thing she should be thinking about during Preacher Henry Zook’s sermon. The storekeeper rarely delivered a Sunday message, so he wasn’t as polished as Bishop Tom or Preacher Ben—

  That doesn’t matter. God chose him, and you’re to follow his teaching.

  Straightening her spine, Rosalyn noticed that other folks in the congregation appeared distracted, too. Preacher Henry spoke in a reedy monotone, and his reluctance to stand before a crowd was reflected in his murmured words and a sermon that seemed to ramble on pointlessly. On the preachers’ bench, Dat gazed blankly at his knees while Preacher Ben fought a yawn. Bishop Tom stole a furtive glance at the clock on the Brennemens’ mantel.

  “In closing, we should never forget that the poor shall always be with us,” Preacher Henry said. “Rather than feeling pity for them, we should stand ready to assist at a moment’s notice—and we should give thanks that we don’t count ourselves amongst them.”

  As the preacher retreated to the bench behind him, the women around Rosalyn were frowning, trying to figure out what the final sentence of the sermon meant. How were the poor related to the Scripture Dat had read before the sermon, about Nicodemus coming to Jesu
s under cover of nightfall to ask how he could attain everlasting life? A couple of fellows on the men’s side across the Brennemens’ front room coughed, and others shook their heads in bewilderment. Everyone seemed eager to sing the final hymn.

  After Bishop Tom’s benediction, the room immediately rang with chatter, as though folks were trying to put Preacher Henry’s awkwardness behind them. Rosalyn and her sisters headed toward the kitchen with the other women to set out the meal.

  “Naomi, is it true what they say about that Marcus fellow Wyatt McKenzie hired?” Preacher Henry’s wife, Lydia, asked. “Somebody told me he could teach a horse to dance—and that he eats his weight in food when he’s at the Grill N Skillet.”

  The ladies all laughed as they began filling baskets with fresh-sliced bread. Naomi Brenneman, the day’s hostess—who helped the Witmers in the café’s kitchen—pulled a large metal pan of baked chicken from her oven before she responded.

  “I don’t know anything about his way with horses,” she said, “but jah, he has quite the appetite. We’re glad he comes for his supper close to closing time, because he doesn’t leave us much in the way of leftovers.”

  Rosalyn blinked. Where did a lean, lanky fellow like Marcus put so much food? She envied him, because it seemed that an extra helping of potatoes here or a second brownie there was all it took to make her clothes feel tighter. She focused on filling the water pitchers, determined not to think about Marcus any more.

  “And why isn’t Marcus here this morning, worshipping with us?” Nora’s mamm, Wilma Glick, asked in a judgmental tone. “I’d think Preacher Ben would make it a priority to see that his cousin came to church.”

  “The way I hear it,” Leah Kanagy put in, “that young man’s socializing with English women got so out of hand, his Old Order dat sent him packing. Five of them he’s lived in sin with—at his young age!”

  Rosalyn’s eyebrows shot up. Maybe what Marcus had said about his way with horses and women was true.

  “Let’s not stretch this gossip out of proportion, sister,” Miriam challenged Leah above the other women’s shocked whispering. “Marcus has indeed exasperated his family in Lancaster, and he’s jumped the fence, jah. Ben and Luke have tried to talk to him concerning the salvation of his soul, but it’ll take some time to win him over. Marcus has been in Willow Ridge just over a week,” she added as she cut a sheet cake into serving pieces. “If you throw in a day of rest, it took God seven days to create the world, after all.”

  “And I’ve heard that he’s already trained some of Wyatt’s retired racehorses to pull rigs—and that he stepped in to help Nora at her store and was the perfect gentleman,” Edith put in quickly. “Let’s not be too quick to condemn him, or he’ll find no gut reason to rejoin our faith.”

  Rosalyn was pleased that her sister and Miriam’s remarks stanched the flow of gossip about Marcus, but she quickly carried the pitchers to the tables in the front room so she wouldn’t have to hear any more about Wyatt’s controversial new employee. She was grateful that her sisters didn’t mention the cornhusk angel or the frightful things Marcus had said before he’d hurried out of the store on Saturday.

  As folks sat down to eat, the three inches of snow they’d received overnight gave everyone something besides Marcus to talk about, and the crisp whiteness had put most of them in a festive mood. With Thanksgiving behind them, talk of upcoming Christmas visits from kinfolk who lived in other towns kept the conversation lively.

  “I’m really looking forward to some of my family coming from Bowling Green,” Miriam said brightly. “They plan to arrive early in the week—and they’re hoping we’ll put on another live Nativity this year, Bishop Tom.”

  From his seat a couple of tables away, the bishop smiled as all eyes focused on him. “We seem to have started a tradition that my bishop friends in other communities believe is rather radical,” he remarked. “Ben and Henry and I discussed this the other day, and we still believe that an outdoor pageant shared with any English folks who care to attend is a wonderful-gut way to celebrate the miracle of Jesus’s birth.”

  “As you’ll recall, we first put on a live Nativity because, what with only six kids attending school—all of them still in the lower grades—Teacher Alberta has a hard time putting on the usual Christmas Eve program,” Preacher Ben reminded everyone. “If none of you objects, Miriam and I are willing to host the pageant at our place again this year. Our big barnyard allows room for lots of folks to attend, and they can park along the county highway.”

  “I wanna be a wise man this year!” one of the six-year-old Knepp twins called out.

  “Our brother Aden could be Baby Jesus!” Taylor Leitner, Andy’s daughter, said excitedly.

  As the grownups around Rosalyn smiled, she became fascinated by the idea of the children reenacting the birth of Jesus outdoors. What a way to celebrate her family’s first Christmas in Willow Ridge! Their bishop in Roseville would never have allowed such a spectacle—yet Bishop Tom was offering to provide a couple of his Holstein cows for the manger scene while Ira Hooley volunteered a pair of recently born Percheron mules and Leah Kanagy’s husband, Daniel, had lambs to bring.

  As talk about the pageant continued, Rosalyn and her sisters couldn’t help smiling. Even though Dat had told them their holiday preparations would be minimal again this year, they enjoyed hearing about the past Christmas Eves’ live Nativities and other families’ plans for fun on Second Christmas, after a Christmas Day of quiet reflection. With anticipation of holiday festivities fueling their conversations, the afternoon passed quickly.

  Once they got home, however, time hung as heavily as a snow-soaked cloak. Rosalyn and Loretta tended the chickens while Drew did the horse chores, remarking about how much earlier darkness fell at this time of year. Because they’d eaten a large meal after church, supper consisted of cold cuts, cheese, and bread for making sandwiches, along with what remained of a chocolate cake Loretta had baked on Friday. Drew and Dat took their places at the table, in a kitchen that was dim because Dat kept the lamp wicks low to avoid burning too much oil. Loretta sat down with them, but Rosalyn wasn’t hungry so she went upstairs to her room.

  From her window on the back of the house, she had a view of the Simple Gifts store, the Hooleys’ mill, and beyond that, the expensive white plank fencing that marked the McKenzie place. Maybe it was a reflection of a security light she saw in the upper-level window of one of Wyatt’s barns . . . or maybe Marcus was in his apartment in the loft.

  Rosalyn picked up the cornhusk angel from her dresser and gazed at it for the umpteenth time. How was it possible that Marcus, such a brash, mouthy young man, could effortlessly fashion a doll from a cornhusk and a strand of wire? Like the Amish cloth dolls Nora sold in her store, this angel had no facial features. Her wire halo—which also formed the neckline of her gown and defined her waist with a slender belt—and the lift of her wings gave her a serene, almost saintly, personality. The little sprig of silk holly in her belt added a festive touch of color.

  Marcus made this just for me.

  Rosalyn sighed. She was reading more into Marcus’s gift than he’d intended, yet her lonely soul longed to believe that such a handsome, adventurous—dangerous—young man found her worthy of his notice. In mere moments he’d provided her imagination the material for endless romantic fantasies in which she won him over and he gave up his wild life to join the church and marry her.

  That will never happen, the little voice in her head warned.

  But what could it hurt to secretly adore Marcus from afar? With each passing week she came closer to being labeled a maidel who would never wed—some folks already believed Rosalyn, at twenty-eight, was beyond the age when men would consider courting her. It didn’t help that Dat, a deacon who was expected to toe a higher line than other men, was a difficult father whose recent activities had cast a dark shadow of doubt over their household, rendering his eldest daughter even less desirable.

  Marcus called you Roz yesterday, sh
e recalled with a tremulous smile. The simple nickname set her apart as special—made her sound less bound by the rules and more likely to cut loose and have fun. Her father would never tolerate anyone calling her Roz—even at home—which made the nickname seem that much more exciting . . . a secret she and Marcus could share in their private moments.

  “But then he had to go and talk about his way with women,” she muttered as she turned her back to the window.

  Rosalyn pulled her shawl more tightly around her and shivered in the chilly room. With five previous girlfriends, Marcus must know all there was to know about what went on between men and women. Because of Mamm’s revelations years ago, fearful thoughts about the physical side of love made remaining a maidel seem like a far more comfortable option than the marriage bed. In a desperate moment, her mother had confided secrets that Rosalyn could never share even with Loretta or Edith—and certainly never with Dat, who would deny Mamm’s words in a burst of fury.

  Mamm realized what a burden she laid upon you when you were only twelve, and she begged you not to repeat what she said. For weeks afterward, she looked worried and guilty about heaping her fears upon you.

  Rosalyn sighed. Their family and friends knew about the tiny graves of the stillborn Riehl babies in the Roseville cemetery, one of them buried ten months before Loretta’s arrival and one of them ten months later. Rosalyn clearly remembered the babies’ pale bluish faces and the eyes that had never opened—not to mention Mamm’s pain and grief after carrying babies to full term, only to learn their cords had become wrapped around their necks.

  What folks didn’t know about were the miscarriages . . . and the night after one of them when Mamm had clung to Rosalyn, crying and confiding her abject fear of going to bed each night, having to submit to Dat’s demands before her body had a chance to recover from her pregnancies. The muffled noises coming from her parents’ bedroom took on a sinister meaning after Mamm’s confession, and Rosalyn wasn’t sure if she’d heard her mother crying in the night afterward, or if her girlish imagination had conjured the sound. But even at twenty-eight, with two sisters who absolutely glowed from the attentions of their new husbands, she became a knot of apprehension at the mere thought of lying with a man.