A Simple Christmas

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “As we enter into the season of Advent, we await a Savior,” Bishop Tom intoned when the singing had stopped. “Let us pray now for God’s peace, which passes all understanding, that we may better prepare our hearts and minds to worship Him and welcome Him into our lives anew.”

  Rosalyn clasped her hands and bent forward, closing her eyes tightly. Lord, forgive me for my foolish behavior with Marcus, and for acting as though he and I could ever be more than acquaintances, she prayed earnestly. Guide me along the path You would have me follow with open eyes and an obedient heart—

  The creaking of the Waglers’ front door announced a latecomer. Curiosity prodded Rosalyn to peek with one eye—and she sucked in her breath.

  Marcus had come to church. To his credit, he appeared sorry that he’d disrupted their prayer, yet he seemed relieved to slip into the back pew of the men’s side, where he could remain mostly unnoticed.

  Rosalyn’s heart pounded. Why would Marcus join them in worship? Her first hopeful thought was that he intended to become active in the Old Order again—so he could court her.

  Don’t be silly, she chided herself as she bent her head lower and tried to pray again. Marcus must be tired of spending his weekends alone in his apartment. Or maybe Ben and Ira have badgered him so often about leaving his family and the Amish faith that he showed up so they’d stop pestering him.

  When Dat stood up to read from the big King James Bible, Rosalyn was grateful to have something worshipful to focus on. “Our Scripture reading today is from the fortieth chapter of Isaiah, beginning with the first verse,” he said, holding his finger in place as he began to read. “‘Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God. Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her, that her warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned,’” he declared in a grand, confident voice.

  When Dat glanced up at the congregation, however, his expression grew tight.

  Rosalyn followed his gaze and held her breath. Dat was glaring at Marcus. Some of the women shifted for a better look and the men turned around to see what had captured the deacon’s attention, which brought high color into Marcus’s face. He had the presence of mind to give a little wave, however.

  If I were in Marcus’s place I’d feel so embarrassed, I’d slip out the back way, she thought.

  “Welcome, Marcus,” Preacher Ben said as he rose from the preachers’ bench. “It’s gut to see you amongst us, cousin. As we begin this holy season of Advent,” he continued, encompassing the entire congregation in his gaze, “let’s think about what it means that Jerusalem’s warfare is accomplished—or finished, as such—and that her sin has been pardoned. But first, Deacon Cornelius, we’ll listen to the rest of today’s Scripture, which introduces John the Baptist as the voice crying in the wilderness to prepare the way of the Lord.”

  With Preacher Ben standing beside him, Dat had no choice but to refocus on the large Bible he was holding.

  As he began reading aloud, however, Rosalyn felt anything but focused. She tried to concentrate on the verses, but her attention wandered to the opposite side of the room. When she sneaked a peak, Marcus was leaning slightly sideways on the end of the pew bench—so he could look at her.

  What does this mean? Rosalyn wondered with nervous hopefulness. If he keeps gawking at me, folks will think he’s interested—or that he came to church for all the wrong reasons.

  * * *

  Marcus reined in his wayward thoughts about Rosalyn, who appeared sweet and demure as she sat across the room among the women. He told himself to pay attention as Ben began the first sermon—which might last half an hour or more, even though it was traditionally the shorter sermon of the two he would have to endure. Such long-winded preaching was only one of the reasons Marcus had stopped attending church services, but he set aside his objections. If he was to become any more than Rosalyn’s acquaintance—if she was going to take him seriously—he had to make a sincere effort to become a part of her world.

  “As we consider today’s Scripture, think on this,” Ben said in a clear, resonant voice. “If God declared that Jerusalem’s war and bloodshed were over, and that her sin had been forgiven, how easily can He free us from the turmoil we carry around inside us? Or the turmoil we cause with our careless words and deeds?”

  Marcus noticed the men in front of him nodding comfortably. The women across the room were gazing raptly at Preacher Ben, hanging on his every word as though they had absolute faith that he stood before them as God’s own spokesman.

  “But for God’s peace to prevail, we have to do our part—and that’s the catch,” Ben added earnestly. His face was alight with conviction, and his shining hazel eyes conveyed his utmost sincerity as he addressed his friends and family. “First we must listen for His voice until we truly hear it, and then we must believe that His peace and forgiveness can be ours,” Ben added as he held everyone’s gaze. “And then we must give up the sinful ways and thoughts that keep us from attaining the peace God’s trying to grant us.”

  Marcus sat spellbound. This sermon was a far cry from the hellfire and damnation the preachers and bishop in his home church had expounded upon as he was growing up. The idea that God was benevolent, wanting to bestow peace and forgiveness—to somebody such as he—came as a huge revelation. And these stirring words came from the cousin who’d been born under a wandering star—a man who’d had the older Hooley generation in Pennsylvania shaking their heads.

  The way Marcus recalled it from his childhood, Ben had joined the Old Order when he was around twenty-five, but he’d roamed the countryside in a farrier wagon for nearly ten years, until he’d happened upon Willow Ridge and found Miriam Lantz, a widow. It was unheard of for a Hooley male—or any Amish man—to remain single and unsettled for so long, yet now Ben was married, with a baby, and God had chosen him as a preacher for this district.

  Maybe there’s hope for me, no matter what I’ve done, Marcus thought. Did he dare believe that God had led him to work for Wyatt McKenzie as a way to resolve his credit problem and find a fresh start? Had he made this last-chance trip to Willow Ridge not realizing that God had bigger plans than rebellious Marcus Hooley could possibly conceive? He sat taller, listening closely to his cousin and the good news he preached.

  “Sometimes we can’t believe that God will really forgive us,” Ben continued, “so we don’t come forward in confession, even though we know our secrets and our guilt are eating away at our well-being.”

  Marcus blinked. It had been a long time since he’d even prayed, much less confessed anything to God. And the reappearance of that sea-green sedan certainly had him thinking about his secrets, lies, and cheating ways.

  “And sometimes,” his cousin went on in a sharper tone, “we don’t seek God’s forgiveness—don’t even consider confessing—because we foolishly believe that we won’t get caught.”

  Marcus squirmed, nailed by the words Ben had chosen to emphasize.

  An ominous, airless silence filled the crowded room. A few folks glanced down at their laps, as though they wondered if Preacher Ben had somehow discovered their secret sins and was preaching directly to them. When Marcus noticed Cornelius Riehl’s pinched expression and pale face, however, his ongoing suspicions were confirmed.

  The deacon of Willow Ridge was up to his eyeballs in guilt.

  Marcus suddenly realized that Rosalyn’s father resented him because he had indeed seen something at the bank that Cornelius wanted to keep hidden.

  And what if that odd Wi-Fi network you noticed in Nora’s store—Reel Money—is tied in with this questionable situation?

  Reel money . . . Riehl money? Marcus frowned. It was one thing for Nora, as a Mennonite, to have Internet access in her shop, but an Old Order Amish deacon would be vehemently opposed to the presence of a worldly Wi-Fi connection—or even a computer—in his home.

  All the more reason for you to spend time with Rosalyn as a way to ferret out what her dad’s up to—so you can protect her when the truth hits t
he fan. What if there’s a lot of money—real money—going to places it shouldn’t?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tuesday afternoon Wyatt checked the monitor of his security system, watching the views on the screen change every few seconds, but he wasn’t the least bit concerned about an intruder—he was just fidgeting while he waited for Rebecca to arrive. The interior of the empty Percheron barn appeared peaceful, with sunlight pouring through a window and illuminating tiny motes of dust in the air.

  When the camera out in the paddock kicked in, Wyatt watched Marcus putting one of the young Percheron geldings through its paces. Although the black horse hadn’t yet reached its full growth, Marcus looked like a child beside it—yet when the gelding snorted and tossed its head, frisky and eager to play, the lanky trainer peered into its eyes and patiently said something to bring the horse back into focus. The Percheron continued circling the paddock then, its head held high and a disciplined spring in its step as it pulled a wagon loaded with hay.

  Magic. Marcus Hooley possessed a power over horses that humbled Wyatt, even after he’d spent most of his forty years working with temperamental Thoroughbreds.

  The shot from the next camera showed Wyatt the view he’d been waiting for: Rebecca’s car was coming up the lane, passing between the solid white gateposts that marked the entry to his property. He switched off the monitor. He glanced at the table, where two places were set side by side so they could enjoy the view while they ate supper. Rebecca had been coming to his place for cozy, casual meals for months now, yet Wyatt felt oddly flustered on this wintry afternoon.

  It was time to speak up, to pop the question. He and Rebecca had acknowledged their love for each other and it was time for him to move their relationship forward, but he felt as jittery as a kid asking a girl out for the very first time.

  Rebecca jabbed playfully at the doorbell before opening the door, knowing it made him laugh. She entered with a gust of wind that blew a few snowflakes inside. They sparkled like tiny diamond chips in the halo the sunshine created around her shiny brown hair—yet another sign that a diamond ring was in order.

  “Sorry I’m running late,” she said, leaning against the door to shut it. “It was a day when half of my online clients wanted updates to their sites, like yesterday, and the other half called me to chat as though they—and I—had nothing else to do at three o’clock this afternoon. Sheesh!”

  Wyatt smiled, drinking in the sight of Rebecca’s wind-ripened cheeks as the cadence and timbre of her voice brought his quiet home to life. She was wearing an old red-and-black plaid hunting jacket that had belonged to her dad. It was baggy and worn, but she loved it and Wyatt thought it suited her perfectly. He kissed her, lightly at first, until she moaned her approval—and prodded him with the foil-covered casserole in her hands.

  “This needs to be in the oven for about an hour,” she said. “I put everything together last night, but didn’t get home in time to bake it.”

  “Sounds like you could use some time to distance yourself from your work before you eat anyway,” Wyatt suggested. “Three fifty for the oven setting?”

  “That’ll work.”

  Wyatt carried the cool glass casserole into the kitchen, his thoughts racing. Should he invite her to relax on the couch with a glass of wine? Or offer to massage her shoulders and neck? Or—

  “Let’s take a walk,” Rebecca suggested. “The air feels supercharged with an energy I can’t put my finger on—maybe a change in the atmosphere before we get a snowstorm. I just don’t feel like sitting still.”

  Wyatt’s eyebrows rose as he set the oven temperature. Could she sense his restless emotions? Was she feeling the same nervous anticipation he was, wondering if it was time to formally commit?

  “Perfect,” he said. “After a day of staring at the computer, hunting for more Belgian and Percheron yearlings, I could use the fresh air.”

  He slipped the glass dish into the oven, then shrugged into the hooded sweatshirt and lined denim jacket hanging on the coat tree—the outerwear he usually worked in. Rebecca wrapped her arm around his waist before burying her face in his coat.

  “Mm. You smell like horses.”

  Wyatt laughed as he opened the door. “Is that good or bad? If you want me to change into—”

  “Don’t change a thing,” she insisted as she gazed at him. “I like the rich scent of the leather jacket you wear when we go out, but to me, these work clothes smell like you, Wyatt. The you that gets his hands dirty and takes care of business.”

  He swallowed hard. Rebecca’s blue eyes shone as bright as a summertime sky. “Thank you, dear heart,” he said, guiding her outside. “I’ve known wealthy women who turned up their noses at the scent of work. That will never be you.”

  “Maybe because I’ll never be wealthy,” she shot back.

  We’ll see about that, Wyatt thought when she tucked her gloved hand into his. Plenty of men in his position would insist upon prenuptial agreements that limited a wife’s access to bank and brokerage accounts, but he wouldn’t be one of them. He trusted Rebecca implicitly. Any woman who could gaze up at a sky that was gray with impending snow and smile with such total delight would be his partner in sunshine and shadow, for the long haul.

  “I’m glad you’ve tamed Marcus and that he’s working out so well for you,” she said, gesturing toward the paddock. “That big black horse seems to be totally under his control.”

  Wyatt stood close behind her on the deck. “I can’t take credit for his attitude adjustment. I think he just needed some structure—and a paycheck with a few expectations attached to it,” he remarked. “I suspect a young woman has caught his eye. Saw him pulling a cartload of evergreen clippings to his apartment the other day, and he transformed them into wreaths and took them to Nora’s store.”

  “Hmm,” she said, making her way to the deck stairs. “Who knew Marcus was the crafty sort? Or that he’d take a shine to Rosalyn Riehl? She’s the shyest of the Riehl sisters. Shall we stroll?”

  Snowflakes tingled on Wyatt’s cheeks as the wind picked up, but he didn’t feel the least bit cold. Rebecca was holding his hand, appearing invigorated by the winter weather as they crossed the snow-covered yard. It seemed the perfect moment to propose, yet their companionable silence was a balm to his soul.

  “Your land is so rugged and beautiful, Wyatt,” she said. “I’m glad you left so many trees when you built your barns. Now that Marcus is proving to be worth his salt, it’s as though the last piece has fallen into place—like your dream has come true.”

  I need you to make this dream complete, he nearly blurted. Rebecca had created the perfect opening, yet all of his experience—with women, and with life in general—hadn’t prepared him for asking the important question that burned in his heart.

  What if she says no? What if she laughs in your face? She can whittle you down to size with one cutting remark—

  Wyatt reminded himself that Rebecca was as deeply in love as he was. And the longer he waited to say something, the more she’d wonder why he wasn’t keeping up his end of their conversation. Why was this so difficult? He’d spoken his mind with her since the day he’d met her.

  He inhaled deeply, hoping he didn’t sound painfully adolescent. “This—this dream I’ve been creating would be complete if you’d marry me, Rebecca,” he said in a rush. “Will you be my wife? Please?”

  Rebecca froze beside him. When she stared at him for several impossibly long moments, Wyatt wondered if the please had set the wrong tone—as though he’d been begging. Why doesn’t she say something? Did I sound desperate or—did I put in a wrong word without realizing—

  Rebecca grabbed him around the waist, sobbing—which worried him even more, because she was always in control of her emotions. He gingerly wrapped his arms around her shuddering shoulders, awaiting the worst when she finally found words for him. When he’d envisioned this moment, he’d anticipated a widening of her blue eyes, or perhaps a sucking in of her breath. But never a m
eltdown.

  “Oh, Wyatt,” she finally managed. She was still sniffling, her face buried in his barn coat. “I’ve dreamed of this moment—of being asked—since I was a schoolgirl reading romance novels. I always pictured how it would be—”

  He braced himself, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He must’ve said something wrong.

  “—and I practiced writing my answer—memorized it so I would say it just right when my true love proposed to me,” Rebecca continued in a quavery voice. “But I saw myself wearing a gorgeous gown in the moonlight, with the scent of roses in the air—and he was wearing a tux. I marveled that when he opened the box from the jeweler, the ring was sparkly and splendid, and somehow he’d known the right size and the exact style I wanted.”

  Wyatt’s heart sank. He’d done enough ring shopping to realize that the jewelry stores in Morning Star didn’t carry the sort of diamond he wanted to give Rebecca. Why hadn’t he waited until they were in the candlelit corner of a romantic restaurant? What sort of man proposed on a cold, windy day when neither of them was dressed for such an important moment?

  Rebecca mopped her face with the sleeve of her plaid jacket. “After living among society women, you must be really disappointed that I’m such a plain Jane—that I don’t wear dresses or makeup or—”

  Wyatt’s jaw dropped. He’d always found Rebecca’s natural beauty refreshing, and he was surprised to hear her being so critical of her appearance.

  “But I didn’t ask any of those society types to marry me,” he pointed out gently. “I love you for being you, Rebecca—and I’m glad you haven’t redesigned yourself because you thought I wanted a different sort of woman. I’m glad I waited for you to come into my life . . . waited for your answer to the most important question a man can ask.”