He ignored her comment. “Blacksmithing is about control, not about power or strength. Sometimes I must hit the metal hard, but it is more important to hit the metal as accurately as I can. When I first started working beside my father in this shop, he drew an X on the anvil. He said, ‘Strike here only. Move your work, not your hammer. Chasing it around the anvil will result in a ruined piece.’ He was right.”
“It sounds difficult to me.”
“Like everything worthwhile, it comes with time and practice.”
“What happens if you make a mistake?”
“There are no mistakes.”
It was her turn to smile. “Are you that good?”
He shook his head. “Metal can be reused. If I botch a piece, I simply give it another chance as something else.” He crossed to the forge and pumped the bellows, making the coals glow hotter.
“What are you making today?”
“Cabinet pulls. I sell them at Luke Bowman’s hardware store. He has ordered twenty of them.”
“Will it annoy you if I watch?”
He shrugged. “I don’t mind.”
“Explain to me what you are doing?” He definitely seemed more relaxed out here among his tools.
“A blacksmith needs four basic things. A way to heat his work. A way to hold his work. Something to put under his work and a way to apply forces to his work.”
“Let me guess. The forge is for heating things.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Very goot. I heat my work with a forge. Forges need fuel and air, lots of air, hence the bellows.”
She gestured to the array of long-handled tools. “These pincher things are for holding your work.”
“Tongs, and you’re half right. I hold things with tongs but also with vises or clamps. There are a number of different tongs for holding various shapes.”
He picked one up. “This tong is made for holding a half-inch square rod, but it won’t work if I try to hold a round rod. A flat piece of stock requires that one.” He pointed to the tong on the end. “I have to be able to hold tight to the hot steel when I hit it. A good vise is also an important tool. Not a cheap one that you can buy in an Englisch store, but one made for heavy-duty work.”
She patted the anvil. “I assume since this is bolted down that it goes under your hot metal.”
“Right once again. This is a finely designed tool. It also belonged to my father. You’ll notice it has two holes in it. They are called the pritchel and the hardy hole. A pritchel is used for punching through a piece of metal. It also holds the work steady so it doesn’t distort when I start punching. The hardy holds cold tools. I use a V-block to put a bend in a piece or make a curved shape. The horn, the pointy end of the anvil, is used for curving metal around it.”
It was much more information than Willa really wanted to know, but she was interested because he was interested. She could tell it was more than his job. It was his passion.
He brought a length of steel rod to the table and placed one end in the fire. In a matter of minutes, he had cut the glowing metal into several shorter lengths. Then he twisted them into a spiral pattern and punched out the screw holes for a set of nearly identical cabinet pull handles.
“You make it look easy.”
“A piece this size is easy.”
“So you say. Thank you for the demonstration. It was very interesting.” She picked up several of the horseshoes. “My husband would have loved this place,” she said softly.
“What did he do? Does it bother you to talk about him?” he added quickly.
She smiled softly. “Talking about Glen doesn’t bother me. He was an amazing person in my life. I can’t pretend he didn’t exist because he’s gone now. The pain of his loss is with me if I talk about him or not. Does that make sense?”
“It does.”
“Glen didn’t have a craft the way you do. His passion was horses. Funny, isn’t it? He wasn’t Amish, but he loved working around the trotters and pacers we use to pull our buggies. Whenever we had to move, he always went to the local racetracks to find a job. He could talk for hours about this horse’s stats or why that horse’s jockey wasn’t the best fit. And horseshoes. He knew a lot about horseshoes and how they make a horse run better, the same way a good pair of track shoes makes a human sprinter run faster.”
She noticed John watching her closely. “I’m sorry. I haven’t had anyone I could talk to about Glen since he died. The girls won’t remember him in a few years. I don’t know how to keep his memory alive for them except through my memories. He went out to the corner store to pick up a loaf of bread because I had forgotten to get some that afternoon.”
She had just learned she was pregnant after a visit to the local free clinic. She’d been too upset to remember the bread. She’d never got up the nerve to tell Glen he was going to be a father again.
“What happened?”
There was so much compassion in John’s voice that it brought tears to her eyes. She turned away so he wouldn’t see them. “He was struck and killed by a speeding car as he crossed the street. They never found the driver.”
“You miss him.” It was a statement of fact, not a question. She appreciated that.
She took a deep breath. “I do. Every day. Just as I know you must miss your wife.”
He nodded. “As you say, every day.”
Willa saw the pain in his eyes and wanted to offer any comfort she could. “What was she like? I know the Amish don’t normally talk about the loved ones they have lost, but I’m willing to listen.”
A hint of a smile touched his lips. “She was a little like you.”
“Like me how? Short with blond hair and big feet?”
“Nee, she was tall and willowy with thick glossy brown hair and gray-green eyes, and I don’t think you have big feet.”
“Then why do you say she was like me?”
“She had your...attitude. I think that is the word I want.”
“What kind of attitude do I have?” She expected him to say small and timid.
“I’ve seen you stick out your chin like you are daring the world to stand in your way.”
His answer surprised her. “My husband called it my stubborn streak.”
“Ja. That’s exactly what I called Katie’s attitude when she wanted something done her way. I think she would have liked you, Willa Lapp.”
It was an unexpected compliment. “It’s a shame you didn’t have children. They make it easier sometimes. When I want to lie down and weep, I can’t because I have to take care of my girls.”
The smile vanished from his face. He stared at the fire in his forge. “Katie was pregnant with our first child when she was killed.”
Willa pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart actually ached for him. There were no words to express her sympathy, so she remained quiet. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the moaning wind rising outside.
After a few moments, John spoke again. “We had an argument that afternoon. She wanted to go to an ice-skating party with some of our friends. I thought it was a bad idea. I forbade it. She ignored me. She hitched up her pony cart and drove away. I should have stopped her. I should have reasoned with her instead of putting my foot down. I knew how stubborn she could be.”
He held his hand toward the fire. “I should have gone with her. Her cart was struck by a pickup at the end of our lane. I saw it happening, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”
Drawn to his pain, Willa stepped close and gently pulled his hand away from the heat. “I’m sorry. It is a terrible thing to endure.”
* * *
John fastened his gaze on her small fingers where they rested on his arm. She didn’t tell him it was God’s will. She didn’t say his wife and child were in a better place and that he would
see them again if he lived a devout life. He didn’t want to hear those words. He’d heard them so often they no longer held any meaning.
Willa simply said she was sorry. She understood—he felt it in the gentle touch of her hand. She didn’t make light of his pain or his guilt. How could this stranger understand him so well?
His mother had lost a son and her husband of forty years not long afterward, but she carried on. He knew her grief was real—he grieved for them, too—but she faced it differently. He didn’t have his mother’s strength. Maybe he didn’t have her faith.
He looked at Willa. “You should get back to the house. Mamm will start to worry about you if you are gone too long. The weather is getting worse. You might not be traveling for a day or two even after I fix your buggy.”
“I’m sorry you are stuck with us, but we will be leaving sooner or later. I need to reach my great-aunt and her family before this baby arrives.” Her expression grew somber, and he wondered why. He thought all mothers looked forward to the arrival of their children with joy.
“Is everything okay with your babe?”
She placed a hand on her belly and rubbed in slow circles. “I pray it is. I pray every day and night.”
He longed to chase the worry from her eyes and reassure her. “God hears your prayers, and He will answer them.”
“I know.” She looked up and smiled. “Your mother wants you to come in for supper. I’m to drag you there by the ear if I must.”
He laughed. “I would like to see you try. You’re no bigger than a mouse.”
She flexed her arm. “I have more muscle than you think. Don’t forget, I’ve been picking up two toddlers for ages. That’s a workout. Hammering a horseshoe is nothing compared to the strength it takes to stop Lucy from bolting. Hauling you in by the ear would be a piece of cake compared to managing those two.”
“I won’t put you to the test, although I might challenge you to arm wrestle in the future just to prove you wrong.”
“Not on an empty stomach, please. I’m starving. Come in the house.”
“As soon as I’ve put out my fire.”
“I’ll wait for you.” She raised the heavy shawl over her head and pulled on her gloves.
A familiar beeping broke the stillness in the room.
“What is that?” Willa asked.
“My pager.” He pulled the device from the waistband of his pants and read the scrolling message it displayed.
“Blacksmiths need pagers?”
“They do if they are part of the volunteer fire department,” he said.
“Is there a fire?”
“Nee, it was only a message telling me they have rescheduled our meeting with the county emergency management folks for Saturday afternoon.”
“That’s a blessing. It would be rough weather to fight a fire.”
“There is no good weather for a fire.” He clipped the pager back on his waistband and tidied his shop. After making sure the fire was out, he held the door open for Willa. A fierce gust of wind hit, knocking her back against him. He caught her by the shoulders and steadied her. He could barely make out the light from the window across the way. “Take care. This is worse than I thought.”
She turned her face away from the wind. “I can’t see the house. We might become lost if we go out into this.”
He grasped her gloved hand. “We won’t. I can see the light in the kitchen window. Hang on to me. I don’t want us to get separated.”
She tucked her chin into the folds of the shawl. “Promise you won’t let go.”
He squeezed her hand. “I promise. You are safe with me.”
She tightened her grip and nodded. “I trust you, John Miller.”
* * *
Willa woke the next morning to the sound of the wind roaring outside and snow hissing against the window in her bedroom. The storm was still in progress. She smiled as she sat up, feeling more rested than she had in ages. No one would find her today.
Her son or daughter kicked against her ribs, making her sit up straighter. She smiled and patted her belly. “Someone else is feeling better, too.”
Her stomach rumbled, and Willa realized she was famished. “Maybe you’re trying to tell me you are hungry. You’re going to be a roly-poly little thing if we stay here much longer. Vera’s roasted chicken and biscuits last night were the best I’ve ever had.”
Tossing back the quilt, she slipped out of bed and dressed quickly in the cold room, grateful for the woolen leggings Vera had loaned her. Willa paused to pray that her own family would be as welcoming and as kind as the Millers had been.
After checking on her daughters and finding them sleeping, Willa made her way to the kitchen by lamplight. The rest of the house was quiet. Neither John nor Vera appeared to be up yet. Willa lowered the chain that held the pair of ceiling lamps and lit their mantles with long matches from a holder on the wall. She raised the lamps again and a warm glow illuminated the room.
Rubbing her hands together to warm them, she turned her attention to food and began rummaging through the kitchen cupboards and refrigerator. She came up with the ingredients for a Spanish omelet. She hummed as she whipped the eggs, diced the potatoes and dried peppers, and heated the oil in a skillet. It was wonderful to be free of worry—at least for a day.
She had shelter and warmth, her daughters were sleeping snug in their beds and she had the run of a well-stocked kitchen. It had been so long since she’d had these most basic elements that she refused to think about what the future held and simply enjoyed the moment.
She was slipping the omelet onto a plate when John walked into the room. “Something smells good.”
“Would you like a Spanish omelet? It will only take me a few minutes to make you one.” She considered offering him hers but couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“Eat yours before it gets cold. I’ll have coffee for now.”
She was too hungry to argue with him. “I’m afraid I haven’t made any. Coffee doesn’t agree with me now. This is sad because I normally love coffee.”
“Will it bother you if I make some?”
“Not at all.”
“Goot, because I need a cup or four.” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up every which way.
Willa was tempted to smooth it for him but resisted the urge. “Did you figure out how to fix my grandfather’s buggy?”
“I need to replace several large bolts that are missing from the frame and fifth wheel, the mechanism that allows the front wheels to turn in the same direction that the horse does. I wonder how my mother managed to get them off?”
Willa paused with her fork halfway to her mouth. “You don’t really think your mother crawled under the buggy and loosened those bolts, do you? We could have been hurt if it had come apart while we were traveling. She wouldn’t risk that.”
“It wouldn’t have rolled a foot the way it was. Someone knew what she was doing. I know Lucy and Megan couldn’t have done it. That leaves my mother or you, and I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt considering your condition.” He began spooning coffee grounds into the percolator.
“Couldn’t they have simply worn out over time and fallen off yesterday? It is an old buggy. My grandfather never was one to invest in equipment upkeep. Is there any ketchup?”
He opened the refrigerator door, pulled out a bottle and handed it to her. “That possibility exists, but I didn’t find any broken bolts on the ground. As I said, it wouldn’t have rolled more than a few inches before coming apart. I drove it over beside the house myself after I fixed the loose rear wheel. It seems unlikely that my mother removed the bolts and hid the ones I keep in my shop, but I can’t put it past her. She was adamant that you and the children stay longer.”
“She has been very sweet to us. The girls have ta
ken a great liking to her.” Willa squeezed a liberal amount of ketchup onto her eggs.
“Is that good for the baby?”
“Is what good for the baby?” She forked a bite into her mouth and closed her eyes. Delicious. She cut herself another piece.
“That.” He pointed to her plate. “The peppers and onions and all that ketchup.”
She shrugged. “Plenty of babies are born in Spain, so I assume Spanish omelets are safe for pregnant women.”
“There are some antacid tablets in the medicine cabinet if you need them later.”
She sat up straight and burped. “Thanks. I may need them, but it tastes so good I can’t stop.”
“I don’t see how you have any room left for food after the way you ate last night. I’ve never seen a woman eat so many biscuits. You had six after eating half a chicken.”
Her mouth dropped open. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m eating for two!”
“Are you sure there aren’t more? Like five or six?”
“That’s an awful thing to say.”
“What are you two quarreling about at this hour of the morning?” Vera asked as she came into the room.
John gestured toward Willa. “She’s determined to eat us out of house and home. Lock the cellar and hide the key so she can’t get to the canned produce.”
Willa finished her eggs and pushed back from the table. “Do you have canned peaches? Oh, that sounds so good.”
Vera chuckled. “I do, and John will fetch them for you.”
He headed toward the cellar door. “Shall I bring up a dozen jars, or do you think you’ll need more?”
“A dozen will do for a start,” she said with a chuckle.
“I have some material in my sewing room that I want you to look over to see if you can use any of it,” Vera said.
Willa was still smiling at John’s teasing as she followed Vera down the hall. To her surprise, she saw several framed photographs on Vera’s dresser as she glanced through the open door to Vera’s bedroom. Stepping inside, Willa saw the photographs were all family portraits of parents with four children, three boys and one girl who looked to be the same age as her daughters.
Amish Christmas Twins Page 7