“Never mind.” She turned her gaze back to him. “Why are we even talking about my goat?”
Thomas shrugged. “At least you’ve stopped crying.”
Abigail sat up straighter and fiddled with her cup, turning it left, then right, before finally downing what was left of the now-cold brew. “Let me guess. You’re not comfortable with emotional women.”
“Well, I have three schweschdern who occasionally turned on the waterworks when we were growing up.”
“Waterworks? That’s a stupid term, not to mention a bit callous.”
“I could usually avoid their emotional meltdowns.”
“This is not an emotional meltdown.”
“It sure sounded like one.”
“You are making me so mad.” She actually slapped her palm against the table.
It would seem that she did have some spunk. That was nice to see.
“And you can stop smiling.”
Instead of answering her, he stood and rummaged through the kitchen drawers until he found a small pad of paper and a pen.
“Here.”
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Start writing a list.”
“A list?”
“Of everything that’s wrong. Then we’ll address them one by one.”
“I don’t need your help,” she whispered.
“I’m here, though, so...” He motioned to the paper.
Abigail shook her head in exasperation, but she picked up the pen and began to write.
Chapter Three
Abigail couldn’t believe that Thomas Albrecht had told her to stop crying. She’d thought Asher was insensitive, but good grief—he’d at least had the decency to leave the room when she was having an “emotional moment.” How she’d come to hate that term.
But why was she crying?
She was usually a practical person.
No doubt the baby hormones were to blame. She couldn’t do anything about those either. So perhaps doing something—doing anything—would help. She’d make Thomas’s stupid list. Fine. Then he’d agree that her situation was hopeless, wish her a good evening and go home to his nice little house and a girlfriend who was probably waiting on his visit.
When she’d finished writing, pushing so hard with the pen that no doubt she’d left indentations all the way to the bottom sheet of the pad, she tossed it to his side of the table.
He raised an eyebrow, but pulled her list closer and began to read aloud.
“Unable to access banking account. Can’t pay bills. Need a lawyer. Need groceries. Not ready for baby. Probate could take two years. Two years!!”
Thomas looked at her. “You repeated that and then followed it with two exclamation marks.”
“Because it’s a problem.”
“All right. Let’s start with that one, then. Why is it such a big problem?”
“Because I have to eat.”
“You know the church will make sure you have what you need.”
“I don’t want—”
“Help from others?”
He shrugged his big, muscular shoulders, something she found particularly irritating—both the shrug and the shoulders.
“You might not have a choice, and sometimes Gotte uses our troubles to make us humble.”
“Do not tell me this situation is for my own good.”
“Gotcha.”
“Gotcha?”
“It’s an expression. It means I understand what you’re saying.”
“Oh, I don’t think you do. How am I supposed to run this farm? I can’t even sell it. I can’t do anything until the estate has been through probate. Mr. Webb was very clear about that.”
Thomas stared down at the table for a moment. He pulled a sheet of paper off the pad and scribbled some numbers. They were sitting close enough that she could see he was adding the numbers, then subtracting others and occasionally even crossing some out. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. He folded the sheet of paper he’d written on and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he raised his eyes to hers.
“I could work without being paid.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I know you’re good for the money. Obviously, this is a profitable place.” He waved a hand toward the window. “Gut fields and all.”
“You would work for free?”
“Not free, just...”
“A very late payment on your labors.”
“I’ve saved up some money.”
“What were you saving for?”
“A farm.”
“Where do you live now?”
“Above the mercantile.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Say, this discussion isn’t about me. Can we get back to your problems?”
“I need to know why you’d be willing to put off your own plans—your own farm—to help me. That’s sort of an important thing for me to understand.”
“As I said, I live above the mercantile—Lehman’s Mercantile. Do you know it?”
Abigail shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s a nice place, and I like living above the store, plus I’ve grown very close to the Lehman family...”
“But?”
“But every Amish man who doesn’t already own a farm is saving for one—in my experience.” He fidgeted with his empty teacup, which looked ridiculously small in his large hand. “I enjoy my apartment, though I don’t plan to live there forever. Still, purchasing a farm isn’t something I planned to do in the next six months or even the next year. I could live on my savings while I work for you.”
“You have that much saved?”
“I could also take on other small jobs. Your place is big, but I think I’d have time for that.”
Abigail stared at him openmouthed.
Then she snapped her mouth shut and crossed her arms.
He waited as Abigail mulled over his answer. None of this made any sense to her. Why would he make such a sacrifice for her? He didn’t even know her. She shook her head once and felt the baby push against her right side. She placed a hand there, imagined her palm up against her child’s tiny hand.
“Everything okay?” Thomas’s expression of embarrassment had turned to outright worry.
“Fine. Just the babe pushing on my side.”
“Does it...hurt?”
“It’s uncomfortable at times, but if I put my hand there then she—or he—seems to relax and the pressure eases a bit.”
He shot a glance to the window, no doubt wanting to run.
The man sitting in front of her seemed to be comfortable harvesting a field or harnessing a mare or even calming a goat, but any talk of babies caused a look of panic to cross his face.
How would he manage working on her farm? And how could he do so without pay? What was the deal with Thomas Albrecht? Why was he willing to put off his own dreams and plans for what could possibly turn into a two-year wait?
For her? He didn’t even know her.
He’d given up on waiting for her to accept his offer, apparently deciding he needed to be more persuasive. “Two years is probably the longest something like this takes. No doubt, Mr. Webb gave you the worst-case scenario. The estate could be probated in as little as eighteen months or even a year.”
She studied him, really studied him for the first time. Maybe he wasn’t quite right in the brain. He seemed capable enough, but he was entirely too optimistic. What made him think that anything would turn out better than it had in the past? What made him so confident? That confidence, almost cockiness, was another quality about him that irritated her, along with his strong shoulders.
“Back to your list. The first two things—” He tapped the pen against the paper. “Your name isn’t on the account?”
“Nein, it’s
not.”
Let’s see how he was going to smugly solve this, which was an uncharitable thought. She realized that, but at the moment she was so tired and annoyed too. He acted as if she should be able to think her way through this. Thinking didn’t change facts!
“Obviously, you can’t pay your bills.”
“Obviously.”
“What did Mr. Webb suggest?”
“That I hire a lawyer—a probate lawyer. How am I supposed to do that without money?”
“The deacon who handles your benevolence fund will give you the money—for the bills and the lawyer.”
“But I don’t want charity.”
“What choice do you have?”
This time she let her head fall back and stared at the ceiling. Maybe she’d find a better answer there. Nope. Nothing. A cobweb that she should wipe down with the broom. That was it. No answers.
“You can pay it back, you know.”
His tone was softer, gentler. She sat up straight and crossed her arms on top of her stomach. “What do you mean?”
“Well, any help you receive from the benevolence fund wouldn’t be a loan. I don’t think Plain churches make loans. It’s a gift free and clear when they help church members. But you can make a contribution when you have the money to do so. You can give a gift back to the fund—an amount similar to the gift you’ve received. In that way, it kind of is a loan.”
“I’d feel better about that. I could even pay a little more—like with an Englisch loan.”
“Pay interest.” He grinned at her.
“Exactly.” When she thought of it that way, it didn’t bother her as much.
“Accepting help from the community would take care of the bank account, the bills, the lawyer and the groceries. What have you been eating?”
She waved away his question.
“All that leaves is preparing for the baby.” He cleared his throat and tugged at the collar of his shirt.
“Are you blushing?”
“Nein.”
“You look like you’re blushing.”
“I don’t know a lot about bopplin, not having any myself.”
“I guessed as much.”
“Did you, now?”
“You don’t have a...” She rubbed her chin.
“Ah. No beard. Right. No fraa, no bopplin either, but I do have nieces and nephews. What...uh...what did you mean when you added this to the list?”
“It means I’m not ready. I don’t know where I’m going to have the baby—whether I’ll have a midwife come here or go to a birthing center or maybe even go to a hospital. Asher said he’d take care of that too. Trust me, Asher liked to take care of things.”
Thomas looked at her curiously, but he didn’t contradict her. Probably that was what prompted her to explain.
“We didn’t really know each other—not well. We wed less than a year ago, and he was...well, he was busy a lot on the farm. I don’t feel like, like I really knew him. Do you know what I mean? Like sometimes you can live with a person, but not know who they actually are down deep.”
Thomas nodded slowly.
“Anyway. I don’t have baby clothes or a crib. I thought we’d decide all those things together, and now the baby is due in eight weeks...”
“Eight weeks?”
“I’m pretty big, Thomas. I’m not sure that I’d want to carry this child around for more than nine months.”
“Ya. Um...that makes sense.” Clearing his throat, he stood, collected their mugs, walked to the sink and rinsed both of them. He seemed more comfortable on the other side of the room. Was he afraid she was contagious? That was silly. That was her being prickly, as her mother had so often accused.
“Bishop Luke’s wife will help you with all those things. You know she will.”
“But what I don’t know is...”
“If you want her to help?”
“You make it sound so simple, but you’re not the one having to depend on the kindness of others.”
Instead of answering, Thomas dried his hands on a dish towel, walked back to where she was sitting and squatted down in front of her. “We’ve all had to do that at one time or another, Abigail. I have, my family has and now you are. That doesn’t make you less in any way. It makes you human.”
He waited for her to nod, then stood and retrieved his hat from where he’d set it on the table. “We’re square?”
“Square?”
“I’m asking if it’s all settled. I’ll work your farm, and you’ll pay me when the estate is probated. We’ll settle on a fair price another time...when you’re less...”
“Emotional?”
“Tired.”
What could she do? It was a kind offer, and she had no alternatives. She’d hoped to be rid of him, but at the same time, she couldn’t take care of the place alone. She didn’t see as she had any alternative to what he was suggesting, so she nodded.
“And you’ll speak to Bishop Luke and his wife tomorrow? Share your list with her? Let them help you?”
“Yes. All right. I’ll do that.” With some effort she managed to clamber to her feet, and the babe again pushed against her right side. Abigail rubbed the spot in soft circles. Was it a hand or foot she was feeling? Was it a boy or a girl?
“Do you have something to eat for dinner?”
“Ya. There are still a few casseroles in the freezer. I’ll heat something up.”
“Promise?”
“Now you’re treating me like a child.”
“And don’t start crying again.”
“You’re awfully bossy.”
He nodded, as if he’d heard that particular accusation before. “See you tomorrow?”
“If you’re sure you want to work on a Saturday.”
“I’m sure.”
“Then, yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
After he’d left, she waddled across the room and watched out the window. What a strange man. Why wasn’t he married? Why didn’t he have his own place? Who was willing to work for two years before they were paid?
A little voice in her head suggested that perhaps Gotte had sent Thomas to look over her, to help her.
Her mother’s voice drowned out that thought. Learn to handle your own messes. Her problems were still her problems. Thomas probably couldn’t be depended on. She best not grow used to having him around the place, though she had to admit he’d been quite helpful so far.
Then she remembered his impatience and the way he’d told her to stop crying.
His tableside manner could use a little work.
But she did feel better, she admitted to herself. Instead of attempting to defrost and heat up one of the casseroles, she opened the refrigerator. It was nearly empty, but there were eggs and a little cheese and butter. She still had a few slices of bread. She’d make herself a nice omelet, then she’d go take a bath.
Heading to bed early wasn’t out of the question.
The day had been too full and more difficult than she’d feared. Thomas’s confidence in her church was all good and fine, but she didn’t know if they actually had the money to help her. She didn’t know the status of the benevolence fund.
She’d find out tomorrow, though, because although he’d irritated her greatly, Thomas was correct about two things. She needed help, and she didn’t really have any other options.
* * *
Thomas drove home, wondering what kind of mess he’d managed to jump into. Not just any disaster either, but one that could last two years. He’d worked on many different farms, but he’d never worked at any single place for longer than six months. He wasn’t worried about the money, not really. He’d been truthful when he said he’d managed to save quite a bit. Jotting down the numbers on the sheet of paper and subtracting what he’d need had simply bought him time to think. But he had
n’t needed that time. He’d known it was the right thing to do.
So what was bothering him?
He thought of Abigail, sitting there weeping at the table. He remembered the way she’d glared at him, and the one time she’d managed a smile.
He didn’t know the particulars of her situation, not really. But he did know that he didn’t want to see Abigail weeping. It hurt his heart. It reminded him of his own mamm, when she’d been left alone with a house full of children and no resources.
He’d been so frustrated then, because he was young and unable to help. Because he didn’t know what to do to make things better.
But he wasn’t a youngie any longer.
He could help Abigail. He would help her. Then when she was on her feet again, when her child was born and her legal matters were resolved, he’d move on to the next farm and the next job. He didn’t have to get emotionally involved.
He could stay aloof.
He would stay aloof.
Because the last thing Abigail Yutzy needed was to be saddled with a guy like him. His father’s blood ran through his veins, and he knew firsthand what kind of damage his father had done. Nein, he wouldn’t wish that on Abigail or any other woman.
It was the reason he’d remained single.
The reason that he hadn’t purchased his own place.
Though he’d told Abigail he was saving for a farm, in truth he didn’t have the courage to purchase one. He didn’t need the temptation. Even the possibility that he could have a family and settle down might entice him to consider dating someone seriously. For some people that was all right, for most people in fact.
Not for him, though.
The risk was too high.
He’d run her farm, stay away from the house and Abigail and the child. He wouldn’t play with her heart or his own. He’d stick to his plan.
Live a quiet, solitary life.
Help others.
Repeat.
He could work for her for two years without becoming emotionally involved, though perhaps he should avoid having tea in the kitchen with her. He just needed to stay in the barn and fields. Duchess tossed her head as if she read his mind.
The one thing Thomas was certain about was that both he and Abigail would be happier if he kept his distance. That decided, he went home to his apartment, but he didn’t go inside. The thought of making himself a sandwich did nothing for his appetite. He kept envisioning Abigail’s empty cabinets.
An Amish Baby for Christmas Page 4
