After Thomas had traveled east for six miles, he stopped to ask for directions.
“Big place that Asher Yutzy had. Real shame about his passing.” The man tending the vegetable stand was in his sixties. He nodded back toward the main road. “Keep following this road until you see the county number on the left. Yutzy’s place is the second on the right. You can’t miss it. Asher had dreams of starting a horse farm. He put that newfangled PVC fencing around the entire two hundred and twenty acres.”
Thomas had been inspecting the man’s produce, thinking that Mary would enjoy some of the fresh green beans. He nodded toward a quart-sized tray. “I’ll take those and some of the berries too. Did you say two hundred and twenty acres?”
“I did. Asher had a different idea of plain and simple than most folks.”
Even with the man’s warning, Thomas was surprised when he pulled onto the lane that led to the Yutzy property. Most Amish farms were eighty to one hundred acres—never more than a family could manage. The idea was to provide for your household and make a modest living from the land. Amish farmers would hire help during harvest, but it was rare to hire full-time, permanent workers. Growing a vast agricultural empire wasn’t the point of farming.
Enough land to raise a family.
That was their motto.
It was obvious the late Mr. Yutzy had different thoughts on the matter. Though the entrance was plain enough, the white fencing stretched as far as he could see in both directions. Thomas had priced the fencing for a farm on the north side of Shipshe. It had been exorbitantly expensive. In the end, they’d gone with metal T-posts and goat fencing, because...well, the man had goats.
Why would Yutzy have spent the money on PVC? And why did he have such a large spread? Perhaps the man had a houseful of sons and planned to divvy it up between them. But if he had sons, then Widow Yutzy wouldn’t need Thomas. Ezekiel had said it was an unusual situation.
Thomas called out to his horse, Duchess, directing the chestnut mare down the lane. She was a fine horse—with a beautiful gray coat and black socks. He realized it was a sin to feel pride, but he didn’t figure it was a sin to appreciate God’s creatures. At least that’s the way he justified his satisfaction with the horse.
A lovely September day.
A mare that tossed her head, but followed his lead.
And a new job.
September was progressing on a good note. He pulled up in the circular drive—it was dirt, of course. No Amish home had paved driveways that he knew of. But this one had a center garden area that had once probably looked quite impressive. Like everything else, it had been sorely neglected.
The house was small in comparison to the size of the farm. He was surprised to see the fields had yet to be harvested. In addition, a glimpse of the back garden revealed a mess of weeds and vegetables that needed to be collected. Then there was the goat standing on the front porch, munching on what might have been dead flowers in a pot.
Perhaps Widow Yutzy wasn’t physically able to take care of the place. But if that was the situation, then their bishop would have sent help.
Something else was going on here, though he couldn’t imagine what.
He climbed the porch steps, shooed the goat away, knocked on the door and then stepped back. Thomas wasn’t extraordinarily tall at five foot eleven inches, but his size sometimes intimidated people who didn’t know him. He was built solid as an ox. His mamm had loved that phrase, though now that he thought about it, she’d also called him “clumsy as an ox.”
The woman who answered his knock was younger, so a doschder perhaps. She opened the front door and peered through the screen at him.
“My name is Thomas—Thomas Albrecht. Your bishop asked me to come by. He said you might be needing some help around the place.”
She shook her head, still studying him, still silent.
“I couldn’t help but notice as I drove in that your alfalfa hasn’t been harvested. You’ll need to see that’s taken care of soon.”
“Danki, but nein. I don’t need your help.” Her voice was soft but brooked no argument.
Which left him in something of a pickle. He’d told his bishop and her bishop that he’d do his best to help.
Perhaps he could reason with her.
“After the harvest, I suspect you’ll want to put in a cover crop or maybe winter wheat. Then there’s your vegetable garden in the back. I can take care of all that as well and...”
“I don’t need your help.” Since she was standing in shadow, he couldn’t make out her expression, but her tone suggested she was determined to turn him away.
“Your fields tell a different story.”
She pushed out through the screen door, and you could have knocked Thomas over with a flyswatter. The woman had dark brown hair, a good bit of it escaping from her kapp. She was probably half a foot shorter than he was, and her eyes were the color of hazelnuts. Though she was slight in most ways, she was also very pregnant. Certainly, she was in her last trimester. Perhaps she was past due. He didn’t see how her stomach could get any larger. Plus, she was barefoot. Who walked around barefoot in mid-September? It was warm, but it wasn’t that warm.
Taking two steps back, he averted his eyes to a spot over her left shoulder. “Perhaps I could speak with Widow Yutzy.”
“I’m Widow Yutzy.”
“But—”
She stared up at him, arms crossed protectively on top of her stomach. “I’m Widow Yutzy, and as I’ve told the gut bishop before, I’m not ready to decide on what type of help I’d like, when I’d like it or who I’d like it to be.”
“Then how will you—”
“I’ll manage. I always manage.” Her voice drifted away as her gaze focused on something past him.
Thomas turned to see what she was looking at, but all he saw was what he’d noted before—fields in need of harvest, a horse that was in the pasture and a near-perfect September day begging him to get to work.
Widow Yutzy stepped back into the house, allowing the screen to close between them. “Danki for the offer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of something.”
Without another word of explanation, she firmly shut the door.
* * *
Abigail stood near enough to the window that she could watch Thomas Albrecht shake his head in disbelief, walk slowly down her porch steps and climb back into his buggy.
Good.
Good riddance.
Unfortunately, as soon as he stepped off the porch, that stupid goat returned. She needed to find a way to keep that beast off her porch and out of her flowers.
Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
Probably just baby hormones.
One hand on her stomach, she whispered, “No worries, little one. No worries.”
Thomas Albrecht turned his buggy around and headed back down the lane.
Wunderbaar.
He’d been easy to scare off.
Ha. One look at her stomach, and he’d nearly fainted.
She didn’t need a strange man’s help. Plus, this fellow was a big guy. She had to look up at him to meet his gaze.
What was Bishop Luke thinking, sending someone like that out to her place? And who was Thomas Albrecht? She’d never seen him before; that was for certain. She would have remembered. He had to be close to six feet and over two hundred pounds, though from what she could tell that weight was all muscle.
She walked back into the kitchen and stared at the pile of bills on the table. She needed to take care of them. The crops in the field could wait, but she had to figure out Asher’s system for paying bills, and she needed to do that today.
A cup of tea. That’s what she needed. A cup of tea and a few minutes off her feet. Who would guess that a person’s feet could swell so much? She pulled the canister of tea bags out of the cabinet, dropped one
into her favorite mug and filled the teakettle with water...and that was when she glanced out the window.
She couldn’t believe it.
He was back! Thomas Albrecht was back, and that stupid goat was still there—once again munching on her dead flowers!
She grabbed the broom as she exited the kitchen and headed toward the front porch. All she could think of, all she could see, was that goat. He made red dots dance in front of her eyes. Regardless how much she stomped or hollered, he came back. She’d even tried beating a spoon against a pot, but the goat had only stared at her and pulled up a chrysanthemum.
No matter what she tried, the goat always won, but not today. She’d had it. She raised the broom and proceeded to take wild swings at the creature when suddenly the broom was pulled from her hands. Thomas set the broom against the porch banister and made a noise in the goat’s direction.
The goat never looked back. The beast jumped off the end of the porch and sauntered away.
If she wasn’t so irritated with Thomas Albrecht, she’d ask him to teach her to make that noise. Instead, she turned around, plucked the broom from where he’d placed it and wondered if she could sweep him away.
“Maybe I wasn’t clear before.”
“Oh, you were clear.”
“Then why are you back?”
“Because your fields still need harvesting.” Thomas yanked off his hat, revealing brown hair that had a surprising curl to it. “Just hear me out.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I have something I need to say.”
Which stopped Abigail in her tracks. She understood the need to be heard. How many times had she wished Asher would just listen to her? Thomas couldn’t have known that. He couldn’t have guessed that he’d poked one of the sore spots in her heart.
“Fine. Have your say, but I need to get off my feet.” She collapsed into a rocking chair and stared down at her feet in despair. They didn’t even look like feet. They looked like puffballs.
Thomas let out a whistle. “So that’s why you’re not wearing shoes.”
“Couldn’t get them on. Not even close.”
Thomas started to say something, then stopped.
“Go ahead and say it. You can’t make matters worse.”
“I was just going to ask you to stay put for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
In three long strides he was down the porch steps and headed across the yard. He made that noise to the goat again, but this time the beast followed him.
“Where is he going?” Abigail spoke to her baby. That’s what she told herself, anyway. It was better than admitting that she talked to herself quite often.
She closed her eyes, grateful for the cool breeze. Who would think that September could be so warm? Wasn’t fall here? The leaves had turned orange and red and brown. They looked ready to abandon their perch, to fall to the ground in a cascade of color. She should open the windows in the house. Right after she made her tea. With open windows and a cup of tea she could face the pile of bills.
She must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew, Thomas was back on the porch, carrying a large bucket filled with water.
“Try putting your feet in there. The water from the pump was plenty cold.”
She wanted to argue with him, but what was the point? Instead, she slipped her feet into the water and a sigh escaped her lips.
“I should have thought of that.”
“It’s a fair walk to the barn.”
“Especially if you’re barefoot.”
“Especially then.” Thomas pointed to the other rocking chair. “May I?”
“Sure. Why not.”
“Explain to me why you don’t want your fields harvested. If it’s a matter of money, I’m sure your community’s benevolence fund will cover the cost of my work.”
“It’s not about the money.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but he didn’t need to know the particulars of her situation.
“What, then? Because if we don’t harvest it soon, before the rains start, you’re going to have an even bigger problem on your hands.”
Instead of meeting his eyes, Abigail picked at a spot on her apron. When was the last time she’d done laundry? What was wrong with her? Tears again stung her eyes, but she bit her lower lip, corralled her emotions and finally looked at the stranger sitting next to her.
“Why do you care?”
“Your bishop called my bishop. I live in Shipshe, more on the west side—well, northwest. Anyway, apparently Luke called Ezekiel and said you needed a hand.” He hesitated, then added, “He said it was a bit of a special situation.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Abigail wanted to answer. The man sitting next to her was pushy, but plainly he meant well. The problem was where to start. How did she begin to explain that she was good and stuck? She seemed literally incapable of making a decision. Had nine months with Asher completely dissolved her backbone? Or was it the baby? She honestly didn’t know.
Apparently growing tired of waiting, Thomas cleared his throat and barreled forward. “Needless to say, when our bishops mentioned Widow Yutzy I was expecting someone older.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I certainly wasn’t expecting someone...”
“Pregnant?”
“Ya.”
“And yet, here I am.”
“Look.” Thomas leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together, and waited for her to turn her attention to him.
She wasn’t used to that—a man waiting for her attention, a man interested in her opinion. She had forgotten what that felt like.
“I don’t know your...situation, but this sort of thing is what I do.”
“This sort of thing?”
“I’m a property manager...for Plain folks.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
Thomas smiled and leaned back, set the chair to rocking. “We sort of made up the position.”
“We?”
“Ezekiel and I.”
“Your bishop?”
“Ya, but he’s also my friend. He’s been more of a father to me than...well, than my own father.”
Abigail wiggled her toes in the water, then pulled her right foot out. Surprisingly, the swelling had gone down. She wanted to tell this man that she was just fine on her own, but plainly that wasn’t true. She wanted to stand up and assure him that she didn’t need any help, but she’d be standing, barefoot, wearing a dirty apron, in the bucket of water he’d fetched—all pointing to the fact that she did need help.
“All right,” she conceded. “But just the harvest. Those other things you mentioned...cover crops and vegetables. I’m not ready to decide on those yet.”
It was obvious that Thomas wanted to argue with her. He opened his mouth, shut it, then stared at his work boots for a moment. Possibly he was smarter than he looked.
“Just the harvest, then, and after that we’ll talk.”
“Deal.”
Thomas studied the sky. “Rain’s predicted for early next week. I’d like to get this done before that happens. Hopefully, I can assemble a work crew by tomorrow.”
“Is a work crew really necessary?”
“Looked like a large field. How many acres are planted?”
Abigail shrugged. Whenever she’d asked details about the farming side of things, Asher had changed the subject.
“I’ll need a couple of extra hands, at least. Don’t worry about the money. I’m sure Luke will—”
“I have plenty of money.” Didn’t she? Asher had never acted as if money was a problem. He’d dressed well, their house was adequate and he’d talked on and on about his plans for the farm. “Just let me know what I owe you when you’re done.”
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Thomas’s right eyebrow shot up in confusion. And he swallowed the question he wanted to ask. He almost looked comical sitting there, full of energy and ideas, yet unsure how to convince her to let him attack all the chores. Apparently, he decided that fight was best left for another day. And why should he even care? He was doing a favor for his bishop or hers. That didn’t make him responsible for her farm.
He nodded and stood, proving he was wise enough to know not to push her. “Do you need help getting inside?”
“I’m not sick, only pregnant.”
“Does that mean you don’t need help?”
If she wasn’t mistaken, there was a twinkle in his eyes. Smart with a sense of humor. Why wasn’t he married? No beard, so she knew he wasn’t. Perhaps he was courting. That would explain it. A long courtship.
“I believe I’ll sit here and enjoy this cool bucket of water a few more minutes.”
Thomas fetched the broom she’d left leaning against the wall of the house and handed it to her. “In case that goat bothers you again.”
She watched him climb up into the buggy, watched the pretty chestnut mare toss her head and trot down the lane. She watched Thomas ride off into a picture-perfect September afternoon.
She wished he’d never come.
She wished with all her heart that he wasn’t coming back.
Abigail wanted to do this alone. She needed to do this alone. Hadn’t her mamm said as much in her last letter? It was in there, on the table, buried by the bills.
I didn’t have help at your age, and it made me stronger. This will make you stronger, Abigail Marie.
Abigail didn’t feel stronger. It had been four weeks since her husband’s death. Four weeks since she’d found herself alone in a town where she had no family or friends. And now Thomas Albrecht had appeared on a bright fall day to offer his help.
Perhaps her mamm would have had her out pulling in the harvest herself, but Abigail knew that wasn’t going to happen. Thomas could harvest her field. She’d pay him, and then he’d be on his way. She’d be alone again. Alone and getting stronger, if her mamm was correct.
Time would tell.
Copyright © 2021 by Vannetta Chapman
Claiming His Christmas Inheritance Page 20
