by Kelly Long
“Jah, sohn.” She leaned close. “And gut luck to ya tonight.”
He smiled and entered the school to discover a wonderland of light and decorations. Although his people normally didn’t decorate much for Christmas, Jude Lyons and the kinner had outdone themselves with green and red loops of cut paper, festive ribbons, and a large hand-painted banner that hung atop the long tables lining the walls where the cookies were being placed by eager participants.
Obviously, the idea of a Cookie Bake Off appealed to the bakers of Ice Mountain, as nearly everyone he knew had turned out to pay their dollar entry fee and accept a number for their tray.
He saw that Clara must have already placed her dish and was seated near Sarah and Mary, the schoolmaster’s wife, in one of the many folded wooden chairs assembled in neat rows. He wanted to wish her luck and then prayed that she’d lose somehow as he made his way to the back of the room, where the young men usually stood for such doings.
The judge was Bishop Umble, and he was taking a long time savoring his job. There was a sense of expectancy and fun in the air as the bishop teased and took drinks of water between tastings. At long last, he reached the last plate of cookies and took a bite. Then he held up his aged hand for silence.
The room rumbled to an excited quiet as the bishop began to speak. “Well, this was no easy decision, I’ll tell you. The bakers of Ice Mountain have truly outdone themselves tonight. But there can be only one winner.”
Daniel noticed that Clara had turned in her chair and was looking at him. He smiled at her, feeling as if they were the only two in the room for the moment.
The bishop cleared his throat. “And the winner is—”
A blast of cold air and the loud bleating of what sounded like a herd of goats shook the room. Blinks ran in and headed for the first table of cookies, neatly overturning the whole setup and proceeding to munch with enthusiastic relish. Then Clair Bitner’s Teddy, Benny, and Scruffy followed, each tearing up a table and feasting on the creations of the evening. It happened so fast that the audience sat stunned; then pandemonium ensued as the men made a mad scramble for the goats and the ladies for their respective cookies. Kinner joined in the free-for-all and sampled cookies from the floor, then started sliding them across the polished wooden boards like hockey pucks.
Daniel sidestepped as much of the mess as he could and got to Clara, who was standing by her chair, desperately trying to scold Blinks. She gave up when Daniel drew near and instead stretched out a hand to him. He took her fingers in his, heedless of the chaos around him.
“I just saw my pralines go down,” she laughed. “But, ach, I wanted you to win, Daniel. I knew it would make you happy. So I left out my secret ingredient.”
“What?” he almost had to holler. “I did the same thing so that you would win.”
“But that would mean—” She broke off in sudden thought. “What is your secret ingredient?”
“What’s yours?” He laughed.
They both cried out in unison: “Goat’s milk!”
Then she was in his arms, hugging him, and he pulled her through the throng and outside into the relatively quiet night air.
“I see we’ve been working at cross purposes,” he said, loving the feel of her slender form against him.
“But if I’d won, you’d never see me again. Why did you want that?” she asked, pulling back from him.
He grew serious. “Because I wanted you to choose.... Clara, listen. Please listen. Will you marry me? I love you. I think I’ve loved you for a very long time.”
He felt his chest work when her eyes filled with tears and she withdrew even further.
“Daniel—I can’t. I cannot help but think that Seth—well, that he wouldn’t approve, what with you being his best friend. Ach, I love you, too, but I . . .”
Daniel smiled and felt happiness flood his veins. He framed her beautiful face with both hands and bent close to her. “Clara, listen. Do you know why I came to ask you to marry me two years ago?”
“Nee . . . I thought you felt sorry for me.”
“Nee, never that. Nee. Seth asked me to marry you—to take care of you.” His voice broke. “He wanted us to be together. With his dying breath, he wanted it.”
Daniel saw the burden lift from her almost as if it were a tangible thing, and she melted against him.
“Ach, Daniel, then jah. Yes, I will marry you!” She threw back her head and laughed exultantly and he kissed her with rough tenderness.
“Let’s geh tell the bishop,” Daniel said, grabbing her hands.
“No need.” Bishop Umble spoke from where he’d come out onto the school porch. He was munching a cookie and his bright blue eyes shone. “As I said, Gott can make all things new.”
Daniel shook the wise auld man’s hand and Clara giggled. “Who won the cookie bake off?” she asked.
Bishop Umble stroked his beard. “Hands-down—it was the goats.”
EPILOGUE
December, Two Years Later
“It’s a funny thing,” Daniel said as he stole a too-hot cookie from his wife’s baking sheet and popped it into his mouth.
“What’s that?” she asked, merely shaking her kapped head at his theft as she maneuvered the cookie sheet next to the others to cool.
“I used to love your cookies,” he confided with a grin and a flash of his bright green eyes.
She pouted on purpose. “Used to?”
“Uh-huh.” He swiped a sweet kiss across her lips. “But now I love you even more than your baking.”
Clara giggled with happiness at his words. “I love our Christmas seasons together.”
“And I do, too, sweet Clara.”
His big hands encircled her rounded belly as he bent to nuzzle her neck. “It’s the perfect time for baking love. . . .” he said with undisguised heat.
And she turned to begin gathering ingredients in his arms....
AMISH SNOWBALLS
INGREDIENTS
1 cup butter or margarine, softened
½ cup powdered sugar
1½ teaspoons vanilla
2½ cups all-purpose flour
¾ cup finely chopped nuts
¼ teaspoon salt
Powdered sugar
DIRECTIONS
1. Heat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.
2. Mix butter, powdered sugar, and vanilla in a large bowl. Stir in flour, nuts, and salt until dough holds together.
3. Shape dough into one-inch balls. Place about one inch apart on an ungreased cookie sheet.
4. Bake 10 to 12 minutes or until set but not brown. Remove from cookie sheet. Cool slightly on wire rack.
5. Roll warm cookies in powdered sugar; cool on wire rack. Roll in powdered sugar again.
Read on for a preview of
AN AMISH COURTSHIP
ON ICE MOUNTAIN
by Kelly Long
coming next December
PROLOGUE
Fall, 1950, Ice Mountain, Coudersport, Pennsylvania
Twelve-year-old Joel Umble crept forward on his hands and knees in the thick pine needles, then paused to kneel upright, extending his right palm to the big wolf caught in the steel trap. The animal had nearly chewed its front left foot off in an attempt to escape the cruel teeth of the metal and now gave a threatening growl.
“Kumme, hund, peace between you and me,” the buwe murmured. “I will pray for your healing and set you free.” He swallowed, never breaking his gaze with the large golden eyes, which were dilated with pain and rage. Joel inched closer, praying aloud, until he’d stretched his palm and fingers to their utmost.
Savage white teeth closed with a snap, and Joel drew a thankful breath when the long snout and black nose lowered and he felt the brush of the animal against his skin; seeking, scenting, roughly tender . . .
The sudden report of the gun seemed to shake the ground beneath Joel’s knees, and his arm was splattered by the wolf’s blood. He twisted in surprise and fury as his older bruder by two years, Juda
h, lowered the weapon. “Joel, you’re a fool. Praying for a pelt . . . What would our fater have said?”
Joel blinked away angry tears and turned back to the dead animal, sinking his hand into the thick gray fur. “Fater did not trap,” he bit out.
Joel heard Judah step closer, the pine crunching beneath his boots. “The wolf was mine and what is mine, I keep. Remember that, Joel.”
“And what is Gott’s?”
“What He takes, little penitent.” Judah laughed with open cruelty. “Now geh back to the cabin; I must skin the beast.”
Joel got unsteadily to his feet, then walked away from the wolf as his bruder passed him with a hunting knife drawn.
CHAPTER 1
Ice Mountain, February 14, 1958
Martha Yoder wanted a bath in the creek. She was tired of cramming herself into the tiny hip tub her family used all winter, and she gathered towels and a clean nacht gown and slipped out of the cabin before anyone noticed she was gone. The moon cast a haloed light on the surface of the deep snow as she plowed her way to the small shed where tools were kept. She wanted an ax, in case the deeper part of the creek was still frozen over.
She whistled as she made her way along the moonlit path, the sound comforting in the still of the night—not that she needed any solace to be alone. Caring for her aged grossmuder made the winter days long in the cabin, and though there was her mamm and daed also, Martha was the most able-bodied and handy. And then there was Judah. . . .
Tall, pompous Judah Umble had been pursuing her since she’d turned sixteen, but there was something about him that made her cold at times.... Not the clean cold of a winter’s nacht, like now, she thought . . . but rather a cold of the soul that she could not quite explain. She pushed away ideas of Judah, not wanting to interrupt her mental peace, and finally reached the creek. Casting a quick, perceptive glance around, she dropped the ax and her armload of things, and began to strip down to her bare skin.
The cold was exhilarating, and she gave a little squeal of delight as she ran and plunged, toes first, into the swirling water. She stood for a moment, her unbound hair caught in the current, and gloried in simply being alive....
* * *
Joel Umble couldn’t sleep. It was nigh on ten o’clock, he knew, but the moonlight that slid through the single window of his and Judah’s room beckoned him somehow. He knew his bruder would scorn him for such ideas as the call of the moon, but for once, he didn’t seem to care. He slid naked from his narrow bed and went to the window, the sill just bumping the height of his lean hip. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass and felt his restlessness grow, especially when Judah began to snore.
A brisk walk in the snow, he thought, turning to quickly get into his clothes with as little noise as possible. He’d become adept over the years at slipping out of the haus, seeking peace and time alone, away from Judah’s cruelty and his mamm’s anxious thoughts. And tonight was no exception. He crossed the kitchen, stopped to stroke his mother’s cat, Puddles, and then went out into the nacht.
It was times like this when he missed his fater most of all—the great, tall man who’d slung him over a broad shoulder and galloped along like the fastest horse—they’d often shared a walk in the woods together. His daed had taught him the ways of nature and the wild, letting Joel see the living Gott in every tree, leaf, and creature. It had been a blessing to have such a man in his life, even if it had only been for a short time.
He walked easily now through the deep snow, hands fisted and stuffed in the pockets of his heavy black coat. He pulled his dark hat down closer as the wind picked up, then nearly stopped still when the sound of a woman’s voice came to him, high, melodic, carried by the nacht air from the nearby creek like a siren’s song.
He followed the sound, finding himself strangely drawn, then came to an abrupt stop at the edge of the creek bank when he saw the naked back of the girl. He retreated behind a nearby pine tree automatically but she soon stopped singing, as if aware somehow of his presence.
She turned in the water and he stared, transfixed from his half-hidden position—at twenty years old, he’d never seen a woman’s bare breasts before. He didn’t count the hired girl’s dusky nipples, which pressed through her thin summer dress; no, this was different—painfully different.
“Who’s there?”
He caught his breath when he recognized Martha Yoder . . . he realized that he’d been too busy looking at her body to notice her face, but now he turned and pressed his back hard against the tree.
“No one,” he muttered, answering her before he could help himself.
“I’m getting out. Don’t tell me it’s not you, Judah Umble! How dare you spy on me like this . . .”
Judah? Ach, praise Gott she thinks it’s my bruder . . . though the image of her white breasts with nipples as red as strawberries was burned into his retinas. He felt hesitantly for the ground beneath his boots and started to move away, when he tripped and sprawled face-forward in the snow....
* * *
Martha was furious. Not only did the man have the nerve to seek her out in broad daylight, now he was stalking her by the light of the moon. She grabbed up her pile of clothing, careless of the pins that pricked her skin here and there and marched over to where he was scrambling to get to his feet.
“Gut for you—falling on your face, Judah,” she scolded. His hat had fallen off, and his black hair seemed more tousled than usual in the half light. She hugged her belongings to her and waited for him to rise. He seemed to be taking a long time at it....
“Are you hurt?” she snapped finally in exasperation.
“Nee,” he whispered. “Just geh.”
She tossed her head. “Judah Umble, I can’t leave you lying here in the snow. You’ll freeze to death.”
“And you won’t?”
“Nee, I won’t. I’ve got the blood for it. Now, get up.”
She sighed and reached a single arm down to tug fretfully at his coat sleeve and then lost her balance, her toes colder than she cared to admit. She gave a small cry as she pitched forward on her knees in the snow, and she saw his head turn out of the corner of her eye.
Then she gasped, amazed and shamed. Her lip began to quiver. “Joel?”
THE CHRISTMAS BAKERY ON HUCKLEBERRY HILL
JENNIFER BECKSTRAND
To Mary Sue Seymour:
Heaven rejoices at your return even as we mourn your passing.
Thank you for giving me my wings and encouraging me to fly.
And to Nicole Resciniti:
Mary Sue couldn’t have passed the torch to a better woman.
CHAPTER 1
“What does the Ordnung say about Vikings, Felty?” Anna Helmuth said, straightening her glasses to get a better look at her husband. Sometimes she wasn’t sure what the Ordnung—the rules of their Old Order Amish community—did and did not allow.
Felty didn’t even glance up from his paper. “What’s a Viking, Annie-banannie?”
“You know. Those men with horns on their hats.”
“Horns? That doesn’t sound very safe. What if you bent over and poked your friend in the eye?”
“Now, Felty.” Anna tied off the final strand of yarn and leaned back in her rocking chair. She had finally mastered the art of crochet, and this Viking beanie she’d made for her grandson proved it. She had always been a knitter. Felty had told her she knitted as if she were born with a pair of needles in her hand, and up until last year, her knitting had been sufficient. But then she had realized that if she wanted to find her grandson Titus the perfect wife, she would need more than knitting and cooking skills.
Last March, Anna had pulled out all the stops, bought an instruction book, and taught herself how to crochet.
All for Titus’s sake.
She hoped he appreciated it.
“Look, Felty,” she said, holding up her latest creation.
Her husband of nearly sixty-five years lowered his paper and peered over his reading glasses. �
��That is wonderful-gute, Annie. I ain’t never seen no one as talented as you.” He raised his eyebrows. “What is it?”
“It’s a Viking beanie.” The beanie was gray with little nubs and nobs and post stitches to make it look like a helmet with two crocheted white horns poking out either side at the top. It was truly formidable. Surely the bishop couldn’t disapprove after she’d spent so much time making it.
“Very nice. Those horns wouldn’t poke out anyone’s eye.”
Anna stabbed her crochet hook into the ball of yarn. “Do you think Titus will like it?”
Felty squinted as if he were trying to get a better look at the Viking horns. “Titus adores everything you make for him, Annie, but he usually wears a beanie beneath his straw hat when he does winter chores. I don’t think the horns will fit under his hat.”
Anna furrowed her brow. “Oh dear. Maybe I should have made him a Minion scarf.”
Felty looked at Anna with an appreciative glint in his eye. “Annie, you’re so smart. I don’t know what a Viking or a Minion is.”
Anna waved away his praise. “It’s in the new crochet pattern book that Cassie gave me. I just follow the directions. You can do anything if you just read the directions.”
“Not me. I’ve tried knitting, and I don’t dare to try crocheting. Are you sorry you didn’t marry someone smarter, Banannie?”
“Just because you can’t knit doesn’t mean you’re not smart. Gotte gives each one of us our own gifts. I can cook and knit and crochet. You never saw a horse you couldn’t calm or a gadget you couldn’t figure out. Gotte has been very generous with both of us.”
Felty stroked the long gray beard on his chin. “Indeed He has. The best gift He ever gave me was you, Annie. I’d be greedy to wish for more.”
