She looked down at the rock in her palm, and when she took the package from his fingers she pressed the rock into his palm. It was time to give the rock back.
“What’s this?” he asked with a frown.
“It’s the rock you gave to Miriam. She tossed it aside when you left, and I went back for it. It was silly of me, and I feel foolish for having kept it. But I should give it back. You deserve a girl like Miriam.”
Atley rolled the rock around in his palm, then shook his head. “Who cares what I deserve when I know what I want?” His dark gaze met hers; then he tapped the gift in her hand. “Open it.”
She pulled on the string and unwrapped a clothespin doll, this one dressed like an angel with wings made of real feathers. She frowned, looked up at him . . .
“It’s pretty,” she murmured.
“We always hear the Christmas story and we’re told the moral, right?” He licked his lips. “For the girls, they’re told that they should be like Mary—sweet, obedient, allowing their husbands to care for them. And the men should be like Joseph, strong and faithful. And those are the only options.”
“That’s true.”
“Well, I was thinking about it last night, about the Christmas story, the stable, a man and a woman starting out their marriage . . . and I realized that you aren’t Mary. And I’m not Joseph.”
No, they weren’t. The lifetime of love and marriage would not be theirs. She nodded, a lump rising in her throat.
“Mary was quiet and demure, or so we’re told,” Atley went on. “But out in the hills that night, angels exploded into song. Their joy knew no bounds! They weren’t quiet or proper . . . Maggie. You’re not the meek and mild wife; you’re my Christmas angel.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Then who are you?”
“Me? I don’t know.... Probably just a grateful shepherd.” His eyes welled with tears. “Last night Waneta came back to find Abram. And my uncle told me something about marriage. He said that married people realize what they have to lose and it is only then that they choose to bend for each other. I don’t want to wait as long as Abram did, Maggie. I want to bend now, because I know what I have to lose—”
“What are you saying?” she whispered.
“I’m saying I want to marry you, Maggie,” he breathed.
“And I know as I say it that you will probably say no. But I do want to marry you, just as you are. I want you to write that column for the Englisher paper, and I want you tell me what you feel about things, and your opinions and your observations. I want you to be yourself, open and funny and kind and . . . I want to be your husband.”
She blinked at him; then her fingers fluttered up to her lips. “Atley . . . ”
“Marry me, Maggie,” he pleaded. “We’ll sort it out. And I mean that. I’ll bend for you.”
Maggie sucked in a breath. “Do you mean that?”
“Yah. From the bottom of my heart.”
“Because last night my father asked me if I had to choose between being understood by one man, or by a whole multitude of Englisher strangers, which would I choose? And I chose you. If I had to give up the column, I could if it meant a lifetime of being understood and loved by you. But it wouldn’t change who I am . . . not who I am deep down. . . . ”
“I don’t want to change who you are. Write for the paper,” he said, meeting her gaze. “You’re too talented to stop. But marry me, too.”
Marry him . . . Dare she? But as she looked up into those dark eyes it was impossible to say no. She couldn’t watch him leave again.
“Yes,” she breathed, and Atley’s lips came down over hers. He lifted her off her feet and spun her in a slow circle as he kissed her. When he pulled back, she smiled up at him.
“Now we should go back to my uncle’s place,” Atley said, grinning down into her face. “Your daet had a good idea of what I was going to ask you, and he said we have his blessing. It’s okay. He’s keeping it a secret.”
“Are you serious?” She shook her head.
“Sometimes your people know you better than you think,” he whispered.
Maggie kissed him again, and her heart welled with love. Then she pulled back and reached for her shawl. She had her Christmas miracle—Atley in her arms. And now it was time to share Christmas with the friends and family she loved most. This was why she loved her Amish heritage so much—for better or for worse, this community was hers . . . and now so was Atley Troyer. Her heart was full, and she couldn’t wait to marry him.
Epilogue
The wedding was held at the Lapp farm that fall. They were supposed to keep their engagement a secret until spring, but it hadn’t worked. With their visits to each other, their letters, and the fact that Maggie’s father had known since Second Christmas that they’d be getting married, it hadn’t been feasible.
Waiting was difficult for Atley. Maggie would finally be his, and he had ten months before the wedding would happen. He worked hard, saved money, and even crafted a special wedding gift for his bride—a writing desk with a sliding roll top that covered the desk when not in use. He’d made tiny drawers and letter slots for the back of the desk, fitting everything to perfection and carving the front of each drawer with strawberries and leaves. Every time she sat at that desk to write, he wanted her to remember how much he loved her.
The day of the wedding, Atley stood in a bedroom with his brother at his side, carefully adjusting his black suit. His brother tugged at the sleeves, brushing them off with the flat of his hand and tugging them again.
“I’m surprised her parents are willing to have her live in Pennsylvania after the wedding,” Abram said.
“Yah, but my work is there, so they’ve agreed.”
In fact, Atley had arranged to rent a small apartment nearby the carpentry shop in Bountiful. The desk was already set up in the sitting area—waiting for him to finally be able to show his bride the gift he’d been laboring over all these months. It went against tradition, but he’d have his wife all to himself right after the honeymoon, and he couldn’t wait.
Atley licked his lips and looked toward the window where autumn leaves were blowing in a chilly wind. They’d had frost already, and winter was coming fast. Downstairs, he could hear the chatter of voices—their two families together for the celebration. His daet and mamm were down there, Waneta and the children, too. The smell of cooking food was already wafting up to them.
“I have some advice,” Abram said. “Before we go down.”
“Yah?”
“I’ve learned a few hard lessons, as you know. And you could do better than I did. In those early days of marriage, it isn’t easy. You think it will be all sweet moments now, but the more you love each other, the angrier you’ll get when you disappoint each other. It’s just the way of things. So in those early days, be quick to say you’re sorry. It won’t be easy. It never is, but if you dig in your heels, you’ll only regret it in the end.”
“Bend for her,” Atley said quietly.
“Yah.” Abram nodded. “Bend.”
Atley looked toward the closed bedroom door, and his brother nodded briskly.
“You’ll do fine,” Abram said. “A good wife is a gift from God, and it takes a humble man to accept it.”
“I hear you, Abram,” Atley said, and he shot his brother a grin. “I’m getting married today.”
“Yah. About time you grew a beard.” Abram returned his smile with a more serious one of his own; then he opened the bedroom door. “Let’s go.”
As Atley went down the stairs toward the chatter of voices, he sent up a silent prayer of thanks. He was finally marrying the girl he’d loved all along. That Second Christmas had been a second chance, and he wouldn’t squander it. He’d bend for her, and this very night he’d have his beautiful wife in his arms.
At long last, his heart could rest.
An Heirloom Christmas
VIRGINIA WISE
To my husband, who has always believed in me
Acknowledgments
Thank you to everyone who made An Heirloom Christmas possible—my wonderful, supportive agent, Tamela Hancock Murray, the Steve Laube Agency, my gifted editor, Selena James, and everyone at Kensington Publishing Corp. who contributed their time and talents.
Chapter 1
Lancaster County, Pennsylvania
Joseph Webber blew into his hands as the buggy pulled into the driveway. November air nipped at his fingers and cut across his face. Wheels crunched against gravel as his horse snorted and shook her head. Her breath puffed upward in little white clouds. Joseph tugged at the reins. “All right then, girl. I don’t want to be here any more than you do.” Joseph pulled the brake, rubbed a calloused hand over his face, and sighed. There was no putting this off any longer.
Well, he could buy himself another five minutes to put his horse in the barn. It was the shortest five minutes of his life. Joseph sighed again and trudged across the lawn toward the whitewashed farmhouse where he could see a yellow glow behind the tall kitchen windows. The sound of laughter filtered through the glass. The warm, familiar smell of baking bread wafted toward him. The homey scene might have felt cozy. It did not.
Just until Christmas, he reminded himself. And then I’m out of here.
It wasn’t that he had anything against the Millers. They were a nice family. The mother, Ada, had round pink cheeks, a ready smile, and hands that were always pulling a fresh-baked pie from the oven. The father, Samuel, was slower to smile but had a soft gleam in his eye that communicated unspoken contentment.
The problem wasn’t the family. The problem was Rachel.
Joseph stood at the front door with his hand raised and forced himself to knock. He might as well get it over with. He had made a mistake and now he had to pay the price. He just hadn’t counted on the price being so awkward. He hadn’t seen Rachel in years—not since they graduated from the one-room schoolhouse after the eighth grade. Her family had moved into another church district, and even though her new home was a short buggy ride from his, he hadn’t thought of her again.
Now he had to work for her. She had been so reserved back then. Perhaps she had just been painfully shy—but Joseph had often thought she simply didn’t want to bother with the boys’ antics. And Joseph had been the ringleader of those antics.
What would they talk about as they spent hours together? How could he stay cooped up with her silence day after day? Worst of all, he didn’t know what to say about her long illness. He wanted to tell her he was sorry for what she’d been through, but was that the right thing to say? What do you say in a situation like this? It can be so hard to know how to be a friend when bad things happen.
Joseph frowned. He was the type who usually opted to say nothing—and then felt guilty for not expressing his sympathy. But what if he said something and it only made Rachel feel worse? Should he remind her that her world fell apart?
The door opened and Ada Miller appeared. She wiped flour-covered hands on her apron and grinned at Joseph. “Ach, it’s gut you’re here. You are just what our Rachel needs. Kumm in!” She shooed him inside as she repeated, “Kumm in!”
The warm, rich aroma of baking bread strengthened as he crossed the threshold. Joseph wiped his boots, took off his straw hat, and turned it in his hands as he paused in the sparse but comfortable kitchen. Rachel was nowhere to be seen.
“Hello, Joseph!” Samuel Miller bounded into the room and slapped Joseph on the back. “Glad you’re here. Go on back to the greenhouse.” He motioned toward the far side of the room. “It’s attached to the kitchen through that door. Rachel’s expecting you. Ain’t so, Ada?”
Ada cleared her throat and turned back toward the gas-powered stove. “Hmmm. Well. Not exactly.”
“You still haven’t told her?”
Ada picked up a yellow dish towel, folded it with a quick, uncertain gesture, and set it back down on the counter. She smoothed the crease with her fingers. “Not exactly.”
Samuel let out a long breath. “By ‘not exactly’ you mean . . . ” Ada turned to her husband. “Not at all.”
“Oh, Ada.”
“I’m sorry, Samuel. But what will she say? You know how she wants her independence.”
Samuel’s face fell. Suddenly, the middle-aged man looked ten years older. “It’s all right.” He put a large, work-worn hand on his wife’s shoulder. “I’ll talk to her.”
Ada shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes and Joseph looked away before Ada knew that he had seen them. She dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron and forced a smile. “I will speak to our Rachel. This was my idea, after all.”
“It’s all right,” Joseph said. “I’ll tell her that she’s got to put up with me—but just until Christmas.”
Ada’s smile brightened. “Would you?”
Samuel nodded at Joseph. His eyes looked thankful. “Rachel hasn’t been herself lately. You understand. She doesn’t want any help. But, what can we do?”
“She thinks I’m too overbearing since—” Ada cut herself off and turned back to the stove. “But she can’t do all of the things she used to. How could she?”
“It’s all right, Ada.” Samuel kept his hand on his wife’s shoulder and looked down at her with a soft expression.
Joseph nodded and eased out of the room. He wondered what he had gotten himself into. How could he convince Rachel to accept help—especially from him of all people!
* * *
Rachel sat in a wheelchair with an old kerchief covering her auburn hair and a worn apron over her dress. She slid her palms along the large rubber wheels to inch closer to a pot of pink roses. Rays of sunlight streaked across the barren November fields and filtered through the damp glass walls of the greenhouse. The light fell on her lap and sparkled against wet rose petals. The world outside looked cold and bare, but inside felt as warm and humid as a summer’s day. Rachel ran a slim finger across a shiny green leaf. She could be happy here, alone with her plants. Almost.
“It is beautiful, ain’t so?” Rachel said aloud. Her voice sounded loud in the still, silent room. Through the open door that led to the farmhouse, she could hear the distant muffled clang of pots and pans in the kitchen. The only other noise was the drip of water and the rasp of her breath. Sometimes she wished that her plants talked back to her. Other times she was thankful for the solitude. Either way, she had resigned herself to life with her thoughts and her plants. It would be enough because it had to be.
“Ya. It is,” a male voice announced from the other side of the greenhouse.
Rachel gasped and spun around in her wheelchair. A tall, lanky man leaned against the doorframe. Why didn’t she hear him come in? And what was he doing here, in the only space she could call her own? And why was he looking at her like that? “I didn’t know you were here.”
“But you were talking to me.”
Rachel turned back to the heirloom rosebush and ran her finger along a velvet-soft petal. “No. I wasn’t.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the man flash a wide smile. She pretended not to notice. It wouldn’t do to encourage interlopers. She needed to be alone.
“Talking to yourself or to the plants?” The man straightened his posture and loped toward her. He carried himself with a confident, casual gait that Rachel admired, even though she had already made up her mind that he had to go.
“Does it matter?”
The man smiled again. “It might. I heard somewhere that plants like that kind of thing.”
Rachel dropped her hand from the rose and turned to look up at the man. “Do you believe that or are you making fun of me?”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know if I believe it, but I’m not making fun of you. I talk to my horse.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
Rachel smiled. Then she remembered she was irritated with him. It was getting harder not to like him. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”
“Ya.” He ran his hand through his dark brown hair and
looked away. “About that.”
Rachel narrowed her eyes. “Do I know you?”
“Joseph Webber. We were in school together.”
“You’re . . . ” Rachel flinched. “Are you sure?”
Joseph laughed. “Pretty sure.”
“You look . . . different.” By “different,” Rachel meant way more handsome. And muscular. Not that she was looking. She definitely was not looking.
Joseph flashed a familiar grin. That grin she did recognize. He had smiled like that in school before he committed some silly act to disrupt the class and make the other boys laugh. Some of the girls had thought it was cute and laughed too, but not Rachel. She did not go in for tomfoolery.
“I’m a few inches taller, I guess.”
“More than a few.” Rachel frowned and looked away. She had to make sure he did not hear the interest in her voice. Well, she refused to be interested, so there wasn’t anything to notice, anyway. She had given up on boys. So that was that.
“Anyway. Why are you here?”
Joseph’s smile dropped to a frown that matched hers. Rachel realized that her voice must have sounded sharper than she had meant. Oh well, best to make her feelings clear.
“Your mother hired me to help you in the greenhouse.”
A flash of emotion tore across Rachel’s face. “She what?”
“She . . . hired me.” Joseph cleared his throat and looked away. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. . . . ” He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, then dropped his hand and looked her squarely in the eye. “Look, my parents arranged the job and didn’t give me a choice in the matter. I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here, so let’s just make the best of it, okay?”
“So that’s how it’s going to be.”
“Only if you want it that way.”
“I do.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Rachel crossed her arms. Joseph crossed his. They both stared at each other for a long, hard moment. “I don’t need any help,” Rachel said at last.
An Amish Second Christmas Page 16
