by Naomi King
“We all want that,” he murmured.
“I’ll pay you back for those presents when—”
“No, you won’t,” Wyman insisted. “It’s not your place to—”
“Please, let’s not fight about it!” Amanda blurted. Her shoulders slumped. “Now that I think back, I didn’t tell Abby I was Christmas shopping,” she admitted. “I’m sorry, Wyman. The whole morning’s been jagged around the edges.”
“I’m sorry, too, Amanda. I really didn’t mean to spoil your surprises.” Wyman opened his arms, grateful that his wife entered into his embrace and wrapped her arms around him. His morning had felt pretty jagged, too, and yet as pressing as his problems with Reece and the family finances had felt, those concerns now seemed petty compared to the trauma of breaking the most important piece of a beloved family Nativity set.
As Amanda let go of her tension, Wyman held her closer, savoring her warmth and the way she fit so perfectly against him. Last year at this time, he’d felt desolate and overwhelmed, wishing the Christmas season would pass him by so he wouldn’t have to face it—and the kids—without Viola. He’d been financially well-off then, but a broken man nonetheless.
Wyman breathed deeply, inhaling Amanda’s clean scent. He held her for a few moments more. Simon and the girls weren’t used to seeing the door to this room shut, so they’d soon be knocking on it out of concern or curiosity. It was probably in his best interest to talk about something less emotionally charged—which certainly didn’t include voicing his frustrations about Reece Weaver—so Wyman considered his topic options carefully.
“Is there any way I can have a sheet of that brown paper that’s wrapped around some of your packages?” he asked. “I promise I won’t look at what’s in them—and Simon, by the way, didn’t see what you got him or the other kids, either. He was too busy picking out his gift for you—and he bought it with his own money, too.”
Amanda looked up at him, a smile lighting her face. “Jah, I suppose I could—”
“He’s asked me to help him design his wrapping paper,” Wyman explained as he thumbed a final tear from her cheek. “I think I’ll take a couple of sandwiches upstairs so we men can color in his room for a while.”
“Oh, he’ll love that, Wyman.”
“And I love you, Amanda,” he murmured, holding her gaze. “Can you forgive me for thinking that my way surely must be right and that I always know best?”
Never would he have asked his previous wife such a question, but Amanda wasn’t Viola. Today’s shopping episode was one more reminder that change was in order—and that such changes started from within. Wyman held his breath as the woman in his arms kept him waiting for her answer.
“Jah, I can do that,” Amanda finally whispered. “I love you, too, Wyman.”
Wyman kissed her. He noticed that she hadn’t asked for his forgiveness in return—but then, why did she need to? That was another example of his old way of thinking. Instead, his wife had offered him the perfect response to almost anything she would ever ask of him: Jah, I can do that.
Because with Amanda by his side, Wyman believed he really could do anything.
* * *
Before dawn the next morning, Wyman headed out to the barn as though he intended to get an early start on the chores. After seeing the Nativity set in the front room yesterday, with all the pieces except for the most important one, he’d thought long into the night about how to remedy the situation. The crèche probably dated back to the early 1900s, and the sets being made today were far less detailed. But he had to try. He lit the lantern and then dialed the phone.
“Jah, it’s Wyman,” he said when the Fishers’ answering machine kicked on. “I’d like Tyler to give me a call, about seeing if he can locate something on his computer. It’s a Christmas gift, so he’ll have to talk to me rather than Amanda or Jerome. Have a gut day—and I wish your family a blessed Christmas.”
As he hung up, a sense of anticipation and peace filled him. Chances were slim that a Baby Jesus of the right size and style could be ordered and delivered in the week that remained before Christmas—if ever—but it was a mission Wyman could wrap his heart around. He walked slowly down the center aisle of the barn, gazing at Jerome’s mule foals as they slept in the hay near their mothers. The shadowy stalls smelled earthy with manure, and the winter wind whistled through a crack.
Once again Wyman was reminded how humble and lowly the Christ Child’s beginnings had been and how blessed he was that his own children had a sturdy roof over their heads and a mother to care for them. Amanda had provided his family with a great many gifts to be grateful for this year.
Behind him, the door slid open. In the lantern light, Jerome’s expression looked tight. “Is Pete out here with you?” he asked.
“Nope, it’s just me and the livestock. Why?” Wyman replied.
Jerome shut the door against the wind. “When I heard you go downstairs, I thought I’d shake him awake, so you wouldn’t be doing the chores by yourself. But his bed hasn’t been slept in. Looks like a bunch of his clothes are gone, too.”
Wyman gripped the top railing of the stall to steady himself. Then he hurried along the center aisle, taking a count of their horses and rigs, his heart racing along with his footsteps. “How’d he get out of here without any of us knowing? Or without Wags barking?”
“The dog sleeps in Simon’s room,” Jerome reminded him. “What with the way Pete’s been talking about how useless school seems—”
“And how much he dislikes Teacher Dorcas,” Wyman joined in, “maybe we should’ve seen this coming. Blackie’s gone, but none of the rigs, so he’s on horseback.” He stopped, still puzzled, to stare into the empty stall where their oldest gelding usually stayed. “But where on God’s gut earth would Pete go? Do you suppose he said anything to Vera or Lizzie?”
“They would’ve told you or Amanda after they tried to talk him out of it.”
As Jerome came to stand beside him, Wyman recalled more incidents and remarks than he cared to . . . times when Pete had expressed his unhappiness, and then he had responded with the usual stern fatherly insistence that his son follow the rules.
“You know, this probably started when Amanda and I first married,” Wyman murmured. “When the two oldest boys made a fuss about moving to this farm, I told them that if they didn’t want to pull their weight in our new blended family, they should get out and make their own way.”
“You couldn’t have foreseen this, Wyman,” Jerome assured him. “Boys go through this stage—just like you and I did at thirteen. But that doesn’t mean we took off.”
Wyman chuckled ruefully. “Speak for yourself. I recall more than a night or two when I didn’t go home, but I was older than Pete—in my rumspringa. I was out with Mennonite or English boys my parents didn’t approve of.”
“But you eventually faced them and took the lecture you had coming.”
“Jah, that’s how it worked.”
Jerome paused to collect his thoughts. “I suspect Pete’ll be back as soon as he misses a few meals. And I can’t think any Plain man would hire him or take him in without asking him why he’s on the loose, young as he is.”
“Haven’t heard him mention any gut friends he’s made around here . . . and if he’s gone back to Clearwater, any of those parents would call me—or at least I hope they would,” Wyman reasoned aloud.
“It’ll be the same if he’s gone to Cedar Creek,” Jerome pointed out. “Maybe he hopes to work with Eddie—”
“If so, Sam will call as soon as Pete shows up. And there’s no point in taking off down the road looking for him while it’s still dark.”
“It’s probably best to wait him out,” Jerome remarked as he grabbed a bucket and headed for the feed bins. “Pete’s not world-wise enough to get far.”
While Wyman refilled water troughs, he thought back to when he’d come
down on Pete for teasing Lizzie—downright flirting with his new stepsister—during her brief time at the Clearwater school and again over the past few weeks, when Pete had wanted to contribute to the family’s income. What could he have said or done differently?
But stewing over the past wouldn’t accomplish anything. After he and Jerome mucked out the stalls, they went back to the house. He’d never had to deal with the issue of a runaway child before, so he hoped other family members would have helpful suggestions. “Anybody know where Pete might be?” he asked in the calmest voice he could muster. “Looks like he took off on Blackie sometime during the night.”
He realized then that everyone in the kitchen was very quiet. Jemima’s brow was furrowed as she took the skillet of bacon from the stove burner. The younger kids began to chatter about all manner of places to look, as though Pete were merely playing hide-and-seek. Vera nipped her lip as she handed him a folded piece of notebook paper. “This was under my door this morning,” she murmured.
When Wyman opened the paper, Pete’s message made his breath catch in his throat. Heard about a job, so I’m off to check it out. Don’t worry about me. “As though we could just let him be out there somewhere without worrying,” he murmured as he passed the page to Jerome. Amanda came over to him, her face pale and her eyes wide.
“This isn’t gut. And so close to Christmas,” she fretted. “Pete’s been too quiet—too much to himself—ever since we moved here.”
“It’s not like he buddies up to the boys at school,” Lizzie remarked with a frown, “so maybe he headed back to Clearwater.”
“We can go looking for him after breakfast!” Simon piped up.
“And on the way to Clearwater, maybe we should stop in Cedar Creek,” Vera suggested. “When Pete heard that Eddie was clerking in the store, he looked like he wanted to do that, too.”
“Sam’ll be calling as soon as Pete gets there, if that’s the case,” Jemima remarked as she put the bacon on a plate. “He’ll not get far without somebody letting us know.”
“Unless he went someplace amongst English,” Lizzie said in a somber voice. “He’s talked about trying that life, even though he has no clue about how to survive in their world.”
“He can’t go far without any cash,” Jerome pointed out.
Jemima got a funny look on her face. She took a cocoa can from the drawer of the pie safe and popped the top. “My egg money’s gone,” she said somberly. “I’d saved up nearly a hundred dollars, too.”
Scowling, Amanda quickly left the kitchen. When she returned, her crestfallen expression said as much as her words. “I had more than three hundred dollars in an old teapot in my workroom,” she rasped. “I—I can’t believe Pete would steal . . . unless he doesn’t intend to come back. He could go quite a distance on that much money.”
Wyman’s heart clutched. The money issue put a different spin on letting Pete tough it out until he came home hungry. He didn’t think the kid would abandon his favorite horse in favor of a bus or a train—but then, he hadn’t gauged any of his second son’s reactions correctly, it seemed. “I think we’d better pray on it,” he murmured.
As the family members took their seats around the table and bowed their heads, Wyman asked God for guidance with a fervor he’d seldom needed. He felt so helpless . . . at a loss for answers. But he was the man of the family, and everyone would be looking to him for direction.
“After I drop Vera and Lizzie off this morning, I’ll go out looking for him,” he announced when everyone had looked up again. “We’ve got to have faith that God’s aware of Pete’s circumstances and whereabouts and that He’s working this situation out as a part of His plan—for Pete and for us as well.”
Wyman wished he felt more confident about how God was guiding his troubled son. Sometimes boys in their rumspringa took off—jobs or not—for parts unknown, but he didn’t know of any thirteen-year-olds who’d run away from home. He wished he’d paid more attention, maybe been more sympathetic instead of so prone to lecture his lonely, left-out son . . .
After Wyman dropped Lizzie at the schoolhouse and Vera at Leon Schrock’s place, he turned the rig toward Cedar Creek. Pete probably didn’t realize that any responsible Plain adult would call the house as soon as folks hereabouts knew he’d run off. Wyman scanned the countryside as he drove, looking for any sign of a rider on a black horse, but the hour he spent on the road did nothing to soothe his concerns. When he got into Cedar Creek, neither Eddie nor Sam had heard from Pete, either.
“We’ll keep an eye out,” Sam assured him. “Pete doesn’t seem the type to venture out on his own.”
“I know it goes against our grain to get the police involved,” Wyman murmured, “but maybe I should let the sheriff know that Pete’s run off.”
Sam shook his head. “As a dat, I understand your thinking, but as a preacher, I’m not in favor of that. It’s not like Pete was kidnapped, and he left you a note about taking a job,” he pointed out. “Far better to let your Plain friends around the area know what’s happened, because they’re more likely to spot him, anyway. We’ll keep this situation in our prayers, Wyman.”
“I told him not to get any wild ideas—to put up with school until he gets out next spring,” Eddie said, shaking his head. “He won’t get far. Pete’s not gut at thinking on his feet. And any money he makes burns a hole in his pocket, so he’s basically broke.”
Wyman didn’t have the heart to mention that Pete had stolen more than four hundred dollars from Amanda and Jemima. It was this theft that lay so heavily on his heart as he got back into his rig and headed to Clearwater. All around the back roads he drove, stopping at every farmstead and getting the same surprised response from folks he’d known most of his life. Nobody could believe that shy, quiet Pete would disappear into the night.
The Fishers, too, said they would call the moment they heard of anyone spotting his son. “Pete’s a gut boy,” Sally affirmed. “He’s just ferhoodled by the changes in his life these past months. We’ll keep him in our prayers, that he’ll be back home soon.”
Wyman thanked them, hoping they were right. After a desperate morning on the road, he found it a welcome bright spot when Tyler found a Baby Jesus figurine on his computer. It wasn’t the same as the one Alice Ann had dropped, but the size and style in the photo appeared close enough to complete their Nativity set without looking odd.
“This close to Christmas, there’s no telling when it’ll arrive—unless you want to pay for express shipping. Might run you twenty bucks or so,” Tyler remarked as his fingers flew over the keyboard.
Wyman shook his head. “Seems foolish to waste money I could use for other things. We’ll keep our Nativity set displayed a little longer, if need be—extend our Advent and the time of waiting for Jesus. Having the new baby in the manger will be a nice finish for our Christmas season.” He counted out enough cash to cover the figurine’s price, plus some more to cover the tax and standard shipping.
As he headed back to Bloomingdale, Wyman wondered if this was how it would be with Pete as well—waiting until he came home . . . wondering where he was and who he was with . . . or who would even consider hiring a thirteen-year-old kid for any kind of job.
When Wyman got back home, no one had heard anything about Pete. Reece Weaver hadn’t returned his call, either. Advent, the season of longing and waiting and watching for a savior, took on a whole new meaning as the day crawled by. In a week, they’d be celebrating Christ’s birth, and then the next day was Second Christmas, the merrier of the holidays. But if his son hadn’t returned home by then, there would be little joy in the household.
Wyman prayed that his family wouldn’t spend this first Christmas together worrying about a lost sheep rather than rejoicing over the Lamb of God.
Chapter Twenty-three
Emma finished the border on the afghan she was crocheting for James and Abby and folded it on the sofa w
ith a great sense of satisfaction. She sensed the newlyweds would love cuddling together beneath this coverlet of red, blue, purple, and green as much as she had enjoyed working with such bold colors. With a glance at Dat, who had drifted off in his recliner, she went into the kitchen to stir the pot of vegetable beef soup she was making for their noonday meal. As she looked out the window, Emma thought how bleak and gray this winter morning looked—until a buggy pulled around the carriage shop and up beside the house.
Her heart fluttered. She knew of only one fellow who hitched his rig to a black Percheron mule.
As Emma fetched her coat from the peg beside the door, she glanced into the front room. Dat was still snoozing beneath the copy of the Budget he’d been reading. Grinning from ear to ear, she hurried out through the kitchen’s back door. “Jerome! What a fine surprise!” she said as she slipped into her coat.
His face lit up. “Emma, it’s gut to see you. I’ve been out looking for our Pete—”
“He’s not come home yet?” Emma’s smile faded. She stopped a few feet in front of Jerome, noting the concern etched around his dark eyes. “Wyman and Amanda must be beside themselves.”
“Jah, my aunt’s been calling the folks around Bloomingdale since he went missing yesterday, and Wyman and I have been out looking again this morning,” he replied. Then his handsome face eased into a smile. “But I was also hoping to spend some time with you, Emma. I—I’ve missed you this week.”
“Oh my,” she murmured as her pulse sped up. “I keep thinking about our sleigh ride—”
“Jah, me, too,” Jerome interrupted as he grabbed her hands. “And I’ve almost called you a dozen times—”
“And I hope you didn’t get the wrong idea when I didn’t kiss you gut night,” Emma continued in a rush.
“But I didn’t want James or Sam or anybody but you to hear my message,” Jerome went on in a breathy voice. Then he laughed, rubbing her bare hands between his gloved ones. “Seems we’ve both been saving up what we wanted to say, and it’s all rushing out at once. So . . . you weren’t upset because I wanted a kiss too soon? Or because I didn’t stop on my way home from escorting the Wengerds back to Queen City?”
