A Plain and Sweet Christmas Romance Collection

by Lauralee Bliss

  Glory looked at Lyddie and then Marianne. This was unusual. Marlin was not a minister—at least not yet. But he stood, moved to the preacher’s table set up in front of the fire, and began to read. Glory closed her eyes and gave herself to the exultant passage.

  “‘In the beginning was the Word,’” Marlin said, “‘and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not. There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. The same came for a witness, to bear witness of the Light, that all men through him might believe. He was not that Light, but was sent to bear witness of that Light. That was the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not. He came unto his own, and his own received him not. But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name. Which were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God. And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, (and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father,) full of grace and truth.’”

  The sermons, the hymns, the prayers—the richness of worship on Christmas Day filled Glory’s heart, choking away all thought of uncertainty, of anxiety, of doubt, of insecurity. She had grown up under the tutelage of faithful parents—so faithful that they would abandon the convenience of their own livelihood to care for Aenti Beth and her husband and small children. Glory murmured a prayer for Beth, who might already be in the presence of the Lord on this Christmas morning. And Glory’s family had belonged to this church family. She had not married into another district, where she would have to meet new people and make new friends. These young women sitting on either side of her were her sisters now. Sadie and Joannah were her sisters. Leroy, Josef, and John were her brothers. The babe in her womb—she glanced at Sadie, who also carried a babe—would both remind her of where she had come from and lead her to the future God planned for her with Marlin. Whether her parents remained in Holmes County, Ohio, for four weeks, four months, or four years, Glory was loved. She would find her way.

  Marlin found her after the service, in the tiny space before the men would begin to transform the benches to tables and the women, in the crowded Grabill kitchen, would undertake their familiar ministrations of presenting food for the congregation.

  “You read beautifully,” Glory said to her husband. Later, without onlookers, she would tell him again with an embrace.

  “It was the disciple John who wrote beautifully,” Marlin said, “and the Christ child who beautifully became the Word made flesh.”

  Glory swallowed. How could she have ever doubted the blessing of marriage to this man?

  “The Christ child is the best gift of all of course,” Marlin said. “But next to that, we are the best gift we give each other.” We.

  “Yes, we,” Glory said. The tiny word tasted less foreign on her tongue and was more tethered within her mind. She would notice it more carefully, speak it more frequently, understand it more fully. For was this not what Christ Himself had done—become we when He took on flesh?

  Glory made no effort to wipe the tears that filled her eyes. “Happy Christmas. Happy Christmas.”

  For more of Marlin and Gloria’s story—including what became of Minnie

  Handelman—look for Hope in the Land, a full-length

  Amish Turns of Time story by Olivia Newport.

  Amish Frosted Buttermilk Cookies

  ½ cup butter, softened

  1 cup sugar

  1 egg

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  2½ cups flour

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ½ cup buttermilk

  Frosting:

  3 tablespoons butter, softened

  3½ cups powdered sugar

  ¼ cup milk

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  Cream butter and sugar, and then beat in egg and vanilla. Combine flour, soda, and salt. Alternate adding dry ingredients and buttermilk to creamed mixture and stir well. Drop by rounded tablespoons onto greased cookie sheets, leaving two inches in between. Bake at 375 degrees for 10 to 12 minutes. Set aside to cool.

  For frosting, combine butter, sugar, milk, and vanilla and beat until smooth.

  Olivia Newport’s novels twist through time to find where faith and passions meet. Her husband and two twentysomething children provide welcome distraction from the people stomping through her head on their way into her books. She chases joy in stunning Colorado at the foot of the Rockies, where daylilies grow as tall as she is.

  Pirate of my Heart

  by Rachael O. Phillips

  Chapter 1

  Rock and Cave, Illinois

  September 1825

  Mama said the red shawl was of the devil, but Keturah begged to differ. Its luxurious warmth around her shoulders made this blustery September morn even more special.

  “Where did you get it? How did you leave the house with it?” her friend Delilah whispered after Papa’s wagon rumbled down the dusty road to the village stable.

  Keturah chuckled softly as they walked away from Scott’s General Store, owned by Delilah’s father. Caleb, Keturah’s older brother, trailed after them with his usual gangling, unhurried gait.

  “The shawl came from my aunt Rachel in Pennsylvania. She sent barrels of castoffs in answer to Mama’s appeal for the poor here in Illinois.”

  “Surely she knew your mother would not allow this shawl in her house.” Delilah’s shoe-button eyes twinkled.

  “Surely she did.” Keturah kept her expression demure, though she longed to laugh aloud. “Aunt Rachel is her sister. She also knew Mama would no more give this shawl to the poor than she would steal alms.”

  “Quite convenient for Keturah that our rich aunt should be read out of Meeting for marrying a Methodist,” Caleb drawled. “Perhaps in the next barrel, thee will find geegaws fit for the Christmas thy soul craves.” He grinned. “Or thee could marry a Methodist, too.”

  Caleb often teased Delilah, who was a Methodist. Keturah tolerated his frequent reminders that she, at twenty, was past the usual age of marriage. But his poking fun at Christmas ruffled her. Why did Mama consider it wrong? Even Papa and other Friends discounted it. Should we not celebrate the birth of the Son of God, the Light of the World?

  Keturah decided not to waste her breath on Caleb. With a winsome smile, she said, “How fortunate for our parents their son’s affections dwell safely within the Friends’ fold.”

  His face turned pink. “Thee art mistaken.”

  “Perhaps.” Keturah glanced down Rock and Cave’s main road. “Still, Priscilla Norris doubtless would welcome a greeting.” She steered him toward the gray-caped blond girl carrying a large basket. Keturah hoped to keep her giggles inside until she and Delilah managed to lose their chaperone. “Good day, Priscilla.”

  “Good day. And to thee, too, Delilah and Caleb.” Priscilla’s childlike voice feigned innocence, but her knowing blue eyes searched Keturah’s.

  Delilah echoed the greeting, but Caleb turned red as Keturah’s shawl, as if Priscilla had said something bold.

  “Would thee join us for a walk?” Keturah edged Caleb toward Priscilla.

  “I would, but I feel ill.” Priscilla sighed. “My basket is heavy—”

  “I will take it.” Caleb moved faster than Keturah thought possible. He clasped the handle. “Perhaps thee should rest under that oak.”

  “Carry it to her house,” Keturah urged him.

  Caleb hesitated. “But Pa—”

  “Papa would want thee to help a lady in need.” The firmness in her voice sounded so much like Mama’s, it startled her. “We shall not wander far.”

  Caleb opened his mouth for a token protest, but Priscilla captured
him. “I am thankful for thy help, Caleb. God Himself must have sent thee my way.”

  “God smiled on us all,” Delilah whispered as Caleb trailed after Priscilla, unblinking as if under a spell.

  Laughter bubbled in Keturah, but she and Delilah held their peace until the couple disappeared around the corner. They laughed at poor, lovesick Caleb as they headed toward the Ohio River shore.

  “I’m so glad your father does business in Rock and Cave rather than taking Ford’s Ferry across to Kentucky.” Delilah almost skipped along.

  “So am I.” Keturah squeezed her arm. Otherwise how would they, years out of school, see each other? “Papa questions Mr. Ford’s honesty.”

  “Nor should he trust many who run Rock and Cave.” Delilah never hesitated to voice her opinions. “They say river pirate days are gone, but I don’t believe it.”

  The gleeful wind pulled at Keturah’s shawl, and Delilah, fingering its silky fringe, forgot about pirates and corruption. “You did not tell me how you escaped wearing this.”

  “I slipped it out of the rubbish bin and washed it while Mama rested. Then I hid it in the washhouse.” Keturah hugged herself. “When I brought it today, dear Papa tried to object. But he said, ‘That is the color of the cardinals outside our window,’ and I knew he would not forbid me to wear it.”

  “It is red as holly berries at Christmas.” Delilah’s dark eyes widened with longing. “I would save it to wear to the Christmas dance.”

  “Thee knows I cannot join in such revelry.” Keturah sighed and then straightened. “But I intend to celebrate Christmas this year any way I can.”

  “Perhaps I can teach you carols and customs we keep,” Delilah offered.

  Keturah squeezed her arm gratefully. “I’ll be asking thee as Christmas nears.”

  The girls sorted through bits of ripe news and gossip like persimmons in a basket. Half Keturah’s mind grasped every sight, sound, and smell of the village—even the stench of animal skins drying behind the tanner’s—framing them like portraits to be viewed later without limit. Although Papa’s farm was only three miles from the village of Rock and Cave and the Ohio River, she rarely joined him on a trip to town. Only Papa’s gentle maneuvering—and Mama’s dislike of poetry—had freed Keturah from the usual drudgery of housekeeping.

  “Did you recite Shakespeare aloud to your mama?” Unlike her biblical namesake, Delilah had a heart of gold—but her wicked smile suggested at least a small kinship.

  Keturah nodded. “Shakespeare, Burns, and Blake!”

  “‘Tis small wonder she relented. You should read her poetry every day.”

  Keturah giggled, but a voice in her head waged an indignant protest. Why must I scheme like a naughty child to spend a few hours away from the farm? And from Caleb?

  The vast green-and-gray Ohio River absorbed the road, reminding her that Mama feared it like a monster serpent coiling among forests and farms.

  Keturah shook herself. The day was too precious to waste. Thin crimson threads embroidering the green maples along the shore reminded her of the skeins she’d bought earlier with her birthday money, thread she would work into a special Christmas sampler.

  The wind’s gusts died. The sun ceased its coy hide-and-seek among the clouds and shone warm on her back. She loosened the shawl and let it hang from her shoulders. She and Delilah gloried in the giant river’s beauty, watching muscled boatmen keel and steer boats, some eighty feet long, around snags and other perils. The friends exclaimed as a majestic steamboat appeared, trailing a train of black smoke as if to say “the queen has come to Illinois.” Men wearing top hats and elegant ladies strolled down its tiered decks.

  Yearning caught in Keturah’s throat like a fishbone. During the past decade, steamboats had become a common sight. But she never had stepped foot on even a keelboat. If only I could go, too.

  “Would you ladies be needin’ a ride to McFarlan’s Ferry?” A leathery-faced man offered them a near-toothless grin from the village’s wooden dock. He held out a clawlike hand. Other boatmen stared at them with hungry eyes.

  “No, thank you.” Keturah grabbed Delilah’s arm and hurried away. She longed to escape to McFarlan’s Ferry Golconda, even down the Mississippi to New Orleans! But not on that boat.

  Her shawl suddenly left her shoulders as if the man had grabbed it. Fingers of terror stole down her back. But when she turned, only the impish wind dangled it, swirling it—and her life, it seemed—toward the water.

  “No!” She chased the shawl, skirts clogging her steps. Delilah darted beside her, but they could not outpace the wind. Guffaws from the keelboat met Keturah’s ears, but she ignored them and dashed down the pier.

  If only she could grab—

  Splash.

  She dropped into a cold, green underworld, ramming against the rock-strewn river bottom. She lay stunned and bruised, undulating skirts binding her like bandages. Gold strands of light writhed in the water, water that filled her eyes, her mouth, her throat. She retched, only to swallow more. Mama had never allowed her to swim.

  Something gripped her shoulder. A mental picture of Jonah and the big fish in Papa’s Bible filled her with fresh terror. She kicked and tore at the thing with her nails. Ironlike bands pinned her arms to her sides. She felt as if her eyes would burst.

  Dear Lord Jesus. I am going to die.

  Suddenly she broke the surface. Coughing and shivering, she shook her sodden hair from her eyes and realized a stranger held her in his arms.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  From the boat he saw her fall and go under, her friend screaming from the dock. He leaped into the river.

  Now, standing in the water and holding her as she coughed and spit on him, he shared her stupidity. Catcalls from other boatmen greeted them—the silly girl who ran off a pier, nearly drowning in only five feet of water, and the soaking-wet fool who jumped in to rescue her. He would never hear the end of this. Still, her eyes, greener than the water, locked him in a vise. He trembled—but not because of cold.

  “Keturah! Are you all right?” The girl’s friend stretched out a hand.

  “You that hard up, Henry?” Old Sol cackled from the deck. “I know where you can find a woman that will hug ya up good without drownin’ ya dead!”

  “Not as pretty as that ‘un though.”

  The boatman’s tone wrenched Henry’s eyes away from the girl’s. He hated the look the man gave her. Turning away, he waded ashore, still carrying the girl who lay limp in his arms, her eyes like green stars. “Sol. You got a blanket?”

  The old codger pulled one from his poke, jumped from boat to pier, and brought it to him. The girl’s friend scurried close behind.

  Keturah. What a pretty name.

  Sol shook the tattered brown blanket out. “Wrap her up good, boy.”

  The girl wriggled to free herself. His arms did not want to release her, but he set her on the grassy shore and covered her. Her friend hugged her.

  “I—I thank thee.” The girl avoided his eyes now and looked to the older man. “And I thank thee for the blanket, Friend Sol, is it?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Hope you’re feelin’ better.” The man turned back to Henry. “We got to go. You comin’ with us to McFarlan?”

  He needed the work. He did not need to waste an afternoon with a girl who didn’t have the sense to swim when she fell in. And she, hearing Sol’s words, said nothing. She did not need him.

  But he could not bring himself to leave.

  Sol chuckled. “I see. You’re gonna stick with this here damsel in distress. Just be sure you bring my blanket back.”

  Sol returned to the keelboat. With a final round of catcalls, the boatmen guided it out of the dock.

  The girl searched behind Henry as if for something lost. But she addressed him in a polite voice. “I am sorry for the way I behaved. I thought—”

  “People who think they are drowning do strange things.” He stared at the ground.

  “I—I cannot swim.”

  “Yo
u should learn. Then a few feet of water will not scare you.” He stole a glance, hoping to regain the communion of those wonderful eyes. But they still darted behind him, scanning the river. “You lose something?”

  “My red shawl.” She struggled to rise, her soggy clothing weighing her down. “The wind blew it into the river. I chased it and fell in.”

  “Shawl?” He felt like tossing her back.

  “I must find it.” She struggled free of the blanket, rose, and stepped toward the shore.

  Her friend grabbed her arm. “Keturah, you’ll catch your death of a cold.”

  When Keturah’s steps grew more determined, her friend picked up a long, gnarly stick from nearby underbrush. “If you insist, perhaps we can fish it out.”

  Henry retrieved Sol’s blanket. “Wait. This is bound to be dryer than a shawl fresh from the river. Better wrap up. Please, or you’ll get sick.” Why did he feel compelled to accompany her?

  “I thank thee.” Though dripping hair clung to her cheeks like river weeds to white stone, her smile outshone her eyes. “I am Keturah Wilkes. My father owns a farm outside Rock and Cave. This is Delilah Scott.”

  Why had he not seen her before? He bobbed his head as steamboat gentlemen did. “I am Henry Mangun. I work on the boats.” He did more than that, but she need not know.

  “We had better hurry.” She turned toward the river, brandishing her stick like a child. “My brother, Caleb, will return shortly.”

  At his name, Delilah rolled her eyes. “How will you explain—”

  “Let’s not think about it.” Keturah swished the stick in the now dark gray water.

  As they searched the shallows, clouds bullied the sun into hiding. No one had given Henry a blanket to ward off the sharp breeze rising from the west. Not a pinch of fat to keep him warm, as Ma said. And his cold, wet leggings and coarse blue linsey woolsey shirt rubbed him raw.