♦ ♦ ♦
“Louisa!” Abigail could not believe her eyes when she saw the girl huddled in a corner of the shed. At first she thought the cold and fear had rattled her brain, making her imagine the face she had so hoped to see was now staring up at her. “You’re shaking,” she whispered as she stepped closer, opened her cloak, and held out her arms to the girl.
Louisa scrambled to her feet and staggered forward to accept the haven offered. “I was so scared,” she whispered, “but I prayed hard, and then I thought maybe God would hear my song, and here you are.” Her voice was a weak hoarse whisper, and Abigail could feel the cold of the girl seeping into her. She held her close as she guided her to the place in the shed that seemed the most protected from the elements.
“We’ve been searching everywhere for you,” she said as she cast about for the possibility of something with which she might light a fire, both to warm them and to lead Aaron to them. Seeing nothing and realizing anew that she had given Aaron the matches, she tightened her grip on Louisa’s shoulders. “We have to try and get back to the village,” she said. “Your father is there, and he is very worried.”
To her surprise, the girl resisted any attempt to move her toward the opening.
“He will be angry,” Louisa protested.
“No, Louisa. He was angry with me for encouraging you. And rightly so. Your father blames me for your disobedience—not you.”
“He will beat me,” she whispered.
Abigail shuddered. “You must take responsibility for your part in this, Louisa—apologize for disobeying and for causing him worry.” She was about to assure the girl that no father would strike a contrite child, although she had no way of knowing whether or not that was true, when suddenly Louisa went limp against her and slid to the ground.
“No,” she whispered as she knelt next to the child, trying without success to revive her and noticing that in spite of her chills, she was burning up with fever. What now? She could not carry the girl, who, though small, was nearly Abigail’s size. She searched the shed for something she might use as a litter so that she might drag the girl to safety. Oh, where is Aaron?
Chapter 4
Aaron had made it all the way back to the shed where he had left Abigail. The fire was cold, and he saw no sign of her anywhere. He shouted her name and Louisa’s repeatedly, making quarter turns, hoping his voice would carry, and then listening in case there was an answering call.
Silence.
He looked for tracks, the sweep of her skirt on the snow, but the wind had covered everything over. He stared at the way he had come and instinctively knew that she would not have replicated his search. No, she would have chosen a different way. He saw the narrow trail that passed under the canopy of snow-laden evergreens and headed for it. A few steps in, he realized that because of the protective cover, any signs of someone passing that way had been at least partially preserved. He knelt and removed his glove as he ran his bare fingers over the ground.
There! An indentation…and another. He stood and hurried along the narrow trail, and by the time he spotted the half-demolished shed, he was running. He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed her name. “Abigail!”
“In here,” came the answering shout.
He burst through what was left of the shed’s door and stopped, his heart hammering with disbelief that at last he had found her—found them both—for once his eyes adjusted to the dark interior, he saw that Abigail was cradling the lifeless girl. “No,” he whispered, even as he opened the quilt he had brought from the farmhouse and wrapped it around her and the girl, adding the woolen jacket he’d pulled from the hook in Koop’s bedroom to further protect the child. “Is she…”
“She fainted. She is so very thin, and look at this coat. It’s practically threadbare. We need to get her out of here and back to someplace warm as soon as possible. Are we nearer the farm or the village?”
“The village.” He lifted the girl high in his arms and waited for Abigail to get to her feet. “The storm has passed—at least for a time.”
“There’s the moon to light our way,” Abigail said, and he wondered if she always saw the good in even the direst of circumstances.
As they pushed forward, he was relieved to realize that the wind had calmed, but the moon dodged in and out of clouds—sometimes making the way clear and other times leaving them once again in darkness. “Follow my steps,” he instructed when she fell behind and he saw that she was struggling to keep up with his longer strides.
“You go ahead,” she insisted. “I’ll be able to follow your steps, but it is vital that we get Louisa to warmth and care as quickly as possible. Go,” she urged.
“No,” he replied. “Come here and climb onto my back. Louisa is no more weight than a sack of flour.” When she hesitated, he added, “I will not leave you here, Abigail.”
“You are quite stubborn, aren’t you?”
He bent so that she could wrap her arms around his neck and cling to his sides with her knees. “No more than you,” he muttered as he stood, adjusted to the added weight, and moved on.
They said nothing more, but he was inordinately aware of her body pressed to his and her breath warming his ear. He kept his eyes on the ground, concentrating on each step so as not to fall and take Abigail and Louisa with him.
“I will resign of course,” she said so softly that he thought perhaps he had imagined the words.
“Louisa will be all right. Already she is starting to come around.”
“Still, I was wrong to try and make changes without seeking the approval of all. It was prideful.”
Aaron realized he found this entire conversation unsettling. What was she saying? If she resigned, what would she do? “Are you thinking of returning to New York?”
“Yes. I mean, surely that is best.”
Everything in Aaron’s mind and body screamed no. But what did he care where she went? Yes, it would be upsetting for the children to have to adjust to yet another teacher, but other than that—
“Aaron, look.” Abigail was pointing ahead.
Aaron lifted his eyes from the trail and focused on the distance where a strange light glowed on the horizon.
“Listen,” Abigail whispered as she unclasped her hands from around his neck and slid to stand next to him. “I hear singing. It was what led me to Louisa, and now it is what will lead us to safety.”
Before he could stop her, she plunged forward, waving her arms above her head and crying out, “We found her!”
In his arms Louisa stirred and opened her eyes. “Papa?”
“Soon,” Aaron promised and lengthened his strides as he reached the packed snow of the road that led to the church.
♦ ♦ ♦
Abigail could not believe her eyes. In the distance she saw the silhouettes of people gathered on the horizon, some of them holding torches. She blinked and swiped at her eyes, certain that this was a mirage—something she had prayed for but still did not seem possible. Yet the vision remained, and once again she heard singing—carols—the old favorites sung every year.
She began to run—or stumble forward—as fast as her soaked shoes and heavy wet clothing would allow. “We found her,” she shouted, the words catching in her throat on the wave of tears that threatened to overcome her. “Over here,” she called, waving her arms above her head as she passed Aaron and took the lead.
One of the men had hitched up a cart on runners to a team of large Percheron horses. Riding in back she saw an older woman and recognized Lizzie Bontrager who served the community as midwife—as close to a doctor as would be available until the snow melted.
“Here,” Abigail cried, still trying to slog through the deep snow to reach their rescuers. She felt Aaron’s hand close around her shoulder.
“They are nearly here, Abigail.” He shifted Louisa in his arms and pointed. “Look, Louisa, your father is driving that cart.”
Sure enough, it was Jacob Koop who pulled the horses to a
halt.
“We found her,” Abigail said, but Jacob looked past her to Aaron.
“Is my daughter alive?” he demanded.
“I am all right, Papa—truly. I am so sorry for disobeying you, and—” Anything more she might have said was lost in a fit of coughing.
Aaron laid her in the back of the cart on the pile of hay covered in quilts. The midwife knelt beside her, examining her as best she could in the dark and cold. Without another word, Jacob Koop snapped the reins and turned back toward town, leaving Abigail and Aaron standing in the field. In the act of laying Louisa on the cart bed, the jacket Aaron had covered her with fell to the ground. He picked it up and placed it around Abigail’s shoulders.
She pulled it closer, but it did little to alleviate the chill that had worked its way deep inside her. She started forward but stumbled and fell into the snow. She was so very tired and unsure of how she could take the steps necessary to make it back to the village.
Aaron lifted her in his arms.
“No,” she protested.
“Yes,” he insisted. “We are both half frozen, and the sooner we are before a warm fire, the less likely that one or both of us will be spending Christmas sick in bed.”
“But—”
“Abigail Yoder, you have had your way, and now it is time for you to adhere to what I—what others deem best.”
She could find no words. She wanted to remind him that she was perfectly capable of walking—although the last several steps had been pure agony. Even so, to arrive back in town being carried by him when the whole populace was likely to be there…If she hadn’t been the object of gossip and speculation in the past, she would surely be that now. She clamped her lips closed and stared off toward the fire of the torches that reminded her anew of the candles the children had carried as part of the pageant.
Tears leaked down her cheeks, and she used the corner of her shawl to wipe them away.
“Do not let them see you crying, Abigail Yoder.” His voice was soft and comforting. “You have done nothing wrong.”
Oh, but she had—and that was why she must resign her position and return to New York at the first opportunity.
♦ ♦ ♦
Traditionally, after services in the morning, Christmas Day was spent in prayer, meditation, and scripture reading—either silently if alone or aloud if there were others in the household. The day after or “Second Christmas” was a time for visiting, sharing meals, and exchanging simple handmade gifts. Aaron usually went into the village on Christmas Day for church and then returned to the farm to spend the day alone. He had no relations in the area. Others had offered to look after his livestock if he wanted to travel back to Ohio to spend time with his brothers and their families, but he had declined. Usually, he joined the Yoders for the noon meal on Second Christmas—Beulah and Oscar were like parents to him and he enjoyed their company. But this year Abigail would be there, and for reasons he could not yet fully grasp, that made a difference.
So on Christmas morning as he dressed for the trip to the village to attend services, he decided that he would tell Beulah not to plan on him for the meal. He would stop by for a short visit later in the day—as would many others—but he would not share their meal. What reason will you give? Every excuse that came to mind had all the elements of a lie—and he would not lie, but neither could he envision himself sitting across from or next to Abigail without imagining the two of them sharing meals for years to come. With the dilemma that was Abigail swirling through his brain, he clamped on his black broad-brimmed hat and started the walk to town, hoping the cold, crisp air would clear his mind and give him resolution.
By the time he reached the church, most of the townspeople had already gathered. They milled around outside, greeting one another in low respectful voices while their children ran about the churchyard, throwing snowballs or playing tag as they dodged along the row of parked black carriages belonging to those whose farms were too distant for walking. Some spoke in low murmurs of the miracle of Louisa’s rescue as they waited for services to begin. Others hailed the latest arrivals before corralling their offspring and entering the church—men through one door and women through another.
The first person Aaron saw when he entered the side door was Abigail. She was seated by herself in the first row of benches reserved for the women and girls. She was still dressed in the clothes she had been wearing for the pageant—the clothes that had been wet and frozen stiff by the time they returned with Louisa. They were dry now, no doubt thanks to the fire in the stove that had clearly been kept going through the night, but nettles and burrs clung to the fabric, and her hair was in some disarray with her prayer cap at a cockeyed angle.
“She has been there through the night,” Oscar Yoder whispered. “We came to tell her that Louisa would fully recover, but still she stayed.” He frowned. “My wife is quite worried…as am I.”
“She blames herself that Louisa disobeyed her father and was lost.”
“I have tried to remind her that God has brought Louisa safely back to us, but she says nothing. Perhaps you…?”
The villagers were filing in, and Aaron saw Rebecca Janzen take her place on the bench next to Abigail. Abigail did not move a muscle, and something about her stillness apparently kept the usually talkative Rebecca from trying to engage her in conversation. The service began, and three hours later everyone filed out in silence and made their way back to their homes. There would be no community meal on this day—it was a day for fasting.
Aaron remained seated, his head bowed but his eyes on Abigail.
The church emptied, and he heard the last of the wagons leave the yard. But still she did not move. Aaron rose and stoked the fire in the iron stove at the center of the room, and when she still did not stir, he sat next to her, careful to leave a proper space between. Words failed him, but prayer never had, so he bowed his head and prayed for Abigail, who was clearly in pain.
They sat there until the church filled with the shadows of dusk. Twice Beulah Yoder came to the side door and looked in. When she made a move toward Abigail, Aaron waved her away. Whatever Abigail was wrestling with, he felt certain that she had made a leap from praying for forgiveness to punishing herself. He needed to get back to the farm and tend to his stock and chores, but how could he leave her?
“Abigail?”
It was the first sound either of them had made in all the time they had sat there, and his voice in the empty sanctuary sounded loud and intrusive. He reached over and took her hand, prying it lose from the grip she had on her soiled skirt. He laced his fingers through hers, noting how cold hers were.
“Let me walk you home,” he said. “The fire is almost out, and it is wasteful to keep it going through the night.” She made no move to show she agreed or disagreed. “It will be dark soon,” he added.
She looked up for the first time and took in her surroundings. She released a long sigh as if she had been holding her breath for a very long time. He stood and drew her to her feet, and when she faltered, he released her hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders to steady her.
“Come on,” he said, wondering how this woman who had always seemed so strong and prepared to deal with him or anyone who crossed her could now seem so small and frail. “Can you walk?”
This elicited a slight flash of indignation that he recognized—that gave him hope. She straightened but did not move away from the harbor of his support.
“I must leave,” she said, her voice raspy from lack of use.
“Yes,” he agreed. “It’s time to go home to your uncle and aunt for they are—”
She shook off his words. “Leave here—leave Hope,” she said.
“And abandon the children who have come to rely on you—who have come to love you?” He tried and failed to contain his frustration. He had the urge to shake her until she saw the obvious. “We need you, Abigail Yoder.”
He stopped short of adding, “I need you.” But he could not deny that it was true
.
♦ ♦ ♦
Abigail allowed Aaron to walk with her back to her uncle’s house. When she opened the door, her aunt fell upon her and hugged her close.
“I am sorry for worrying you, Aunt Beulah,” she said, her voice muffled by the woman’s embrace. Over her aunt’s shoulder, she saw her uncle thanking Aaron and bidding him a good night. Aaron moved back toward the door, his eyes on her, a worried frown creasing his high forehead. She realized the frown was not the one she’d first known—the scowl of disapproval. No, the lines etched into his brow now were those of concern—and caring. She pulled free of her aunt and faced her uncle and Aaron. “I apologize for worrying all of you, but I am all right and relieved to hear that Louisa Koop is also recovering.”
“You need to eat something and then get some rest. Let’s get you out of those clothes and into something clean and warm, and then I’ll bring you some tea and toast,” Beulah fussed. She guided Abigail toward the hall that led to the small bedrooms, passing Aaron along the way. “You’ll be here for Christmas dinner tomorrow,” she said, pausing to look up at the farmer. Abigail smiled because it was not a request but an instruction.
“I…Perhaps it might be best if…Ja. I will come for dinner,” Aaron replied, delivering his answer not to Beulah but to Abigail.
She felt the corners of her mouth lift slightly and knew by the way he smothered a smile that he had seen it—and that it had pleased him.
While her aunt left her to make the promised tea and toast, Abigail washed herself, brushed the tangles from her hair, braided it, and put on her nightgown. She sat on the side of the narrow bed and sipped the hot tea and nibbled at a corner of the toast her aunt brought her. “Louisa?” she asked, her throat raw from the hours spent searching for the girl.
“She will be fine. She spent the night at Lizzie Bontrager’s.”
“And her father?”
A Plain and Sweet Christmas Romance Collection Page 56
