An Amish Baby for Christmas Read online

  Thomas felt his breath catch in his throat.

  Abigail had turned her face up to his. A smile danced across her expression, and she had a healthy glow—a maternal glow.

  He swallowed the lump and stepped back, bumping into the buggy.

  “Something wrong? You looked like you’d had a fright.”

  “No. Nothing to be afraid of. I was just...um...looking at the window displays—nice fall stuff.”

  Abigail laughed. “Didn’t guess you to be a window-display kind of guy.”

  Her laughter felt good, so much better than the look of despair on her face that Thomas had seen when he first arrived that morning. The day wasn’t going at all like he’d planned...

  Not that he was getting involved. Because spending too much time with Abigail would not be prudent. Hopefully within a few months the estate would be settled, she could hire permanent workers and Thomas would be on his merry way.

  Except suddenly that didn’t sound as appealing as it usually did...

  Vannetta Chapman has published over one hundred articles in Christian family magazines and received over two dozen awards from Romance Writers of America chapter groups. She discovered her love for the Amish while researching her grandfather’s birthplace of Albion, Pennsylvania. Her first novel, A Simple Amish Christmas, quickly became a bestseller. Chapman lives in Texas Hill Country with her husband.

  Books by Vannetta Chapman

  Love Inspired

  Indiana Amish Brides

  A Widow’s Hope

  Amish Christmas Memories

  A Perfect Amish Match

  The Amish Christmas Matchmaker

  An Unlikely Amish Match

  The Amish Christmas Secret

  An Amish Winter

  “Stranded in the Snow”

  The Baby Next Door

  An Amish Baby for Christmas

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

  AN AMISH BABY FOR CHRISTMAS

  Vannetta Chapman

  Give, and it shall be given unto you;

  good measure, pressed down,

  and shaken together, and running over.

  —Luke 6:38

  Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.

  —Albert Einstein

  This book is dedicated to Beth Scott, a faithful reader and dear friend.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dear Reader

  Excerpt from The Amish Outcast’s Holiday Return by Lacy Williams

  Chapter One

  Thomas Albrecht was walking out of the grocery store, juggling three full-to-the-brim grocery bags, when he practically ran into his bishop. Ezekiel Hochstetler had recently turned eighty—Thomas had been there to help celebrate the day, along with their entire community.

  Ezekiel’s only concession to his age was a cane, which he now used to help with a knee that had been giving him trouble. Thomas understood that the man in front of him was having a hard time learning to step back. He’d only recently delegated a few of his church duties to his deacons because his wife had insisted. Ezekiel continued to preach and counsel and generally oversee his flock.

  “Morning, Thomas. I was hoping to see you today.”

  “Were you, now?” Thomas nodded toward his buggy. “Let me set down these supplies. I note a twinkle in your eye, which I suspect means you have a new job for me.”

  “Finished at the Beachy place?”

  “Just yesterday. Fall crops are harvested, and the winter wheat is in the ground.”

  “Are you looking for another job?”

  Thomas set the groceries in the bin on the back of his buggy, closed the top, making sure the latch fastened, then turned to study his bishop. Both his hair and his beard were pure white. He was dressed in the typical Amish way, the same way that Thomas was dressed—white cotton shirt, black work pants and the requisite suspenders. Ezekiel wore his black Sunday hat, while Thomas wore his straw one. Both men had their shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The Plain community in Shipshewana might have embraced solar power, but they still dressed in the traditional manner.

  Ezekiel was more than his bishop. He had been a friend to Thomas for many years. It was Ezekiel who had first suggested that Thomas begin a property management business—an unusual profession for an Amish man, but Shipshewana had been at the point of growth where it was needed. The idea had been a wise one. Thomas had never lacked for work.

  Thomas crossed his arms and leaned against the buggy box. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

  “Do you know Abigail Yutzy?”

  “Nein, I don’t.” Thomas tipped his hat against the bright sunshine. They were deep into September, and in northern Indiana that was a thing of beauty. The trees boasted vibrant colored leaves, every porch sported a collection of pumpkins and the weather remained perfect.

  “I’m not surprised. She lives on the east side of Shipshe, so she’s technically in the other district.”

  “Widow?”

  “Ya, she is.”

  Most of the women that Thomas had worked for in the past had been widows. Their living situations were usually stuck in some phase of transitioning. Most were post-funeral but hadn’t yet sold the family place to move in with one of their children. Thomas liked to think that he was able to help make that transition less traumatic, less difficult.

  “Her situation is somewhat...unusual.” Ezekiel didn’t add anything else, and Thomas knew that questioning him would be futile. Often these situations were sensitive. Thomas would learn more about the particulars of Widow Yutzy as it became necessary.

  Ezekiel pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Thomas.

  “This is Luke Fisher’s number. He’s the bishop of the east side group. He actually has a cell phone.” Thomas winked. “They’re a bit more liberal than we are.”

  “And you think I should call?”

  “I told him you would.”

  Instead of being offended that Ezekiel had spoken for him, Thomas laughed. Ezekiel knew him well. He wouldn’t turn down helping one of the older members of their community.

  He stuffed the slip of paper in his pocket.

  “I’ll do it.”

  He thought that would be the end of the conversation, but Ezekiel tapped his cane against the ground. “Today, if you could. The situation is a bit...dire.”

  “Before lunch,” Thomas promised.

  He hurried home to his apartment above Lehman’s Mercantile. He was perhaps the only Amish man in the district who lived in an apartment, but the arrangement worked well for him. The Lehmans’ house sat on the back side of the property. Beside it was a medium-sized barn that housed their buggy horse as well as Thomas’s mare, plus some goats, a dairy cow and whatever animals the children persuaded their parents to let them keep.

  The mercantile was a busy place, which didn’t bother Thomas at all since he was rarely home during the day. After he spoke with Bishop Ezekiel, Thomas hurried home to his apartment, made his way up the back stairs and put away his groceries. Then, he went down to the office in the mercantile and asked to use the
phone.

  “Of course, Thomas. New job?” Though Mary Lehman was only forty-five, her brown hair was liberally streaked with gray. She had taken to wearing reading glasses that hung from a braided ribbon. Now she positioned them on the end of her nose and studied him.

  Thomas thought if there was a sweeter woman in the town of Shipshewana, he’d certainly never met her.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, call then. We don’t want you starving.”

  That was a standing joke between them. Mary insisted on feeding him at every available opportunity. Just the week before, he’d accused her of attempting to fatten him up for the winter.

  Now he called the number on the slip of paper Ezekiel had given him. It was unusual for a bishop to have a cell phone, though plenty of Amish had one for their business. He could understand how it would help a bishop who was basically on call twenty-four hours a day. No doubt the man kept it in his barn rather than the house—a concession to the old ways and the sanctity of family time.

  He was surprised when Luke answered on the second ring. Unfortunately, the connection was a bad one, and the man’s voice kept cutting in and out. He was travelling in his buggy, evidenced by the background sounds of automobiles, wind and the clip-clop of a horse.

  “I’m Thomas Albrecht. Bishop Ezekiel Hochstetler asked me to call you about helping a widow.”

  “Oh ya. Very gut. Asher Yutzy...crops are still...she won’t...if you could go by...goat...help her...”

  “This connection isn’t very good. What was that you said about a goat?”

  The bishop must have reached the top of a hill, because suddenly his voice was as clear as if he were standing in the mercantile office. As he gave Thomas the address for the Yutzy place, Mary slipped a pad of paper and a pen in front of him. Then, the connection dropped completely, and Thomas was left staring at the receiver.

  “What did he say? Was that Bishop Fisher? I heard that he’s using a cell phone now. Apparently, that way he’s available whenever his congregation needs him.”

  “He may be available, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be able to understand him.” Thomas handed her the phone as he frowned at the piece of paper. “He asked me to help a Widow Yutzy. She lives on the east side of town.”

  “Different district, then. I haven’t heard of her, but that’s no surprise the way this area is growing. Did you know there are twenty thousand Amish in the LaGrange-Elkhart Counties now?”

  “I did not.”

  “I’m lucky to keep up with the people in our own church. Where exactly does this Widow Yutzy live?”

  Thomas showed her the address.

  “Huh. That’s the east side, all right—nearly halfway to LaGrange.”

  “I suppose that’s where I’m headed, then.”

  “Chicken and dumplings for dinner,” Mary called after him. “And Chloe is making peach cobbler.”

  Thomas winced at the mention of Mary’s daughter, Chloe. She’d had a rather pronounced crush on him for the last two months. Chloe was fifteen, and Thomas was twenty-eight. Soon he’d be too old to be the recipient of schoolgirl crushes. The day couldn’t arrive fast enough in his opinion. Chloe’s current infatuation would pass. These situations always did, but until Chloe turned her attentions elsewhere, he was better off avoiding the Lehmans’ dinner table.

  Too bad. He would have loved to have a bite of that peach cobbler, and Mary’s chicken and dumplings was one of life’s blessings. He momentarily considered braving Chloe’s pointed looks and long sighs, but shook off the idea. He could make himself a sandwich with the groceries he’d just purchased. Chloe was bound to move on to a boy closer to her own age soon. He’d wait her out.

  The Yutzy place might have been on the east side of Shipshe, but it was still a relatively short trip. Shipshewana was, after all, small. The number of people living in town remained under eight hundred—an even mix of Amish and Englisch. County numbers were just under forty thousand, and a vast majority of those folks were Amish. In the last ten years, the area had become something of a tourist attraction for Englischers curious about Plain living. The auction house and flea market consistently attracted crowds of an additional thirty-five thousand. Still, on days the market was closed, Shipshe reacquired its small-town feel.

  After Thomas had traveled east for six miles, he stopped to ask for directions.

  “Big place that Asher Yutzy had. Real shame about his passing.” The man tending the vegetable stand was in his sixties. He nodded back toward the main road. “Keep following this road until you see the county number on the left. Yutzy’s place is the second on the right. You can’t miss it. Asher had dreams of starting a horse farm. He put that newfangled PVC fencing around the entire two hundred and twenty acres.”

  Thomas had been inspecting the man’s produce, thinking that Mary would enjoy some of the fresh green beans. He nodded toward a quart-sized tray. “I’ll take those and some of the berries too. Did you say two hundred and twenty acres?”

  “I did. Asher had a different idea of plain and simple than most folks.”

  Even with the man’s warning, Thomas was surprised when he pulled onto the lane that led to the Yutzy property. Most Amish farms were eighty to one hundred acres—never more than a family could manage. The idea was to provide for your household and make a modest living from the land. Amish farmers would hire help during harvest, but it was rare to hire full-time, permanent workers. Growing a vast agricultural empire wasn’t the point of farming.

  Enough land to raise a family.

  That was their motto.

  It was obvious the late Mr. Yutzy had different thoughts on the matter. Though the entrance was plain enough, the white fencing stretched as far as he could see in both directions. Thomas had priced the fencing for a farm on the north side of Shipshe. It had been exorbitantly expensive. In the end, they’d gone with metal T-posts and goat fencing, because...well, the man had goats.

  Why would Yutzy have spent the money on PVC? And why did he have such a large spread? Perhaps the man had a houseful of sons and planned to divvy it up between them. But if he had sons, then Widow Yutzy wouldn’t need Thomas. Ezekiel had said it was an unusual situation.

  Thomas called out to his horse, Duchess, directing the chestnut mare down the lane. She was a fine horse—with a beautiful gray coat and black socks. He realized it was a sin to feel pride, but he didn’t figure it was a sin to appreciate God’s creatures. At least that’s the way he justified his satisfaction with the horse.

  A lovely September day.

  A mare that tossed her head, but followed his lead.

  And a new job.

  September was progressing on a good note. He pulled up in the circular drive—it was dirt, of course. No Amish home had paved driveways that he knew of. But this one had a center garden area that had once probably looked quite impressive. Like everything else, it had been sorely neglected.

  The house was small in comparison to the size of the farm. He was surprised to see the fields had yet to be harvested. In addition, a glimpse of the back garden revealed a mess of weeds and vegetables that needed to be collected. Then there was the goat standing on the front porch, munching on what might have been dead flowers in a pot.

  Perhaps Widow Yutzy wasn’t physically able to take care of the place. But if that was the situation, then their bishop would have sent help.

  Something else was going on here, though he couldn’t imagine what.

  He climbed the porch steps, shooed the goat away, knocked on the door and then stepped back. Thomas wasn’t extraordinarily tall at five foot eleven inches, but his size sometimes intimidated people who didn’t know him. He was built solid as an ox. His mamm had loved that phrase, though now that he thought about it, she’d also called him “clumsy as an ox.”

  The woman who answered his knock was younger, so a doschder perhaps. She op
ened the front door and peered through the screen at him.

  “My name is Thomas—Thomas Albrecht. Your bishop asked me to come by. He said you might be needing some help around the place.”

  She shook her head, still studying him, still silent.

  “I couldn’t help but notice as I drove in that your alfalfa hasn’t been harvested. You’ll need to see that’s taken care of soon.”

  “Danki, but nein. I don’t need your help.” Her voice was soft but brooked no argument.

  Which left him in something of a pickle. He’d told his bishop and her bishop that he’d do his best to help.

  Perhaps he could reason with her.

  “After the harvest, I suspect you’ll want to put in a cover crop or maybe winter wheat. Then there’s your vegetable garden in the back. I can take care of all that as well and...”

  “I don’t need your help.” Since she was standing in shadow, he couldn’t make out her expression, but her tone suggested she was determined to turn him away.

  “Your fields tell a different story.”

  She pushed out through the screen door, and you could have knocked Thomas over with a flyswatter. The woman had dark brown hair, a good bit of it escaping from her kapp. She was probably half a foot shorter than he was, and her eyes were the color of hazelnuts. Though she was slight in most ways, she was also very pregnant. Certainly, she was in her last trimester. Perhaps she was past due. He didn’t see how her stomach could get any larger. Plus, she was barefoot. Who walked around barefoot in mid-September? It was warm, but it wasn’t that warm.

  Taking two steps back, he averted his eyes to a spot over her left shoulder. “Perhaps I could speak with Widow Yutzy.”

  “I’m Widow Yutzy.”

  “But—”

  She stared up at him, arms crossed protectively on top of her stomach. “I’m Widow Yutzy, and as I’ve told the gut bishop before, I’m not ready to decide on what type of help I’d like, when I’d like it or who I’d like it to be.”

  “Then how will you—”