Rebecca's Christmas Gift. Emma Miller
a man and his little girl.
When Caleb arrived home, Rebecca’s pony was pastured beside his driving horse, and the two-wheeled, open buggy that she’d ridden in this morning was waiting by the shed. A basket of green cooking apples, three small pumpkins and a woman’s sewing box filled the storage space at the rear of the buggy. As he crossed the yard toward the house, Caleb noticed that one of the kitchen windows stood open. Wonderful smells drifted out, becoming stronger as he let himself in through the back door into an enclosed porch that served as a laundry and utility room.
Fritzy greeted him, stump of a tail wagging, and Caleb paused to scratch the dog behind his ears. “I’m home,” he called. And then, to Fritzy, he murmured in Deitsch, “Good boy, good old Fritzy.”
Amelia’s delighted squeal rang out, and Caleb grinned, pleased that she was so happy to see him. But when he stepped into the kitchen, he discovered that his daughter’s attention was riveted on an aluminum colander hanging on the back of a chair.
“Again!” Amelia cried. “Let me try again!”
“Ne,” Rebecca said. “My turn now. You have to wait until it’s your turn.”
“One!” Amelia yelled.
Caleb watched, bewildered, as an object flew through the air to land in the colander.
“Two!” Into the colander.
“Three!”
A third one bounced off the back of the chair and slid across the floor to rest at his feet.
“You missed!” Amelia crowed. “My turn!”
“Vas ist das?” Caleb demanded, picking up what appeared to be a patchwork orange beanbag. “What’s going on?”
“Dat!” Amelia whirled around, flung herself across the room and leaped into his arms. “We’re playing a throwing game,” she exclaimed, somehow extracting the cloth beanbag from his hand and nearly whacking him in the eye with it as she climbed up to lock her arms around his neck. “At Fifer’s Orchard they had games and a straw maid and—”
“A maze,” Rebecca corrected. “A straw bale maze.”
“And a train,” Amelia shouted. “A little one. For kinder to ride on. And a pumpkin patch. You get on a wagon and a tractor pulls you—”
Caleb’s brow creased in a frown. “A train? You let Amelia ride on a toy train like the Englisher children?” His gaze fell on a large orange lollipop propped on the table. The candy was shaped like a pumpkin on a stick, wrapped in clear paper and tied with a ribbon. “And you bought her English sweets?” Caleb extricated himself from Amelia’s stranglehold, unwound her arms and lowered her gently to the floor. “Do you think that was wise?” he asked, picking up the lollipop and turning it over to frown at the jack-o’-lantern face painted on the back. “These things are not for Amish children.”
“Ya, so I explained to her and I’d explain to you if you’d let me speak,” Rebecca said, a saucy tone to her voice. “We weren’t the only Amish there. And it was Bishop Atlee’s wife who bought the lollipop for her. I could hardly take it back and offend the woman. I told Amelia that she couldn’t have it unless you approved, and then only after her supper. I didn’t allow her to go into the Fall Festival area with the straw maze, the rides and the face painting. I told her that those things were fancy, not plain.”
“But...” he began.
Rebecca went on talking. “Amelia didn’t fuss when I told her no, and she helped me pick a basket of apples.” Rebecca flashed him a smile. “Three of those apples are baking with brown sugar in the oven. For after your evening meal or tomorrow’s breakfast.”
Caleb ran a finger under his collar. He could feel heat creeping up his throat and his cheeks were suddenly warm. Once again this red-haired Yoder girl was making him feel foolish in his own house. “So she didn’t ride the toy train?”
“A wagon, Dat.” Amelia tossed the orange beanbag into the air. “Rebecca said that we could...to pick pumpkins and apples.”
“To find the best ones,” Rebecca explained. “We had to go to the field, so we rode the tractor wagon. Otherwise we couldn’t have carried it all back.”
“Too heavy!” Amelia exclaimed, catching hold of his hand and tugging him toward the stove. “And we made a stew—in a pumpkin! For supper!” Amelia bounced and twirled, coming perilously near the stove. He caught her around the waist and scooped her up out of danger as she chattered on without a pause for breath. “I helped, Dat. Rebecca let me help.”
Caleb exhaled, definitely feeling outnumbered and outmatched. The good smells, he realized, were coming from the oven. A cast-iron skillet of golden-brown biscuits rested on the stovetop beside a saucepan of what could only be fresh applesauce. “Maybe I was too hasty,” he managed. “But the beanbags? The money I left in the sugar bowl was for groceries, not toys. The move from Idaho was expensive. I can’t afford to buy—”
“I stitched up the beanbags at home last night.”
Rebecca’s expression was innocent, but she couldn’t hide the light of amusement in her vivid blue eyes.
“From scraps,” she continued. “And I stuffed them with horse corn. So they aren’t really beanbags.”
“Corn bags!” Amelia giggled. “You have to play, Dat. It’s fun. You count, and you try to throw the bags into the coal-ander.”
“Colander.” Rebecca returned her attention to Caleb. “It’s educational. To teach the little ones to count in English. Mam has the same game at the school. The children love it.”
Caleb’s mouth tightened, and he grunted a reluctant assent. “If the toy is made and not bought, I suppose—”
“You try, Dat,” Amelia urged. “Rebecca can do it. It’s really hard to get them in the coal...colander.” She pushed an orange bag into his hand. “And you have to count,” she added in Deitsch. “In English!”
“I don’t have time to play with you now,” Caleb hedged. “The rabbits need—”
“We fed the bunnies,” Amelia said. “And gave them water.”
“And fresh straw,” Rebecca added. She moved to the stove and poured a mug of coffee. “But maybe you’re tired after such a long day at the shop.” She raised a russet eyebrow. “Sugar and cream?”
Caleb shook his head. “Black.”
“My father always liked his coffee black, too,” Rebecca murmured, “but I like mine with sugar and cream.” She held out the coffee. “I just made it fresh.”
“Please, Dat,” Amelia begged, tugging on his arm. “Just one game.”
His gaze met his daughter’s, and his resolve to have none of this silliness melted. Such a little thing to bring a smile to her face, he rationalized...and he had been away from her all day. “Three throws,” he agreed, “but then—”
“Yay!” Amelia cried. “Dat’s going to try.”
“You have to stand back by the window,” Rebecca instructed. “Underhand works better.”
With a sigh, Caleb took to the starting point and tossed all three beanbags into the colander on the first try, one after another.
“Gut, Dat!” Amelia hopped from one foot to the other, wriggling with joy. “But you forgot to count. Now my turn. You take turns.” She gathered up the beanbags and moved back about three feet. “One...zwei...three!” She burst into giggles as she successfully got one of the three into the target.
“A tie,” Rebecca proclaimed, and when he looked at her in surprise, she said, “Amelia gets a handicap.” She shrugged and gave a wry smile. “Both on the English and on her aim.” Rebecca stepped to a spot near the utility room door, a little farther