Amish Christmas Twins. Patricia Davids
His mother came in and handed Willa a steaming bowl of chicken soup and a spoon. “Eat. Your babe needs nourishment.”
Willa took a sip and the hot, delicious broth drove away her nausea. “This is good. Danki.”
“Eat it all.” The woman went back to the kitchen.
“You are at my home near Bowmans Crossing,” John said.
The soup was warming Willa from the inside out. The chunks of chicken were tender and the noodles were the thick homemade kind her mother used to make. The name of the town he mentioned didn’t ring a bell. “Is that close to Hope Springs?”
He shook his head. “You are a long way from there and traveling in the wrong direction if that is where you’re headed.”
She digested this unwelcome news. She had hoped to find her great-aunt before dark. She didn’t want to spend another night on the open road. “Thank you for your help, but I must get going.”
“Your horse needs rest and your buggy needs repairs. I can fix it, but it will take some time.”
Disappointment weighed her down. She was so tired. Why couldn’t one thing go right? “I’m afraid I can’t pay you for any repairs.”
“I have not asked for payment.”
He rose and took the empty bowl from her hands. “You need rest, Willa Lapp. Don’t worry about your kinder. Mamm will look after them. She also is not a killer of serials.”
Willa had to smile at his mistaken turn of the phrase. “The term is serial killer.”
She remembered how difficult it could be to translate the Pennsylvania Deitsh language of her youth into English. An Amish fellow might say he would go the road up and turn the gate in.
John frowned slightly as he repeated her words, “Serial killer. Danki. She is also not one of those. She has fixed a bed for you.”
Willa wanted to protest, but she could barely keep her eyes open. She did need rest. Just a short nap while he fixed her buggy, then she would be on her way. She prayed her great-aunt would be as kind to her as this man and his mother had been.
Her eyes drifted closed. She barely noticed when John’s mother came back into the room. “Bring her, John, she’s too worn-out to walk.”
John lifted Willa in his arms. She wanted to protest, but she didn’t have the strength. Her head lolled against his shoulder. For the first time in months, she felt truly safe, but it was only an illusion. Someone wanted to steal her daughters away. She was their only protection. She couldn’t let down her guard.
* * *
John waited until his mother pulled back the covers, then he laid Willa gently on the bed in the guest room and took a step back. He hooked his thumbs through his suspenders, feeling ill at ease and restless. This woman brought out his protective instincts and he didn’t want to feel responsible for her or for her children. He needed to get back to work. The forge would be cooling by now. He’d have to fire it up again. More time and fuel wasted.
His mother began removing Willa’s shoes. “What did she say about pretending to be Amish?”
“She said she was raised Amish but her parents left the church. She wants to return and raise her children in our faith.”
“Then we must do what we can for her. Does she have people nearby?”
“Near Hope Springs, I think. That’s where she was heading.”
“That is a long trip from here with such little ones. Joshua Bowman’s wife, Mary, is from there. Perhaps they know each other. Did you tell her she was welcome to spend the night with us?”
“Nee. I did not, and why should I? She wants to leave.” He didn’t want them here another hour, let alone overnight.
His mother made shooing motions with her hands. “Your work will keep, but go if you must. I will see to her. You can keep the kinder occupied for me. Outside is best, for I want this young mother to get plenty of rest. I am worried about her babe.”
He took a quick step back from the bed. “You think she might give birth here?”
“If the bobli wants to come, nothing we do or say will stop it, but there is no sense hurrying his or her arrival for lack of a little rest. Go along. You won’t be any help if she does go into labor.”
She was right about that. He was a volunteer firefighter along with many of his neighbors, but running into a burning house was not as scary as a woman giving birth. “Call me if you need me.”
“I can handle this. Get out from underfoot.”
Mamm was a tiny thing and crippled with arthritis that twisted her hands, but she was still a force to be reckoned with when she set her mind to something.
He found the twins sitting at the table in the kitchen. They watched him warily. He could see subtle differences in their features, but he wasn’t sure which was which. Both of them were without their kapps. “Come outside and help me with my chores. Your mother is taking a nap.”
“Will we see a cow?” The girl closest to him asked.
“Which one are you?”
“Told you. I’m Lucy.”
“That’s right, you did.”
Her sister licked a smear of jam from the back of her hand. “Cows yucky. I’m this many.” She held up three fingers.
Lucy nodded and folded her fingers into the correct number. “I’m this many.”
Megan pointed to him. “How old are you?”
“Older than all your fingers and toes together.”
“I can count. One, two, four, five, three.” Lucy ticked off each finger.
“That’s very good. Put on your coats. Would you like to feed the goats?”
“Same as at the zoo?” Lucy nodded vigorously.
John had no idea how they fed goats at a zoo, but he figured it couldn’t be much different than what he did. He helped Lucy into her coat.
Megan pulled away from him when he tried to help her. “I can do it.”
She got her coat on but couldn’t manage the buttons. It was getting cold outside, so he buttoned her coat in spite of her protests and held open the door for them when he was done. Megan hung back until Lucy went out, then she hurried after her sister.
“Where’s my horsey? Give him back.” Megan narrowed her eyes as she looked up at him. She pointed to her mother’s buggy sitting beside the barn. He’d fetched it after his mother arrived home and stabled the tired horse.
“I didn’t steal her. She is resting in the barn just as your mother is resting in the house.”
“What’s a barn?” Lucy waited for his answer.
“That big red building.”
He figured that was enough information. He was wrong. He wasn’t prepared for the barrage of questions a pair of three-year-olds could ask, but he soon learned their curiosity was endless. Most of the time he understood only half of what they were chattering about and he couldn’t keep the two of them straight when they darted every which way so quickly.
“Why are cows brown?”
“God made them that color.”
“What do cows eat?”
“Hay.” He forked some over the stall to his milk cow Maybell.
“What’s hay?”
“Dried grass.”
“You have a funny hat, Johnjohn.”
“It’s