Her Amish Christmas Choice. Leigh Bale

      Martin stood inside the building supply store and gazed at the stacks of two-by-fours he intended to buy. Wearing his heavy leather gloves, he lifted several boards onto his flat cart and thought about the woman who had just hired him.

      Julia Rose was pretty, with a small upturned nose, a stubborn chin and soft brown eyes that showed intelligence and an eagerness to succeed but also a bit of self-doubt. With her russet hair pulled back in a long ponytail and no makeup, she looked almost Amish. But not in the blue jeans and shirt she was wearing. And most definitely not without the white organdy prayer kapp that all Amish women wore.

      She was Englisch. A woman of the world. Yet, Martin couldn’t help admiring her spunk. The way she’d stood on that rickety ladder and gripped the hammer told him she was determined. In fact, she reminded him of his mamm, who had raised six children and still worked beside his daed after twenty-eight years, doing whatever needed to be done without complaint.

      “Whatcha gonna make?” Hank asked in Deitsch, the German dialect his Amish people used among themselves.

      Martin turned and found his brother standing beside him. He was as sweet and sincere as they came. The Amish only went to school through the eighth grade. Now that Hank was too old for that, Martin had taken him under his wing. Both his parents tended to lose their patience with Hank and his penchant for getting into trouble, but Martin had deep compassion for his younger brother and had recently started taking the boy with him.

      “Remember, we’re making a porch overhang for Rose Soapworks?” Martin said.

      “Ja, that’s right. I remember now,” Hank said, his thick voice filled with a happy lilt. Nothing seemed to ruffle the boy’s feathers. He was always in a good mood.

      Pushing his cart, Martin headed toward the aisle where sheets of metal siding were stacked in tidy order. He was careful not to buy too much. He’d been pleasantly surprised when Julia Rose had told him to come pick out the supplies he would need and he didn’t want to betray her trust.

      “Julia’s gonna like the porch we make, huh, Mar-tin?” Hank said, speaking his name as if it were two words.

      “Ja, I hope so. But you should call her Miss Rose.”

      “How come? I like her name. Julia. Julia. Julia,” Hank repeated in his heavy staccato voice.

      “It’s not good manners for you to call her by her first name. She’s a grown woman and you’re still a youth. It’s proper for you to call her Miss Rose.” Martin stepped past the boy, pushing his cart as he went.

      With dogged determination, Hank hurried after him. “I like her last name, too. Rose. Rose. Rose. How come she’s got two first names?”

      “I don’t know but Rose is her last name.” Martin didn’t try to overexplain as he rounded the corner and quickly filled a paper sack with nails and lag bolts. He was used to his brother’s incessant chatter and didn’t let it bother him. He selected several pieces of flashing to sieve off water during rainstorms.

      Hank grinned and slid his dirty fingers beneath the suspenders crossing his shirtfront. He’d removed his leather gloves and tucked them into his waistband. “We’re gonna get enough money to build your barn, huh?”

      “We’re working toward that goal and a little extra so Mamm can make you a new coat and vest for Church Sunday,” Martin conceded.

      “Ach, a gray coat ’cause I look gut in gray. Julia sure is schee. Don’t you think so?”

      “Miss Rose,” Martin corrected.

      “Ja, Miss Rose sure is schee,” Hank said.

      Yes, Julia was pretty, but Martin didn’t say so. It wouldn’t be proper, especially since she was Englisch. Even now, he couldn’t forget the soft feel of her during those few scant seconds when he’d held her in his arms, or the fragrance of her hair, a subtle mixture of citrus. And the moment he’d looked into her beautiful brown eyes, he’d felt something shift inside his heart like the cracking of a giant oak tree’s trunk beneath a bolt of lightning.

      No! He mustn’t think such things. Julia wasn’t Amish and he didn’t want to do anything unseemly that might get him into trouble with his parents or church elders.

      Hurrying to the front of the store, he set the bag of nails on the counter. Byron Stott, the proprietor, stood behind the cash register. He pushed a jagged thatch of salt-and-pepper hair out of his eyes and glanced at Martin.

      “Anything else you need?”

      “Ne, this is all. Please put everything on Julia Rose’s account,” Martin said.

      Byron lifted a bushy eyebrow in curiosity. “So, she hired you as her handyman, did she?”

      Martin nodded.

      “And me, too,” Hank chimed in.

      Byron grunted. “She told me someone would be coming in.”

      Martin stood silent. Though he had lived in this community over ten years and knew the townspeople quite well, he was Amish and understood the expectations of his faith. He should keep himself apart from the world and not become too friendly with the Englisch townsfolk.

      Moving around Martin’s cart, Byron lifted and moved each item to access the price tag. The beep of the scanning gun filled the air in quick repetition.

      “You gonna ask Julia to drive home with you from the singings?” Hank asked his brother.

      Noticing that Byron was watching him with amusement, Martin’s face flushed with heat and he quickly turned away. “Ne, of course not.”

      The singings were usually held after church services and included all the young people who were of dating age. As a group, they spent the evening singing or, if weather permitted, playing volleyball outside. They enjoyed refreshments afterward and frequently the young men drove the young women home in their buggies. Alone. This form of Amish dating frequently resulted in marriage. But at the age of twenty-five, Martin had long ago stopped attending such events because the girls were too young and immature to hold his interest.

      “How come?” Hank persisted.

      “Your kind can’t marry outside your church.” Byron Stott spoke as if it should be obvious.

      “Oh.” Hank’s mouth rounded in confusion. He stared at the man, the tip of his tongue protruding between his lips. “But what if she becomes Amish? Then it would be okay. Right?”

      Martin didn’t respond but he saw Byron’s curious stare. This wasn’t the first time that Hank had embarrassed him in public.

      “Since you don’t want her, I’m gonna invite her to the singing. We can make her Amish and then she’s gonna be my girl,” Hank said in a happy voice.

      Byron flipped a lever and opened the till on the cash register as he laughed out loud. “A grown woman like Julia Rose isn’t gonna join the Amish and she definitely won’t be your girl.”

      Martin bristled