CHAPTER 9

What were you thinking, Abigail! I couldn’t possibly give him a job.” Micah snorted and a cloudy patch hung in the air.

He resembled a bull. Any minute he would start pawing at the ground, ready to charge if she didn’t calm him down. She glanced over her shoulder at Thomas, standing a few feet away from Micah’s workshop, who seemed oblivious to the situation. Abigail returned her focus on Micah. “You need help. Thomas needs a job.”

“It’s nett that simple. The Lambrights are one step away from a formal shunning because of him. I don’t need that kind of trouble.” His index finger went from tapping his chest to pointing at her. “And neither do you.”

“You and Thomas used to be friends. Aren’t you at least curious where he’s been? What’s happened to him?”

He stared silently, taking deep breaths.

She glanced again at Thomas kicking at the snow. “Thomas could use a friend—a godly example.” Lord, I thought Micah had a heart like Yours. Was I wrong?

He groaned under his breath.

“Did Jesus hang out with the religious folks or with the sinners who needed to see His love?”

“Abigail . . .”

“We’re supposed to be Christlike. A light for the world.”

The tension etched across Micah’s face softened and his squared shoulders rounded. “All right.”

“Thomas is gut at keeping the fire going.” She grinned at Micah. “And he doesn’t talk much.”

“I already said yes. Are you going to delay me from working nau by talking?”

She slapped her hand over her mouth and shook her head.

“I hope I don’t regret this.”

“You won’t, I promise. Danki, Micah.”

“You’re hard to say ‘no’ to.” His lips curled into a tight smile, then he muttered something under his breath she couldn’t decipher.

She waved Thomas over to them before Micah had time to change his mind.

Dressed in brown camouflaged pants and a dark sweatshirt, Thomas lumbered toward them.

“You remember Micah, don’t you?”

Thomas nodded, although Abigail wasn’t sure if he was just agreeing.

“He wants you to help him today.” She caught a glimpse of Micah’s glare and shifted her stance to avoid seeing him. “Do what he says, okay, Thomas?”

Thomas nodded.

She smiled at Micah, but it weakened when he didn’t return the same gesture. She leaned closer to him and whispered, “Please be patient.”

“You have no idea how patient I’m being.” He gave her a fake smile, then he and Thomas headed to the shop.

Abigail plodded behind their lengthy steps. When she came to the door, Micah held up his hand, stopping her from entering.

“He’ll be fine.” Micah went inside the building, Thomas at his heels.

She stood still a moment and stared at the closed door, then pivoted to leave. Abigail hadn’t made it more than a few feet before the shop door opened. She glanced over her shoulder as Micah shot outside, a grueling expression on his face.

He stormed up to her, head wagging. “You said he didn’t talk much.”

She swallowed hard. “He doesn’t.”

“For someone who doesn’t talk much, he’s got a very worldly vocabulary.”

Abigail cringed. “Oh, did he start cursing again?”

The muscles in Micah’s neck corded. “You knew?”

“I can explain,” she said. “He has a steel plate in his head. The head injury causes him to behave oddly . . . sometimes.”

Micah rubbed the back of his neck.

“He also has something called post-traumatic . . . stress,” she added, not quite sure the full extent of what that was.

“He’s nett the only one under stress at the moment.”

She took a few steps backward. “Remember”—oh, please remember—“you’re a light into darkness.”

“Abigail Kemp.” He crossed the distance between them with a few long strides. “You better pray he doesn’t use the Lord’s name in vain. If he does—he’s off mei property.”

She liked it better when he called her Gabby Abby.

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“No wonder the woman’s nett married. She’s either talking nonstop or trying to fix everyone’s problems. It’s enough to make a man run for the hills,” he mumbled to himself as he reentered the shop.

Thomas stood next to his worktable, eyeing the glass pieces Micah had made yesterday.

Micah drew a deep breath as he approached the work area. Perhaps if he explained to Thomas why his word choice wasn’t acceptable, maybe they could move forward. Thomas had changed over the last ten years and more than just the different style clothes he wore.

Micah motioned to the snowflakes. “They’re fancy, jah?”

Thomas nodded.

“I’m making them for an Englischer’s wedding.” He slipped his work gloves on, deciding to wait until the need arose to talk with Thomas about his worldly language. Meanwhile, he would pray the occasion wouldn’t arise. Micah went to the kiln and opened the wood-burner hatch. “This is what I want you to do.” He used the fire poker to stir the ashes, then added pieces of kindling. “We need to keep it hot.”

Thomas nodded.

Micah prepared a batch of sand, lime-ash, and cullet, then mixed the ingredients using a metal rod. While the mixture molted, he unrolled a tube of lightweight packaging paper. Before he started making the new pieces, he wanted to wrap and box the other items so they didn’t break.

Thomas watched as Micah carefully bundled up the glassware and set the crate aside. He appeared just as interested in how Micah collected the mass of molten glass on the end of the blowpipe and then worked it into a recognizable object.

“A star,” Thomas said as the glass took shape.

Micah tilted his head to view it from another angle. Perhaps the snowflake wasn’t so recognizable. He clipped the pliable glass off the end of his pipe.

Thomas went to touch it, but Micah blocked his hand.

“Hot. Very hot.” He grabbed the roll of brown paper and tore off a small section. “Watch this.” He tossed it on the snowflake. Flames engulfed the paper.

Thomas jumped back, his eyes wide with curiosity.

Micah tasked Thomas with adding more wood to the kiln while he formed another snowflake.

It wasn’t long before Thomas anticipated what tool Micah needed and would hand it to him. Within an hour, Micah admitted to himself that having Thomas to keep the kiln stocked with wood made the process go faster than he had expected.

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Lunch sat on the table uneaten. Abigail craned her neck to look out the window. The only sign of activity was the smoke coiling into the air from the pipe.

“Stop fretting, child. Micah will kumm in when he’s hungry.” Edith tapped the chair next to her. “Let’s eat.”

Abigail wasn’t sure her nervous stomach could handle food. She’d prayed all morning that Thomas would hold his tongue and that Micah would find it in his heart to accept Thomas’s help. She sat down and bowed her head. Lord, please grant Micah patience. Give him eyes to see Thomas as a lost and suffering soul who needs compassion. And Lord, please give Thomas a reconcilable heart, and the understanding needed to break free of the worldly bondage and ask for forgiveness. And Lord, please watch over the homeless man. I don’t know why You’ve placed him on mei mind so much these past few days. Will You please bless him? Amen.

Edith smiled. “You’ve been praying all morning. Is something wrong?”

Abigail’s stomach roiled. She set her fork down. “Do you think I should go out to the shop and tell Micah it’s time to eat?”

Edith chuckled. “You act like a newly wedded woman.”

Heat erupted on Abigail’s cheeks. A pleasant thought that Edith hadn’t ruled her out of finding a husband, even if it would never come to pass.

Edith lowered her fork. “You haven’t been yourself all day. Is something troubling you?”

“I’ve had a lot on mei mind.” She chewed her bottom lip. “Christmas is almost here. I thought I would knit Micah a pair of socks. Do you think he would like socks? Maybe I should make him something less personal. A plate of brownies . . . that’s nett much of a gift.”

“You could give him both.” Edith smiled. “I have some extra wool if you’d like to get started on them today.”

Abigail rose from the table.

“Don’t you want to eat first?”

“Maybe I’ll be hungry later. But please, you eat.” She wet a dishrag and wiped the counter, pausing every few seconds to glance out the window. Maybe Micah was avoiding her. Is that why he hadn’t come inside for lunch? “I pray he isn’t upset with me still,” Abigail whispered.

“If he is,” Edith said, coming up beside her and lowering her plate into the sink, “he won’t stay that way long.”

“You didn’t see the look in his eyes.”

Edith frowned. “Were you talking over him again?”

Nay, I—I don’t think I did.”

“Too pushy?”

Abigail nodded. “Definitely that.”

Tsk-tsk.” Edith shook her head.

“I know. Men don’t like pushy women.” Looking back at the men who had offered to drive her home after a singing, they were equally as eager to drop her off by the end of the ride. She must have sounded pushy or talked so much their ears burned from her nervous chatter.

“At his age, a man is looking for a fraa—even if he isn’t willing to admit it.”

“I’m sure he’ll find the right maedel.” A pang of despair weighed her words. “I think I’ll get started on those socks,” she said over her shoulder as she fled the kitchen. Abigail blew out a breath once she reached the sanctuary of the sitting room. She eyed the basket but wasn’t sure which ball of wool, the black or gray, Edith had planned to give her to use.

Edith joined her, taking a seat by the basket of yarn. She fished the black ball of wool out of her basket and handed it to Abigail.

Danki.” Abigail looped the wool onto her knitting needles, focusing on her work more than she needed. She had learned to knit at age eleven and could do it with her eyes closed without missing stitches.

“Do the youth still have singings on Sunday evenings in this district?”

“They do, but if you’re wondering about Micah, he stopped going to them a few years ago.”

Edith smiled. “What about you?”

“I haven’t attended one since last year.”

“That’s where I met mei Abraham.” Edith stopped knitting. “We sat across from one another and each time he snuck a peek at me, his face turned red. I thought he might never ask to drive me home.” Edith sighed.

“That’s why I’m buying a horse,” Abigail said. Edith frowned, but before she could express any pity, Abigail elaborated. “I’m very excited. I’ve even started making a quilted horse blanket to put over him in the winter.” Abigail kept her head down, not wishing to see the pity in Edith’s eyes. Over the years she’d seen her share of disappointment in her mother’s expression. Her knitting needles clacked as she went faster.

“How often do the women have sewing get-togethers?” Edith asked.

“Usually once a month, but I think several of the widows get together more often.” Abigail appreciated the changed topic. It wasn’t long before she had the top portion of one sock knitted.

The door opened and Micah entered.

Abigail shoved her knitting aside and stood. “You must be starved.” She crossed the room, alarms firing when she didn’t see her cousin. “Where’s Thomas?”

“Outside.”

“I’m sure he’s hungry too. He didn’t pack a lunch.” She pushed the curtain to one side and peeked out the window. Thomas’s shoulders were hunched and he was standing with his back against the wind. Abigail grew more irritated by the second. She spun around to face Micah. “Would you leave a stray dog outside in that wedder?” Without waiting to hear his reply, she marched into the kitchen.

“Abigail,” Micah said, tromping behind her. “We need to talk.”