Leigh Bale - Her Amish Christmas Choice

“Acht gewwe!” the man called in a foreign language.

A sickening crack sounded above and Julia scrambled down the ladder. Like a zipper coming undone, the nails holding the awning to the side of the building pinged into the air as the canopy tore away from the outer wall and knocked her to the ground. She gasped in pain as the ruined wood continued its descent toward her.

With a cry of alarm, she curled against the side of the wall, protecting her head with her arms. She was vaguely aware of the man shielding her, taking the brunt of the weight against his own back.

“Oof!”

She glanced up and found his face no more than a breath away. She gazed into his eyes, catching the subtle scent of licorice. His muscular arms held her tight as another piece of the canopy bludgeoned him with a shocking thump. He jerked at the impact but made no sound. For several seconds, they both held perfectly still. She felt uncomfortable with his close proximity but couldn’t move away just then.

“ Alles fit? Are you all right?” His voice sounded low and calm, like the approach of thunder off in the distance.

“I think so.” She stared in fascination, captivated by his piercing blue eyes… The kind of eyes that could see deep inside a person’s heart and know exactly what they were thinking. In those brief moments, she took in his plain clothes, his angular face, short auburn hair and a faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. No doubt he spent hours working outside in the sun.

“Mar-tin! Mar-tin, are you okay?”

Julia looked up and saw a boy of approximately fifteen years standing in front of the ruined porch. Dressed identical to the man, his short, stocky build was accented by plain black pants, a blue chambray shirt, black suspenders and a black felt hat.

They were Amish!

“ Ja , I’m okay, Hank.” The man holding onto Julia let her go and moved back with a slight grimace.

She scurried to safety, standing beyond the reach of the broken canopy. With her out of the way, the man jerked to the side and let the remaining boards sag to the ground. They hung there like a great, broken beast.

“It’ll be all right now. You’ll be okay.” The boy named Hank patted Julia’s arm, looking directly into her eyes as he earnestly searched her expression for distress.

Hank was a stranger and again she felt uncomfortable by the invasion of her personal space but saw no guile in his dark eyes. He looked genuinely concerned for her welfare. His brown eyes slanted upward and he had an open, childlike expression. As she took in his reddish-blond hair and small, flat nose, she recognized instantly that Hank must have Down Syndrome.

“Y-yes. I’m fine,” she said.

He smiled wide, pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose. He looked so innocent and sincere that she had to return his infectious smile.

“Mar-tin, she’s okay. How about you? Are you okay?” Hank asked, his accent heavy.

“ Ja , I’m all right,” the man named Martin said.

But Julia had her doubts. He stood slowly and sidestepped the rubble, stumbling before he regained his footing. As he rubbed his left arm, a flash of pain crossed his face. He clenched his eyes closed for a brief moment but didn’t utter a single word of complaint. His black felt hat had been knocked from his head. He opened his eyes and glanced at her, a look of worry creasing his handsome forehead.

“You are not injured?” he asked, his voice tinged with an edge of authority.

She shook her head. “No, thanks to you.”

She coughed and waved a hand at the dust filling the air. Martin had used his own body to shield her from the heavy boards. She considered what might have happened if he hadn’t been there.

He stood up straight, his great height a sharp contrast to Hank’s. “You should rope off this area so no one walks by unaware and puts themselves in danger.”

“Yes, I’ll do that. Th-thank you,” she said, still breathless and amazed by the ordeal.

“You’re willkomm .” He brushed the dust off his clothes.

“Mar-tin, I saw what happened and came to help.” Hank’s face was lit by an eager expression.

“ Ach , you sure did. I’m glad you were here.” Martin rested a hand on Hank’s shoulder and the boy smiled at the man with adoration. The two looked alike, yet Martin didn’t seem old enough to be Hank’s father. Perhaps they were brothers?

“Thank the gut Lord no one was seriously injured today.” Martin flexed his right arm as if testing it for soundness. He arched his waist, his blue chambray shirt stretching taut across his solid chest.

Hmm, very odd. Though she understood his comment, she realized he was mixing English with some other language.

He looped his thumbs through his black suspenders. The tips of his heavy work boots were almost covered by the hem of his plain gray pants. A brisk October wind ruffled his short hair, but he didn’t seem to feel the chill. Within two weeks, it would be November. Julia pulled her own jacket tighter in front of her, ever conscious that winter was fast approaching.

When the man reached to scoop up his hat and placed it on his head, she tried to look away. Since she’d never seen an Amish man before—even when she’d lived in Kansas, where she knew a few settlements existed—she couldn’t help staring. When she and her mom had recently moved here to Riverton, Colorado, she hadn’t expected to find any Amish. But more than that, she wondered what he was doing here at her place.

“Who are you?” she asked, trying not to sound rude.

He bent over and tossed the heavy post aside, his movements strong and athletic. “I am Martin Hostetler and this is my younger brother Hank. Carl Nelson, the attorney in town, told me you are looking for a handyman to fix up your place. I’ve done work for Carl in the past. If the owner of your business is available, I’d like to speak with him about a job.”

Him. He thought the owner of the store was a man.

A stab of pain pierced Julia’s heart. Her father had never owned this rundown hovel; he’d died just eleven months earlier after a valiant battle with pancreatic cancer. Both Julia and her mother missed him more than they could say.

“I’m the owner, Julia Rose,” she said, lifting her chin higher and trying to force a note of confidence into her voice.

After her father became sick, she’d supported her parents off the proceeds of her handmade soap. Mom had lupus and couldn’t help much. As an only child, Julia had stepped in to care for them. It had been a meager living but Julia was grateful her mother had taught her the craft. She’d learned to make lotions, creams, facial masks and lip balms, too. But if they didn’t get the soap store up and running within the next six weeks, she wouldn’t have time to make more soap, which could jeopardize her wholesale contract.

“ Ach , you are the owner? But I thought Walter Rose still owned this building.” Martin blinked, gazing at the drab brown structure with surprise.

“That’s right. He was my grandfather. But he died a couple of months ago and left everything to me.”

“ Ach , I didn’t know. Mr. Nelson didn’t tell me that. My condolences.”

“ Ja , my condenses, too,” Hank said, struggling to pronounce the word with his thick tongue.

Julia couldn’t hold back a small laugh, to which the boy smiled. It was a blunt, open smile that sparkled his dark eyes and lit up his face with joy.

She glanced at Martin, seeing the genuine compassion in his eyes. She also felt sad for her grandfather’s passing but couldn’t really miss him. Not when she’d never met the man. Now that she was twenty-three, she mourned the fact that she’d never gotten to know her grandpa. As an only child, she had lived a rather lonely life and longed for family and friends. She thought she’d found that when she became engaged to Dallin almost two years earlier. But it didn’t last. And all she knew about her grandfather was that he had not gotten along well with her father. At all. The two had a falling-out years before her birth and hadn’t spoken since. She had no idea why.