A Boy's Amish Christmas, page 1
“I chased you off,” Emaline said quietly.
“I’m sorry about that.”
“I have no intention of giving you an interview,” Brett replied.
“I can see that,” she said. “Again, I’m sorry.”
“If it were just you and me,” Brett said, his dark gaze latching on to hers, “I might enjoy the game of keeping my privacy and you trying to dig it up. But my nephew won’t know how to deal with this kind of thing. So if you bring him up in a story in any way—that’s crossing the line. I might be fair game but he isn’t. He’s a kid.”
And Damian was just a kid...but he was also the center of some serious questions about the Rockwells. Senator Rockwell ran his campaigns on family values, and this little boy was a tough addition to the family for the Rockwells to explain. In fact, no one had explained him. Ever.
“I agree,” Emaline replied, all the same.
Dear Reader,
I hope you have had as much fun with this The Butternut Amish B&B miniseries as I have! If you love books with lots of heart, cute kids and strong families, then maybe you’ll enjoy some of the other books I’ve written. Come find me online at patriciajohns.com for a complete list.
If you enjoyed this story, I’d love it if you posted a review! Reviews help other readers to find my books, and I’m eternally grateful for every single one.
I also really enjoy hearing from my readers. Feel free to find me on my website or on social media. I’d love to hear from you!
Patricia
A Boy’s Amish Christmas
Patricia Johns
Patricia Johns is a Publishers Weekly bestselling author who writes from Alberta, Canada, where she lives with her husband and son. She writes Amish romances that will leave you yearning for a simpler life. You can find her at patriciajohns.com and on social media, where she loves to connect with her readers. Drop by her website and you might find your next read!
Books by Patricia Johns
Harlequin Heartwarming
The Butternut Amish B&B
Her Amish Country Valentine
A Single Dad in Amish Country
Amish Country Haven
A Deputy in Amish Country
A Cowboy in Amish Country
The Second Chance Club
Their Mountain Reunion
Mountain Mistletoe Christmas
Rocky Mountain Baby
Snowbound with Her Mountain Cowboy
Love Inspired
Amish Country Matches
The Amish Matchmaking Dilemma
Their Amish Secret
The Amish Marriage Arrangement
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
To my husband and son—you are my everything!
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM HIS CHRISTMAS COWGIRL BY CARI LYNN WEBB
CHAPTER ONE
BRETT ROCKWELL GLANCED over his shoulder at the back seat of his Ford F-150, where his nephew sat. The five-year-old’s hair was pushed up in tufts around his noise-canceling headphones. Brett had been warned that he wouldn’t take them off for anything. The headphones helped with his aversion to noise, Brett’s brother told him. Damian was a sensitive kid.
Snow spun from the sky in a heavy veil, and Brett leaned forward trying to peer past the whipping flakes. His ranch was still a good two hours away. He didn’t like the prospect of driving through a blizzard at night, especially not on these narrow roads this far into the country. Even the two-lane highway was narrow.
It was a good thing that Brett knew the area. The Butternut Amish Bed and Breakfast wasn’t too far from here, and if they stopped for the night there, they could carry on to Brett’s ranch in the morning. Brett was pretty sure the kid would enjoy seeing horses and buggies out here in Pennsylvania’s Amish Country, but the Amish weren’t out this evening.
Brett was looking forward to a couple of weeks with his nephew while his brother and sister-in-law were traveling for the campaign. Dean Rockwell was a senator with an election coming up, and he’d agreed to some pre-Christmas appearances. They’d all meet up at Brett’s ranch for Christmas Day. Dean and Bobbie’s teenage children were skiing with friends over the holiday, and Brett was getting some quality time with five-year-old Damian. That was what the Rockwells did, especially during election time—they pulled together.
His GPS prompted him to turn at Butternut Drive. The pickup truck’s tires crunched onto snowy gravel, and Damian roused in the back seat. Brett glanced in the mirror again to see the boy pull off his headphones momentarily.
“Are we there yet?” Damian asked.
“Change of plans,” Brett said. “We aren’t going to make it to my ranch tonight. We’re going to try and stop at a little Amish bed-and-breakfast that I know about out here.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a place with a warm bed,” Brett said. “I’ve eaten there before a couple of times, but I didn’t stay the night. The lady who owns it is very nice.”
“How long until we get there, then?”
“The GPS says three minutes.”
Brett was almost on top of the white wooden sign before he spotted the dark green letters that read Butternut Amish Bed and Breakfast through the snowfall. He glanced into the rearview mirror and watched as Damian put his headphones over his ears.
“You might find it quiet enough to take the headphones off more, Damian,” he said. “I know you hate too much noise, but out here, it’s pretty quiet. These are Amish people. No radio or TV or YouTube or anything like that. These are the quietest people around.”
Damian didn’t touch the headphones, and maybe he hadn’t even heard. Brett knew that the headphones were more than a comfort for the kid—they were a necessity a lot of the time. He had some symptoms of autism spectrum disorder, and those headphones helped him to filter out all the extra noise and distraction that he couldn’t handle.
Brett slowed and turned into the drive. For the first few yards, it was all trees, and then they emerged into a wide-open yard, covered in snow, surrounding a large white two-story farmhouse with a broad veranda out front. The veranda looked like it had been recently swept clear of snow, and a broom was propped next to the front door. A whisper of smoke crept up from the chimney. They were one week from Christmas, but the only decorations he could see were some evergreen fronds bound together with twine and tied to the front of every third veranda rail.
There was a hatchback car parked in the drive next to a buggy that wasn’t hitched up, its shafts resting in the snow. To the side he could see a small fenced field with a large bale of bright fresh hay sitting in a feeder in the center. A quarter horse was munching on the feed, not seeming to mind the falling snow one bit, and a long-eared donkey stood doggedly next to him.
“Hey, look out there,” Brett said. He’d been trying to get Damian to engage with something—anything—ever since they’d left Pittsburgh. Brett wasn’t sure if he was missing his mom and dad or his nanny the most. Brett had drawn the line at bringing the nanny with them. It was almost Christmas, and he got to hang out with this kid for the next week and a half and celebrate with him and his family, and he was determined to make the holiday as wholesome and filled with the Christmas spirit as possible. And in his books, dragging a nanny along with them wouldn’t fit the bill. But he wondered now if he’d been too idealistic when he made that call.
Brett parked next to the hatchback and turned off the engine. Damian unbuckled his seat belt, and he opened his own door at the same time that Brett did. Damian jumped down onto the snowy ground.
The side door to the big white house opened, and an elderly Amish woman in a dark red dress with a white apron appeared in the doorway. She wore her white hair pulled back under a kapp, and her eyes sparkled behind a pair of rimless glasses. Her name was Belinda Wickey, and she was well known in this area for being both an Amish matchmaker and the owner of an in-demand bed-and-breakfast.
“She looks like Mrs. Claus,” Damian said thoughtfully.
“Don’t tell her that,” Brett said with a chuckle. “She’s Amish. I’m pretty sure they don’t do Santa here. But she’s a great cook and the nicest lady you could ever meet.”
“Santa skips them?” Damian asked.
Okay, this had just taken the wrong turn. “Uh... No, he doesn’t skip them, exactly, but he’s sneakier out here. And they don’t believe in Santa, so... Don’t worry about it, Damian. Santa will make it to the ranch, okay? I know for a fact!”
“And you know that lady?” Damian asked.
“A little bit.” This bed-and-breakfast was pretty well known.
Damian accepted that, and fell into silence.
“Hi, Belinda!” Brett called. “
I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Brett Rockwell. I came out here for your Amish feast last spring?”
“Of course, Brett! I wouldn’t forget you that easily.” Belinda smiled warmly. “It’s good to see you. How is your ankle?”
Right. He’d been nursing a sprained ankle his last visit. Just an accident at the ranch that was taking its time to heal up. It was impressive that she’d remembered.
“Much better, thanks,” he said. “I’m sorry to just arrive with no reservation, but the roads are pretty bad, and I was hoping you might have a room for us.”
“Of course,” she replied. “I have another guest, but there is a free room. You’re very welcome to it.”
“Thank you.” And he meant it from the bottom of his heart. “I really appreciate it.”
“I’m just glad you made it this far, and I’m thrilled you’ll get to experience a proper stay here. Come on in and get warm. This little fellow could probably use a cookie. Are there any allergies? My cookies are all nut free, and while I don’t have gluten-free cookies, I do have some gluten-free apple crisp.”
“No, no allergies. And that all sounds wonderful. I think you’ll find us pretty easy to please.” But as the words came out, he wasn’t so sure that it was true. Damian found a change of plans difficult.
He went around to the back of the truck and pulled out their bags, Damian watching closely.
Belinda stepped back to let him inside, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Damian looking up at her quizzically.
“And who is this?” Belinda asked, fixing Damian with a grandmotherly smile.
“I’m Damian,” he said, then lowered his voice. “And if it matters, I’ve been very good this year. You know...if you wanted to pass that along.”
Brett stifled a laugh. So the kid was playing it safe, was he?
“Have you?” Belinda didn’t seem to follow what Damian was thinking. “I’m very happy to hear that. The world needs more young men like you who behave well. We really don’t have half enough of boys like you.”
“Do you bake the cookies?” Damian asked cautiously.
“Do I ever!” Belinda replied. “I have some cookies on the counter.”
“Do you have reindeer?” the boy whispered.
“Reindeer? No, they aren’t too common here in Pennsylvania, dear. I have a donkey, though!” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “His name is Eeyore. And next door, my neighbor has chickens and five cows.”
Damian didn’t seem to know what to make of that, so he put his headphones back on again without response.
Belinda gave Brett a curious look.
“They cancel the noise,” Brett said. “He gets overwhelmed with too much going on around him.”
“Oh...poor little man,” Belinda tutted softly. “Maybe cookies will help.”
Brett wiped his boots off and carried on through to the kitchen. It smelled like cinnamon and cloves, and he noticed a pretty woman sitting at the table, a steaming mug in front of her. She must be the other guest Belinda mentioned. She wasn’t Amish—she wore a cowl-necked sweater and a pair of blue jeans. She was petite and blond, and she had a young look about her that was betrayed by the depth of her blue eyes, and she regarded him pointedly.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello.” She put her hands around the mug, as if she were warming her fingers.
“This is our other guest this week,” Belinda said, bustling up behind him. “Meet Emaline.”
“I’m Brett,” he said. “This is Damian. We’re only passing through, so we shouldn’t be in your way for too long.”
Was there a husband or boyfriend with her? He instinctively looked at her ring finger and saw it was bare. That didn’t tell him much, though. But her name sounded familiar—it wasn’t a common one, and he was sure he’d come across it before...but where?
“It’s no problem. I’m here for a few days for work,” she said.
She nudged the plate of cookies that sat beside her toward Damian and gave him a welcoming smile. Damian pulled his headphones off and smiled back shyly. Yeah, all it took was a pretty woman, apparently.
“You want a cookie?” Emaline asked.
Damian took one and shoved it into his mouth.
“Good, huh?” Emaline asked.
Damian nodded.
“I also have cinnamon buns, blackberry cobbler, apple crisp and three kinds of pie,” Belinda said. “But don’t fill up too much, because tonight’s dinner is going to be roast beef, and I expect with that blowing snow, everyone is going to want to eat hearty.”
This was just what Brett and Damian needed—a little break from the hustle and bustle of the city. Damian had gone to kindergarten for the first time that year, and Brett had been told that it wasn’t a raving success. He had a support teacher who helped him to navigate school, but it hadn’t really been enough. With twenty-five other kids in the class, he’d been permanently overwhelmed. That broke Brett’s heart just a little bit.
The sound of boots echoed on the step, and the door opened without a knock. A moment later an old Amish man appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a black dog with a crust of snow on its back. Snow dusted the shoulders of the man’s black woolen coat, and his woolen hat was covered in snow, too. His ears were bright red from the cold, and he looked a little different. It took Brett a moment to realize that this was the first old Amish man he’d ever seen with a shaved face. Beards meant a man was married—Brett knew that much. Did that make this old guy a bachelor?
“Oh, Eli, you’re here,” Belinda said. “These are my newest guests, Brett and Damian. And this is Eli, my neighbor, and his dog is named Hund.”
Brett gave him a nod, and then the two old people broke off into a conversation in Pennsylvania Dutch. The old man brushed the snow off the dog’s back, and then Hund sauntered over to the wood stove and lay down in front of it.
Damian put his headphones back on and helped himself to another cookie. Brett took a cookie, too. He met Emaline’s gaze as he took a bite. Emaline...the name still nagged at his mind as familiar. Where had he heard it?
The cookie was shortbread with some gingerbread spice added in. Delicious. Emaline cocked her head to one side, regarding him thoughtfully as he ate.
“You’re Brett Rockwell,” she said.
So she recognized him, too. Maybe this would clear up the mystery.
“Guilty as charged,” he said, attempting to joke.
“You look taller in person,” she said.
“Do I?” He shrugged. “I don’t normally hear that.”
She didn’t elaborate, and Brett felt his optimism start to wane. He liked getting out and doing things with real people, but every once in a while, he was reminded that families like his didn’t get that luxury too often. Their combination of wealth and social standing made them the center of a lot of public interest.
“I feel at a disadvantage here,” he said. “You seem to know quite a bit about me.”
“From the news,” she said.
He chuckled uncomfortably. “Don’t always believe what you see in the news.” The news stories about him hadn’t been flattering, and not all of them were true.
She smiled, then lifted her mug and took a sip. The old Amish couple were still discussing something animatedly. They had moved over to the window and were peering outside.
“I suppose it’s possible to get things wrong,” she said. “That’s what retractions are for.”
Yeah, he had a lot of strong opinions about the press and their ability to plaster a story on the front page, then print a retraction on page six. The Rockwells had decided years ago to keep a cordial relationship with the press. It was easier than trying to fight them off at every turn. His senator brother was the one who had to tangle with them most often, not Brett. Unfortunately, there had been a few news stories about Brett that had centered around some drunken parties, a rather loud scene at a restaurant, a fistfight at a bar and an ex-girlfriend who sold her story to the press about how he was a hopeless alcoholic. All of that had been true.
“What brings you out to Amish Country a week before Christmas?” he asked, attempting to change the subject.
