A Boy's Amish Christmas, page 5
Emaline needed to stop being petty. So she texted him back.
Nice to hear from you, George. All is well. I’m doing a vlog about an Amish B&B this weekend. Lots of good food and no distracting tech.
It didn’t take long for him to reply: Sounds fun. What I wouldn’t give for a relaxing stay somewhere right about now!
Was that flirting? It could be hard to tell with George. So she added, Snowed in with a Rockwell. Not even joking.
Which one?
Brett.
You’re serious?
Would she joke about that? She thought for a moment. Actually, she might. The ironic part was that she wasn’t joking now.
Completely. He and his nephew (senator’s youngest) are here, too.
If only she’d made it in journalism, she’d be in investigative heaven right now.
Listen to me. You’re sitting on gold, he texted back. There are some big rumors going around about the parentage of the youngest Rockwell son. Look up Celia Jenkins.
She looked at her phone for a moment, then she opened her laptop again and entered the name Celia Jenkins into the search engine. A course of photos popped up, and the first picture caught Emaline’s eye.
Celia Jenkins was Senator Rockwell’s top aide, and in this photo, she was walking next to the senator, a binder held across her chest, her chin high and her expression stony.
An older picture with a visibly pregnant Celia Jenkins caught Emaline’s eye, and she clicked on the picture to pull up the accompanying article. Celia had taken a short maternity leave, and a baby had appeared in the Rockwell household about the same time. The Rockwells introduced him as Damian a couple of months later.
She knew all this...she remembered the gossip rags running with all sorts of theories because no one had seen the then governor Rockwell’s wife pregnant.
Was that just rumor? Emaline typed in a search for “Bobbie Rockwell pregnant”—searching for photos that might match. There were a couple of pictures where she looked quite slim, and gossip magazines were circling a flat belly, insisting a pregnancy baby bump was there. She didn’t see it. The only other pictures were from fifteen years ago, when she was pregnant with her older children. Bobbie Rockwell had never been pregnant in the last decade, yet this child was raised as their own.
There definitely was a story here...for a journalist. Sure, it made her pulse speed up to think about getting into this story, but her viewers didn’t want politics. They wanted an escape from all that.
Still...she could ask a few questions, couldn’t she?
She picked up her phone and texted George: Am I right in thinking that Bobbie wasn’t pregnant before Damian arrived?
His answer was swift: Bingo. There’s lots of conjecture around who the bio mom is. If you got a hint—a confession, even!—that would be the story of the decade. You write it, and I’ll give it to my editor.
Emaline’s heart hammered to a stop. You’d do that for me?
If you crack the story, you deserve it. We’ve all tried and failed. It’s cutthroat here. I’d love a friend on the team.
Good old George...he always had been a straight shooter, even when it was irritating. And if he said this was the story no one else had been able to break, it was the truth.
She thought about Damian. He definitely looked like a Rockwell. Same chin, same eye color. Was it possible that Dean Rockwell had fathered Celia’s child, and he and his wife were raising that child as their own? Maybe Celia’s loyalty had gone so far as to act as a surrogate for the couple. That wouldn’t be as dramatic, though. And there’d be no reason to keep that secret. A lot of wealthy couples who could afford it chose that route to parenthood. Maybe there’d been some fertility struggles.
Footsteps creaked on the stairs, and she startled and turned to see Brett coming down. He was dressed in jeans and the sweater from earlier. She closed her computer and waited until he spotted her. Her heart was hammering. A chance at a byline in the Chronicle...she loved the freedom in her career as a vlogger, but the chance to break into real journalism was so tempting it made her mouth water.
“Not in bed yet?” Brett asked.
“Apparently, you aren’t, either,” she replied, and her voice sounded all breathy.
“Yeah... Eli snores.” He smiled ruefully.
Brett came down the rest of the way and into the kitchen. He was tall, and there were more lines in his face than she’d ever seen in the pictures online. There were a few gray hairs around his temples, too.
“It was nice of you to let him bunk in your room.”
“What can you do? It’s a major storm. I had to talk Damian down, though. He’s not good with any changes to an established plan. But Damian finally crashed.”
She stood up and put her computer on the table, then grabbed another piece of wood and opened the front of the stove. She nestled it into the embers of the fire inside, then shut the door.
“Getting some work done?” Brett asked, nodding toward her computer.
“Trying. You can pull up a chair. The fire’s warm.”
Brett hooked a kitchen chair and plunked it down next to her, then took a seat. “Damian really likes you.”
She looked over in surprise. “Yeah?”
He nodded. “He’s a sensitive kid, and he doesn’t like a lot of people right away. In fact, he’s got a learning assistant who he always gives the slip to. Drives them all crazy.” Brett chuckled.
“Have they tested him for autism?” she asked.
Brett froze, then nodded. “I guess it’s evident when you meet him, but that’s private information.”
If he thought she was judging, he was wrong.
“There’s no shame in that,” she said. “Everyone is different. Some of the most brilliant minds of our time have likely been on the spectrum. My cousin is autistic, and she was in my grade all through school. But back then, she wasn’t diagnosed, she was just ‘different.’ She got diagnosed in her adult years, and it helped everything make sense. She’s brilliant. Today, she’s an actuary working for a big insurance company.”
“Wow.” Brett’s shoulders relaxed a bit, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “That’s the kind of future I want for Damian—we want. The future we want for Damian.”
“Well, Nadine was similar when she was young. And Damian is a really sweet boy.”
“The thing is, he doesn’t normally warm up to new people that quickly,” Brett said.
“No?” she asked.
“He had one nanny he couldn’t seem to adjust to. She had credentials as long as my leg, and they had to let her go. So when he was so comfortable with you, I was surprised.”
“I don’t know what I did,” she said. “But I’m honored.”
Brett nodded slowly. “Damian is a good judge of people. Not that everyone he dislikes is a criminal or anything, but the ones he does like are solid.”
She felt herself warm at the implied compliment. A little boy thought she was okay, and somehow that was the best news she’d heard all week.
“Can I confess something?” she asked.
“Sure.” He looked over at her with a rueful smile.
“I was looking up pictures of you.”
He chuckled, the sound low and deep. She got that shiver up her arm again. “And?”
“And...you look different now,” she said.
“Older?” he asked.
“A bit.” She wasn’t going to lie. “Maybe a bit wiser, too.”
He smirked, then straightened in his chair. “We all have to grow up sometime.”
“I suppose so.” She was still curious, though. “What made you want to ranch?”
“My grandfather managed the ranch, and I had good memories there growing up.”
“That’s it?”
He cocked his head to one side, considering. “It was available. My family owns a lot of land, a lot of companies, and the one thing that my brother and my mother didn’t have their fingers in was that ranch. So I asked for it.”
“Wow...” She turned her gaze toward the fire in the stove for a moment. “That’s not the kind of experience most of us have. We don’t just ask for a ranch.”
“I know.”
Did he, though? He’d obviously grown up differently than she had.
“So, you run it now?”
“Yup. My mother put it into my name and told me that it was my early inheritance. If I ran it into the ground, that would be it for me. So I had no choice but to make sure it stayed profitable.”
“And how did you do that?” she asked.
“Why does this feel like an interview?” he asked, casting her a wary look.
She put her hands up. “I’m not recording anything! I’m just asking. I’m just curious. I like getting to know people. When I decided what I wanted to study, I got a student loan. I recently got loan forgiveness, and I’m not ashamed to say that I cried with relief.”
“But you did study journalism,” he said.
“I’m a travel vlogger. I didn’t cut it in journalism.”
“Yeah, but I can still hear it in you,” he said. “It’s there—deep down.”
“Then that’s the bitter irony.” She shot him a grin. “You don’t ever want your side of the story to come out?”
“For who?” he asked. “For someone scanning through their newsfeed on social media or idly reading a newspaper? I mean, why would I want my personal life to be their entertainment?”
“It would be the truth about you,” she said.
“I’d rather have my privacy. I don’t really care what people think. The ones who know me know who I am and what I stand for. One thing I’ve learned over the last couple of years is that you don’t have to answer every accusation. Sometimes it only does more harm. In my experience, time shakes out more truths than journalists dig up. Patience can be your best weapon.”
Brett Rockwell was a deeper man than she’d given him credit for. And he was very much changed from the supposed playboy he’d once been. She eyed him for a moment. Was it Damian’s presence here that made the difference? Or was he simply a better man than the public had been led to believe?
“I’ve got to find an angle for this vlog post,” she said. “I’ll leave you alone—I promised that already. It’s just...my original idea was to do one about Eeyore. But if he’s missing, I can’t very well do a story about a donkey who tragically disappeared just before Christmas, can I?”
“Not the heartwarming story you’re looking for,” he agreed.
“So, what if I did a story about Amish Country and how it helped a sensitive boy take off his headphones?” she asked.
Brett was silent.
“No names,” she went on, “No faces. Nothing that would identify him. Just the Amish world and a very real kid who I think a lot of other people will relate to. Would that be okay?”
“I said Damian is off-limits,” he ground out. “If you include his son’s name in anything, Dean will take that personally.”
Was that a warning? A threat? When she looked over at him, he met her gaze evenly, giving no hint of which way she should take it.
“If I say no names, I mean it,” she said. “Damian is a little boy. Whatever I think about your brother’s politics, it is unconscionable to use a child in that arena. Anyway, my vlogs are about travel and human interest, not politics. I could refer to him as...Benjie. But there are a lot of families with kids just like Damian, just like Nadine, and while you might be avoiding the news, they long to feel seen. I think a story that gives some Christmas hope would be positive.”
Brett didn’t answer, and they both turned back toward the fire.
“Benjie, huh?” he said.
“Yes. What if I put together the piece and let you see everything I’m doing? You’ll see there are no faces or anything identifying.”
“Okay...maybe.”
Emaline leaned back in her chair. That was close to a yes, and she didn’t really need his permission to write a story without names that couldn’t be traced back to Damian in any way. Still, she didn’t want to surprise a Rockwell, either. They had too many lawyers on retainer for that to be smart.
“You aren’t a fan of Dean, are you?” Brett asked, changing the subject.
“Travel vlogger.” She pointed at herself.
“I know. But you don’t like him.”
This was what it came down to, and she sifted her words before she spoke.
“I think he’s a man who holds a lot of power and should be held responsible for it,” she replied. “Not that it’s my job to do that, but I think someone should.”
“That’s a deft sidestep.”
“It’s the best I can do,” she replied. “Did you vote for your brother?”
“Of course.”
“If he weren’t family, would you have voted for him?” she asked.
Brett caught her gaze and a smile tickled his lips. “If I ever get to know you better, maybe I’ll answer that.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “That’s a deft sidestep, too.”
“I’m not a fan of politics,” he said. “It’s ugly and cutthroat. I like my ranch—my cattle, my horses, my neighbors...”
“Do they know who you are?” she asked.
“Yeah. And it doesn’t make a heap of difference when someone’s cattle break down a fence or someone needs help with haying, does it? Neighbors help each other—there’s no other way to make it out there.”
“You don’t worry that they’ll take little stories about you to the press?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nope. They aren’t like that. They’ve got personal ethics, and selling out a neighbor who gave them a hand in a hard time goes against what they believe in.” He eyed her for a moment. “Getting ideas, are you?”
“No. I have a few ethics of my own.”
“Yeah, me too.” He met her gaze, and she wondered what he was thinking about as he scrutinized her like that. Outside, the wind moaned softly, but inside the house, all was warm and snug.
It was late, and George’s words were still spinning around in her head. She should just focus on her vlog and let that be the end of it...shouldn’t she?
“I’d better get to bed,” she said, then she added after a moment, “Brett, I like you more than I thought I would.”
“Thanks.” He shot her a small smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“That’s how it was intended.” She rose to her feet and reached for her computer.
Brett was softer and deeper than she’d anticipated. Maybe even a little more vulnerable.
“Good night,” he said.
Outside, the wind howled, long and low, and she looked out the window at the swirling snow, just visible through the glass. It was cold out there, and she truly hoped that Eeyore the donkey had found a safe little shelter somewhere.
They all needed a Christmas miracle this year...she could feel it.
CHAPTER FOUR
EMALINE CRAWLED INTO bed that night and plugged her phone into the battery pack on the bedside table next to the bed. She took a short video of the kerosene lamp glowing on her bedside table—zooming in on the wick and the flame. She also got a shot of the quilt in the lamplight—the stitching and the blocks of vibrant color. Her posts about Amish Country always got a lot of traction, and it brought out the best in most of the commenters. They’d talk about memories of their grandparents or a desire to live more simply and more gratefully than they currently did. Trolls who commented negatively got shut down pretty quickly by the others who enjoyed her positive, uplifting posts. She felt like she was contributing to people’s happiness with her work. There was so much bad news out there that some good news went a long way to reminding people that life was still happy, and altruism and kindness were still plentiful.
With flannel sheets and three quilts, the covers were both heavy and warm. She flicked through some earlier video footage of Eeyore in the stable, and Eli’s rubber boots as he forked fresh hay into a feeder. She liked that clip—it really accentuated the rugged charm of the place, and she was willing to bet that it would increase interest in the Butternut Amish B&B by quite a bit. She put her phone aside and sank into the pillow and listened to the soft pings and rattles of the cooling stove downstairs.
Her mind moved back to that text from George. He’d said that she was sitting on gold here, and she had to wonder how true that was. Emaline had a sensitive spot when it came to men who abused power. Her own father hadn’t been a powerful man, but he’d abused the power he’d had over his family—and had broken their hearts. He’d lied and hidden his shameful secrets, and he would have continued doing so if his other common-law wife hadn’t figured out that she wasn’t the only woman in his life. There were two families that Emaline’s father had kept going, unaware of each other. That betrayal had stabbed deep... It had torn out her mother’s heart and left her and her brothers stunned. Maybe Emaline more than her brothers, because she’d always thought that she should find a man like her father to marry. But not after that! How was a girl supposed to navigate relationships when all she knew was that she needed to find a man who wasn’t like her dad? That was when she’d started seeing a therapist. Best decision she’d ever made.
Now, every time she saw a news story about a man with sordid secrets, she wanted to see him pay. Men shouldn’t get away with lies and betrayal. They should have to face what they’d done.
Not that her father really had...he’d gotten away with it, for the most part. He still had a family—he’d chosen the other one.
Senator Rockwell struck her as a man with secrets. Call it a gut instinct, but she wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’d taken advantage of an aide and taken her baby, too.
What was it Brett had said about his brother when he was running for senator? She remembered the news story vividly, because it had caused such a stir.
