Rebecca's Christmas Gift. Emma Miller

I’d never mention it to him.”

      “Pumpkin,” Rebecca said, defending the lollipop. “We were going to wash off the face.”

      Martha sniffed again, clearly not mollified.

      Amelia’s lower lip quivered. She cast one hopeful glance in Caleb’s direction, and when he gave her the father warning look, she turned and pounded out of the room and up the stairs. Fritzy—cowardly dog that he was—fled, hot on the child’s heels.

      Rebecca went to the stove and turned off the oven. “You’re right, Aunt Martha,” she said sweetly. “It is time I went home.”

      Martha scowled at her.

      “Eight on Monday?” Rebecca asked Caleb.

      “Eight-thirty,” he answered.

      Rebecca collected the colander and the beanbags, made her farewells to her aunt and cousin and vanished into the utility room. “See you Sunday for church.”

      Martha bustled to the stove, shoved Rebecca’s pan of biscuits aside and reached for one of the containers Dorcas carried. “Put the dumplings there.” She indicated the countertop. “They’re still warm,” Martha explained. “But they taste just as good cold.”

      Probably not, Caleb thought, trying not to cringe. He liked dumplings well enough, although the ones the women cooked here in Delaware—slippery dumplings—were different than the ones he’d been served in Idaho. He certainly couldn’t let good food go to waste, but he wasn’t looking forward to getting Amelia to eat anything new. The beef heart would certainly be a challenge. His daughter could be fussy about her meals. Once she’d gone for two weeks on nothing but milk and bread and butter. That was her “white” phase, he supposed. And the butter only passed the test because it was winter and the butter was pale.

      “We wondered how you were settling in,” Martha said. “Such a pity, losing your wife the way you did. Preachers are generally married. I’ve never heard of one chosen who was a single man, but the Lord works in mysterious ways. He has His plan for us, and all we can do is follow it.”

      “Ya,” Caleb agreed. The smell of the beef heart was strong, but fortunately not strong enough to cover the scent of Rebecca’s stew baked in a pumpkin or the apples and cinnamon.

      Martha eyed the biscuits. “I suppose you can eat those with your supper,” she said. “Although my sister-by-marriage—Hannah Yoder, my dead brother’s wife—has taught her girls to cook the Mennonite way. Hannah was born and raised Mennonite, not Amish,” she said, wanting to make certain that he got her point. “Most prefer my recipe for baking powder biscuits. My Grossmama Yoder’s way. She always used lard. Hannah uses butter.” Martha curled her upper lip. “Too rich, by my way of thinking. Not plain.”

      “Ne,” Dorcas agreed. “Mam’s biscuits are better.”

      “But you’ll love Dorcas’s shoofly pie,” Martha said, patting her daughter on the shoulder. “Extra molasses and a good crumb crust. That’s the secret.”

      “Ya,” Dorcas echoed. “That’s the secret.”

      Caleb struggled to find something to say. Was he supposed to invite them to stay for supper? It was early yet, but he was hungry—hungrier than he could remember being in a long time. There was something about this mild Delaware autumn that put a spring into his step and made his appetite hearty. “I thank you for your kindness, Martha. And you, Dorcas. I’m not much of a cook myself.”