A Child's Christmas Wish. Erica Vetsch

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      Kate bit her lower lip, standing beside a table full of bolts of calico. She trailed her hand over the top bolt, pink with tiny blue flowers. Oscar’s mouth twitched. Liesl had asked for a pink dress. For Christmas. Before she’d asked for a baby, of all things.

      If those were the only two choices, she’d be getting a dress, and that was that. Perhaps he could prevail upon Mrs. Tipford to sew one up for her. Getting clothes for Liesl was one of the hardest of his tasks as a father, but the pastor’s wife had been helpful recently.

      “Mrs. Hale,” Kate said, stepping forward, fingers knotted. “I was wondering if you might need some help around the store. Perhaps through the Christmas season?”

      Mrs. Hale had picked up a feather duster and was fluttering it over some perfume bottles on the shelf behind the counter, and she barely paused. “Katie, my dear,” she said, glancing over her shoulder for a bare instant before turning away again. “I am not looking for any help, but even if I was...” She paused. “It isn’t seemly for a woman in your condition to work outside the home. I’m sure you understand.”

      Oscar had noted that Kate’s shoulders had gone rigid when Mrs. Hale called her Katie. Katie didn’t suit her at all. It was a little girl’s name, not a grown woman’s, and from what he had observed, Kate Amaker was a grown woman, carrying her burdens with resolution. A widow, an expectant mother, caring for her elderly relatives, and now a disaster-survivor. No, Katie didn’t suit her at all.

      She flattened her hands on the gentle mound of her stomach, and she pressed her lips together, lifting her chin a fraction. “Mrs. Hale, this is a community of sensible farmers. I am sure no one would be offended by the sight of a widow earning her keep, even if she is going to have a baby.”

      “Regardless,” Mrs. Hale said, brushing Kate’s opinions aside, “I’m not in need of help, but if I was, I would want to hire someone who could work more than a few weeks. You’re nearing your confinement, correct? No.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t work. Now, Mr. Rabb, what can I get for you?” The storekeeper turned her shoulder to Kate as if the subject was forever closed.

      Heat flared in his stomach along with a desire to jump to Kate’s defense, which was odd. The less he involved himself, the better. All he wanted was to see them settled somewhere so he could return to his isolated existence.

      “Just double my usual order.” He took Kate’s elbow. “We’ll return for it later.” He guided her out of the store. When they stood on the boardwalk, he said, “I’m sorry. But there might be work elsewhere. Let’s try the hotel.”

      Kate nodded, but he could read the discouragement in her eyes, the worry that clouded them.

      She had no better results at the hotel. Mr. Kindler had no job available. He was barely making ends meet as it was. If not for the stage passengers twice a week, he would have to close up and move to a bigger town. His wife could handle the housekeeping easily.

      Oscar and Kate met Martin Amaker coming out of the bank. He looked as if he had aged five years, his shoulders stooping and the lines in his face deeper.

      “Let’s go get some coffee at the restaurant,” Oscar suggested, stepping between Kate and the wind that whipped around the corner of the building, trying to shelter her from the brunt of the chilly breeze.

      Martin shook his head. “No, no, we must not detain you here in town, and we should not spend money on things we can do without right now.”

      “My treat,” Oscar insisted. “Kate needs to get off her feet, and it’s getting cold out here.” The air was heavy with the smell of snow. Kate’s cheeks were red, and she huddled inside her long, drab coat.

      Oscar led them across the street to the café, a cheerful little building with blue-and-white-checked curtains at the windows. He held the door for Kate and Martin. The aromas of beef stew and hot bread filled the room.

      George Frankel tipped back in his chair, his eyes watery, scrubbing at his nose with a handkerchief. “Hey, Oscar. Come join us?”

      Kerchoo! He dabbed his red nose again.

      His two companions—his eldest son, George, Jr., who had the heavy-lidded, red-nosed look of a head cold, and Bill Zank, from down at the feed store—scooted their chairs to make room, but Oscar shook his head. “Thank you, but we can’t stay long.”

      He directed Kate to a table in the corner, a bit far from the stove, but away from the Frankel sickness. He helped her with her coat, laying it over the back of a chair, and held her seat for her. When Susan, the waitress, came by, he ordered coffee and, looking at how thin Martin was, beef stew for everyone.

      “What did the banker say, Grossvater?” Kate asked. She laced her fingers, resting her hands on the tablecloth.

      Martin shook his head. “He cannot loan us any more money. He said without Johann to work the farm, it wasn’t a good risk. We have no savings left, and won’t have any income until we can sell the cheeses. And there is more.” He did not look up, drawing circles on the tabletop with his finger. “Johann did not tell me this, but he mortgaged the herd to buy that bull. The note is due on the first of the year. We cannot pay both the mortgages with the little we will make from selling our cheeses in Mantorville and here. I don’t know what we are going to do. Our only assets are the cows, and they are mortgaged like the farm.” His old lips trembled. “I sent the telegram to my brother from the bank manager’s office.”

      Kate sat still for a moment, absorbing this new blow.

      What had Johann been thinking to incur so much debt? Oscar shook his head. The decision to buy that bull had proven to be fatal for Johann, and might put an end to his family’s ability to keep their land.

      Kate leaned forward and covered Martin’s hand with hers. “We’ll think of something. I’ll keep looking for a job. If I cannot find one here in Berne, perhaps I can find one in Mantorville or Kasson, or even Rochester. And perhaps you can find work. Maybe at the lumber mill in Mantorville? You know how to work with wood, and you know leather work. Perhaps there is a saddler or shoemaker that needs help.”

      Oscar frowned. Kate was in no condition to be driving to Mantorville to work, and any farther away than that and she would have to move to wherever she found a job. He didn’t like that idea at all.

      The bell over the door jangled, and Pastor and Mrs. Tipford came in, cheeks red from cold, eyes bright.

      “Ah, just the people we wanted to see. Mrs. Hale said you were in town.” The pastor’s voice filled the room. Mrs. Tipford came to Kate and squeezed her shoulder.

      “What have you decided? Have you found work?”

      “Not yet. Not here in town.” Kate pushed out the chair beside her. “We were just talking about some other possibilities.”

      “The bank cannot help us.” Martin laced his fingers around his coffee cup on the tabletop. “I have wired my brother.”

      Pastor Tipford dropped into a chair, and Oscar braced himself, half expecting the seat to turn to kindling under the impact.

      “Times are hard. We’ve asked around, but there just aren’t any jobs or any places that can house all three of you at the moment,” the pastor said.

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