Read Christmas at Rose Hill Farm for Free Online

youngest, dubbed Der Ruschde, the runt, and that was when they were feeling kindly.
    Billy had a different way of thinking than the rest of his family. Mammi used to grumble those brothers of his were casing the joint whenever they showed up at Rose Hill Farm. She said Billy was the only one who had any spark of their mother, and she thought well of Billy’s mother. Bess knew her grandmother’s ulterior motive in hiring Billy was to get him away from those brothers before they ruined him. Bertha Riehl never did anything without an ulterior motive.
    Billy tipped his head toward her. “Did you stop taking care of my bees?”
    Just as Bess’s heart was softening a little, Billy went and ruined it. “No! Of course not.” She was incensed. What did he think—that just because he had left the farm, it had fallen into disrepair? Were his expectations that low? You just wait , Billy Lapp , she felt like saying. Just wait until you see what my father and I have done with Rose Hill Farm. It’s never looked better.
    Then her heart caught a beat. Rose Hill Farm had never looked better because there was going to be a wedding there. Her wedding. Hers and Amos’s. In just a few days.
    She turned onto Stone Leaf Road and past the hand-painted sign Mammi had made decades ago: Roses for Sale , No Sunday Sales. Up the long drive lined with cherry trees, now bare of leaves, along the fields of roses, now just sticks of canes. Billy was gazing at the rose fields.
    â€œJonah’s expanded the fields,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her.
    â€œWe’ve gone in a lot of different directions. I’m sure Dad will want to tell you all about it.”
    â€œI remember when your grandmother converted those pastures into rose fields.” He closed his eyes, lost in a memory. “How does a bundle of prickly sticks explode into fragrant roses?”
    She looked sharply at him. That sounded like something the old Billy Lapp would say. Comments like those were what made her feel dangerously drawn to him. He had taught her to find splendor and majesty in her grandmother’s old-fashioned roses.
    The wood-frame house at Rose Hill Farm was two stories high, absolutely unadorned, like all the other Amish farmhouses they’d passed on their way from town. As the buggy reached the top of the rise of the driveway, Lainey stepped out of the kitchen door, tucking a strand of hair into the bun at the back of her head. Four-year-old Christy was wrapped around her leg. Lainey raised one hand in greeting and stopped, halfway up in the air, as shock flittered over her. Then, joy lit her face.
    â€œBilly Lapp!” she called, coming down two wooden steps and traversing carefully over patches of snow that covered dry grass. “Why am I not surprised to discover you are a rose rustler?”
    Billy hopped out of the buggy and walked toward her. “Hello, Lainey. You’re looking well.”
    Lainey patted her enormous belly and Bess blushed. Lainey hadn’t been raised Plain and didn’t understand that she should pretend her pregnancy wasn’t obvious to all. “I’m feeling like a beached whale.” She ruffled the hair of her daughter. “I don’t think you’ve met Christy. She was born after you . . .” Her voice trailed off.
    Billy’s eyes scanned the outbuildings: the large barn, the henhouse, the greenhouse. “I’d like to see that rose.”
    â€œHave you eaten?” Lainey said. “You look as thin as a rail. Come inside and have some supper.”
    His face tightened, Bess thought, a gesture so minute it barely registered. The wary look came back to his eyes and his voice came reluctantly. “Can’t,” he answered, almost too abrupt. “I need to catch the midday bus so I can make my connection in Lancaster.” Hands on hips, he studied the rose fields a long moment. At length he sighed, tugged down his