Christmas at Rose Hill Farm by Suzanne Woods Fisher Page A

Billy kept them carefully concealed, like he was drawing the shutters in a house that was getting pelted by a rainstorm.
    The grandfather clock gonged and Maggie jumped up. “Look at the time! I better get home to help Jorie. I have a job interview at the Sweet Tooth Bakery this afternoon. Wish me well!” She bolted to the door and skidded to a halt when Jonah called her back.
    â€œMaggie,” Jonah said in a solemn voice, “I’d rather you not tell your father about Billy. Or the rose.”
    â€œGot it. Top secret.” She twisted her fingers on her lips as if locking a key, waved goodbye to Billy, and sailed out as gustily as she’d sailed in, leaving him feeling as if he’d just taken a ride on a tornado.
    Without Maggie filling the air with chatter, the meal became strained. What little there was of conversation was stilted and came to sudden stops until finally they forsook talk altogether.
    Throughout the rest of the meal, Billy ignored Bess, unable to look at her without a suffocating sense of defeat and discouragement. The family, sensing his mood, was silent. All but the toddler—what was her name again?—who hummed as she ate her scrambled eggs.
    The minute the tense meal was over and Jonah offered up a silent prayer, Billy sought solace in the place he loved best. He pushed away from the table, gave a nod of thanks to Lainey, said goodbye to Jonah, and walked to the greenhouse, head bowed, footsteps automatic.
    And then Bess was running to catch up, calling his name, but he didn’t break his stride until she seized his elbow and yanked him to a halt.
    â€œPlease! Let me explain.”
    They stood a foot apart, facing each other. “Billy, I was going to tell you about my plans. I just hadn’t found the right time—”
    â€œYour plans,” he echoed. The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable.
    Bess wrapped her arms around herself to stay warm; her eyes watered from the cold. “Yes. My plan. Our plans. Amos’s and my plans.”
    Billy shrugged and looked at his wristwatch. “I don’t care about your plans. It doesn’t matter to me who you marry.”
    Bess recoiled as if Billy had slapped her. “Do you mean that?”
    He held her gaze. “Yes.”
    She took a step backward. “When . . . ,” she started, a sob catching in her throat. “When did you get so hard?” She turned her back and fled to the house, leaving Billy standing in front of the greenhouse, adrift as a ship without a mast.

6
    W hen did you get so hard ? Billy tried to appear calm, but a band of hurt cinched his chest when Bess spat out those words. The greenhouse door squeaked when he opened it, the first thing to register on his troubled mind. Trying to let his indignation recede, he found an oilcan in the barn workshop and returned to oil the hinges of the greenhouse door, scarcely aware of what he was doing.
    Hard. Hard. Hard. The blood rushed to his face afresh as he recalled Bess’s words. It was true. He was hard. But how dare she throw it in his face! Vehemently, he whacked the greenhouse door shut, slammed the oilcan down, marched down the aisle of the greenhouse, and tried to concentrate on this rose. This exasperating, inscrutable rose . . . that wasn’t going to be hurried for anyone’s sake.
    Amos. Bess was marrying Amos. His best friend, his favorite cousin whom he loved, who had seen him through one of the worst times of his life.
    One wouldn’t guess it by watching him now, but Billy was usually slow to anger. He was uncomfortable with it—maybe because of his brothers’ volatility—and tried to avoid it.
    How, then, had the last two days spawned such belligerence inhim? In frustration he slammed his open palms against a wooden shelf. He hadn’t felt this kind of anger, this powerless, frustrating anger, since that pivotal day when he left Stoney Ridge.
    But that was then and