Books for Christmas — A Lancaster County Christmas Collection by Ruth and Rebecca Price

Grab these three great books for Christmas in one great collection — A Lancaster County Christmas Collection by Ruth and Rebecca Price!

A Lancaster County Christmas Collection includes three best selling Amish books from authors Ruth Price and Rebecca Price as well as a bonus short story from Ruth Price.

The first book, An Illustrated Amish Christmas Carol, is a retelling of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol from a uniquely Amish perspective. It includes lovely illustrations throughout by artist Hope Bryant.

The second book, A Child’s Wish by Rebecca Price, follows a pair of Amish teens as they take an increasingly disastrous day-trip to New York City. Will a child’s wish lead these Amish youths to peril, or will they be able to help heal a family?

In the third book, A Lancaster County Christmas Yule Goat Calamity by Ruth Price, we meet Amish teen and wild-child Annie Miller who gets over her head when she mistakenly orders $3000 in Nubian goats for her father’s store. Will she be able to save Christmas for her family?

In addition, the collection includes a bonus short story by Ruth Price titled Papa Abram’s Special Christmas. This is set in the same world and features the same main characters as her Out of Darkness serial. When Abram and Sofia get a mysterious Christmas visitor, is there a miracle afoot?

All three of these books have been published individually, but you can now grab all three at once at a 25% discount from purchasing them one by one.

Please check to make sure you haven’t already read these books before you download the collection 🙂

This collection is Available On:

Amazon Kindle Nook iTunes  Kobo  Page Foundry 24Symbols  Paperback

Below is an excerpt from An Illustrated Amish Christmas Carol, the first book in the collection.


Marley was dead, of that there was no doubt. The doctor had pronounced him so and the coroner concurred, all resultant paperwork was signed off by the appropriate parties: the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief and only mourner, Marley’s business partner Giezhals himself.

They lowered old Marley’s coffin into the earth between the long covered plots that sheltered his mother and sister. Accompanied only by the minister and the late November chill, Geizhals threw his fistful of soil into the hole, the dirt rasping against the dull pine that he’d deemed sufficient for the purpose of burying the only human soul whom one might have assumed to be his friend. Marley was inside, make no mistake. For one, the load was too awkward and heavy for Marley to have absconded with himself. And there was the issue of the coffin: a size too small for Marley’s impressive girth, it had to be belted shut, and the pressure of the load inside had pushed the lid up in spite of that, allowing a bit of his shirtsleeve to peek out through the gap.

Marley was – clinically and unmistakably – dead.

Geizhals never painted out old Marley’s name. It stood years afterwards over the stable door: Geizhals and Marley. The stable was known as Geizhals and Marley’s. Sometimes people new to the business called Geizhals Geizhals, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both. It was all the same to him.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Geizhals! Not a penny left his grip without the face of Lincoln being worn to insensibility. And Geizhals took pride in his ‘savings’. Having no sense of heat or cold, he gave neither dollars nor cents to heating his stables, giving his horses only the most threadbare blankets and cheapest feed. He employed the minimum number of stable hands: the misfits and desperate whom no other would hire, and then proceeded to work these unfortunates to despair.

Nobody knew Geizhals given name, but his last name, taken from the Pennsylvania Dutch and meaning ‘miser,’ he wore as the very epitome of thrift. Most suspected that he had chosen the name himself. None were brave enough to ask.

Of Geizhals’ unfortunates, the most miserable was his lead (and at present only)  stable hand, Hannah Yoder. A blonde, round faced Amish girl of seventeen who in spite of her long hours of labor was inclined towards a doughy physique, Hannah still managed a humble beauty, an edelweiss pushing up through cold, cracked earth. She’d been lead stable hand since Thanksgiving, when Geizhals had let the previous man go for refusing to stay over and work through the holiday.

For most of the Amish on their Rumspringa, it was a time to explore Englisch ways and choose  their place in the larger world. For Hannah, who had never  doubted her desire to take her Baptismal vows, her work with Geizhals allowed her to fulfill her greatest passion besides God, to care for horses. Still, to be working on Christmas and Second Christmas besides! For the Amish, Christmas day was one reserved for fasting and prayer, the following day for fellowship. Of course, the horses needed care no matter the holiday. The flow of the seasons held them in God’s plan as well; and, at her home, her parents and siblings worked together on those holy mornings to ensure the cow was milked and the farm otherwise maintained. These labors were done in the fellowship of love, not in the biting despair of bitter frugality and disregard.

Since the last worker’s defection, Hannah tended to Geizhals’ eighteen horses on her own. She awoke every morning at 5:30 a.m. And after the fleeting warmth of breakfast with her mamm, daed, two younger sisters and brother, she walked the two miles to Geizhals’ stable. It was a slow journey for Hannah, who had a limp from a poorly set break after falling out of an apple-tree as a child. Still, Hannah was a cheerful soul, and, as she walked, the dance of sunlight over the frost covered fields seemed an abundance of riches. She had taken this same path as a child to the schoolhouse, and now as a teen when school was in session, she always had a kind word or smile for the young scholars as they scampered, chattering and laughing, towards their lessons.

No students crossed Hannah’s path this day after Christmas. The sky above was a charcoal gray, the light that passed through was a milky white that left an ashen sheen over the fallow fields. Gusts of wind made Hannah clutch her coat to her body tightly as wisps of hair escaped her bonnet to tickle her forehead. Geizhals had left the horses to pasture overnight, but the weather was such that only Miss Maisie, a dappled brown mare, met her at the fence. Hannah took from her pocket a handful of apple slices and held them out to the horse. She always brought treats for the horses—heaven knew Geizhals wouldn’t pay for their comfort let alone happiness. The gentle warmth of Miss Maisie’s breath cheered Hannah. She’d always had a special bond with this horse, who as a young filly would always come bounding to this fence as Hannah hobbled on her crutches to school.

When Miss Maisie had finished her treat, Hannah said, “Good girl,” and vigorously rubbed the horse about the head and upper neck before continuing towards the driveway to Geizhals’ stable.

In deference to her work, Hannah wore trousers instead of the long dress and apron that Amish women favored. She also wore an Englischer style ski-coat, heavy work boots, and thick leather gloves to protect her hands from the unrelenting cold. It was cold enough outside that Hannah didn’t need to leave her lunch in the farmhouse refrigerator, but Geizhals required that she stop in at the house before starting her work every day.

As always, the hinges of the large, heavy door to Geizhals’ home squealed as Hannah pushed it open.

“Yoder! You’re late!” echoed his voice down the dim, dusty hallway.

A finger of damp sent chills over Hannah’s skin as she walked down the hall towards Geizhals’ office. Framed paintings hung on the walls, though as the hallway lacked windows and Geizhals wouldn’t be troubled to purchase lantern or electric light, the colors—rich and dark—had only managed a vague impression of ominous shadow in her gaze.

Geizhals sat behind a large, heavy desk, the wood so dark as to be almost black. The window behind him was curtained firmly shut, the only light in the room coming from a lamp on the right side of his desk that made the light blue of his irises glitter in sharp contrast to the shadowed hallows around his eyes. He leaned forward, leaning on his elbows, the papers on his desk crinkling under his weight as his fingers met in a steeple at his chin.

“Miss Yoder,” he said. “There’s no need to be feeding or tending to Miss Maisie today. She’ll be picked up at one this afternoon for auction at New Dutchland.”

With those words, the ground came loose from beneath Hannah’s world. New Dutchland was an auction, though most of the buyers weren’t interested in horseflesh beyond its value as meat.

“Ne…New Dutchland?”

“That is what I said,” Geizhals said, without the slightest hint of kindness towards the mare who had served him well, birthing eleven foals—three award winning—over fifteen years. “Miss Maisie’s gone barren, and there’s no room in my stable for a horse that eats my food and produces only manure. The truck will be along, as I said, at one so make sure she’s ready” And then the steady clip-clop of hooves sounded from the driveway outside.

“Uncle!” It was a man’s voice, young, exuberant and full of cheer.

“Humbug,” Geizhals muttered under his breath. “Another of my sister’s brats with a basket of his Christmas cheer. If I believed in God, I’d beg him to hide me from idiot relatives bent on saving my soul.” His chill blue gaze settled on Hannah. “Yoder, tell that fool I’m not receiving guests.”

Hannah nodded once, still stunned at the thought of losing her precious Maisie. And the conditions at New Dutchland! She’d heard rumors: horses packed into tiny pens without hay or water for hours and hours waiting for auction, then packed into tiny trucks for Canada where they might be so lucky as to expire on their own before suffering a far more brutal death at their destination. Hannah backed away from Geizhals’ office, her mind spinning. She reached the door just as the vigorous knock sounded against the hard wood.

“Coming!” Hannah shouted, but the door creaked open before Hannah could touch the knob…


This collection is Available On:

Amazon Kindle Nook iTunes  Kobo  Page Foundry 24Symbols  Paperback




  1. Ruth Price and Rebecca Price release A Lancaster County Christmas Collection | SproutNews, 16 December, 2015

    […] Readers can learn more about this Amish Christmas collection here:… […]

  2. Ruth Price and Rebecca Price release A Lancaster County Christmas Collection. |, 16 December, 2015

    […] Readers can learn more about this Amish Christmas collection here:… […]

  3. eebest8 seo, 08 March, 2016

    I hope to present something back and help others such as you helped me.

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