“I’m thirsty, Mammi,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“It’s no bother, Sol,” Mammi said, rising from her chair. “I’ll get you some water.”
She went to the sink, and the kitchen fell into silence. The women at the table looked at each other.
Solomon cast a look in the women’s direction. “You’ll have to tell Seth I say hello.”
They murmured something in reply. Solomon drank the water down in several gulps and handed the glass back.
“We really should go,” Edith said, pushing back her chair. “I’ve got my own housework to attend to.”
“Yah, so much to do today still,” Lydia said, and she rose to her feet. “Bridget, thank you for your lovely pie. It was delicious.”
“Elizabeth made it,” Mammi said, but her smile looked tired now. “I’ll let her know you enjoyed it.”
They didn’t say anything more to Solomon, and he watched as they headed outside. He looked over at his grandmother and she widened her eyes and nodded toward the door. It was his job to go hitch them up again.
“I heard what they said,” he said quietly.
Mammi’s face fell. “Oh, Sol . . . I’m sorry. They don’t mean it.”
“Don’t they?” he asked. Of course they’d meant it. He’d never heard such deep sincerity in his life. They were afraid of him and they were afraid for his grandmother. What did they think he was going to do?
Bridget looked around feebly, then looked up at Solomon and gave a weak shrug.
“Please hitch their horse,” she said at last. “Or they’ll never leave.”
Solomon smiled bitterly at that. “On my way, Mammi.”
What was he going to do, let two old women hitch up their own buggy? This was a man’s job—to help the womenfolk and do the jobs that required bodily strength. And Solomon might be a great many things right now—an outcast, an ex-con, untrusted and disliked—but he was still a man, and these muscles were good for something.
Chapter Three
Elizabeth carried the tub of squash toward the side door. Solomon had finished hitching up the older women’s buggy, and he held the horse’s bridle while they hoisted themselves up into the seat. The entire process was wordless, and Elizabeth put the heavy bin onto the porch. These women visited often—they were Bridget’s good friends. They’d never been terribly warm to Elizabeth—and she knew why—but they were normally warmer than this. The women were both tense and grim, their eyes fixed on Solomon with sharp distrust.
Elizabeth forced a smile and raised one hand in a wave, and when Lydia looked up, she smiled hesitantly.
“Have a good day,” Elizabeth said. “I didn’t realize you were leaving so soon or I would have come in to say hello.”
Not that they would have wanted that, of course. She’d been staying out in the garden for a reason. The old women liked their time alone together, when they could talk without reservation.
“Goodbye,” Edith said briskly, and she flicked the reins three times as the horse started to pull the buggy around to head back out. The buggy wasn’t moving around very quickly, however, and Elizabeth watched as Edith’s expression slipped into a scowl before she was out of sight.
“Are they always that friendly?” Solomon asked bitterly. “Or am I just lucky?”
“No, that was especially sour,” Elizabeth replied. “You must remember them—that’s Seth’s mammi.”
“Yah, I know,” he replied. “And they couldn’t get out of here fast enough once they set eyes on me.”
“They’re older,” Elizabeth said evasively. “They’ll get used to seeing you around again.”
“Have they gotten used to you yet?” he asked, giving her a pointed look; then he turned and headed into the house. Something had changed.
The buggy reached the end of the drive and turned onto the road. Elizabeth sighed. Not everyone in Bountiful was like those old women. There were people who had softened to the Yoder kinner, realized that they weren’t their father and that they deserved a chance to choose something better than he had. Bishop David Lapp was open and kind. And her brother, Isaiah, had married and was a new daet now. It was possible to move on . . .
She headed around the porch and up the stairs to the side door.
“His name was Rueben Miller,” Bridget was saying as Elizabeth came inside. “He spent some time working on the bishop’s farm when he was a teenager—do you remember him?”
Elizabeth let the screen door bounce against her hand to stop the bang and she glanced uncomfortably toward Solomon who stood next to the kitchen table. He didn’t look at her.
“Do you remember him?” Bridget turned to Elizabeth. “Rueben Miller. He’s from Edson—that area.”
“No, I don’t think I ever met him,” Elizabeth replied and headed toward the sink to wash her hands.
“Well, he’s dead.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear it.”
“It was a terrible accident,” Bridget said. “He was working with a baler, and something went wrong and he got his arm caught in it and—” Bridget winced. “Apparently, it was very painful, and he didn’t survive.”
Elizabeth turned on the water, then looked over at Solomon, and he met her gaze for a second.
“Is there a funeral you want to attend, Mammi?” he asked.
Elizabeth soaped up and washed her hands.
“No, it isn’t that,” Bridget replied. “I do remember him, though. He was at a service Sunday one summer and he chatted with me a little bit. I knew his grandmother—she was a school friend of mine. The thing is, he’s left behind a wife and two little girls.”
“That’s very sad,” Elizabeth murmured as she turned off the water and reached for a towel. “She must be crushed.”
“Yah, she is,” Bridget agreed. “But she’s got those two little girls, and while she can stay with family for a little while, she’s going to need a new husband. And the bishop is thinking about a man here in Bountiful for her. We might have a wedding in the family.”
That was the way—there were already kinner to provide for. But there were women like Elizabeth who needed a husband, too. A young widow of good character had better luck with these things than the daughter of a criminal, though. If Elizabeth stayed in Bountiful, that was. She had other plans, but she hadn’t breathed them aloud to anyone yet.
Solomon shifted uncomfortably. “Mammi, I might be single, but—”
“Oh, not you, Sol,” Bridget said, and then she winced. “And I don’t mean that as an insult, my dear boy, but you have your own challenges right now. No one is looking to you to take on a family. You can rest easy. They’re considering your cousin—Johannes Miller.”
“As long as I’m not the one being suggested,” he said with a faint smile.
Elizabeth felt the blood leave her face. Johannes was not only Bridget’s great-nephew and Solomon’s second cousin but, more importantly, he was her younger sister’s fiancé . . . or he had been until Lovina left.
“No, he’s not free,” Elizabeth said, and as soon as the words were out, she knew they were silly. Technically, he was very free, even if he was still in love with Lovina.
“I know that he and Lovina were engaged,” Bridget said slowly. “But she’s gone now, and he’s left here in Bountiful. Is he supposed to stay single and mourn that relationship forever?”
“No, but—” Elizabeth licked her lips. “When she comes back—and I’m sure she will—”
Elizabeth knew it sounded feeble, but they were all hoping that Lovina would change her mind and come home and everything could be set right again. With Johannes single, that still seemed possible.
“Lovina and Johannes got engaged?” Solomon interjected, and both Elizabeth and Bridget turned toward him. “Mamm didn’t tell me that . . . Mammi, you didn’t either.”
“We thought that family gossip might . . . hurt,” Bridget replied. She adjusted her glasses. “It felt cruel to rub your cousin’s happiness in your f
ace. And then she left him and went English, so the wedding was off. There was nothing to tell.”
Elizabeth looked down as Bridget and her grandson exchanged a long look.
“Johannes told me personally that if she came back, he’d be willing to marry her still—” Elizabeth said.
“I think the bishop sees what a good man Johannes is,” Bridget said. “He’s stable, he’s helping his daet run the dairy farm, he’s pious and has a good heart . . .”
“And he’s in love with my sister still!” Elizabeth retorted. “What if Lovina comes back?”
Bridget was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know. It wasn’t my idea.”
“But the bishop told you about it,” she said.
“He wanted my opinion,” she replied. “We all know what a kind, gentle man Johannes is. He’s got such a big heart and he’s wonderful with kinner. It takes a special sort to take on a whole family. And Sovilla is a good match for him, actually. She’s kind and sweet. She’s a good mother and she’s very devout. She’s an excellent cook, too. Johannes could do worse.”
“Is the bishop bringing it up to him?” Elizabeth asked.
“I think so.” Bridget paused. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to upset you. I know that Johannes has almost been a part of your family. I didn’t realize that you were still . . . holding out hope.”
“He’s in love with Lovina still,” Elizabeth said firmly. “And I don’t think that fact would make for a happy marriage, no matter how good this woman is.”
Bridget nodded. “I see the point.”
Not that it mattered what Bridget thought. She was only the relater of news. If the bishop thought that Johannes was a good match for this young widow, he and the elders would bring it up. And while Elizabeth knew that Johannes wasn’t really theirs, letting him go felt like letting go of Lovina, too.
Bridget sighed. “I thought I’d go lay down and have a little rest, if you two don’t mind.”
“No, that’s fine,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll get started on some bread while you sleep.”
“Would you?” Bridget said, and she gave a hopeful smile. “It is such a relief to have you here, Elizabeth. Thank you. I hope there aren’t hard feelings between us, dear—”
“Of course not,” Elizabeth replied. “It was just a surprise. That’s all.”
As Bridget went slowly up the stairs, Elizabeth caught Solomon’s eyes locked on her.
“You still think your sister will come back,” Solomon said.
“Yah, I do,” Elizabeth replied. “She left because of—” She stopped, and tears misted her eyes. Was she still going to try to hide the truth to protect her own pride? “—my father.”
“I overheard the old women talking about it,” he replied.
She nodded, swallowing back the rising tears. “She left because of that.”
“What did your daet do?” he asked. “I can’t imagine him breaking any law. . . .”
Elizabeth’s chest tightened and she turned away. She hadn’t believed he was guilty for the longest time either, until he’d confessed it himself in a letter.
“He helped some Englishers defraud our community with a bogus charity fund,” she said. She glanced toward him, waiting for a response.
Solomon stood there watching her, his brows furrowed. “Seriously? Why would he do that? He was a preacher—he was Amish. Stealing from his own neighbors?”
“Why would you be involved in a robbery?” she shot back.
It was the old protectiveness. She’d been defending her daet for so long now . . . Solomon didn’t answer her. He just watched her warily.
“My daet was angry,” she said with a sigh. “Before my mamm died of cancer, he went to the community for more money for some treatments that might have helped her. The community turned him down. So he’d carried that grudge.”
“So he got revenge?” Solomon eyed her, the disbelief in his voice. It was ironic that of all people, Solomon could be shocked by this.
“He didn’t start out wanting to defraud everyone. He was tricked into it by Englishers claiming to have investments that would benefit us, and when he found out what he was involved in, he didn’t stop.”
Solomon was silent.
“He was sentenced to three years in prison,” she added, her voice tight.
“So when you were asking about prison out there”—he jutted his chin toward the garden—“that was because of your daet. Not me.”
Shame flooded through her. He’d opened up to her, and it wasn’t because of her worries for him. “Uh . . . yah. He was on my mind.”
“Right.” He nodded.
“You’d know better than any of us what my father is experiencing right now,” she said. “No one else knows! I don’t know! We get his letters, but he won’t say what he’s going through. Mostly, he just preaches at us like he always did . . . Solomon, how else do I find out if he’s okay?”
“You visit him?” Solomon’s voice was sharp and she froze. “That might be a start.”
“I can’t,” she breathed.
“No, the Amish don’t like visiting prisons,” he said bitterly.
“It’s just that—” She sucked in a breath. She didn’t want to visit him there. She couldn’t see her daet like that—humbled so low. And she didn’t want to see the shame in his eyes. “I write him letters, though.”
They both fell silent and Elizabeth turned toward the kitchen and pulled down a bin of flour. She didn’t need Solomon’s judgment, too. No, she hadn’t visited her father. She’d hardly forgiven him.
“Those old women don’t trust you, you know,” Solomon said.
She felt her face heat. “I know. No one does anymore. People judge us by our daet.”
“They think you’ll rob my mammi,” he added. “That was their main concern this time around.”
Elizabeth froze, her heart speeding up in her chest. No matter how many times she came up against this, she felt the same surge of anger. She couldn’t defend herself. It wasn’t about her good reputation, it was about her father. And she couldn’t defend him either.
“I wouldn’t do that,” she said sharply. “I’m not my father.”
She pulled down a bowl, then reached for the yeast. Her hands were trembling and she tried to still them.
“They think I will, too, for that matter,” he said.
“But you did something to lose their trust,” she said bitterly. “I didn’t. That’s the difference.”
Elizabeth spooned some dried yeast into the bowl and added a teaspoon of sugar. She didn’t need to think to make bread. Her hands knew the work. So today, she would bake bread and sustain a home. That was what a good woman did, and Elizabeth would go through the motions of being a good woman. The community’s opinion was a powerful drive. She would do the things that calmed a good, Amish woman, even if they failed to calm her.
* * *
Solomon watched Elizabeth as she worked. Her cheeks were flushed and she moved with careful certainty—measuring cups full of flour and using a butter knife to smooth the top of each cup to a perfectly flat finish before she dumped it into the bowl.
“I didn’t do it, you know,” he said.
Her gaze flickered up toward him. “What?”
“The robbery. I didn’t do it.”
She frowned and paused, the cup measurer in one hand and the butter knife in the other. “My daet said he was innocent for a long time, too. I’ve heard those stories before.”
Somehow it mattered to him that she believe him. He wasn’t the man she thought.
Solomon shook his head. “So, you don’t care if I did it or not.”
“How could you be arrested, charged, found guilty, and put in jail for something you never did?” She turned back to measuring flour. “This is one thing I’ve been through before.”
“I was caught up with some bad people, but I’d never been involved in anything like that before. They asked me to meet them at a certain intersection, and when they got t
here, they jumped in the car and told me to drive. That was it.”
“Then you could have told people that,” she said.
“I did.” He shot her an annoyed look. “And they didn’t believe me. You probably don’t either, but it’s the truth. I had no idea I was helping them escape after a robbery. I had no idea they were armed that night.”
“Did you know they had guns at all?” she asked.
“Yah . . . but some people have them. We Amish have guns for hunting. Englishers do, too. Sometimes they collect guns, or they use them at a gun range. It’s perfectly legal to own a firearm.”
She was silent for a moment, the large bowl of flour in front of her, and she very gently lay down the measuring cup on the counter with a soft click.
“Every action is a choice,” she said slowly, but as the words came out, her confidence rose. “You made a hundred choices that got you there and I won’t be feeling sorry for you because you didn’t know that the one time they were going further. You should have pulled away when you saw weapons that were more than hunting rifles. You should have pulled away when you saw their character!”
Advice about English living from an Amish girl who’d never been past the fence. This all sounded very good to her, didn’t it? It wasn’t so cut-and-dried on the other side.
“Have you been alone out there?” he asked. “Do you know what it’s like to live English, to be the odd one out all the time? Do you know how lonely it is?”
“No,” she admitted. “I don’t. But if it was so bad, you should have come home! It isn’t like you didn’t have that option!”
She turned away, then reached for a smaller bowl. She pulled a wire basket of eggs toward her and cracked three into the bowl, then started to whisk. She didn’t stop—didn’t slow down. And watching her reminded him of all the things he’d missed most all those years away. The absolute certainty the Amish had—an answer to everything. He missed feeling right about everything, too. Funny, how there was no going back with things like that.
“I couldn’t just come back after that fight with my mamm,” he said. “We both said things, and . . . it wasn’t that simple.”
The Preacher's Daughter Page 4