The Preacher's Daughter

by Patricia Johns

  “You’re here now.” She looked up, her gaze locking defiantly onto his.

  “And my mother isn’t,” he replied. “She came to see me in prison three times, and the last visit was to cut me off. To tell me she was done with me.”

  Elizabeth blinked at that, then she shook her head. “You still came home. . . .”

  But she had no idea how much courage it had taken to come, even now. He watched as she poured the wet ingredients into the dry and began to mix, and as the wooden spoon moved round and round, she kept her gaze locked on the bowl.

  “What is my daet going through?” she asked, and she looked up.

  Her concern wasn’t for him, or for his traumatic experiences behind bars, but she looked at him so dismally that he felt a tug toward her anyway.

  “It’s scary,” he said quietly. “You’re scared all the time. Because the guards keep order generally, but they don’t catch all the little things that happen. There’s always someone to knock you down or punch you, and there’s always some threat or other. The inmates make weapons of their own, so if someone who has no hope of getting out gets angry with you, he’ll use it on you. What does he have to lose?”

  Elizabeth swallowed. “You said you went to church there, though—”

  “Yah,” he said. “It was the safest place, a worship service. I didn’t care who was putting it on, I’d be there. But it was also the place where a lot of drug handoffs happened. Even a worship service wasn’t untainted. You get so that you miss having just one innocent, unblemished thing in your life.”

  Her stirring slowed. “Did you eat okay?” Her voice shook with that question.

  “Sometimes,” he said. “When you get used to things, your appetite comes back. But then there’s always someone who wants what’s on your tray, and you’ve got to decide what you want more—peace or your pudding cup.”

  “What did you want more?” she asked, her voice catching.

  “Depended on the day,” he replied. “Sometimes you’re hungry enough to fight for your meal.”

  “My daet wouldn’t fight,” she said, shaking her head.

  “You don’t know that,” he said. “It’s not the same as here. There were things I’d fight for in prison that I’d never even raise my voice for here in Bountiful. There’s no desperation here.”

  “What is our faith if it ends at the edges of the farm?” she said, her gaze clouding.

  “It’s not faith that ends,” he said. “But your ideals get rather shaken.”

  He looked around the kitchen—at the clean, polished wooden table, the solid chairs pushed in underneath it. The kitchen was neat and tidy, the only clutter on the counter that of the dishes required to make bread. She had never experienced anything but order and plenty. Food was healing in a place like this. Food in prison was not.

  Elizabeth finished mixing with the spoon and then poured some oil into her hands and began working the dough with her fingers. Her hands were slim and pale, and he caught himself watching her, mesmerized.

  “Is it all punishment and fear?” she asked, looking up, her eyes filled with pleading. She wanted hope now. She wanted him to make her feel better.

  “No, it’s not all bad,” he said quietly. “You learn to value the little things. You look forward to things like cherry pie, and lemonade, and the sound of cattle lowing on a warm summer morning. You’re thankful for the small things, like a new undershirt, or a new comb, or the sound of rain pattering against glass. Prison changes you—it’s like pickling a cucumber. You can’t undo the ways it changes you. But that’s not all bad either.”

  She continued to work the dough, kneading it, rolling it, kneading some more. She worked methodically, and he watched her in silence. Then she pulled her hands free and poured a little more oil into her fingers, rubbing the dough from them, and patting the pieces back onto the ball of dough in the bowl.

  “Are you different now?” she asked. Her hands stilled and she fixed him with that dark gaze of hers.

  “Yah. Very.”

  She put a clean, white towel over the bowl and then headed to the sink. She turned on the water, and he watched her as she washed her hands. She was slim, and a tendril of chocolate-brown hair fell down her neck, drawing his gaze. Prison made a man dream of simple things....

  Elizabeth opened a cupboard. “Solomon?”

  “Yah.” His voice sounded tight.

  “Could you reach the baking stone down for me?”

  It would be a flat disk made of stone that the Englishers used to make pizza, and it gave a nice base for loaves of bread, too. He knew what she was talking about, and he headed around the counter to her side and looked up. It was just out of her reach, and it would be heavy. He stretched and pulled it from the shelf and lowered it to the counter. She was close to him—so close he could make out the soft scent of her shampoo and he could see a faint dusting of flour on the tip of her nose.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He reached out and brushed the flour from her nose with one finger, and she pulled back in surprise.

  “Flour,” he said.

  “Oh . . .” She smiled faintly.

  “Are you scared of me?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer at first, and his stomach dropped, but then she shrugged.

  “You’re rather English now,” she said. “Look at you— you even look English. And an Amish man wouldn’t do that. . . .”

  “Touch you,” he said.

  “Yah.” Her cheeks pinked.

  “Okay,” he said, taking a step back. “I’ll cut that out. I just wanted to make sure that you knew I’m not a dangerous man. I know I’m telling you stories that probably scare you.”

  “A little,” she admitted. “But I did ask.”

  She lifted her shoulders, and he saw veiled humor in her eyes. He wasn’t sure why he was trying to explain himself to Lizzie Yoder, of all people, and it wasn’t just because she was in front of him either. But even if she disagreed with him, or even disliked him, he didn’t want her to be afraid of him. He’d faced enough of that in prison. Part of surviving had been acting tough and he didn’t want to do that anymore.

  “I’m not someone you have to worry about, you know,” he said. “Yah, I did something wrong. I probably won’t be able to make a life here, but I’m”—he cast around for a word to describe himself now—“I’m safe.”

  Elizabeth’s gaze flickered up at him, and for just a moment he saw the swirling uncertainty in those deep, brown eyes. Her lips parted, and he couldn’t help but catch his breath. She was beautiful . . .

  “I’m not scared of you, Solomon Lantz,” she said.

  He let out a careful breath, not wanting to betray his own relief at those words. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  “But I’ll feel better around you when you’re in some proper Amish clothes,” she added.

  He looked down at himself with a rueful smile. He was wearing the same thing he’d worn yesterday—he’d washed out the shirt in the sink and hung it in his room overnight. There had been a few pants and shirts left from before he’d gone English, but they were far too small now. He’d outgrown so many things that he’d left behind, his clothes were the least of it.

  “I’ll be sure to find some,” he said.

  She smiled at that. “I’ve got some cooking to do now.”

  “Yah. All right.” She was booting him out—that was how women got people out of their kitchens. “I’ll go wash the buggy. It looks like no one has done that in a year.”

  He’d easily find ways to stay useful while he was here, but he still found himself oddly drawn to the preacher’s daughter, who’d always rebuffed him. Maybe he wanted a bit of respect, some acknowledgment of what he’d endured.

  Or maybe he just wanted some human connection.

  Chapter Four

  Elizabeth was already in the kitchen starting breakfast the next morning when Solomon came downstairs, shirtless. She looked over her shoulder, and when she saw
his bare chest and stomach, both well-muscled, and his abs flat and his shoulders and arms bulky with strength, she felt the heat hit her face. She turned again quickly—seeing him like this wasn’t proper.

  He wore his jeans again, and outside the side door, flapping on the clothesline, was that T-shirt Elizabeth had hand washed for him. She’d forgotten to bring it up and leave it by his bedroom door. It had slipped her mind.

  “Just getting my shirt,” he said.

  “Yah.” She allowed herself one quick look as he headed for the side door. He was no longer that skinny, teenaged boy who used to pester her. Now he was a hefty man, muscular, with jeans that rode a little too low on his hips.

  It wasn’t modest, but in his defense, he did look embarrassed.

  Solomon came back inside, pulling his shirt down as he did, and he stopped at the kitchen table.

  “So, we’re going to Seth Stuckey’s farm today?” Solomon asked.

  They’d discussed the plans last night. The Stuckeys were sending flowers to be sold at the roadside stand along with the Lantz produce, so Elizabeth and Solomon would go to pick up the load of freshly cut flowers in buckets of treated water to keep them fresh, and bring them back in time to open the produce stand for the first time that year.

  “Yah,” Elizabeth said. “They’ll be expecting us. Well, they’ll be expecting me more precisely, but all the same.”

  “Who is Seth married to?” Solomon asked.

  “Jodie Beachy,” she replied. “They have three kinner now—two boys and a girl.”

  Solomon nodded. “Good for him. Jodie is a surprise. Wasn’t she the skinny girl who giggled all the time?”

  “She grew up,” Elizabeth said. “She’s not the girl you remember.”

  Jodie was now a sweet, quiet mother with a house of her own to use up her energy and a husband to cook for. She wasn’t a fluttery girl anymore—she was a wife and a mamm. None of them were the same people they were five years ago. Life had changed the young people of Bountiful as much as it had changed Solomon. He’d hardened—physically and in other, deeper ways, too, which she wasn’t sure was good news. It seemed more like emotional scar tissue in Solomon than strength.

  “Maybe Seth will lend you some clothes,” Elizabeth said. “And we’ll get your grandmother’s roadside stand started up today. There’s a lot more traffic lately—the Englishers are waiting for the produce stands, I think.”

  Solomon nodded. “Yah. Back into the routine, right?”

  She wasn’t sure if he was glad for it or not, but work didn’t wait for people’s emotions. That was part of the sanctity of Amish work—it kept them all moving, growing, and healing, even if they wanted to indulge themselves. The work didn’t wait; self-indulgence wasn’t possible.

  After breakfast, Bridget said she’d clean up. Elizabeth and Solomon had to make it to the Stuckey farm and back before nine.

  “I’m sure Seth will be glad to see you, Sol,” Bridget said, but her tone was just a shade too bright. She had doubts, it seemed. And so did Elizabeth, for that matter. The whole community would be shocked to see Solomon again, especially in his Englisher clothes, looking every inch the ex-con he was.

  “Don’t worry, Mammi,” Solomon said, bending to kiss his grandmother’s cheek. “It’ll be fine.”

  Apparently, Solomon saw through Bridget’s cheeriness, too, and Bridget adjusted her glasses—a nervous habit.

  “Where does he live now?” Solomon asked.

  “At his parents’ place,” Elizabeth said. “His daet passed on. His mamm and mammi live with him and his wife.”

  “Just down the road,” he said.

  “Yah.”

  “Let’s go, then,” he replied, and he pulled out a straw hat and tucked it under his arm. It was one of his old ones, it would seem, and Elizabeth glanced at it but didn’t say anything.

  They headed out to hitch up the buggy, and a few minutes later they were on their way, the horses clopping along cheerfully enough, the wagon wheels crunching over the gravel-strewn road.

  The day was already heating up, and Elizabeth plucked her dress away from her body, trying to get a little extra ventilation. Solomon caught her eyeing his hat and gave her a grin.

  “I missed a proper hat. The Englishers don’t know what they’re missing in having something to shade your eyes, as well as your neck.”

  She smiled at that. “You’re enjoying being back.”

  “Yah.” He flicked the reins, but the horses didn’t speed up at all. They had one speed and they didn’t tend to vary from it.

  “What are your plans?” Elizabeth asked.

  “After this visit home?” he asked.

  “Is this still a visit?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I need to find work. In prison, I was learning about engines. I figured I might be able to be a mechanic.”

  She felt her earlier optimism wane. “You don’t mean for generators, do you?”

  “No, I mean for cars,” he said. “There’s a living to be made that way, and it takes a keen mind and being good with your hands.”

  “What do you know about car engines?” she asked.

  “Not enough, but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn it,” he said. “Does it?”

  She sighed. Still the rebel.

  “What are your plans?” he asked.

  “Uh—” She hesitated. “I want to gain the community’s trust again. I want to get married, have some kinner, and raise them well.”

  She wanted to start over, away from here. She wanted to go somewhere else where they didn’t know her daet, where no one had had their finances drained by him. But she couldn’t tell anyone that. A fresh start had to be kept under wraps until she was ready to make her move.

  “Is that going to happen here?” he asked. Too perceptive.

  She felt a surge of annoyance. “I don’t know, I can hope.”

  “Your daet did something bad, and people aren’t going to forget it. Are you willing to stay and just shoulder the burden of being his daughter?” he asked.

  “I don’t have much choice at present,” she replied. She’d have left already if it weren’t for her sister’s disappearance. She couldn’t quite bring herself to leave town without knowing Lovina was okay. It felt like abandoning her.

  “Yah, you do have a choice,” he countered. “There is a whole world out there, you know. There are schools and jobs and communities. There are other ways to live a good life—”

  That sounded a little too tempting coming in his bass tones, and she didn’t like that. Who had tempted him to leave the safety of their Amish life?

  “Is that coming from your prison chaplain?” she asked, hearing the bitterness in her own voice. “Going English didn’t work out so well for you. If you’re going to go somewhere, it has to be with Gott’s blessing or you’ll only end up with more trouble.”

  “I’m not saying you should leave the Amish life or that you should stay,” he replied, his voice low. “I’m saying you may have more options than you think.”

  Ironically, Elizabeth was only too aware of that. She did have other options if she was willing to leave Bountiful. She wasn’t mired here, but she’d have to make her move before it was too late. She couldn’t waste too much time....

  The Stuckey farm was a few yards ahead, and she glanced over at Solomon to see if he’d noticed. His gaze was already locked on the old mailbox. The horses carried them down the twisting drive that led to the farmhouse. The barn was down a hill from the main house and the greenhouse was right next to it, the summer sunlight glinting off the glass. The Stuckeys had a large vegetable garden, but their summer flower garden was larger still, row upon row of long-stemmed flowers that were sold in the Englisher flower shop in town. The floral scent drifted along the breeze toward them, and when they came around the turn, Elizabeth could see the white buckets of paper-wrapped floral bouquets waiting for them by the house.

  Jodie opened the side door, an armload of more bouquets in her arms. She
smiled a hello and bent to drop the flowers into the waiting buckets, jostling the bouquets to make room for just a few more.

  “They’re ready to go,” Jodie called, and when she straightened and her gaze landed on Solomon, Elizabeth saw her stiffen.

  “How many bouquets altogether?” Elizabeth asked, hopping down from the buggy. “I’ll keep track of the sales to pay you the proceeds.”

  Seth came around the side of the house, two older boys trailing after him. These were Seth’s nephews, come to help and learn the work. Seth straightened his shoulders and headed in Solomon’s direction.

  “He’s back, is he?” Jodie asked softly when Elizabeth reached her.

  “Yah.” Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. The men were shaking hands; then Solomon pushed his thumbs into his jeans pockets. Amish men didn’t have pockets, so it made him look even more English.

  “And Bridget is letting him stay?” Jodie asked, raising her eyebrows. “My husband’s grandmother tried to warn her. Sol might have dangerous friends, and now that he’s out of jail, they might be inclined to look him up.”

  “Bridget is a woman who knows her mind,” Elizabeth said. “And she knows her heart. She loves her grandson and wants him to have a chance.”

  “Hmm.” Jodie crossed her arms under her breasts. Funny, Elizabeth seemed to be the lesser of their worries with Solomon here to distract them.

  “Did he see your daet in jail?” Jodie asked after a beat of silence.

  Elizabeth felt her face heat up. “Different prisons.”

  “Oh.” Jodie nodded. “Well . . . just as well.”

  Elizabeth didn’t know what she meant by that and she wasn’t going to ask. Instead, she opted to change the subject. “Did you hear about the death in Edson?” she asked.

  “Rueben Miller?” Jodie said.

  “Did you know him?” Elizabeth asked.

  Jodie’s face pinked and she shrugged. “A little. He was nice. I spent some time in Edson before Seth started courting me, and . . . I got to know him.”

  Some time in Edson . . . yes, Elizabeth remembered that. Jodie had never been considered beautiful and she’d wanted to get married. So she’d done the exact thing Elizabeth was planning for herself: she’d gone to see if she might have better luck a little farther from home. Jodie hadn’t; she’d come home after a year away, still single. But in that year, Seth’s serious girlfriend had broken up with him, and Jodie’s compassion had been perfectly timed.