The Preacher's Daughter

by Patricia Johns

  “Was Rueben a boyfriend?” Elizabeth asked, lowering her voice.

  “We got to know each other, but there were no promises,” Jodie said. “I was looking for a husband. He was looking for a wife. He took me home for a couple of months. That was all.”

  “Yah.” Elizabeth nodded quickly. It seemed to be that easy for other people, but it never had been for her. She’d never had a boyfriend and she’d certainly never talked marriage compatibility with a man before.

  “I’m sad to hear of his death,” Jodie said softly. “Rueben was such a good man.”

  “I hear they need to find a husband for his widow,” Elizabeth said. Maybe Jodie had heard more—maybe there were other available men for Sovilla Miller to consider besides Johannes.

  “Yah,” Jodie said with a nod. “They’ll need to find her someone. Two little girls to feed and clothe, and Sovilla’s still young. She could have another five kinner easily enough. And she comes from a good family. Her daet is really well-respected in Edson.”

  Elizabeth licked her lips and dropped her gaze.

  “Oh, you know what I mean,” Jodie said, seeming to sense that she’d said too much. “But I also know that Rueben was only starting his fencing business. He left behind some debt and not much else. It’s not like Seth. If something happened to him, I’d still be provided for. Sovilla’s in trouble.”

  “She’ll find something,” Elizabeth said. “We all sort something out.”

  Jodie smiled faintly. “You will, too.”

  Giggling, chattering, skinny, and too pale—Jodie hadn’t been the pick of the marriage market, but she’d landed a good husband anyway. Elizabeth had thought she could afford to wait and find the best man she could. She wasn’t so sure anymore.

  “I don’t know why you turned down Oliver Wagler,” Jodie added. “He has a good business, and he’s honest, too.”

  “He’s almost sixty,” Elizabeth said. “And he didn’t propose.”

  “He was asking about you, though,” Jodie said. “We all know what that means, especially to a man of his generation.”

  But Elizabeth hadn’t responded favorably to his “asking about.” Her brother, Isaiah, asked her what she thought, and she’d told him plainly. Her brother would have cleaned up her answer before he passed it on, but Oliver stopped asking around. He married a widow closer to his own age from a nearby community. An old man who’d been widowed twice seemed to be the best option Elizabeth could get right now, and given that choice, she would rather stay single.

  Seth and Solomon went past them into the house, and Jodie nodded in that direction, too.

  “I have to help Edith clean up, if you want to chat until they’re done,” Jodie said, and then she called to her own younger kinner who were playing by the garden. “Don’t touch the flowers, now, boys!”

  Elizabeth followed Jodie up the stairs. Jodie didn’t seem to mind Elizabeth so much. Perhaps it was just the relationship between two women of the same age where one of them had obviously come out on top. Jodie didn’t see a threat in Elizabeth—not anymore at least. Jodie had it all; she could afford to let a few crumbs fall from her table.

  “Lots of Englishers on the roads today,” Jodie commented. “Hopefully, with some blessing, the sales will be good.”

  Elizabeth followed Jodie into the house. Edith was in the kitchen, standing at the sink washing a load of dishes. The kitchen table was cluttered with rolls of brown paper to wrap the flowers. Edith rapped on the window over the sink and shook a finger.

  “Out of the flowers, Nathan!” Edith called to her great-grandson through the glass.

  “Good morning,” Elizabeth said, casting a smile in Edith’s direction, and Edith eyed her back distrustfully.

  This was Elizabeth’s life now . . . so different from a couple of years ago, when she had options as the daughter of a prominent preacher.

  “So tell me how you all are doing,” Jodie said, casting her a smile. “How’s Bethany and the baby?”

  The conversation would turn to other people—ones who had succeeded in starting their own families, the ones with “news.” One day, Elizabeth hoped to join their ranks, but it wouldn’t happen easily, and it likely wouldn’t happen here.

  “Moses is growing so fast,” Elizabeth said. She knew the kind of conversation required of her. “He’s so big and strong. And Bethany has recovered well from the birth . . .”

  Solomon was right—there were other places where she could forge a life for herself, and in moments like this one, her escape couldn’t come soon enough.

  * * *

  Solomon stood in the upstairs hallway of the Stuckey farmhouse, listening to the soft murmur of female voices below. It was polite chitchat, and he could make out Elizabeth’s voice in the mix and found himself trying to make out her words. He couldn’t, though . . .

  He felt foolish standing here in someone else’s upstairs hallway, waiting for charity, but he didn’t have much choice right now.

  “This should work,” Seth said, coming out of the bedroom he shared with his wife. He had some clothes in his hands. “The pants are a little worn. I’m sorry about that. But one of the shirts is new. My wife just made it.”

  So generous. Too generous. Seth was the irritatingly perfect Amish man, it seemed.

  “No,” Solomon said. “Don’t give me the new shirt. If you would part with an old one, I’d be grateful.”

  “You should have something nice for service Sunday,” Seth said.

  “I’m not going to service Sunday!” Solomon bit back a bitter laugh. “Thank you for your kindness, Seth, but a couple of pants and shirts would be enough. And nothing your wife has just painstakingly sewn for you. I just need something to get me started so I can get a job. I’ll make it up to you.”

  Seth nodded and pulled the top shirt from the pile, handing the rest over. “I hope they fit.”

  “They’ll be fine. Thank you.” Solomon accepted the clothes. They felt clean and smelled like laundry soap and sunshine from a line dry.

  “If there’s anything else I can do to help you out, just let me know,” Seth said.

  “Actually—” Solomon licked his lips. “I—uh—I need a job.”

  Seth froze for a second, then cleared his throat. “If I hear of someone hiring, I’ll pass it along.”

  “Do you have any hired labor here?” Solomon asked.

  “Yah, but—” Seth cleared his throat. “I don’t need more.”

  “Even with harvest coming up?” Solomon pressed. “Normally, there are some seasonal hires, right? I know the work. I can harvest corn and build shocks as good as anyone. I’m better than an Englisher, right?”

  Seth looked toward the stairs but didn’t answer.

  “Have you hired your seasonal work yet?” Solomon pressed. He doubted he would have. It was only the end of July. There were still two or three weeks before that hiring started, and if Solomon could count on an income then, he could find something small in between times.

  Seth glanced back, then looked away. “I can’t hire you, Sol. I’m sorry.”

  “Why not?” Solomon asked. “You know me!”

  “You’ve got a criminal record—”

  “Yah, but I’m back. And I’m not some stranger out of prison. I’m your old friend.”

  “‘Friend’ is a strong word,” Seth replied, and his tone firmed. “We knew each other. We haven’t been close since we were kinner. And I certainly didn’t go English with you.”

  He could feel the heat in his face. Did Seth want him to beg? “I’m not a danger, Seth. I made some mistakes and I’ve learned from them. I got caught up with the wrong people—”

  “I have a family, Sol!” Seth’s voice rose, and the women’s voices downstairs suddenly hushed. Seth lowered his voice again. “The answer is no. I’ll give you clothes. I’ll give you food if you need it. But I can’t give you a job. That’s where I draw the line.”

  They were silent for a few beats, and Solomon searched the other man’s
face. Seth rubbed a hand through his beard and averted his gaze. Seth didn’t trust him around his home and around his children. Maybe he was worried about Jodie, too. Who knew? Did they really think he’d hurt people? Did they think he’d be stupid enough to bring old associations back to Bountiful?

  “Right,” Solomon said gruffly.

  “Wait—you’ll need suspenders,” Seth said.

  “I have some at home,” Solomon replied. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay, well . . .”

  “Thanks all the same,” Solomon said, forcing the words out. Being humble when a man had everything he needed was easy. Ducking his head and being humble when he was already desperate was a different feeling entirely.

  Solomon headed down the stairs first and emerged into the kitchen. The women all looked up at him, and the side door opened, the kinner coming back inside at the same moment.

  “We’d best get back,” Solomon said to Elizabeth, and she immediately stood up from the chair at the table where she’d been sitting. Was she as uncomfortable as he was? Hard to tell, but he wanted to get out of here—away from the humiliation.

  “Bridget says to thank you for the flowers, and we’ll be sure to keep track of the sales and bring you the money,” Elizabeth said.

  “Be sure you do,” Edith said quietly, and Solomon saw the pink bloom in Elizabeth’s cheeks.

  “Do you think my grandmother would shortchange you?” Solomon snapped. “Or are you wondering if Elizabeth and I might?”

  Edith didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Everyone knew exactly what she’d meant.

  “Let’s go.” Elizabeth put a hand on his arm and pushed him in the direction of the side door. Her hand was gentle but insistent. At least they were together in this—both of them being looked down on. Though there was small comfort in that.

  “Thank you for selling them for us,” Seth said. “We’re always glad to work with neighbors—” The words seemed to evaporate in his mouth.

  Solomon shot Seth a quick glance as he reached the door, and Seth looked away.

  “I’ll help you load up the flowers,” Seth said quickly.

  Solomon erupted into the sunlight, Elizabeth so close behind him that he felt the rustle of her dress against his jeans. He’d honestly thought that Seth would give him a job, just for old times’ sake if nothing else. If Seth could look him in the face and offer clothes, he didn’t think that a job was too much to ask.

  Solomon and Seth loaded up the buckets into the back of the buggy, pushing some old blankets between the last of the buckets so they wouldn’t tip. Then Solomon hoisted himself up next to Elizabeth.

  “Take care now,” Seth said, hooking his thumbs behind his suspenders. Solomon didn’t answer, and he flicked the reins, the horses easing the buggy forward and plodding up the drive. He glanced back once and saw Seth still standing there watching them with his arms crossed over his chest, as if he were standing guard, Jodie in the doorway behind him.

  They headed up the drive, both Solomon and Elizabeth in silence until they turned onto the road.

  “You could have been more polite,” Elizabeth said. “Seth did give you clothes, after all. And you never know—he might hire you.”

  “I asked for a job,” Solomon said. “He said no.”

  Elizabeth glanced over at him. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever.” He didn’t want her pity either. “They insulted you, too.”

  “Maybe I’m more used to it,” she replied.

  He shot her a veiled look, but Elizabeth was looking away from him, out at the Stuckeys’ rippling fields of oats.

  “And this is the life you want?” Sol asked incredulously. “Where old women question your trustworthiness?”

  “No, it isn’t.” Her voice was low.

  “But you’re willing to accept it,” he retorted.

  “I’m not staying.” Her voice was so low, he almost didn’t catch it over the rattle of the buggy.

  “What?” he said.

  Elizabeth turned toward him. “I’m not stupid, Solomon. I’m not staying. But I’m not going English either. I want to find a job in an Amish community in Indiana, maybe. Or Oregon. Or Ohio. Far from the gossip. I want to start over.”

  “So why haven’t you done it yet?” he asked.

  “Because I’m waiting for my sister to come home!” She shot him an irritated look. “Or to write. Or something.”

  Solomon eyed her in surprise. Elizabeth had more bravery in her than he’d given her credit for. She had a plan after all.

  “So you think I should stay but you’re leaving?” he asked.

  “I do think you should stay Amish,” she said. “I want to leave Bountiful and you want to leave everything. I disagree that there are many ways to live a good life. You were born Amish, and the narrow path isn’t easy, but it’s necessary. It takes strength to live out our beliefs, but an Amish life doesn’t have to be in Bountiful.”

  For her, maybe. Not for him. She hadn’t spent time in prison.

  “And what makes you think you’ll find getting a job easier than it is for me?” he asked.

  “Your grandmother can give me a reference,” she replied. “And maybe the bishop will, too. He’s really tried hard to help my brother and me since Daet was arrested. The bishop wants the young people to find a way to stay . . . and that includes us.”

  Right. She did have more support than he did.

  “I don’t think it includes me,” he said.

  “I think it does—” But she didn’t sound confident in that.

  “I didn’t just jump the fence,” he said. “I went a whole lot further.”

  Elizabeth was silent for a moment. He normally liked being right, but not this time. The bishop might hope to keep his young people in the community, but he wouldn’t want to keep a man like Solomon. Solomon was a threat and he knew it.

  “You have your grandmother,” she said at last. “And when your mamm comes back—”

  But he didn’t want to talk about his mother right now. She wasn’t much of a comfort at the moment.

  “I’m fine,” he interrupted. “Let’s just set up the produce stand for my grandmother.”

  Solomon didn’t need her to reassure him or point out what he did have. Elizabeth was still the girl who’d caught his eye . . . the one he’d teased just to be close to back in his more immature years. And she was still a step above him, even now, when they’d both hit rock bottom. Ironic, wasn’t it? Even with her father in prison for defrauding the community, he was still less acceptable than Elizabeth Yoder was.

  Did Solomon really need more humbling than he’d already endured? Wasn’t Gott finished with that yet?

  Chapter Five

  Elizabeth helped Bridget and Solomon set up the produce stall that morning. The stand had a little shack attached to it where they could stand in the shade while waiting for customers. Outside the shack, there were slanted displays that held the fruits and vegetables, and some wooden bins to the side that held new potatoes and carrots.

  Solomon, after he’d changed into his Amish clothing, did the heavy lifting of setting up the displays and unloading vegetables, and Elizabeth and Bridget set the produce out on the shelves and lined up the buckets of cut flowers so they could be seen from the road. Word would spread—the Englishers and their social media were a powerful combination.

  Bridget hummed a hymn as she laid out some squash on the wooden display table. The squash were big and uniform this year, and Bridget’s hands worked with practiced steadiness. Elizabeth glanced down the drive. Solomon was loading up some more baskets of vegetables into the wagon to bring up to the stand, and she watched him for a moment. He looked better now—more appropriate—but there was still something wild about him, even wearing some proper Amish clothes again.

  Elizabeth carefully filled cardboard baskets with fresh tomatoes, the softest of which went on top. She worked quickly, and as Bridget arranged the squash, a car stopped and an Englisher woman came out with
her wallet in one hand and a smile on her face.

  “I’m so glad to see you opening up,” she said. “We’ve been waiting for the Amish produce.”

  “Yah, it’s that time,” Bridget replied with a smile of her own. “What can I get you today?”

  The sun was still low in the sky and shone golden across the nearby fields and warm on Elizabeth’s back as she turned her attention to the cucumbers next. The Englisher woman bought two baskets of tomatoes and a bouquet of flowers with promises to return again the next day for more when she had more cash on her. She took a picture of their stall, and Elizabeth looked down uncomfortably while the phone was held in front of them.

  “I’m just going to post this on Facebook. We have friends who’ve been waiting for the Amish roadside stands, too. They’ll be glad to know you’re open,” the woman said.

  “Thank you,” Bridget said. “Spread the word. More is ripening every day, thank Gott.”

  “’Bye now,” the woman called, and the car’s tires crunched back up onto the road as she sped away. Elizabeth watched the car go, and Bridget’s humming started up again.

  This was a lovely life—Elizabeth never ceased to be thankful for the Amish community, for the Amish ways. And yet how thankful would she be if she never did have a family of her own? At twenty-two, she wasn’t quite an old maid yet, but soon . . .

  The wagon came back up the drive, Solomon at the reins and the back of it filled with more produce to finish filling the stands. Hopefully, it would all sell this morning so nothing would wilt or wither in the afternoon heat. Solomon reined in the horses and hopped back down. He hoisted down a tub of potatoes and tossed some plastic bags on top of it. He worked efficiently, his muscles bulging with the effort, but she could see less of his imposing physique under the more modest Amish clothing he was now wearing. He looked more relatable this way—a white shirt rolled up to the elbows and a few more buttons open at the neck than was strictly proper, but it was still an improvement.