The Preacher's Daughter

by Patricia Johns

  “This is the book for keeping track of how many bouquets you sell,” Bridget said, pulling out a worn notebook. Elizabeth pulled her attention back to the old woman. A fresh page had the day’s date at the top, and Bridget passed her a stubby pencil. “Don’t sell them for less than the price the Stuckeys set, because we have to pay them back.”

  “Of course,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll make sure.”

  “This is the change pouch—” Bridget passed over a heavy, zippered canvas bag. “And come inside the shack so I can show you the box for the bills.”

  Elizabeth followed Bridget inside, and made note of the metal box the older woman pointed out.

  “I’ll come back in a couple of hours to pick up the money to bring back to the house so you don’t have too much money out here at one time,” Bridget said. “It’s safer for you that way.”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “And thank you for helping me, Elizabeth,” Bridget added with a smile. “I do appreciate it.”

  “It’s a pleasure to be needed,” Elizabeth replied, returning her smile.

  “I’m going to head back to the house,” Bridget said. “It’s still washing day.”

  “I can help with that, too,” Elizabeth said.

  The old woman batted her hand. “It’s fine. I’ll get it done. I appreciate this.”

  They both went back outside the shack again, and Bridget carried on down the drive toward the house, her gait slow but steady. The horses nibbled at the tender roadside grass, and Solomon lifted down the last plastic tub of vegetables, this one only partway filled with beets.

  Elizabeth glanced over at Solomon. His hat was cocked to one side to better shield his face from the low light.

  “You look better in Amish clothes,” she said.

  Solomon looked over at her. “Less scary?”

  She shrugged. “Yah. No one’s really comfortable about the English, are they?”

  Solomon’s gaze rested on her for a few beats longer than was comfortable. A car pulled up to the stall, giving her an excuse to turn away.

  This was an older couple, and they bought two heads of lettuce and eight baskets of tomatoes. The old woman chattered about the pasta sauce she’d make, and while she paid, Solomon helped her husband to put their purchased food into the trunk of the car. They drove on, and Elizabeth tucked away the zippered bag of change once more.

  “Will you really leave here?” Solomon asked.

  “Eventually,” she replied.

  He nodded. “I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. When I think of Bountiful, it includes you.”

  “It’s not like you’re planning to stay,” she replied.

  “I have less than you do to hold on to,” he replied.

  “Well, I want more than a house and a community—I want a family of my own,” she said. “I want a husband.”

  It felt terribly brazen to say that to a man out loud, but Solomon didn’t exactly fit into things here in Bountiful. He wasn’t another Amish man following the same Amish social codes.

  A smile tugged at Solomon’s lips. “Yah, high time, young lady. You always were picky.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Because I wasn’t encouraging you?”

  He sobered. “You weren’t encouraging anyone. No one could match your high standards. Even after your Rumspringa, I heard of three different men who asked you home from singing—and you turned them all down. When I’d come back to visit my cousins, they used to joke about it. You wanted a man who could preach like your daet, provide a comfortable farm for you to live on, be as handsome as Adam in the garden, and have a spotless reputation. Oh, and not ever have been married or engaged before either. No man could attain that.”

  Elizabeth eyed him for a moment. “You all talked about me?”

  “Men talk, too,” he said.

  “If me not being interested was offensive,” she said, “I don’t really care. Being courted is serious. If I couldn’t see myself marrying a man, I wasn’t going to encourage it.”

  Solomon shrugged. “I don’t have a right to tell you what you should want, but I can point out that men aren’t perfect. Not one of us. That’s just my humble opinion, for whatever it’s worth.”

  But some men were better than others—some were safer than others. There were women who couldn’t ask for much because they didn’t offer much in character. But Elizabeth had been a woman who’d kept herself pure, who’d stayed to the narrow path. She’d put her focus into learning to cook and sew as best she could, because one day she’d have a family relying on her. It was the Amish way, and if she could ask for more in a husband, why wouldn’t she? But she wasn’t going to argue feminine standards with Solomon Lantz. What would he know about that?

  “I don’t need your opinions, Solomon,” she said.

  He eyed her for a moment, then angled his chin toward the buggy. “I’m going to bring the horses to pasture.” He paused. “Are you mad at me for speaking my mind?”

  “A little, yah,” she said.

  Solomon shrugged. “Okay. Well, I’m not apologizing. I meant what I said.”

  Anger simmered up inside her, but it only masked her deeper misgivings. She had been prideful in her youth—she knew that. And she’d lost everything when her father was arrested.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong, Solomon,” she said, softening her tone. “My daet did, but I’m not him!”

  “Even before your daet’s fall from grace, you weren’t going to find that perfect man,” Solomon replied. “And you can wander as far as you like—all the way to Oregon or Ohio, if you really want to. You won’t find him, because a perfect man doesn’t exist.”

  Solomon took the lead horse by the bridle and led them around until they were headed back in the direction of the stables.

  “There are good men!” she called after him.

  “Yah. You turned a lot of them down,” he replied, then he hoisted himself back up into the seat and flicked the reins.

  The empty wagon rattled down the drive toward the stable. What did he know about the kind of man she’d been waiting for? There were men who didn’t want to rebel, and who longed for the same simple Amish life that she did. There were men who’d saved themselves, who had standards, too. But Solomon had always been rebellious and stubborn. He’d been the kind of teenager she’d known to steer clear of, and when he’d jumped the fence, she’d been proven right in that.

  She knew what she wanted back then, and while life had certainly derailed her options here in Bountiful, her longing for a proper Amish home with a truly good man she could love with all her heart hadn’t changed.

  Would it happen now? Only Gott knew. But her hope wasn’t dead yet.

  A pickup truck came hurtling down the road toward her, music blasting out into the morning air, and Elizabeth watched it approach, her breath bated. She hated these fast drivers—whooping it up while they entertained themselves over the summer. It was dangerous.

  The truck slowed as it passed the stand, and just when she thought it would carry on past, it suddenly screeched to a stop and started to reverse. Her heart skipped a beat and then pounded hard in her throat. She was alone out here, and she looked over her shoulder toward the house.

  The windows were open and the truck, once red, was covered in mud. There were three young men in the cab, and the one nearest the window leaned out. The music was turned down, but it wasn’t turned off, and the sound of it was like the shriek of metal, and the men seemed to be shouting out the song. It made her breath catch and she tried not to wince, but she wasn’t sure she managed it.

  “Hey, there.”

  “Hello,” she said.

  “You’re cute,” he said.

  She didn’t answer that, but she swallowed and eyed them warily.

  “What’re you selling?” The doors opened and all three men got out, the engine still running, the music still going, and her pulse sped up in response to it. They were dressed in blue jeans—a whole lot like the ones Solomon had been wearing
until recently—but on them it looked different—more frightening. They wore T-shirts with ugly pictures on the front of skeletons and pain. The one who’d been talking to her wore a baseball cap on backward.

  “Hey!” He raised his voice. “I said, what are you selling?”

  She sucked in a breath.

  “Don’t you speak English?” he said, louder still, coming closer.

  “Vegetables,” she said, then cleared her throat. “I’m sure you aren’t interested.”

  “What?” The second man was wearing a cowboy hat and he took it off, revealing sweaty hair, and then replaced it. “I like vegetables. I like—” He reached out and picked up a head of lettuce with one dirty hand, then dropped it back in the bin with the others. “I like lettuce.”

  “Nah, you don’t.” The third one laughed. He was smaller than the other two. “When did you last eat salad?”

  They came closer, fingering every vegetable in reach, and then the biggest man reached into the bucket of flowers and pulled out a bouquet. He slapped his friend on the chest with it and laughed. Elizabeth’s gaze was locked on the bouquet—Bridget would owe the Stuckeys for every single bouquet that was lost—

  “Hey, give me one!” The other man grabbed another bouquet, and her heart sank. She needed out of here—she needed help! She moved out of the shade of the stand. If she could just get clear, she’d run. The men seemed to have lost interest in her for the time being as they laughed and beat each other with the flowers until petals were scattered over the dusty ground and the stems hung limp and bruised, then they tossed them on the ground.

  Elizabeth slipped out from under the shelter, but just as she got out into the sunlight, she found the largest man blocking her path. He smelled of sweat, sausage, and the sour smell of alcohol, and he spat on the ground in front of her. He’d been drinking early.

  “Where are you going?” he growled.

  With every panicked beat, her heart sent up a wordless prayer. Elizabeth stared at him, then lunged to the side, but she wasn’t fast enough. The big man’s meaty hand slapped down on her wrist and she let out a cry of pain.

  “I said, where are you going?” he demanded. “We aren’t done here yet.”

  * * *

  Solomon pulled the brush down the horse’s flank as the big stallion swung his weight from one hoof to another. It was hot inside the stable, but once the horses were brushed, he’d send them out into the open air and finish cleaning out the stalls.

  He’d meant what he said to Elizabeth—she never had been realistic, and she’d been so filled with pride for her preacher daet that she’d seen herself as above pretty much every available man in Bountiful. She never could acknowledge her own pride either, because pride was perhaps the worst sin for an Amish person. The Amish were humble people . . . but there were some Amish who were humbler than others. It wasn’t irritation that she’d never been interested in him either. He’d been rebellious and full of attitude. Frankly, he didn’t blame her. But she should have moved on with a decent man and started that family. Her own pride had held her back and he could see that plain as his own boots.

  In the distance, a blast of heavy metal music filled the air. He straightened and listened, and the music suddenly dropped. It didn’t die away like the vehicle had driven off either, it just disappeared. Like the driver had flicked the knob and turned it down.

  He put the comb onto a window ledge and opened the stable’s sliding back door. The stallion plodded out into the sunshine, and Solomon watched him go, then listened again. He couldn’t make out music, but he heard a high-pitched cry that broke off suddenly, and he didn’t have to process another thought. He broke into a run through the corral, jumped the fence, and headed up the drive toward the sound of that cry.

  Solomon spotted the men before he saw Elizabeth. One was looming over her—the biggest of the three by far. He was huge—a mountain of a man—and if this were prison, Solomon might rethink it. But prison had taught him a few skills he hadn’t thought he’d have to use again quite this quickly.

  “Hey!” Solomon barked as he reached the road.

  The men turned, the biggest one looking him up and down with a glance of disdain. He had one meaty hand on Elizabeth’s arm, and she looked so pale he was worried she might pass out.

  “You okay, Lizzie?” he said, his voice low.

  She didn’t answer, but she sucked in a breath, and Solomon realized that the man’s grip on her was tightening. Talking wasn’t going to fix this one, and prison had one rule when facing down a bully and his cronies: beat up the biggest one and the others would back off.

  And the big one was probably going to kill him if he managed to get a punch back . . . Surprise would have to work for him, because if he didn’t act now, he’d lose his advantage.

  Without another word, Solomon launched himself at the man, slamming a boot into the side of his knee, catching him by surprise and knocking him off-balance. There was a crack, and the man shouted in pain and went down.

  Logic faded away and Solomon was left with the pounding of his own blood in his ears and the deafening certainty that he wasn’t letting this animal touch Lizzie again. His body knew what to do—and this brute had never faced the kind of thing Solomon had faced again and again when he was behind bars. This idiot had size—Solomon had experience.

  His fists slammed into the man’s dense face, and when one of the smaller men came at him, he stood up and grabbed the man’s throat, pulling him forward and then slamming him back so that he hit the ground with a gasp and a thud as his breath went whooshing out of him. Solomon planted a knee in the center of the man’s chest, and he was about to start the same process on the second man when he felt a different touch on his shoulders and Lizzie’s voice came piercing through the fog.

  “Solomon! Stop!”

  Solomon sat poised over the man on the ground, his fist shaking with the desire to teach this other man a lesson he’d never forget, but Elizabeth’s hands encircled his upper arm, pulling him backward.

  “Solomon!” Elizabeth’s voice shook him out of his reverie. “Solomon, you’ll kill him!”

  He could easily have thrown her off, but he allowed her to pull him back and he stood up. The smaller man writhed backward, out of his reach, one hand on his throat and his terrified gaze locked on Solomon’s face.

  Solomon reached back, and his hand connected with Elizabeth’s warm side. He nudged her gently back and turned to look at the big man rolling over and groaning as he stumbled to his feet.

  “He’s crazy—” one of the men squeaked. “You’re crazy, man! What’s wrong with you?”

  Solomon’s breath was coming in hot pants, and he sucked in a breath, trying to calm his heart. He kept himself between Elizabeth and the other men as they crawled back into their vehicle, and the wheels spun before they took off down the road.

  “I wasn’t killing anyone,” Solomon said, turning toward Elizabeth for the first time, and he found her staring at him in wide-eyed shock. “Lizzie? You okay?”

  She shook her head and tears welled up in her eyes. Some color had come back to her face, and he could see something in her gaze that wrung out his heart—she was terrified.

  “Oh . . . Lizzie . . . come here,” he said, but she took a step back.

  “What was that?” she breathed. “You were . . . you were . . .”

  She didn’t finish, but she didn’t have to. He was preparing to beat a man—and he had to admit that was the case. He would have done it. Prowling after an unprotected Amish woman? Men like that got more than a beating in prison—they often ended up dead. Even convicts had girlfriends, wives, daughters. But Solomon wasn’t killing anyone, or even coming close. But he’d have hurt him rather badly—that he’d admit to.

  That was another lesson he’d learned in prison—when to stop.

  “Lizzie,” he said softly. “You’re safe with me, okay? Those guys weren’t, but you are. You hear me?”

  Elizabeth’s face crumpled and
he pulled her into his arms and leaned his face against her kapp. Her hairpins slid sideways and her kapp came loose. He could smell the soft scent of her sun-warmed hair and he pulled her close against him, as if he could physically absorb the experience and take it away from her.

  Elizabeth grabbed handfuls of his shirt in her fists and hot tears soaked against his chest. The adrenaline was seeping out of his system, and it was then he noticed the stinging ache in his knuckles. He looked down to see blood from his split skin. Maybe not all his blood either. There was a patch of accusing blood on the dusty ground, too, and he kicked at some dirt to cover it up. Elizabeth pulled back and wiped her face with the heels of her hands. Her wrist looked bruised.

  “Who were they?” he asked. “Did you know them?”

  “Them?” She looked at him incredulously. “How would I know people like that? I’ve never seen them before in my life!”

  Elizabeth seemed to notice her kapp then, because she plucked it from her head where it hung by one pin and looked down at it through tearful eyes.

  “Did he hurt you?” Solomon asked.

  Elizabeth ran a hand over her wrist and she looked around herself at the debris of crushed flowers.

  “Let me see—” He reached for her hand and she pulled it against herself. “Hey . . .” He softened his tone. “Lizzie, you know I’m not going to hurt you. Let me see your wrist.”

  He slipped his fingers around her arm and tugged it gently away from her so he could get a better look. There were red fingerprints left on her flesh, and the joint was already swelling. Yah, he didn’t feel bad for what he’d done now. What would that brute have done to her if he hadn’t shown up?

  “Does it hurt?” he asked softly.

  She nodded, and he felt another wave of anger.

  “What was that?” she breathed.

  “I don’t know—‘townies’ is what they called men like that in prison. Just local idiots who get drunk and get into trouble.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “No—you. What happened to you there? You changed! You were someone different!”