The Preacher's Daughter

by Patricia Johns

  As Solomon came up to the side of the house, he heard the familiar squeak of the clothesline in the darkness, and the line of fluttering dresses and towels leaped to the side.

  “Solomon?” It was Lizzie. She leaned forward to get a better look at him.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked.

  “Bringing in the laundry,” she said. “I put it off too long.”

  He could make her out on the porch, the clothes on the line dancing in the night air as she pulled them toward her. She plucked off the pins and folded another shirt and dropped it into the basket at her feet.

  “I’m sure you could leave that until morning,” he said.

  “I wanted the fresh air,” she replied.

  Yah, he could sympathize with that. He’d just fixed a fence that didn’t need fixing for the same reason.

  “You want help with that?” he asked.

  “This is women’s work,” she said with a short laugh.

  “I don’t care. I want the fresh air, too,” he replied.

  She smiled faintly, then shrugged. “All right, then.”

  She was beautiful standing there in the faint light that came out from a side window. Her white kapp caught the light, and there was a deep glimmer in her dark eyes that made his pulse speed up. Solomon dropped his tool bag on a step and headed up the four stairs to the porch where Lizzie stood. She folded a towel and dropped it into the basket. He pulled on the line and it squeaked as the clothes danced closer. The next item was his Englisher T-shirt. He pulled it down and folded it roughly, tossing it aside, away from the other laundry.

  “Did you fight like that in prison?” Lizzie asked quietly.

  “Yah.” He took down his jeans next and shook them out, dropping the clothespins into the bag at her feet.

  “Why?” she asked softly.

  He looked down at her and found Lizzie looking up into his face with a searching expression on her face.

  “Because I had to,” he replied, and he felt his throat tighten with emotion. “It’s different in there. It’s more violent, for one. And the guards don’t always stop it. There are some men who have been in prison for decades and they run everything. You have to go along with them, and if you don’t—” He sucked in a breath.

  “What did they want?” she whispered.

  “Sometimes it was to deliver something to another inmate, or just to choose sides in a fight.... There was one big guy who wanted me to grovel for him and I just couldn’t. So my cellmate started teaching me how to fight out in the yard. And the next time that big bully came at me, I hit him first.”

  Stories like this one felt out of place out here on his grandmother’s porch. They felt dirty, wrong.

  “That isn’t Christian,” she said.

  “Nope, not really,” he agreed. What did she want to hear? That he could defend his actions from the Bible? It was laughable, really. It wasn’t a regular life in there—it was survival.

  “Did it work?” she asked after a beat of silence.

  “Yah. He left me alone after that. Started saying he liked me after all.” That had almost been worse. That had been a very scary man who’d done some very bad things. Solomon hadn’t wanted to be associated with him at all. But at least he’d earned a certain type of peace.

  “It was lonely in there,” Solomon went on, his hands moving automatically to fold the jeans he was holding, and then he reached for a towel. “You’re surrounded with men constantly. You can hear them snore at night, you can hear them eat, talk, argue, breathe . . . You can smell them. And yet you’ve never been more alone in your life.”

  “Because no one cares about you,” she said.

  “I suppose,” he agreed. “But prison changes you . . . and you can’t help it. I think my mamm noticed. The last time she visited, she said her visits weren’t helping me and she wasn’t going to come again.”

  “What?” she breathed.

  “The funny thing is,” he went on, “she thought her visits weren’t helping because I suppose she could see me changing, becoming more like the other inmates. While her visits might not have been keeping me the same, they were keeping me sane.” Elizabeth looked up at him and he cleared his throat. “And even being let out of prison, I’m not exactly free yet.”

  “Why not?” she asked with a frown.

  “I have a parole officer. I have to meet up with him day after tomorrow.”

  “What does he do?” she asked.

  “Makes sure I’m behaving myself,” he replied.

  “And not fighting . . .” She sucked in a breath. “What if he found out about that?”

  “I’d end up in jail again,” he said.

  She nodded. “Then we can’t speak of it, can we?”

  “That would be kind,” he said, and he smiled faintly.

  Elizabeth took down the last towel and folded it, but neither of them moved. Her gaze dropped to the wind-dried towel in her hands and then she dropped it into the basket. They were done with the chore—it was time to go inside. He would make some tea, his grandmother would wake up, and then she’d insist upon a family worship, all together. She’d done it every night since he’d returned. But he wasn’t ready for that . . .

  “Should we go in?” he asked. She didn’t answer at first, so he added, “Or do you want to sit?”

  The words were out before he could think better of them. He just wanted a few more minutes with her outside in the soft darkness. Whatever it was that kept loosening his lips to make him say things he’d never said aloud before, he wanted more of it. He nodded toward the stairs and he let her go first, and then he sank onto the step next to her. For a moment, they sat in silence, listening to the chirp of crickets. She felt warm next to him and smelled faintly of baking.

  “That really scared me today,” she said softly.

  He reached over and took her hand. “I meant it when I said you were safe with me. But I know. I’m sorry I scared you.”

  “If you hadn’t fought them, if you’d been more Amish—” She stopped.

  “Are you saying you’re grateful I wasn’t more Amish about it?” he asked with a rueful smile.

  She smiled faintly back and shrugged. “That’s terrible, isn’t it?”

  “It’s nice to be appreciated, all the same,” he replied.

  There was a wisp of hair hanging down across her cheek, and he reached to move it, her skin soft against his rough hand. She moved her cheek against his hand, just for a moment, and he swallowed.

  “Are you glad I came back now?” he asked.

  She looked over at him, a smile turning up her lips. “Yah. I am.”

  He felt his reserve crumble. It had been a long time since he’d been alone with a woman, and even longer since he’d felt a wave of tenderness like this.... She made him want to be better than he was, to be more worthy of her respect. Because right now all he could offer was this beefy body of his, and this unsettling instinct to protect her.

  “I’m sure you know it, but you’re beautiful, Lizzie,” he murmured.

  She dropped her gaze, and in this low light, he couldn’t tell if he’d made her blush or not. He was hoping he had. This was one thing that made him feel like a man again, made him feel human—being able to make her react in some way. This was the grown-up version of his youthful antics, he realized ruefully. Except as an adult, his feelings sank a whole lot deeper. He should move away, stand up, stop this now before it got out of hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  “Solomon, I—” She lifted her face just as he was turning toward her, and he found himself mere inches from her. She stopped, and when his gaze moved down to her lips, she didn’t move away either.

  He wanted to say something to her, but no words came to mind. He knew what he wanted to say . . .

  He lowered his lips over hers in a gentle kiss, waiting to feel her recoil or stiffen, but it didn’t come. Her eyes fluttered shut and as his lips moved over hers, his pulse sped up. It was like the night arou
nd them disappeared and all that was left was the two of them, their hands clasped, their breath mingling out there in the grass-scented air, and an overwhelming urge to pull her closer.

  He released her fingers and slid his arm around her waist, feeling the softness of her form, and she leaned into his arms. She was both fragile and strong, and when she pulled back, he tipped his forehead against hers, trying to catch his breath.

  “Oh . . .” she breathed, and one pale hand moved up his arm and rested on his biceps, and he doubted she knew what that movement was doing to him.

  “Yah . . .” He didn’t have any words for what had just happened. He pulled back so he could look into her face, and her eyes glistened and her lips were plump from the kiss.

  “We shouldn’t do that,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he said. “But there’s a whole lot I shouldn’t have done, and I can assure you, this is the thing that brings me the least guilt right now.”

  She pulled back her hand and smoothed it down her apron. She seemed to be trying to mentally rearrange herself.

  “You look fine,” he whispered. No one would know.

  She stood up and he stayed seated, watching her. He wasn’t going to chase her down or force himself on her. But he wasn’t going to apologize for that kiss either.

  “I need to take in the washing,” she said.

  He chuckled softly. “All right.”

  She went back up the stairs and picked up the laundry basket of folded items and dropped the little bag of clothespins on top. She looked back at him once and then disappeared inside, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the sound of the crickets.

  No, he wasn’t a good Amish man, and he never would be. He’d never achieve whatever heights of goodness Lizzie would require from the man she married, and he didn’t care to either. Because if he’d been a better man, he wouldn’t have been able to defend her as efficiently as he had.

  He wasn’t a good man, but he was here. That would have to count for something.

  Chapter Seven

  Lizzie lay in her bed that night, her breath bated. Solomon had kissed her . . . and that was no gallant peck either, although what did she know about kisses? He’d smelled like musk and fresh air, and those muscular arms that had only recently been used in pounding on her assailant had encircled her so gently . . . and yet it was the gentleness of steel—he’d stopped when she pulled back, but she’d never felt such strength.

  She’d never run her hands over a man’s arms before either . . . so she didn’t really have any comparison. Nor had she ever been kissed.

  So she lay there remembering what his lips had felt like against hers, the sandpaper of his stubble and the tickle of his breath.

  That was her first kiss . . . and that was likely a very bad thing. She’d just let Solomon Lantz kiss her. Whatever it was about him that seemed to draw her in had to be resisted. Yes, he was strong and handsome. And he did make her feel safe just because he was close by, but was it a sin to be relying on a man’s baser instincts to protect her? Should she feel bad for being grateful that he wasn’t just a little more Amish?

  Probably.

  So she rolled over and shut her eyes.

  Gott, forgive me, she prayed. Give me self-control with him.

  And then she fell into a fitful sleep in which she dreamed of threatening Englishers, except she was at service Sunday, and her father was preaching, and those terrifying men stomped through the congregation and right up to where he stood. Her daet shut his eyes and began to pray. Her father always had prayed beautifully, whether he’d been in front of a congregation or if it had simply been around their humble table. Abe Yoder had always had the words that made a person feel that Gott was leaning in close. And in the dream, the prayer he began to say was the one he’d prayed with her before bed every night when she was very small: Dear Gott, as we go to sleep, we thank Thee for this day. We ask Thee to help us choose the right in work as well as play. Make us humble and kind, grateful and good. Give us only enough so that we choose what we should. And when we awake, give us strength for the rest, and keep us together, happy and blessed.

  It was the prayer that always made her feel so cherished, but then the Englisher raised his fist, and Elizabeth woke up with a start, her chest heaving and tears on her cheeks.

  Only a dream . . . but when she rolled back over again in the hot bedroom, sleep didn’t come for a long time.

  * * *

  The next morning Elizabeth stayed busy with Bridget. It was cleaning day and the bedrooms all had to be swept and mopped and the baseboards and window ledges wiped down. The bathroom needed to be scrubbed, too, and as Elizabeth worked, that kiss kept replaying itself in her mind. Somehow, she’d thought her first kiss would be different from that . . . maybe more chaste. She’d imagined a man would lean in and peck her lips, then maybe compliment her cooking . . . but Solomon’s kiss had been filled with something deeper, something more powerful, and it had tugged her in against every better instinct of her own. He wasn’t complimenting her cooking—he was vowing to protect her.

  When she got to Solomon’s bedroom with her bucket and her mop, she paused at the threshold and looked inside. The bed was made, although a little rumpled, and his English clothes lay folded on the end of the bed. The room smelled like him—like that faint musk and the outdoors. She paused at the bed and let her fingers run over the blue denim and the soft T-shirt. They’d washed those clothes, hung them to dry, and those Englisher items weren’t going anywhere. Solomon wasn’t done with them yet.

  Elizabeth cleaned his room quickly and then left. But before she did, she looked back at that rumpled bed and those Englisher clothes laying there in the open. He wasn’t staying. He’d told them both that very clearly. This was a visit, and one of these days soon, this bedroom would be empty, and those Englisher clothes would be gone. So would his reassuring strength. She felt safer with him around.

  By the time Elizabeth finished cleaning the upstairs, Bridget had finished with the kitchen and had some egg salad sandwiches sitting on a plate on the counter.

  “I don’t know how I’d do all this without you, Elizabeth,” Bridget said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “There’s still the sitting room to be done, and the laundry room in the basement, and I meant to wipe down the canned goods shelves down there—they’re so dusty, and they’re nearly empty, so it’s a good time . . .” Bridget’s voice trailed off. “But there’s time for that tomorrow.”

  “I can get started on it after lunch,” Elizabeth offered.

  “But Lydia and Edith are coming over to do some crocheting for the NICU at Erindale Hospital,” Bridget countered. “And I happen to know that you’re very good at crochet. You used to make those church dolls, didn’t you?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I’m surprised anyone remembers that.”

  “They were very well done,” Bridget replied. “And with you helping us, I’m sure we could finish that many more caps for the babies there. And we’re doing little blankets for them as well.” Bridget looked at her hopefully.

  “Yah, I can help,” Elizabeth agreed with a smile.

  Bridget smiled back and put the bowl where she’d mixed the egg salad into the sink and ran some water into it. “How is Sol doing?”

  “I’m sure you’d know better than I would,” Elizabeth replied.

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Bridget replied. “There are things a man won’t say to his grandmother.”

  “I—” Elizabeth felt her cheeks heat. “I talked to him after he had that fight, and he had a very good point that if he’d been just a little more Amish, I might have been badly hurt.”

  “Yah . . .” Bridget took off her glasses and used the corner of her apron to wipe them. “I know. But is he using that as an excuse to stay English?”

  “I don’t know,” Elizabeth admitted softly.

  “If only he’d come home properly—at heart, you know?” Bridget said, and she put her glasses back on. “H
e could find healing here. But he’d have to commit to coming home. There’s something powerful in commitment.”

  Would a commitment to staying in Bountiful be enough for Solomon, though? She’d thought the Amish clothes would make a difference, but somehow they hadn’t. He looked less jarring, but at heart, he wasn’t a modest Amish man anymore.

  “He’s changed, though,” Elizabeth said.

  “Oh, he was always a little wild,” Bridget replied.

  “He’s not . . . Amish now,” Elizabeth said. “It wasn’t just a fight. It wasn’t just a punch. I saw what he did, Bridget. If I hadn’t stopped him, he’d have beaten two more men senseless!”

  And he was powerful enough to do it.

  “He’ll adjust,” Bridget replied.

  “I think it’s more than adjustment, though,” Elizabeth countered. “He’s not staying in Bountiful. He’s been clear about that—”

  “Do you agree with Edith and Lydia, then?” Bridget demanded. “Do you think he’s a danger to me?”

  Bridget stood still, her gnarled hands clutched in front of her apron. Her eyes misted with angry tears and Elizabeth felt a wave of regret.

  “No,” Elizabeth said, softening her voice. “He’s no danger to you or me. He’d protect us with his last breath. He loves you too much to be any danger to you, Bridget. I know that. But I wonder if he might be a danger to himself. He’s struggling to find a place to belong, and now that he has a criminal record, that isn’t going to be easy.”

  “No one said it would be easy,” Bridget retorted. “But where else can a man be loved unconditionally than at home?”

  Elizabeth nodded and dropped her gaze.

  “What?” Bridget said.

  “His mamm—” She licked her lips.

  “My daughter-in-law is as stubborn as her son,” Bridget said, and she pulled out a chair to sit down. “In fact, that’s exactly where Sol got that wild, stubborn streak of his. He’s just like his mamm.”