The Preacher's Daughter

by Patricia Johns

  Was he really suggesting that she leave the Amish faith? Was her snake in the garden none other than Solomon Lantz? Because there was no life for her but an Amish life, and she had to believe that Gott would provide a husband for her with her own people. She had to.

  Bethany smiled and stood back as Elizabeth came up to the porch.

  “I saw the buggy stop through the front window,” Bethany said. “It’s so good to see you, Elizabeth. Here—hold Mo. He’s getting heavy.”

  Elizabeth scooped up the baby into her arms and smiled down at the plump little boy as she followed Bethany back into the house.

  “How is Bridget faring?” Bethany asked. “And don’t mind me, I’m just going to finish up the dishes and then I’m all yours.”

  “Go right ahead,” Elizabeth replied. “I can help—”

  “He’s teething,” Bethany said. “And he refuses to be put down. Trust me, that is helping.”

  Elizabeth sat down at the kitchen table and dandled Moses on her knee. The little boy’s chin was slick with drool and he picked up the corner of her apron and pushed it into his mouth to gnaw on it.

  “Bridget is doing well,” Elizabeth said. “That was Solomon who drove me here.”

  “Solomon’s back?” Bethany whirled around, her eyes wide. “I thought he was in prison!”

  “He was,” Elizabeth said. “He’s out.”

  There were more questions, and Elizabeth answered what she could, keeping Solomon’s more private experience to herself. It wasn’t right to share that . . . but he was back in the community, and word would start to travel now.

  “What’s Solomon like now?” Bethany asked. “Does he seem . . . changed?”

  “It’s been five years,” Elizabeth said. “So, yah. He’s grown up.”

  He’d grown up, and he’d gained an attractiveness that she couldn’t deny. Would the other girls see it soon enough? Maybe . . .

  “I suppose it happens to us all,” Bethany said softly, and she turned back to the sink. “Did you hear about Rueben Miller’s passing?”

  For the next few minutes they exchanged information about the unfortunate accident and the young widow who was left behind. Bethany had heard more about the specifics of the accident, and about who had found him, and how some Englisher lawyer had tried to get Sovilla to sue the company that had made the baler, but she wouldn’t.

  “I don’t think it’s right to ask Johannes to step in like this,” Elizabeth said.

  “No?” Bethany let the water out of the sink and dried her hands. Then she pulled some muffins out of a cupboard and brought them to the table.

  “I really don’t,” Elizabeth replied. “You know how much he loves Lovina. He’s been in love with her since he was a young teen, and asking him to marry someone he’s never met in order to provide for them—”

  “She is a good woman, though,” Bethany said.

  “Still, a stranger,” Elizabeth replied. “You got to choose your husband, Bethany. And you’ve told me more than once that being deeply in love with a man makes everything easier.”

  “Look, you might not see this,” Bethany said quietly, “but the way Johannes loves Lovina isn’t healthy. Love has to be practical, too. You can’t give your heart to an Englisher, for example, because it would never work. Love is important, but if it isn’t rooted in some practicality, it’s useless.”

  “If I found a man who loved me like Johannes loves Lovina, I’d marry him in a heartbeat,” Elizabeth said.

  “Yah,” Bethany said. “I know. But you’d marry him. You’d love him back. Johannes is alone.”

  “I know . . .” Elizabeth sighed. “I suppose there’s comfort in someone else missing her like we do.”

  “Yah,” Bethany agreed. “And I know that marrying a stranger isn’t what we dream of, but I could see how it might work for them.”

  The baby squirmed and started to cry, and Bethany reached over and picked up her son. Mo stopped crying the minute he was back in her arms again, and Elizabeth smoothed down the sodden corner of her apron.

  “They’ve both loved others deeply and had their hearts broken,” Elizabeth admitted. “I can see that.”

  “And it might help Johannes to pull out of this grief,” Bethany added. “Besides, when Lovina does come back, she won’t be the same girl who left. I saw Micah last week. He came to visit and he . . . he’s different. He looks different, he acts differently, he’s . . . he’s Englisher now. And he seems to have forgotten all the things that used to come as second nature.”

  “And you think it’ll be the same for Lovina,” Elizabeth said.

  “It will be, Lizzie,” Bethany said softly. “She can’t help but change. And if she didn’t contact Johannes, it’s for a good reason. I don’t think we should hold him back.”

  “What does my brother think?” Elizabeth asked woodenly.

  “The same,” Bethany said with a sad shrug. “We all want Lovina home again, but there is no way any of us will be able to pick up where we left off.”

  The comfort of an Amish life was that things didn’t change. The way of life they followed was the same one their grandparents had followed. The Englishers might move on with technology and newfangled ideas, but the Amish didn’t. They embraced tradition. And yet relationships couldn’t be slowed down along with the rest of their culture.

  “I told Solomon that I’d ask my brother and you about a job,” Elizabeth said. “He’s one who has come back and he needs work.”

  Bethany didn’t answer for a moment, then she said, “But he was in prison for robbery.”

  “Yah.” Elizabeth dropped her gaze.

  “I don’t think my daet will like that idea,” Bethany said. “It’s dangerous. If his old friends came back—”

  “He isn’t in contact with them,” Elizabeth replied. “He’s determined to turn his life around.”

  “I’ll talk to Isaiah and my daet,” Bethany said. But by the look on her face, Elizabeth wasn’t encouraged.

  “Thank you for that,” Elizabeth said. “People might change for the worse out there with the Englishers, but I think it’s possible to come home. I really do.”

  She had to believe it. Because if Solomon couldn’t come home, neither could Lovina. There had to be a place for them here, for all of them. People had to find forgiveness in their communities, because Solomon’s warning was hanging heavy in her heart.

  What if her beloved Amish life left her single and paying for her father’s crimes for the rest of her life? Forgiveness had to be possible for all of their sakes.

  * * *

  Solomon sat in the parole officer’s small, bland office on the edge of downtown Bountiful. It was located within walking distance from the buggy parking. The room felt claustrophobic, even though there was hardly any furniture inside. A middle-aged man with a receding hairline sat behind a desk that had no personal photos or anything on it, just a desktop calendar, a stapler, and a mishmash of paper.

  “My name is Jeffrey Sparks,” the man said with a cordial smile. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other. You can call me Jeff.”

  Solomon nodded, mute. He glanced around the office once more. It was almost cell-like, and that thought made the part in the center of his back tingle again.

  “So, how does it feel to be out?” Jeff asked.

  Solomon jerked his attention back to the man behind the desk.

  “Good.”

  “It feels good,” Jeff repeated, then fell silent, watching him. What did he want to hear?

  “Yah, I mean, it’s nice to be out,” Solomon said, and when Jeff still watched him expectantly, he added, “but it’s hard.”

  “Hm. It would be,” Jeff agreed. “What part is hardest?”

  “No one trusts me,” Solomon said. “In the Amish life, trust is what makes our community function, and I’ve lost that. It leaves me on the outside.”

  “I have news for you,” Jeff said. “It’s the same with us regular people, too.”

  Solomon s
miled faintly, then nodded. “Yah, I can see that.”

  “So what are your plans to make sure you don’t commit any more crimes and you are able to rejoin society?”

  “I . . .” Solomon felt his mouth go dry. His plan had been to go home for a little while and eat some home cooking, maybe repair his relationship with his mother. He hadn’t really thought much beyond that—just a few basic comforts. “I don’t really have one.”

  “I’m glad you’re willing to admit that,” Jeff said. “Do you think you’ll be able to successfully restart your life and stay out of trouble without a proper plan?”

  “Um—” Solomon shifted in his chair. “I’ll come up with something.”

  “Thinking things through on the fly is what got you in prison to begin with,” Jeff said, fixing him with a flat look. “You think it’ll work better the second time?”

  “Maybe not,” Solomon admitted. “But I am thinking things through, and I will come up with something.”

  “Well, luckily for you, that’s why I’m here—to help you adjust to life again, and to help you get a start. I’m here to help you formulate a plan.”

  “That would be nice,” Solomon said. He’d assumed the parole officer was more like a prison guard, making sure he kept to the straight and narrow and willing to toss him back into jail if he didn’t. Maybe there was still a fair amount of truth in that assumption still.

  “How much schooling do you have?” Jeff asked.

  “Eighth grade.”

  The man nodded, pressing his lips together. “That’s fine if you’re going to live Amish, but that won’t be enough anywhere else.”

  “Yah.” Solomon knew that. He’d felt the pinch of his limited education when he’d jumped the fence five years ago.

  “Are you planning on staying Amish this time?” he asked. “I mean, you’re dressed Amish.”

  Solomon glanced around the bland office. He missed the outdoors already—sunshine, fields, horses, and cattle . . . “I’m staying with my grandmother, so I’m dressed the part right now. It makes people more comfortable.” An image of Lizzie rose in his mind. It made her more comfortable . . . “But I’m not sure I can live Amish now. Like I said, I’m on the outside now. No one trusts me. I’m looking for work, but it’s not going to be easy.”

  “Do you want help with that?” Jeff asked.

  “Yah. I do. If I can get it.”

  “I do have a few options for you,” Jeff said. “But none of them are Amish. If you want to go back to your Amish life, I don’t have any contacts to help you get work or anything like that.”

  “I understand,” Solomon replied, leaning forward. Any job at all right now would be helpful.

  “But I do have options that might interest you if you want to stay . . . English. Isn’t that what you call it?” Jeff said.

  “Yah,” Solomon said with a nod.

  “First of all, there’s a program for adults looking to get their GED,” Jeff said, pulling a pamphlet out of his desk. “That’s a high school equivalency diploma. And after you get that, there are programs that will help you get further education in fields that are hiring. There are jobs in operating large vehicles, in computer maintenance, in technical fields like the oil and gas industry . . . There are opportunities out there so that you can restart your life and make a decent living.”

  But would that schooling take place in stifling rooms like this one? He wasn’t keen on more school, but what choice did he have? A good income was tempting. And maybe there was a place for him with the Englishers if this man seemed confident.

  “That sounds helpful,” Solomon said.

  “I’m glad,” Jeff replied. “The first step is to get your high school diploma, though. Is that something you’re willing to do?”

  “What would it take?” Solomon’s educational experience had been in a one-room schoolhouse with ample time outside and relatively low expectations from the teacher. He’d seen some TV shows that depicted a high school experience, and it all looked rather intimidating on a social level. All those people, all the expectations . . .

  “There are two different programs offered in Bountiful,” Jeff said. “I can get you set up in one of them. Normally, there are evening classes to allow people to work during the day. It’s a lot of bookwork and you’ll have to study hard, but others have done it before you.”

  Solomon nodded. “Okay . . .”

  “Can you read? Any trouble with numbers or anything?” Jeff asked.

  Solomon frowned. “Yah. I can read. I’m fine. Why?”

  “I’m just checking,” he replied. “There are other supports if you can’t. The next GED class doesn’t start for another month, but I can get you on the list. Is there anything else you need?”

  Solomon shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “And you said you’re looking for work, and you have a place to stay, right?”

  “Yah, I already started looking. I’m going to check the help wanted ads on the hardware store corkboard today,” Solomon replied.

  “Excellent. Well, best of luck. And I’ll see you next week,” Jeff said. “I’ll mark you down as compliant and in good standing.”

  Solomon rose to his feet and exited the office. A young woman was waiting in the plastic chairs just outside, chewing on her thumbnail. She looked up at him and they exchanged a silent look before she headed into the office, and Solomon pushed outside into the summer air.

  He sucked in a deep breath and put his straw hat back on his head. He started down the sidewalk and noticed a police cruiser at the traffic lights. Funny—cops still made him nervous. He’d been warned by the other inmates that once he got out, if anything happened in the community, the cops would come looking for him first. He was no longer just an innocent civilian, going about his business. He was now labeled as trouble.

  The cruiser crept forward again and disappeared around a corner, and it was then that he spotted a familiar, meaty face across the street—the Englisher who’d had his hands on Elizabeth—and Solomon’s blood ran cold. The man’s face was bruised beneath that dirty baseball cap, and his nose looked swollen and painful.

  The big man seemed to spot him at the same time, and for a moment their gazes met. Solomon’s heart thudded to a stop. At first, neither of them moved, and then the big Englisher angled his steps across the street, sidestepping an oncoming car and continuing straight toward Solomon.

  Gott, help me—

  Did he deserve that prayer after what he’d done to the man? Did he deserve protection? Solomon wasn’t even sure right now, but his heart raised upward anyway.

  The man stepped up onto the sidewalk and stopped in front of Solomon.

  “I knew I’d see you again,” the man hissed.

  Solomon didn’t answer and he stepped to the side, eyeing him warily.

  “Hey!” The man thumped Solomon in the middle of the chest.

  “I don’t want trouble,” Solomon said.

  “Not now, huh?” the man barked. “You don’t want trouble? What about the other day? You sure wanted it then!”

  The man wanted to fight, and again, Solomon felt like the jail walls were starting to rise up around him all over again. Men were the same—on the inside of prison walls and out here in the free air. They were all the same. And when a bully wanted a fight, he would have it.

  “You were hassling a woman,” Solomon said. “And you were drunk. You wouldn’t stop. I’m sure it’s different now. Neither of us are drinking and we can be reasonable here—”

  “‘Reasonable.’” The man mimicked Solomon’s Amish accent in a mocking tone. “Try to hit me now, you Amish puppy. Try it now!”

  There was a part of Solomon that was tempted to do just that. Because for all this man’s size and strength, he didn’t have a teaspoon of Solomon’s experience, and there was a good chance that this bully hadn’t spent any time behind prison walls yet either. Give him a good prison term to hone his baser instincts and this man would go from bully to downr
ight dangerous. But right now, Solomon would have the upper hand.

  “I said I don’t want to fight,” Solomon said.

  The man thumped him again, and Solomon felt his anger simmer.

  “Don’t touch me,” Solomon said, his voice low, and he knew that his response had just crossed a line. He’d gone from peaceful to warning, and that was a breath away from a full-out fight. This was it—if he stood his ground now, he’d be grappling with this man again in the middle of Bountiful and he would be behind bars within the hour.

  Gott, help me!

  He didn’t want to fight and he felt a surge of helplessness. This wasn’t the life he wanted—fighting with local thugs and trying to intimidate hooligans. He’d come home for the Amish calm, for the slower pace, for the ability to think, but life wasn’t going to go back to that, was it? He’d never just be an Amish man again.

  A siren’s whoop drew the big man’s attention, and Solomon nearly sagged with relief. But he couldn’t show weakness. There could be no fighting in front of cops . . . but the danger wasn’t past yet.

  “Hey!” a cop called out the window of his cruiser. “There a problem here, Alphonso?”

  The Englisher shrugged extravagantly. “No, no, just talking to my buddy here.”

  “You okay?” the officer asked, turning his attention to Solomon. It took Solomon a second to realize that the cop only saw an Amish man being harassed on the street—nothing more.

  “I am, but I wanted to go about my business, Officer,” Solomon said.

  “Go on, then,” the officer said. “Alphonso, we’re going to have a chat.”

  The police officer opened his door and got out, hand hovering around his belt, and Alphonso put up his hands in a sign of surrender.

  “Nothing going on here,” Alphonso said. “Honest, Officer. It was just a friendly talk, that’s it—”

  “I’m sure,” the officer retorted, and Solomon gave the police officers a nod and then picked up his pace and headed for the intersection.