Solomon dipped down his head and caught her lips with his, but this time he didn’t hesitate or wait for permission. He pulled her against him, inhaling the scent of her, drawing her as close against him as he could. The last time he’d kissed her had been her first, and this kiss may very well be their last, and he wasn’t going to leave it halfway. He’d kiss her like he’d longed to, and at the very least she’d never forget him. When she let out an audible sigh, he deepened the kiss, and she tasted like vanilla. Her hands pressed against his bare sides, and as he kissed her, he moved his hands down her neck until he reached the collar of her dress. He could feel just the barest hint of collarbone, and he had to stop there, but just that much fired his blood until all he could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat and the sound of her breath.
* * *
Elizabeth leaned against Solomon’s bare chest, his skin cool to her touch. His fingers plucked at the collar of her dress, and then he dropped his hands to her waist and pulled her closer against him. He seemed to know exactly how to do this—how to kiss a woman, how to hold her . . . and what the next steps seemed to be. She’d never done this before, and her head felt like it was full of water—no coherent thought, just sensation and longing as his fingers splayed over the small of her back.
He pulled her closer and she let her fingers slide around his waist and up his muscular back. His lips moved over hers so purposefully, completely in control of the moment. And all her worries seemed to melt away. There was something about his height and his strength, his arms around her seemed to hold her up, even though her knees felt weak.
Solomon broke off the kiss and pulled back a couple of inches. He didn’t let go of her, though, and she dropped her gaze, suddenly embarrassed. Why did she keep doing this?
“Lizzie . . .”
She looked up, and his eyes were filled with a kind of burning intensity she’d never seen before in any other man, but something deep inside her was responding to it. She didn’t want to move. He twined a loose tendril of her hair around his finger, then let it go.
“Your hair is loose,” he murmured.
“Oh,” she said, shakily pulling away from him. The cool evening air flooded between them, and she fixed her hairpins, feeling for any other loose bits. She licked her lips.
“That was worth messing up your hair,” he said.
“That’s something you’ve done before . . .”
“I’ve been in jail for a year,” he said with a teasing smile. “Trust me, there was none of this behind bars.”
“Before that . . .”
“Are you asking if I’ve kissed a woman before?” he asked, and the teasing melted out of his voice. “Is that what you’re worried about?”
She looked up at him mutely. She knew the answer—of course he had. And this—whatever it was, was entertainment for him. The Englishers played with such things, but the Amish didn’t. Kisses and cuddles were saved for a fiancé, a husband.
“Yah, I’ve had a girlfriend or two,” he said slowly. “But it’s never been quite like that . . .”
“I don’t believe you—”
He sobered. “I’m many things, Lizzie, but I’m no liar. That was . . .” He reached for her hand and pressed it against the center of his chest, over the top of the swirl of chest hair. She caught her breath. His heart beat fast beneath her fingers.
“You feel that?” he whispered.
She nodded.
“I wasn’t quite the world-wise Englisher you think I am . . .” He licked his lips. “I didn’t know how to talk to Englisher girls. I dated a few different women, but I certainly never felt quite like this. . . .”
“All the same, I believe in facing things,” she whispered, and she pulled her hand back. It was too intimate to touch him that way. “And you’re not staying—neither am I. You’ve experienced parts of life I can’t even imagine. So let’s not pretend that I’m your first anything. I don’t want you to reinvent history.”
“Lizzie, I squandered my firsts,” he whispered. “It’s true. I haven’t made great choices, and a lot of my lessons have been learned the worst way possible. But I’m not lying to you either. You’re . . .”
She hung on his words, waiting for him to finish. “I’m what?”
“I don’t know how to explain this . . .” A smile curved his lips. “When I was a boy, my mamm used to make strawberry jam, and I wasn’t allowed to just eat it. Of course.”
“Of course,” she murmured back.
“She’d work for days, jarring it and stacking it on the shelves in the basement, and she’d keep one jar in the kitchen. I used to sneak it one teaspoon at a time, and I’d eat that spoon of jam outside behind the chicken house. There was nothing quite so delicious . . . you’re my teaspoon of forbidden jam.”
Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile at that. “Are you going to say I’m sweet? That’s cheesy.”
“No, you’re addictive.” He touched her cheek again. “And worth waiting for just a teaspoon.”
She felt her cheeks heat.
“Did you get in trouble?” she whispered. “For the jam, I mean. Did you get caught?”
“Every time.” A slow smile crept over his face. “I never licked my lips well enough, and Mamm would catch me. One day she found a stash of spoons out behind the chicken house, too.”
“And you didn’t learn your lesson?” she asked.
“I learned I liked strawberry jam more than I was afraid of a swat,” he said with a slow smile. She remembered him as a teenager, unwilling to be curbed by an elder’s lecture, or by any of the complaints sent back to his mamm.
“That might be your problem,” she breathed. “You should have taken a few more of those swats to heart.”
“Maybe. But my problem is the opposite of yours.”
So she had a problem now? At the moment her problem was standing shirtless in front of her talking about strawberry jam, his voice low, and his fingers stroking the tender inside of her wrist.
“And what’s mine?” she asked as a shiver of goose bumps went up her arm.
“You were told to avoid jam,” he said. “And so you turned your back on it, and you never try it. Ever. And you think you’re better for your sacrifice.”
“What’s the jam, then?” she asked with a teasing smile. “I feel like that changed.”
“A kiss,” he said.
“Is that what this was, a simple kiss?”
He shrugged. “Maybe not quite so simple . . . I’d like a little bit of credit for having done it well, but this was a kiss, yah.”
His smoldering gaze met hers and her stomach flipped. He was thinking of doing it again, she could tell by the way his gaze moved down to her lips.
“You waited and waited for the perfect man,” he said. “And I think you’ll discover that when you find someone who’s religious enough, respectable enough, serious enough, financially comfortable enough . . . that he won’t be able to kiss you like I just did.”
“What makes you so sure?” she breathed.
“Call it a hunch,” he said. “I’ve never had a kiss like that before either . . .”
“Why do you hate that I want a good man?” she whispered.
“I don’t hate it,” he said.
“You seem to.”
“I just . . .” He shrugged. “I think you were told the same kind of half-truths I was.”
She eyed him uncertainly. “Like what?”
“I was told that out with the Englishers, there was freedom. And there was . . . but I ended up with even less when I went to jail,” he replied. “I think you’ve been told that a perfect man exists out there, and if you’re a very, very good woman, you can earn him.”
Elizabeth dropped her gaze. “You make it sound like a business transaction.”
“What if there isn’t a payoff?” he asked. “What if there isn’t some guaranteed ideal life for those who follow all the rules? What if we’re all just doing our best, and the rain falls on the righteous and
the unrighteous alike?”
Then everything she’d based her life on would be in vain, and the life she’d longed for would feel depressingly out of reach. If there was no difference between the good people and the bad, if there was no reward for doing things Gott’s way, why did the Amish carry on so stoically down the narrow path?
But this sounded a little too much like a ploy to get her to go further than a kiss. She’d been warned about this—every girl was. And if he was using the Bible to try to convince her . . .
“Are you trying to talk me into something?” she asked hesitantly.
Solomon released her wrist and he winced. “You think that’s what I was doing?”
“I don’t know . . .” she admitted.
“Well, it isn’t,” he said softly, and he took a deliberate step back. “I told you. I only ever took a teaspoon of that jam. I wasn’t asking for more than a kiss from a woman who isn’t my wife. I never will.”
He turned back to the sink and opened the cupboard. He pulled down a plastic jug of vinegar and a box of baking soda. He opened the vinegar, sniffed it, closed it again, and picked up the shirt.
“You just need to—” she started.
“I’ll figure it out.” He cast her a smile that still retained some of that earlier smolder. “I might be more self-sufficient than you think.”
He was giving her an escape, and if she didn’t want to regret this evening, she’d take it.
She nodded. “I’ll head up to bed, then.”
Solomon reached out and touched her cheek with the back of one finger. “Good night, Lizzie.”
What was it about this man that one touch like that could make her start longing for more? She needed to get upstairs and clear her head. That was what she needed. So she turned and headed up the staircase, and she didn’t allow herself to look back.
She could hear the water turning on for a moment, though, and then off. Then on. He was scrubbing his shirt, and she did hope he got it clean.
The problem with stains, both the kind in fabric and the kind in reputations, was that they didn’t always wash out, even with the best scrubbing and with following all the advice. Not every shirt was salvageable. There was a little faded discoloration that could take a church item of clothing and turn it into workwear. As quickly as that. It had happened to the Yoders already.
And if Elizabeth didn’t want her own reputation to sink her, she’d best keep her head on her shoulders. His touch wasn’t worth her entire future. She shivered. At least that was what she’d realize once she had some time to breathe. She knew it.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning Solomon was quiet over breakfast, but Elizabeth felt his sock foot touch her bare toes under the table. It was a casual touch, but he didn’t move away either. She looked up at him over her bowl of oatmeal and he gave her a small smile.
His kiss wasn’t quite so forgettable as she’d hoped. She shouldn’t be playing with this . . . even if he wasn’t pushing for more, those searing kisses were enough. His arms, his hands, the way his dark gaze could pin her to the spot.
“Did you get the stain out?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yah,” Solomon replied. “My shirt is on the line outside.”
“A stain?” Bridget asked, coming back to the table with a plate of toast. “What stain?”
“I got some shoe polish on my shirt,” he said.
“I can take care of that for you,” Bridget said. “You could have left it.”
“I’m not leaving extra work for my mammi,” Solomon said, shooting his grandmother a smile. “I scrubbed it out.”
“Easy as that?” Bridget asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No, Elizabeth gave me some pointers,” he replied.
Bridget turned her gaze to Elizabeth, her expression prim. She didn’t look away either, and for a couple of beats Elizabeth felt the heat rise in her face.
“I . . . helped him,” Elizabeth said.
“Ah. Well, let’s finish eating and you two can get the produce set up. If you two can handle it alone for a few hours, I have some housework I want to finish up.”
Elizabeth helped Bridget clear the table when they were done eating, and then they all turned their energy to getting the produce ready for the stand once more. Elizabeth had seen two police cruisers drive slowly down their road already, so maybe Seth had said something. Unruly Englishers were a danger to more than just the Lantz home.
Elizabeth and Bridget carried a plastic tub of produce up from the cool basement between them, and Solomon carried another one. They worked quickly, but no one spoke much.
“So, if we see them, we call the police?” Elizabeth asked as they deposited the tub on the kitchen floor and she rubbed her hands.
“Yah, I think so,” Bridget said.
Elizabeth looked toward Solomon, who looked more sober than she’d seen him before, and her stomach sank. If Solomon was scared, she should be, too.
“It’ll be fine,” he said when he seemed to sense her eyes on him.
“And this is the phone,” Bridget said, handing it over. It felt strange to have something like this. Some farmers in other communities had cell phones they kept in their barn in case of emergencies, but their community hadn’t crossed that line, and she’d never seen one close up before.
Solomon picked up a tub of produce and headed for the side door, bumping the screen open ahead of himself and disappearing outside.
“Could you put the last tub on the porch for Sol?” Bridget asked. “Then come inside. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
It was about her father, no doubt. Bridget knew he was returning and, very likely, she’d been thinking that over.
“Sure.” Elizabeth sucked in a breath and headed for the last tub of produce. This had been a wonderful respite, and Bridget had her grandson now. But a wave of sadness washed over her as she carried the tub outside.
Solomon met her at the porch, and when he took the tub from her, his fingers brushed over hers.
“Ready to head up to the stand?” he asked, his voice low. His dark gaze held hers and she felt her face warming in response to him. She shook her head.
“No, I have to talk to Bridget,” she said. “I’ll meet you up there.”
“Everything okay?” he asked, his gaze moving over her shoulder toward the screen door.
“I don’t know. I’ll see.”
Maybe it would be good discipline to get her away from Solomon anyway. Whatever she was feeling for him wasn’t helpful.
“Okay . . . see you at the road.” His gaze lingered on her for a moment, and then he turned and trotted down the steps.
Elizabeth went back inside and found Bridget standing beside the kitchen table, her hands clasped in front of her and her gaze locked on a spot on the floor in front of her, glasses on the table beside her.
“Is it about my daet?” Elizabeth asked.
“Hmm?” Bridget shook her head. “No, it’s not your father.”
“Oh!” Elizabeth felt a weight come off her shoulders.
“It’s about Sol.” Bridget licked her lips. “And you.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her chest.
“What about us?” she asked.
“This is very uncomfortable for me to talk about, so please just let me say my piece,” Bridget said. “I know that I asked you to be his friend and to make him feel welcome, but I only asked that of you because I was certain of your character and I thought you might be able to help him. So this may very well be my fault . . .”
“What?” Elizabeth asked, although she thought she knew.
“I saw you last night,” Bridget said, and some pink tinged her cheeks.
“Oh—” Elizabeth’s face heated, too.
“So as the one who is responsible for this home, it falls on me to speak with you about it,” Bridget went on. “You have a reputation to worry about, just like every young woman. But you have more against you because of your father. Now, if you want to find
a good husband and get married, you’ll have to guard your reputation like a cow with her calf. You’re a sweet girl with a big heart and you’ll make a lovely wife, but that won’t happen if you aren’t careful.”
“I know—” Elizabeth felt tears of embarrassment mist her eyes.
“Sol is a good-looking young man,” Bridget went on. “But he’s not in a stable place right now either. He’s only just back from prison. He might think he’s ready for marriage and kinner, but—”
“He isn’t ready for them. He doesn’t claim to be,” Elizabeth interjected.
“Then what on earth are you doing?” Bridget breathed, looking up at last and fixing her with an agonized gaze. “I thought at the very least he was making promises.”
“I—” Elizabeth sucked in a breath. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Not nearly enough, obviously.”
“You grew up without a mamm, my girl,” Bridget said. “But you know how things work. A good girl doesn’t do those things! A kiss should be brief enough that it can be stolen through a closing door. That wasn’t what I saw!”
“Bridget, I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said. “And you’re right. I know that!”
“Good girls wait,” Bridget said firmly. “And so do good men. If you don’t have things together enough to discuss marriage seriously, you have no business kissing each other or letting him hold you like that. Pregnancies happen—”
“We would never go that far!” Elizabeth cut in. “And we were both very clear on that.”
“That’s very sweet that you think so,” Bridget replied curtly. “And many a girl has thought she never would either, until things tumbled too far in the privacy of a hayloft and she found herself pregnant. Young people think they are the first ones to have invented a passionate kiss, or even the act of procreation. You are not the first to have experienced any of these feelings, and you wouldn’t be the first to fall pregnant either. You remember that.”
“I will.” Elizabeth swallowed hard.
“And one more thing,” Bridget said briskly, and then her expression softened and she picked up her glasses from the table. “I don’t think you’re a bad girl. I think you’re human. I think you have feelings, and a body, and hopes for your own future. And that combination can get out of control very quickly. I was young once, too, so I’m not trying to begrudge you your youth. I just need you to be more aware of what you’re doing.”
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