“And you’re the sister of Johannes’s ex-fiancée,” Sovilla said, turning toward Elizabeth.
Elizabeth blinked at Sovilla’s forthrightness. “Yah . . . I’m her sister.”
“What’s Johannes like?” Sovilla asked. “From your perspective, I mean. As someone who saw him in a relationship.”
That was a good question to ask—one untainted by jealousy, by the sound of it.
“I’m not sure I could say . . .” Elizabeth said uncomfortably. Her sister had confided in her when she and Johannes had some disagreement or other, but it always blew over quickly.
“Johannes is very kind,” Elizabeth said. “And he’s private.”
“I see.” Sovilla dropped her gaze for a moment, then reached for another cucumber to quarter. “What I mean is, does he pick fights?” Sovilla asked. “Does he get sensitive and take it out on the woman?”
The questions a woman who’d been married before asked were different apparently.
“No, he wasn’t like that,” Elizabeth said.
“Is he jealous?” Sovilla asked. “You see, if I’m agreeing to marry a man I hardly know, I need to be cautious. And I need to know what he is really like—not just the nice parts of him. And I think that you would be the woman who would have seen those . . . other parts.”
“He never was the jealous type with my sister,” Elizabeth replied.
Elizabeth glanced toward Bridget, and the older woman was watching the exchange with an intent look on her face. What did Bridget want from her?
“No one will tell me this, but does he love your sister still?” Sovilla asked, her voice low.
There it was—the right question.
“Yah,” Elizabeth replied. “I think he does.”
Sovilla nodded.
“They were together a long time,” Elizabeth went on. “He adored her.”
“And I love Rueben still,” Sovilla said. “It might be fair.”
Elizabeth stood silent for a moment, wondering if she should stop talking now, but then she blurted out, “Why are you doing this? Why are you willing to marry a stranger?”
Sovilla licked her lips. “I need a husband to provide for me.”
“Don’t we all,” she said.
Sovilla smiled ever so faintly. “But I don’t have your good looks, Elizabeth. You’ve got a beautiful face and figure, and . . . and I can treat a good man well. I can love him. I can cook for him and mend his clothes and give him more kinner. I can do those things for a man whose character I can trust. But I’m not sure that another man will come courting.”
“Rueben did,” Elizabeth replied.
“No, Rueben’s uncle introduced us and told him that I was a woman he could trust and count on, and that got Rueben’s attention. It wasn’t seeing me in service.” Sovilla sighed. “I know my strengths, and you know yours.”
“Why the rush?” Elizabeth asked.
“I have some family I’m staying with, but I’m a burden to them,” Sovilla said. “I’m trying to do what’s right. Sometimes the best way to mend a broken heart is to move forward and love another. It might be the answer for him, too. At least your bishop seems to think so.”
“Is there a connection between you and Johannes?” Bridget asked quietly.
Sovilla sucked in a breath, and for a moment her cheeks pinked. “It’s hard to tell. We’re both nervous. He seems kind. He’s . . . gentle. I like his smile, and he has very nice eyes. We talked a little bit, and he seems very decent. But does he feel anything for me?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask him.”
Sovilla’s somber face turned almost sweet. She had gentleness, too, it seemed, that shone through when she mentioned Johannes.
“What if my sister returns?” Elizabeth asked. “What if Johannes and Lovina set eyes on each other and all those feelings come rushing back for both of them? What then?”
Sovilla picked up a jar, and for a moment she didn’t move. Then she said softly, “That’s the worry, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth looked toward Bridget, wondering how angry the older woman would be, but Bridget was calmly adding dill weed and peppercorns to each jar, looking entirely unperturbed. If Elizabeth didn’t know better, she’d think that Bridget wanted Sovilla to consider these things . . .
“Are you worried about it?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yah,” Sovilla replied, and she met Elizabeth’s gaze with a look of such open frankness that Elizabeth’s heart squeezed in response. “Very.”
“Have you talked to Johannes about it?” Bridget asked. “Have you asked him how he feels about Lovina?”
Elizabeth put her hands on the table to keep them from trembling. What did Johannes say about Lovina when her family wasn’t there to hear it? That was a good question.
“He says that Lovina hurt him very deeply when she left,” Sovilla replied. “And he’s angry now. He’s upset with her for having walked off like that, and he said that he doesn’t want to marry and have kinner with a woman who could see a perfectly happy life with the Englishers.” Sovilla’s gaze flickered toward Elizabeth apologetically. “And without him.”
That was what he’d said? Elizabeth caught her breath. He’d only ever told them that he missed Lovina. He’d never said he was angry....
Elizabeth might be trying to freeze time for her sister, but it wasn’t fair to anyone else, was it? Johannes might be feeling more complicated emotions than he’d ever admit to Lovina’s family, and he had every right to them.
“Do you think she’s a bad person?” Elizabeth asked suddenly.
Sovilla shook her head. “No. She just isn’t here. And neither is Rueben. I can understand being furious with the one who went away.”
At least Sovilla knew about Lovina, and she had a chance to think this through with all the information in front of her. If Johannes did marry Sovilla, there would be no guilt about withheld information. Their happiness would be entirely up to them.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning Elizabeth walked next to Solomon up the drive toward the produce stand. All was quiet. Inside the house, Bridget was doing some needlework that she meant to sell in town that fall. Even with the long summer days and fragrant breezes, Amish minds were moving toward the harvest. The seasons didn’t stop.
And perhaps that was some wisdom that needed to land in Elizabeth’s heart. Time didn’t halt because they wanted it to, and people moved on. Meeting Sovilla had changed Elizabeth’s perspective. She’d been so intent on keeping Johannes from marrying a stranger, holding out hope that things could go back to the way they were, but she could see now that it had been selfish of her. That wasn’t a possibility.
Solomon carried a bag of potatoes over one shoulder with relative ease. He walked along slowly, and when she looked over at him, he shot her a smile. He was flirting and she knew it . . . but it was nice, all the same.
The day was bright, warm sunlight filtering through the leaves overhead. The quarter horses came up to the fence, nickering for a carrot that Solomon carried in one hand. He stepped over the ditch, that bag of potatoes still balanced on one shoulder, and fed the horses one carrot each before he jumped back over. The sack of potatoes slipped and he caught it, then hoisted it back up, his muscles straining against his shirt.
“You seem happier,” Elizabeth said.
“Yah. I am.”
“So my daet was . . . helpful?” she asked, squinting at him as a ray of sunlight dazzled her eyes.
“Yah, he was.” Solomon’s hand brushed hers, and she found herself holding her breath.
They hadn’t discussed this yesterday. She’d been afraid to ask when he came back, and then Bridget had kept them both busy—Solomon outside fixing the corral fence and Elizabeth inside finishing up those pickles. Was it intentional on the old woman’s part? Very likely.
“What did my father say?” Elizabeth asked.
“He was talking about times when we might not have as many choices as we’d like. And even in tho
se times, Gott is with us. He doesn’t just abandon us because we’ve gone too far.” His fingers brushed hers again, and this time it was more intentional. She spread her fingers and he twined his through hers. She let out a slow breath, then glanced over her shoulder toward the house.
Solomon looked back, too. “It’s okay. No one’s watching.”
“Yah . . .” They were alone.
“It isn’t that I don’t believe in our way of life, Lizzie,” he said quietly. “If I hadn’t messed up the way I did, it would be an option for me. I could come home. But I’m not just a prodigal son anymore. This isn’t just between me and my family. This involves a community.”
“But you believe in the Amish faith?” she asked.
“Yah. I do.”
“And you’d still leave it?” she breathed.
“I’m not leaving the faith, I’m . . . finding a life. I don’t really have a choice anymore.” His dark gaze met hers pleadingly. “I can’t leave Bountiful and start over somewhere else—I have to report to my parole officer. And if after I’m finished with parole, I went to some other Amish community and lied, just didn’t tell them I have a criminal record, I don’t think I could face myself. I would live month after month and year after year wondering when they’d find out the truth.”
Leaving and going to some other Amish community—that was her plan.
“You think that’s what I’m doing?” she asked. “You think I’m going to be living a lie if I go find a husband in another community?”
“No.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re just going to where the community might have less of a personal connection to your daet’s crime. You’re going to where people won’t be thinking of your family every time they look at you. That’s different. You’re escaping someone else’s crime. For me, it’s my own. I can’t run from that. No matter where I go, my prison time is going to matter.”
“And that makes you feel better?” she asked, shaking her head. “You’re all cheery this morning because you’re more determined than ever to leave?”
“I’m not celebrating, Lizzie, if that’s what you think. The Englishers have more options for me at this point,” he replied quietly. “And after talking to your daet, I don’t feel as guilty about accepting what they can give me. I feel like Gott could even bless it.”
So her father was still at it—chasing the young people out of the community in his own unique way. Would it never end?
“Lizzie?”
They’d reached the end of the drive and stopped in the shade. The road was empty, and Solomon tugged her hand, bringing her closer so that her dress brushed his pants and she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.
“Some things are inevitable,” he whispered. “At least after you’ve made as many mistakes as I have . . .”
“Will you miss us?”
Solomon looked down at her hand in his, squeezing her fingers in a grip so tight it almost hurt, and when he lifted his gaze again, his lips were inches from hers. His soft brown gaze met hers and he licked his lips.
“I’ll miss you, Lizzie . . . you have no idea how much.”
She felt her eyes mist, and Solomon dipped his head down and brushed his lips against hers. It was a brief kiss, tender, but he pulled back just as quickly.
“You’ll forget me, Solomon,” she said. Right now she was in front of him, living with his grandmother, and unavoidable. But when he left again . . .
“No.” He shook his head, then looked around. “I won’t forget you. And I won’t forget this life either. Right now I dream of prison and wake up shaking. I have a feeling that when I leave, I’ll dream of this . . . of you—” He turned to look at her again, and she saw the sadness in his eyes. “I’ll dream of the life I wanted but couldn’t have . . .” His voice caught. “Those dreams will be worse.”
Elizabeth squeezed his fingers, unsure of what to say. She’d miss him, too, more than he would know. But that was her own fault—she’d allowed herself to start down this path.
“Lizzie, do you think it’s possible to keep your Amish heart out there with the Englishers?” he asked. “Do you think Gott will still recognize the Amish in me? Because your daet seems to think so.”
“My daet might not be the best man to give spiritual guidance,” she said.
“Your daet is the only one who can right now,” he said.
She turned away. Was this her father’s calling now—to convince rebels of the rightness of their cause? What had happened to their community? What had happened to all the people who had given Elizabeth roots in her Amish life?
A car stopped in front of the stand, and Elizabeth went into the stall to prepare to take money while Solomon pushed his straw hat back on his head and helped the woman bag up her purchase.
“That’s twenty-two dollars,” Elizabeth said.
The woman handed over two twenties and Elizabeth opened the zippered pouch to make change. The cell phone was in there, too, and she paused when her hand brushed against the cool plastic.
It was permitted for safety, but it was just another concession in this community.
She pulled out the change and handed it over with a smile.
The woman was just pulling away when Elizabeth saw a red pickup truck rumbling down the gravel road. It was moving faster than it should—definitely over the speed limit—and her heart hammered in her chest.
“Is that—” she started.
“I don’t know.” But Solomon’s voice sounded nervous, too. “Why don’t you go back to the house?”
“Are you coming?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, but he also didn’t move in her direction either.
“Solomon, if you do something stupid, you’ll go back to prison!” she said, her voice shaking. “Come with me.”
“Elizabeth, go back to the house!” He turned and shot her a glare. “Now!”
Solomon’s voice boomed with authority and she reached for the money bag. The truck rumbled to a stop and the Englishers jumped out. Elizabeth sank to the floor out of sight and pulled the cell phone out of the bag and flipped it open. With trembling fingers, she dialed 9-1-1.
“Out here alone, are you?” one of the Englishers said.
“Where’s the girl?” It was the big man with the grip like steel—she recognized the voice.
“9-1-1. What’s the nature of your emergency?” a woman’s voice said on the other end of the phone. Elizabeth pressed it against her ear.
“We need help,” she whispered, keeping her voice as quiet as possible.
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” the woman said. “Are you able to speak a little louder?”
“We need help,” she whispered again, but this time her voice cracked and Elizabeth winced.
“Where are you?” the operator asked. “And do you need police, fire, or ambulance?”
“We need police,” she breathed. “Please . . .” And she recited the address.
Outside the shelter, Elizabeth could hear the scuffling of boots against gravel.
“Where’s the girl?” The big man’s voice sent a shiver up her spine.
Elizabeth’s elbow brushed against the money box, and it clanked softly. She winced, freezing.
“What’s that?” one of the Englishers demanded. “She’s here! I heard her!”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together and slowly closed the phone.
“Heard what?” Solomon demanded, his voice rising, too. “I’m a businessman here. Get lost. If you aren’t buying produce, keep driving.”
“A businessman,” said a mocking voice. “Really? You call this hovel a business? You’re more like a beggar.”
The men laughed at that.
“Are you buying or what?” Solomon’s voice stayed in control, but she heard him move off to the side of the stall, opposite the door. “I’ve got potatoes—”
“What do we want with potatoes?” one Englisher laughed, but they seemed to be following him. Solomon was leading them away fr
om the stall—
Elizabeth forced her limbs forward and crept to the doorway. The voices were raised in argument on the other side, but when she stepped outside, she heard something that made her stomach drop.
“This is for getting me in trouble with the cops, Farmer,” the big Englisher growled, and she heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh.
She didn’t stop—Elizabeth lifted her skirts and ran as fast as she could go down the drive. And with every step she took and every rasping breath she dragged into her lungs, she sent up a silent prayer: Let him win!
Because three against one wasn’t fair, but if she’d seen one thing about Solomon Lantz, it was that he could fight like the devil himself.
And for the first time in her life, she was praying for exactly that.
* * *
Solomon’s head rang from the force of the blow and he staggered backward. His first instinct was to ball his hands into fists and wait for the first chance to land a punch that would bruise a kidney. He’d learned how to do that in prison—how to aim for internal organs that would leave a grown man writhing in pain and possibly bleeding internally.
And in that second when his fingers were curling into fists, he knew which man he’d hit first, and he knew which rib he’d break, too....
Except something deep inside him was holding him back. Fighting—more of it. This wasn’t the Amish way, and his Amish heart, which still beat the deep rhythm of his soul, was reminding him. Amish didn’t fight.
“I didn’t do anything.” Solomon spat bloody spittle onto the ground. “The cops sent me away and I left.”
He’d go to prison again if he hit this man back. The fact that he hadn’t been caught the first time he’d beaten him was a miracle, and if he took the bait this time, it would definitely be breaking parole. But he couldn’t let them go after Elizabeth . . . She needed time to get out of there, and that meant they had to be focused on him.
Fighting him . . . debating him . . . or beating him.
“Fine. Then this is for breaking my nose. It was a lucky hit. You’re not going to be so lucky this time . . .” And a flood of filthy language came out of the man’s mouth.
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