Solomon straightened, his head still buzzing, and he said, “I’m sorry about that. But it couldn’t be avoided.”
He was being a smart-mouth and he knew that was suicide, but he wasn’t going to humbly beseech this man’s forgiveness either.
Men like these who preyed on vulnerable women got beaten in prison, too.
The man swung again, and Solomon ducked this time, stepping backward.
“Grab him!” the big man barked to the other two, and Solomon’s heart stuttered in his chest.
This was it—he had to choose his path now and live by the consequences. He could fight them yet—he could get away, even—but what about Elizabeth? Fighting wasn’t the only way to win. The Amish had been teaching that very truth for centuries. He could still be Amish, even in exile, and that small, flickering hope was starting to surge.
“I didn’t say anything to the police,” Solomon said quietly. “I’m minding my own business. I’m selling vegetables. That’s all. You can leave now, and I’ll never say a word about this little visit.”
“I’m sure.” The big man shrugged exaggeratedly. “Why would you tell anyone?”
The other two men grabbed his arms, and while he twisted free a couple of times, they secured him at last, and Solomon stared into the sneering face of the Englisher thug who stood there cracking his knuckles with loud, liquid pops.
Oh, Gott . . . he prayed silently. That was all, nothing more. Oh, Gott . . .
* * *
Solomon slowly awoke to the sound of sirens. His head hurt, as did most of his body, and he turned his face to the side and coughed. As he did so, his side gave a sharp pain. He could feel gravel under his body and he moved his leg—at least that didn’t hurt.
“Lie still now, sir,” a female voice said.
He opened his eyes a crack and he saw two women leaning over him—one an Englisher police officer and the other was Elizabeth. A siren whooped again and he struggled to sit up.
“Sir, you’d best lie down until the ambulance gets here,” the officer said firmly.
“No, I’m fine,” he said, and he coughed again and lifted himself to his elbow. That same pain in his side stabbed again. He knew what it felt like to be seriously hurt, and while he’d been beaten, he was in one piece still.
“Solomon—” It was Elizabeth now. “No, no, lie back—”
“Lizzie, I’m fine. I feel stupid flat on my back,” he murmured. “Where are those Englishers?”
“We’ve arrested three men,” the officer replied. “Were there more than three who attacked you, sir?”
The red pickup truck was still there, and a couple of officers were leaning inside, doing a search by the look of it. The Englishers who’d attacked him were in cuffs, pushed over the hoods of two police cars, and the big thug who’d been beating him stared directly at him from where he was restrained, his face pressed against the metal hood.
Standing a few feet away with a rolling pin in one hand stood his grandmother, talking to an officer who was taking notes on a pad of paper. He squinted.
“No, just the three,” he said. “Why does Mammi have a rolling pin?”
It felt like a stupid thing to ask just now, but it was so out of place.
“You should be thankful for that, sir,” the officer replied. “She and this young lady were using it to fend off your attackers when we arrived.”
“What?” He turned toward Elizabeth.
“What would you have us do?” Elizabeth demanded. “Bridget has some good aim with that thing, too.”
He started to laugh—the humor of it all striking him all at once—and with every shake of laughter, he let out a soft moan.
“I was trying to end it peacefully,” he said. “I was trying to do this the Amish way . . . and you beat on them with a blunt object?”
The police officer’s lips turned up in shared mirth, then she sobered. “Do you know why they attacked you?” the officer asked.
“They came by before and were giving us trouble when they were drunk,” Solomon said. “And then they were harassing me in town. I don’t know them personally, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“And your name, sir?” the officer asked.
“Solomon Lantz.”
“Well, Mr. Lantz, we’re going to have you looked over by the EMTs,” she said. “We recommend you go to the hospital, though.”
“No,” he said, and he grunted as he tried to move his shoulder. “No hospital. I’ll be fine.”
Elizabeth leaned closer, her cool fingers lingering on his cheek.
“Oh, Sol . . . why didn’t you fight back?” she breathed.
“He didn’t defend himself at all?” the officer asked.
“No!” There were tears in Elizabeth’s voice. “He didn’t. He just . . . he just stood there, and they kept hitting him. . . .”
Her words trailed off, and she wiped at a tear on her cheek that left a streak of dirt in its place.
“I’m Amish,” he growled. “We don’t fight.”
He hadn’t been Amish for a long time, but he was today.
Another siren could be heard coming up the road, and Solomon watched as the Englishers were put into the police cars by the officers and an ambulance came on the scene.
“There are the EMTs now.” The officer looked relieved. “And we’ll have a few more questions for you, too. Do you think you can stand?”
“Yah, I can stand.”
“Let us help you up.”
After being checked over and patched up by two EMTs who strongly advised him to visit a hospital before they left, Solomon allowed the police officers to drive him down to the house. He answered their questions, showed them his ID, and then answered the flood of follow-up questions once they saw his criminal history. Because Elizabeth had seen what had happened, it wasn’t just his word against the Englishers anymore, which was as close to being believed as he would get.
“So, you didn’t fight back,” the female officer said, still seeming stuck on that detail. “Why not? You obviously shed your Amish ideals quite a long time ago.”
“Because I’m trying to come back,” he said, suddenly feeling very tired. “I’m trying to be better than I was.”
“Legally, self-defense is permitted, sir,” she said. “Just so you know.”
“Not for the Amish,” he replied.
“Are you going to press charges?” the officer asked.
He shook his head. “No.”
It was an automatic response. The Amish didn’t press charges and they didn’t sue. They forgave and they kept to themselves. They trusted Gott to protect them, to make up for their losses, and to bless them more strongly than anyone could wrong them.
“I understand that you’re trying to return to your Amish faith,” the officer said slowly. “I can respect that. I’m a Christian, too, so I’m even impressed by it. And if you don’t press charges, we can charge them for disturbing the peace, but they’ll be on the streets tomorrow.”
The look in the officer’s eyes was haunted, and he wondered what she was imagining happening as a result of him doing this the Amish way.
“You can’t stop them?” Solomon asked.
“No. Not quite so easily as that,” she replied. “The safest thing for you to do is to formally press charges so that if they come near you again, they’ll face harsher penalties.”
If those Englisher animals wanted to find Elizabeth, they’d be back. Doing this the Amish way was fine if he was sacrificing himself, if they were beating on him, but the thought of them getting their hands on Elizabeth or his grandmother made his blood run cold. If they tried it when he was here, he’d damn his own soul by what he did to them. If he wasn’t here to protect the women . . . A shiver slid down his spine.
Solomon looked across the kitchen to where his grandmother stood with tear-filled eyes. She had one hand over her mouth and her kapp hung askew on her head where a pin had come loose—something she hadn’t noticed yet. How deeply had he disa
ppointed her all these years? And now to come home and bring violence and distress in his wake . . . He might not have lifted his hand in violence this time, but by holding back, he’d forced his own grandmother to do it for him.
“Mammi, I’ve tried to do this the Amish way,” he said, his voice shaking. “You can see that, right? I tried.”
Bridget nodded, tears welling, but she didn’t say anything.
“I’ll press charges,” he said, turning back to the officer. “They were harassing Elizabeth and they wanted to find her again. Press charges.”
It wasn’t the Amish thing to do, but it was right.
Chapter Fifteen
That evening Elizabeth took the last of the supper dishes from the table and carried them to the sink. They’d had chicken drumsticks and mashed potatoes—Solomon’s favorite when he was a child, Bridget had said. The old woman fussed over her grandson and cooked—her way of showing him how much she loved him.
And Elizabeth could only help. So she cooked alongside Bridget and cleaned up afterward, letting Bridget focus on Solomon. She scrubbed and wiped and put things away. It kept her hands busy and, for the most part, kept her mind from moving back to the memory of Solomon held helpless between those two men while the big brute pounded on him. Any time the thought rose up on her mind, tears came with it.
It had been a quiet, solemn day filled with bringing fresh ice packs to Solomon and doing the daily chores. As the day wore on, Solomon’s ribs, shoulder, and face started to swell. He was resting in the sitting room, laying on the couch with one of those ice packs on his shoulder.
“I don’t understand how this happened,” Bridget said quietly, joining Elizabeth at the sink. She put the plug in the sink and turned on the tap.
“It’s because we couldn’t call the police the first time,” Elizabeth said. “If we had, they wouldn’t have come back—”
But they couldn’t. How many times had an Amish community been forced to forgive when something horrific happened? How many times did they turn to Gott to soften their hearts when they wanted vengeance just as badly as anyone else? Sometimes Gott didn’t intervene and they were called to forgive, and to grow, and to pull together in spite of the pain. Sometimes Gott called His people to grieve.
“We’re told that Gott doesn’t make mistakes,” Bridget said. “And I have to believe that this wasn’t a mistake either. You were kept safe and we got help for Solomon in time. I’m still torn about whether or not my own violence was a sin, though—”
Elizabeth could remember Bridget, her rolling pin hoisted over her head as she walloped the men away from her grandson. She’d shouted as she ran at them, and when one of the men came at the old woman, he was met with a blinding crack upside his head.
Elizabeth cast Bridget a smile. “You were really something, Bridget. I’ve never seen a rolling pin wielded like a weapon before.”
“Don’t you act like that wasn’t shameful!” Bridget shot back. “I’ve never beaten a human being in my life and now, with my very own rolling pin, I’ve pounded on the backs of human beings.”
And one head, but Elizabeth didn’t want to make Bridget feel worse.
“It worked,” Elizabeth said.
“Yah, it worked . . .” Bridget was silent for a moment. “And yet I’m reminded of Dirk Willems, the Anabaptist man who escaped prison in the Netherlands and ran for his life. But when the soldier chasing him fell into a frozen lake, he went back to save him, and as a result, Dirk was recaptured and martyred. He sacrificed his own freedom and ultimately his life to save the life of his enemy.” Bridget sucked in a breath. “He didn’t beat the backs of anyone . . .”
It was a story every Amish child was raised with—the ideal they all aspired to. When life was so deeply valued—that a believer would sacrifice his own life to save the life of someone who wanted to kill him—that was truly following the Gospel.
“Dirk Willems didn’t fight them, that’s true,” Elizabeth agreed. “But he did run for his life, Bridget. He escaped prison—he didn’t just sit there and submit to his own death! His life was a gift from Gott and he didn’t lay it down lightly. Those Englishers were in no danger of dying. You saved your grandson, and me . . . and maybe even yourself. Our lives have value, too.”
“Those Englishers have souls that matter to Gott, my girl,” Bridget said solemnly.
“And they are still in possession of them,” Elizabeth replied.
“I always thought that my grandson’s rashness came from his mother’s side,” Bridget said quietly. “My son was a sober and quiet man, but Anke was fiery and passionate. She can’t help the personality that Gott furnished her with, but I did blame her more liberal upbringing and her tendency to react emotionally before she thought things through. Her family was just . . . rash.”
Elizabeth stayed silent, her hands busy with the dishes.
“But it turns out that I’m capable of some equally fiery reactions,” Bridget said. “Perhaps Sol is a little bit like his grandmother after all . . .”
Elizabeth couldn’t see how Solomon would make a life in their community now. When word about this attack got out, people would jump to the same conclusion—trouble followed Solomon Lantz, and so did dangerous Englishers. What man in his right mind would bring Solomon onto his land to work now?
Even Elizabeth was feeling shaken, and it had occurred to her that it might be wise to go back to stay with her brother, considering the circumstances. But if she left Bridget, the old woman would be alone. And Bridget couldn’t be chased away from her own home because of some rebel Englishers. This had been the plight of the Amish for generations—the passive fight to simply live without harassment.
Besides, if Elizabeth hadn’t been there, who would have called the police? If it weren’t for her, Solomon might be dead.
“Elizabeth,” Bridget said when they’d finished cleaning up, “I want to go upstairs and pray. Would you check on Sol and make sure he’s comfortable?”
“Of course,” Elizabeth replied.
“Thank you.” Bridget nodded. “I’ll be a little while.”
When Bridget had made her way upstairs, Elizabeth took a mug of sweetened tea into the sitting room. There were no lamps lit, and outside the window the sun was sinking low, the sky aglow in coral pink. She paused in the doorway, the mug in her hands. Was he sleeping? It was better to let him rest, heal. Sleep was Gott’s gift to the injured.
“Lizzie?” Solomon adjusted himself on the couch.
“Are you awake?” Elizabeth asked. She couldn’t see him very well in the low light, but she could make out the shine of his eyes now. “Here—I brought you some tea.”
She crossed the room to the couch and put the cup on a side table. Then she helped Solomon sit up a little more against a pillow. He settled back against it with a soft sigh. His face was bruised, and his nose looked puffy, too. She wanted to reach out and touch that battered flesh, but she wouldn’t.
“I should get a lamp—” she started, but Solomon reached out and caught her hand. His touch was gentle but firm, and while she could have pulled away, it froze her to the spot.
“No . . . it’s okay,” he said softly. “I don’t need light. I can see you just fine.”
Hardly—she could barely see him, so she knew he wasn’t telling the truth. But his touch softened, and even then she couldn’t bring herself to pull away.
“Your grandmother went upstairs to pray,” she said.
“I heard that.” He tugged on her gently, and she sank down onto the edge of the couch. Even this was too much—she should sit on the floor or, better yet, across the room. But everything seemed upside down lately, including whatever it was she was feeling for this man.
“How much did you hear us saying?” Elizabeth whispered.
“Most of it,” he said. “Mammi shouldn’t feel guilty. She hardly hurt them.”
“She did get one of them upside the head,” Elizabeth replied. “It didn’t seem kind to remind her of that.”
<
br /> A smile tickled the corners of Solomon’s lips, and Elizabeth felt laughter bubbling up inside her. Suddenly, with the danger past, she could see the humor in it all—the tiny woman, her kapp strings flying out behind her, beating back three large men with her rolling pin. She’d been like Gideon in the Bible—the unlikely warrior.
“This isn’t funny,” she said, laughing softly.
“Very serious,” he replied, but he smiled ruefully.
“It is serious, though,” she said, sobering. “You could have been killed, Solomon.”
He lifted her fingers to his lips and pressed a warm kiss against them. “But I wasn’t.”
“I know, but—”
“Lizzie—” His voice held more command. “I wasn’t. Okay? I’m in one piece. See?”
He moved her hand down to his chest and pressed her palm against his even, slow heartbeat. For a moment she sat motionless, feeling the rhythm beneath her fingers, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt and the roughness of his callused hand covering hers.
Elizabeth sucked in a wavering breath. “They were beating on you and . . . and . . . I could hear it when his fist connected with . . . with . . .” The images of his poor body at the mercy of those men was too much to carry with her. Her words choked in her throat, and Solomon pushed himself up to a seated position and before she could pull away or stand up, he wrapped his arms around her.
“Hey . . .” He breathed against her hair. “I’m okay. See? You feel me here? I’m solid and strong and just fine.”
“You’re not fine,” she said, pulling back. “You’re battered and bruised, and—”
“And in one piece.” He pressed a kiss onto her forehead, then grew more serious. “Look, I know what it’s like, having seen something that horrifies you. And you carry it around, and you can’t let it go. But you can’t do that to yourself. You have to think of me like I am right now—I might not be particularly handsome, but I’m okay.” He pulled back.
She smiled mistily at his humor. “You’re still rather good-looking, even battered like that.”
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