The Preacher's Daughter Read online

  “I’m starting over,” he added. “Putting all that behind me.”

  “Oh . . .” She wasn’t sure what to say to that.

  “You believe that?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what to believe,” she said with a faint shrug. “So you’re going to be Amish again?”

  “Maybe not,” he replied. “I don’t think the Amish community here in Bountiful is going to accept me—”

  “You don’t know that, Sol,” Bridget broke in.

  “Mammi,” Solomon said, and his gaze softened as he looked over at his grandmother. “I’m not holding my breath, okay? Besides, I’m not sure I make much of an Amish man anymore.”

  Elizabeth had to agree there—he didn’t. The Amish community protected their way of life, and Solomon had not only gone English, he’d gone criminal.

  Yet she had her own family taint in that respect, too. Her father was in jail for fraud, and she’d believed so earnestly in his innocence for far too long. Now, she knew the truth about her daet—he’d defrauded members of their community purposefully. He’d known what he was doing, and it was fueled by his own sense of vengeance because the community hadn’t helped her mamm get the medical interventions necessary to save her life.

  And here was another man fresh from prison.

  “If you’re turning your life around, and giving your heart back to Gott, then you need to come back to our community,” Bridget said. “That is how you make it right—you come home.”

  “There was a Catholic priest who’d come do a worship service at the prison,” Solomon said. “It was different. They . . . they have something called a rosary? And they dress differently, too. Anyway, he was a really wise man—humble, kind, strong—and he talked to any of us convicts who wanted to discuss faith with him. And he suggested that I should turn my life around and become Catholic.”

  The room was silent for a moment. Catholic. He might as well suggest becoming a fence post. Amish didn’t become Catholic! They did become Mennonite sometimes, though . . .

  “Oh, Sol!” Bridget shot him an annoyed look. “Very funny.”

  “There was a Baptist minister who’d visit, too,” he added. “No Mennonite minister, but I mean, that’s always an option for us Amish, isn’t it?”

  Solomon shot Elizabeth a wry smile and winked. She could see the humor in his gaze, but she didn’t find it amusing. Bridget didn’t seem to either, because the old woman’s cheeks flushed and she shook her head in annoyance.

  “You’re not funny,” Elizabeth said.

  “I am a little bit,” he replied. “But my point is, there are a good many ways to turn a life around. And I left our Amish life because I was frustrated with all the restrictions. Well, I can see the point of them now, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other ways of living that could help me do better, too. There are other people who believe in Gott who order their lives to live better.”

  “You’re just trying to argue now,” Bridget said. “You’ve come back. That’s the right thing to do, and there isn’t anything else to say on the matter.”

  “I don’t want to argue,” Solomon said, and he sobered.

  “Good. Then no more mention of that,” Bridget said.

  “I’m just happy to see you, Mammi,” he said, and Elizabeth could see Bridget relax. Solomon always had been charming.

  Elizabeth went to the counter and pulled down some bread. Solomon looked hungry in the way he was scraping that plate, and she slathered a thick slice of white bread with sweet Amish peanut butter, then brought it to the table.

  “Oh . . . thank you.” Solomon accepted the plate and gave her a grateful smile.

  “When did you last eat?” Elizabeth asked. “Really?”

  “Yesterday,” he replied.

  “Yesterday!” Mammi pushed herself to her feet. “I’m going to whip up a proper meal now, Sol. My goodness . . .”

  Solomon took a bite of bread, followed by a second bite before he’d swallowed.

  “They don’t feed you there?” Elizabeth asked. In prison was what she meant, but she didn’t want to say it.

  “I was nervous,” he said, swallowing. “Excited. I was getting out. I couldn’t choke anything down.”

  She nodded. “I can understand that.”

  “How’s your family?” Solomon asked, taking another bite, and then speaking past the food. “I haven’t kept up with anyone lately.”

  So he didn’t know about her father either . . . the one person in this community who didn’t know the worst about her family. Was it wrong of her to want to keep it a secret?

  “Elijah got married to Bethany Glick,” she said.

  “Bethany Glick . . . wasn’t Micah courting her?” he asked. “Someone told me that a long time ago.”

  “Things change,” Elizabeth replied. So many things had changed, including who she felt she was . . . including her confidence in the woman her father had raised her to be. “Micah actually went English a few months back.”

  “Really?” Solomon sobered. “I didn’t know that.”

  “So did my sister,” she added.

  Solomon eyed her, and he looked genuinely shocked. “Lovina went English?”

  “Yah.”

  “She was younger than us, so maybe I didn’t know her well, but . . . your family always seemed like the last ones to have kinner jump the fence,” he said. He paused for a moment. “Did Micah and Lovina leave together? Like, were they in a relationship or something?”

  “No, they went separately,” she replied. “And we haven’t heard from Lovina since, so . . .”

  “I’m sorry I joked about it,” he said quietly. “I thought I was the only one.”

  “Far from it,” she said, then sighed. “But if you came back, maybe they will, too, right?”

  Solomon didn’t answer, and she searched his face for some hope that his return might mean something about the others. But Solomon’s situation was so much worse than anyone else’s. If Lovina went English and things went moderately well for her, she might not return. She might have no reason to . . .

  “She hasn’t written?” Solomon asked.

  “No—not beyond what she wrote in the note when she left us.”

  “That’s not a good sign . . .” he said. “No one has looked for her?”

  “Where would we look?” she asked. “I talked to the Englisher police and they took down the information, but when an Amish person leaves, the police just think it’s another runaway not wanting to live Amish anymore. And maybe they sympathize with it.”

  Solomon nodded. “Yah. They don’t understand out there. They think that Amish teens deserve more than our communities offer. They think it’s awful we stop schooling at eighth grade.”

  Elizabeth dropped her gaze. “They think a lot of things.”

  Solomon finished his bread, then pushed back his chair. “Mammi, can I help you with the outdoor chores?”

  “Yah.” Bridget beamed over at him. “You’ll be the man here, Solomon. I’d much appreciate it if you stepped in.”

  Solomon’s gaze rested on Elizabeth for a moment, and a smile tickled one corner of his lips.

  “It’s nice to see you again, too, Lizzie,” he said softly.

  Before she could answer him, he headed for the door, and she watched him leave—looking so very English going out to do an Amish man’s duty.

  “Elizabeth?” Bridget called.

  Elizabeth startled and turned toward the old woman, hoping that the heat in her face wasn’t visible. Bridget clasped her hands in front of her apron, and she looked slightly sheepish, her glasses slipping down her nose. She took them off and put them on the counter.

  “I knew he was coming,” Bridget said, and she licked her lips. “I knew it months ago.”

  “You knew?” she said.

  “He wrote that he might get out early on good behavior. I didn’t know when or anything, but I knew it might be a possibility. But my daughter would never have let me see the letter if I’d hande
d it over to her, and she’d likely burn it and not answer, so I—” Bridget licked her lips again. “I opened it and I answered it myself. He said in the letter that he might be able to get out early and I said he should come home.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “I understand . . .”

  “When my daughter went to help Waneta, I asked for you to come stay with me because—” Bridget picked at her white apron. “I asked for you because I thought you of all people might understand Sol a little better. If he were to come back when Anke was away, that is. It was just a . . . guess.”

  “You thought I’d be more sympathetic to him because of my daet,” Elizabeth surmised.

  “Yah, because of him,” Bridget agreed. “You know that someone can go wrong but still be a part of the family. And you know that someone can make a mistake and still need love.”

  Perhaps Bridget had given Elizabeth a little more credit for her forgiving heart than she really deserved. Her feelings toward her father right now were complicated at best.

  “My daet isn’t returning,” Elizabeth said.

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” the old woman replied.

  “What do you want from me, then?” Elizabeth asked. “Is Solomon being home a secret or something?”

  “No, not a secret,” Bridget replied. “People will find out soon enough. But now that he’s back, he’s right about having a hard time settling in. People won’t just forget what he did, and they won’t just trust him after he’s been in prison. It’ll be hard for him—anywhere he went, it would be hard. I just hoped that maybe you could help him feel . . . welcome.”

  So Bridget’s request that Elizabeth come stay with her while her daughter was away had been more than simple kindness to one of the grown Yoder kinner, reeling after their father’s incarceration. This had been more calculated.

  Bridget reached for her glasses on the counter and put them back on her face.

  “How would I make him welcome?” Elizabeth asked. “This is your home, Bridget. I’m only helping you out.”

  “Be kind to him,” Bridget said softly. “Don’t treat him like he’s different. Let him just be Amish, a regular man. Let him feel what it would be like to step back into this life. I think it would mean the world to him to have one person besides myself who sees him as he really is.”

  “You think I’ll be able to?” Elizabeth asked hesitantly. “My daet’s sins don’t make me sympathetic to people who break the law, you know.”

  “I think if you looked deep enough, and you gave him a chance, you’d see the boy I see,” Bridget said, and her eyes misted. “I think you would.”

  Bridget was asking for more than help around her house; she was asking for more than companionship. Bridget wanted someone to help her bring her grandson back to the community, and that was a very big request.

  “What if he doesn’t want to be my friend?” Elizabeth asked.

  “He does.” Bridget smiled, and her eyes twinkled with sudden mirth. “Trust me, my dear. He does.”

  Elizabeth went to the window and looked outside. Solomon had the door to the stables open wide, and he came outside with a pitchfork in one hand and looked around himself as if trying to find something. His gaze moved past the house, and then he glanced back when he saw her in the window.

  Gone was the look of flirtatious teasing, and in its place, she saw such deep sadness that it made her breath catch in her throat. He wasn’t the confident Englisher after all. He was scared . . . Solomon gave her a nod and then headed over to the buggy shelter and disappeared under it.

  “Yah,” Elizabeth said, turning back into the kitchen. “I’ll try, at least.”

  Bridget smiled. “Thank you, Lizzie.”

  It was the first time Bridget had called her by her childhood nickname, and the old woman moved back toward the stove.

  “Let’s get dinner started,” Bridget said. “We have a man to feed now.”

  Chapter Two

  That night, Elizabeth lay in bed listening to the sounds of the house. There were the usual creaks and groans that came with an old house, and the distant bark of some dogs that surfed a faint breeze through Elizabeth’s opened bedroom window. Her blanket was folded back so that only a cool sheet covered her nightgown, one leg thrust out to catch some of that breeze.

  Bridget seemed to be restless, getting up to use the washroom several times, her slippered feet shuffling along the floor. This time, Elizabeth heard the old woman’s footsteps stop in front of her grandson’s door and tap softly.

  “Are you comfortable, Sol?” Bridget asked quietly.

  “Yah, Mammi.” Sol’s voice was deep, and it traveled better than his grandmother’s.

  “Do you need another blanket?”

  There was the creak of a door opening. “No, Mammi. It’s July.”

  “Sol, you know I want you to stay, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “And your mamm will come around. She loves you. You don’t understand a mother’s love, Sol—”

  “Mammi, it’s fine.”

  “Do you want me to write to her? I’m sure she’d . . . come back. . . .”

  Was Bridget sure, though? Even Elizabeth knew how angry Anke was at her son for his mistakes. She didn’t hide it in social gatherings—Elizabeth had heard her complain about his poor choices numerous times during quilting circles. Right now, Anke was needed where she was with her premature grandbabies. Would she return for her prodigal son who wasn’t promising to stay?

  “Mammi,” Solomon had said quietly. “Don’t write to her. I don’t want you to. It’s fine.”

  “Okay . . .” Bridget said. “If you need anything, you tell me.”

  “Good night, Mammi.”

  Her footsteps passed toward her bedroom again, and Elizabeth held her breath. Solomon’s door clicked shut, and Elizabeth rolled over to her side, sleep elusive. If Anke didn’t come back quickly, she might not see Solomon at all. He sounded like a man passing through . . .

  Elizabeth heard the squeak of springs as Solomon rolled over in the bedroom next to hers. After a few minutes, there was some soft snoring, too. She must have fallen asleep shortly after because she was startled awake in the middle of the night when the moon was full and all was silent and still. What had woken her?

  She lay there for a moment, listening to the stillness, her heart pounding.

  “No!” It was that muffled kind of shout—Sol was talking in his sleep. That must have been what woke her up. There was silence again, the bed springs creaked. She heard an audible sigh.

  Nightmares.

  She shivered, despite the hot night, and as she tried to go back to sleep, she silently said a prayer for Solomon, that Gott would give him a peaceful rest and chase out whatever darkness seemed to be haunting him.

  The next morning, Elizabeth got up at her usual time. Solomon’s door was shut, and when Elizabeth went downstairs to start the fire in the stove, Bridget was already in the kitchen and had started kindling a fire.

  “He’s sleeping still,” Bridget said. “Let’s let him rest. He must be exhausted. Besides, it would feel wonderful to be in a real bed again, I’m sure.”

  Elizabeth’s mind went back to that shout in the night, and a shiver went down her spine. Was this Gott answering her prayer, giving the man some rest?

  Solomon slept in until well past eight, and he seemed embarrassed when he came downstairs. He’d washed up and combed his hair already. He wore the same clothes from yesterday, but he’d shaved, and that musky, masculine scent of shaving cream followed him. Bridget had gone next door to the Englisher neighbors yesterday and come back with a small bag of men’s toiletries. The Livingstons were good friends of hers.

  “You should have woken me up, Mammi,” Solomon said.

  “It’s fine,” the old woman replied with a smile. “I kept your breakfast warm.”

  There was love in that breakfast.

  Solomon ate quickly, and Elizabeth noticed how his eyes moved around the kitchen
warily as he chewed—almost like he was scared still. Was that habit now? When he finished, he brought his plate to the counter and went out to do the chores. He was still out when Bridget’s two friends, Edith Stuckey and Lydia Helmuth, arrived for a visit. Bridget didn’t need Elizabeth underfoot while she chatted with her friends, so Elizabeth left the older women to talk in peace and headed outside with plastic tubs to harvest some vegetables for the roadside produce stand that Bridget planned to open on the following day.

  Elizabeth knelt in the garden, picking cucumbers off the vine and depositing them into a plastic tub. The vegetables prickled against her hands and she stopped to rub her palms together. It was a bright morning, the warmth of the day already seeping into the air. The sun warmed her back and shoulders, the dirt cold against her knees and hands as she worked her way down the row.

  The cucumbers were good this year—well formed and big. Some curled off in strange directions, and those wouldn’t sell as easily, so the family would likely eat most of those. Elizabeth knew a recipe for a good cucumber salad. There would also be bread-and-butter pickles and sliced cucumber added to sandwiches. Bridget had already sent Elizabeth over to their Englisher neighbors with other produce—lettuce, zucchini, some potatoes. They were decent people who’d accepted the food with enthusiasm and always said, “If Bridget needs anything at all, you remind her that we’re here. If she wants to go into town or run an errand—anything.”

  The cucumbers would be used up one way or another. But her mind wasn’t really on the cucumber crop as she tossed another pair of the vegetables into the tub.

  Elizabeth looked toward the stable and the buggy barn. The horses were outside, grazing, their glossy brown coats shivering in pleasure in the warm morning sunlight. The stable door opened and Solomon appeared in the doorway. She looked away hurriedly, turning back to the cucumber vines, moving broad, prickly leaves aside to reveal another three hidden vegetables. She picked them and they thunked into the tub.

  “Hi, Lizzie.”

  Elizabeth looked up and squinted through the sunlight to see Solomon approach the edge of the garden. The sun shone from behind him, marking his strong, broad-shouldered silhouette. He pulled off a pair of work gloves and slapped them against his jeans.