His Amish Choice

Thank you to Janet Pulleyn for infecting me with the soap-making bug. I have had a blast learning and consulting with you on new colors and fragrances. And thanks to Paul for letting me invade your home on more than one occasion. You are dear friends. Now, where shall we go out to dinner next time?

Contents

Cover (#u3b036770-897a-5d34-863b-d77340504dff)

Back Cover Text (#u0e652a08-28cc-54ca-838b-ff31d3790083)

About the Author (#u617cad6e-a53d-566d-8def-ad10826f3b1b)

Booklist (#ub9b9496d-23b6-5aa7-93c0-c195e949b2e3)

Title Page (#u96ae7910-1b5c-5457-92e8-282a764cadf1)

Copyright (#ue4937d5f-1a24-58c1-bef6-535363874f43)

Introduction (#ud2b6d8ab-a539-5100-a0d2-c688a6cff1f9)

Dear Reader (#u4a8ba5a6-043b-530d-a2c0-5ae286a12f66)

Bible Verse (#uf82e1919-e8d5-5801-a3bf-8074c1034bed)

Dedication (#uf9c08db6-69ed-5e58-a763-75e334286a82)

Chapter One (#u0ca216cb-10cc-51c1-8da4-11b89a339adb)

Chapter Two (#uece5805b-f547-58c3-9c79-e4a055453cec)

Chapter Three (#u1ab16108-e0ce-5e94-bffa-5e195a060f11)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ua50ad5ed-586f-5ac9-8547-dace8a00a839)

Elizabeth Beiler set her last crate of honeycrisp apples into the back of the buggy-wagon and took a deep breath. Picking the fruit was hard work but she could never get enough of its fresh, earthy-sweet smell.

Brushing the dust off her rose-colored skirts and black apron, she adjusted the blue kerchief tied beneath her chin. Because she was working outside, she’d left her white organza kapp at home. She arched her back, her gaze scanning the rows of apple trees.

Finally, they were finished. Not that Lizzie begrudged the work. It brought her a sense of accomplishment and security. She was just tired and feeling jittery with Eli Stoltzfus’s constant presence.

At that moment, he emerged from the orchard, carrying two heavy crates of fruit in his strong arms. His blue chambray shirt stretched taut across his muscular chest and arms. His plain broadfall trousers and work boots had dust on them. Wearing a straw hat and black suspenders, he looked unmistakably Amish. His clean-shaven face attested that he was unmarried. Lizzie was dying to ask if he’d had any girlfriends during the four years he’d been living among the Englisch, but kept her questions to herself. It wasn’t her business after all. Not anymore.

His high cheekbones and blunt chin gave him a slightly stubborn look. With hair black as a raven’s wing and gentle brown eyes, he was ruggedly handsome. Not that Lizzie also was interested. Not in this man. Not ever again.

As he approached, she turned away, conscious of his quiet gaze following her. She often found him watching her, his intelligent eyes warning that there was an active, gifted mind hidden beneath his calm exterior.

“Come on, Marty and Annie. It’s time to go home,” she called to her two sisters in Deitsch, the German dialect her Amish people used among themselves.

The girls came running, the long ribbons on their prayer kapps dangling in the wind. At the ages of ten and seven, neither girl was big or strong, but they were sturdy and a tremendous help on the farm. Their happy chatter also alleviated Daed’s quiet moods. He hadn’t been the same since Mamm died almost five years earlier. The union of Lizzie’s parents had been one of love. The perfect kind of marriage she had once dreamed of having with Eli.

“What are we having for nachtesse?” seven-year-old Annie asked, slightly breathless from her run.

“Ja, I’m starved.” Marty was right behind her, biting into a crisp, juicy apple from the orchard.

“I’m going to make slumgullion,” Lizzie said, thinking the meat and pasta dish was easy to make and very filling. “And we’ve also got leftover apple crisp from yesterday.”

She was conscious of Eli adjusting the crates of apples in the back of their buggy-wagon, no doubt listening to their conversation. He must be ravenous too, but he would eat at home with his parents.

“Yum! I’m so hungry I could eat Billie.” Annie leaned toward the bay gelding and made gobbling sounds. The gentle animal snorted and waved his head. Everyone except Marty laughed.

“You couldn’t eat Billie. He’s a horse. Don’t be dumm,” Marty said.

“No calling names, please. Be nice to your sister,” Lizzie reprimanded in a kind voice. “As soon as Daed gets here, we’ll go home.”

They didn’t have long to wait. Jeremiah Beiler emerged from the orchard, walking with their Englisch truck driver. Daed’s straw hat was pushed back on his head. Sweat-dampened tendrils of salt-and-pepper hair stuck to his high forehead. Dressed almost identically to Eli, Daed’s long beard was a light reddish shade with no moustache, signifying that he was a married man, now a widower.

The truck driver nodded, said something Lizzie couldn’t hear, then climbed into the cab of his tractor trailer and started up the noisy engine. A rush of relief swept over her. The back of the 18-wheeler was loaded with crates of apples from their orchard and the driver would deliver them safely to the processing plant in Longmont. Their harvest was secure.

Because of Eli.

As the truck pulled away, Daed turned and smiled at them, but frowned when his gaze met Eli’s. Lizzie knew her father didn’t approve of Eli. He feared the younger man’s worldly influence on his children and had hired him only at the bishop’s urging.