Englisher (Annie's People Book #2) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Beverly Lewis

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119 pages

English

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Annie Zook struggles to keep her promise to her preacher father to abandon her art and prove her worthiness to "join church." At the same time she is dangerously close to succumbing to another forbidden desire--a relationship with the handsome Englisher whose interest in her is more than mere curiosity. Yet Ben Martin has secrets of his own...

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 mai 2006
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781441203403
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0432€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Englisher Copyright 2006 Beverly Lewis
Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Koechel Peterson Associates, Inc.
Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Scripture quotations identified NIV are from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise-without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers 11400 Hampshire Avenue South Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-7642-0106-6 (Paperback) ISBN 978-0-7642-0218-6 (Audio CD)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lewis, Beverly. The Englisher / Beverly Lewis. p. cm. - (Annie s people ; 2) ISBN 0-7642-0216-2 (hardback : alk. paper) - ISBN 0-7642-0106-9 (pbk.) - ISBN 0-7642-0217-0 (large-print pbk.) 1. Children of clergy-Fiction. 2. Women artists-Fiction. 3. Amish- Fiction. 4. English-Pennsylvania-Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Lewis, Beverly. Annie s people ; 2. PS3562.E9383E54 2006 813 .54-dc22
2006003140
Dedication
To
David and Janet Buchwalter,
my cherished cousins.
By Beverly Lewis
S EASONS OF G RACE The Secret The Missing

A BRAM S D AUGHTERS
The Covenant The Betrayal The Sacrifice The Prodigal The Revelation

A NNIE S P EOPLE
The Preacher s Daughter The Englisher The Brethren

T HE C OURTSHIP OF N ELLIE F ISHER
The Parting The Forbidden The Longing

T HE H ERITAGE OF L ANCASTER C OUNTY
The Shunning The Confession The Reckoning

The Postcard The Crossroad

The Redemption of Sarah Cain October Song Sanctuary * The Sunroom

The Beverly Lewis Amish Heritage Cookbook www.beverlylewis.com

BEVERLY LEWIS, born in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country, fondly recalls her growing-up years. A keen interest in her mother s Plain family heritage has led Beverly to set many of her popular stories in Lancaster County.
A former schoolteacher and accomplished pianist, Beverly is a member of the National League of American Pen Women (the Pikes Peak branch). She is the 2003 recipient of the Distinguished Alumnus Award at Evangel University, Springfield, Missouri. Her blockbuster novels The Shunning, The Confession, The Reckoning, and The Covenant have each received the Gold Book Award. Her bestselling novel October Song won the Silver Seal in the Benjamin Franklin Awards, and The Postcard and Sanctuary (a collaboration with her husband, David) received Silver Angel Awards, as did her delightful picture book for all ages, Annika s Secret Wish. Beverly and her husband make their home in the Colorado foothills.
C ircles of sunlight dappled the side of the old covered bridge and the rushing creek below. On the treed slope to the west of the bridge, two children gripped the long rope in a jumble of fear and delight, swinging double. Their hands smelled of twisted hemp and sweat, but neither minded. The warm breeze on their faces, the tickle in their tummies, as the little girl often said when swinging fast, were enough. That, and playing here in this enthralling place, where their older brothers caught pollywogs in the creek, jabbering in Pennsylvania Dutch and nibbling on soft pretzels all the while.
I won t let you fall, the boy said.
You re sure? the girl asked.
Here, I ll show ya how. He crisscrossed his black suspenders over the smaller girl and then snapped them onto his britches again. They began swinging high and higher as the sky opened its arms wide .
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Prologue
C reative redirection . That s what my English friend Louisa says I need, though she says it ever so gently. Which is a right fancy way of saying I must be vigilant in finding acceptable ways to express my art . . . my very soul. She and I both know I belong here with the People, so I continually stifle the part of me that once gave me such joy. My never-ending urge to draw and paint.
It must be hard for Louisa to witness this grief of mine, especially as we are ever so close, like sister-cousins. She, too, mourns what she s abandoned, for the time being-her fashionable life in Denver, the modern world that weighed her down. She lives each day to see the beauty in all things Amish, the art of being, as she calls the simplicity of our lives here in Paradise, in the thick of buggies, social gatherings, and cookie-making frolics. And Louisa Stratford has experienced a broken engagement, as have I.
It s odd, but nearly the minute I had promised my preacher father I would turn my back on my artistic passions for a full six months, right then, all kinds of new temptations popped into my head like never before. I find myself tracing a design with my finger on my dress, or squinting and eyeing the shape of the castiron bell Mamm rings for supper. It s as if the drive to create cannot be squelched, neither from within nor without. But I hope, for the good of my word and for the good of my family, I can suppress it long enough to join church. By then surely I will have learned to obey. Without Lou s loving support, though, I can t imagine succeeding.
Nearly as strong as the tug to express myself on paper or canvas is my eagerness to see Ben Martin again. This befuddles me. An Englischer ? Just as I am free of Rudy Esh, in every way, I am determined to forget about this boy who can be nothing but trouble to my goal of joining church.
Yesterday, out on the road, we happened to run into each other when I was bringing the horse and sleigh home from an errand. Lo and behold if I wasn t alone, which is mighty unusual, as Luke or Yonie, two of my younger brothers, or Mamm regularly accompany me.
There he was. Tall and blond, just strolling along in the cold, his strong arms swinging at his sides, his head turned to gaze at distant snowy hills. Well, I didn t even think twice about whether or not to stop the horse-I did so straightaway, sitting alone in my father s buggy, risking being caught talking to Ben in afternoon s brash light.
I felt downright peculiar listening to him talk about his hope, as he put it. Jah, he s determined to change my mind about turning him down for coffee- we wouldn t be gone but an hour, he coaxed.
Of course, I couldn t even begin to ponder such a thing, and I managed to steer the conversation to something else altogether- the menfolk s local championship game of checkers over at the Gordonville Fire Hall. Ben s eyes brightened and not surprisingly. I ve learned that most men perk up at the mention of games: corner ball, baseball, volleyball, and whatnot. So I was glad to have diverted his thinking away from me, at least for a time. Now, if only I can stop thinking of him .
We must ve talked for a good quarter hour. And without considering the consequences of being caught, I fed his obvious hope, slipping out from beneath my warm lap robe and climbing down from the carriage to talk with him. Right there along the road in the frosty air, where ofttimes I walked in the warmth of a summertime night, breathing in the sweetness of honeysuckle while cornstalks creaked in the field. On such evenings I liked to stare up at the stars, bemused at just how many the Lord God created. Right there, where it struck me anew that if the almighty One had taken time to form all those stars in the vast heavens, then did He also have time to heed a sparrow s fall and the number of hairs tucked under my white prayer Kapp ?
I stood there and visited with Ben, where any one of the People could have witnessed the intriguing intent in his eyes. I can only guess what my own face-my too-readable eyes- communicated back to him, because my heart was saying some fearsome things to me . Things I don t recall feeling toward another man, not even my former beau, Rudy. And if it s true that the Lord God sees everything, He must never again see me with Ben.
Oh, such ill timing! On the heels of my handshake-agreement with Daed, yet. First, the pull of art on me, and now suddenly another issue weighs so heavily. What on earth can I do about Ben?
Honestly, I find myself sighing loudly whenever I think of this most recent encounter. That and dear friend Lou s kind admonition. Creative redirection, indeed .
Fair seedtime had my soul, and I grew up Fostered alike by beauty and by fear. - W ILLIAM W ORDSWORTH
Chapter 1
A half dozen blackbirds perched themselves on the makeshift scarecrow on the edge of the snowy garden. The figure wore Preacher Jesse Zook s own black trousers and green shirt, which had already seen better days when twenty-yearold Annie had snatched them up, rescuing them from the rag bag. The long shirtsleeves had been rolled up months before to reveal the straw man s upper appendages. Now the old felt hat and wind-tattered clothing were quite frozen, unyielding in February s blustery gale.
The stark white clapboard farmhouse was a welcoming sight in the fading light as Jesse made his way to the back porch. Stomping his snow-caked boots against the steps before making his way indoors, he was immediately aware of a tantalizing aroma.
Barbara s zesty veal loaf .
He hurried to the sink to wash up. Smells wonderfulgood, love.
It s