I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. And that you’ll come back again for future stories set in Lost Creek.
Let me know if you enjoy my story. You can find me online at www.martaperry.com, on Facebook at www.Facebook.com/martaperrybooks, or you can email me at [email protected]. I’ll be happy to respond with a signed bookmark and my brochure of Pennsylvania Dutch recipes.
Blessings,
Marta Perry
This is my commandment, That ye love one another, as I have loved you.
—John 15:12
To Brian, my first and only love.
Contents
The country road was as familiar as Aaron King’s own body, even after all these years away. Here was the spot where his brother, racing a buddy in the family buggy, went into the ditch. There was the bank where they’d picked blackberries, and there the maple tree where he’d stolen a kiss from Becky Esch when they were both fifteen. The maple’s leaves were scarlet now that fall was here, but it had just been budding out that spring.
One more bend in the road, and he’d be able to see the family farm. The realization was like a rock in his stomach.
What was he doing? Did he really want to accept the role of the prodigal, returning to the Amish fold in Lost Creek after failing in the Englisch world? That was what they’d think, surely—his two brothers and his uncle. They’d assume he’d messed up, and they’d also assume he’d come back to stay.
They’d be right on the first count—he had to admit it. The memory of the scene that had destroyed his job and the tenuous place he’d made for himself still scalded.
As for coming home to stay...that he wasn’t so sure of. To give up modern life, to sink back into the restrictions he’d once left behind, to kneel before the brothers and sisters of the church and confess his wrongs...
The lead weight in his belly grew heavier. He didn’t think he could do it. But how many choices did he have left?
He rounded the bend, and the sight ahead of him chased his fruitless thoughts away. A horse reared between the shafts of a buggy, heedless of the efforts of the Amish woman struggling with the lines. Dropping his backpack to the ground, Aaron raced forward. If the horse bolted—
When he reached the animal’s head, it was making a determined effort to kick the buggy to pieces, but at least it hadn’t run. Sucking in a breath, he lunged, dangerously near the flailing hooves. He caught the leather strap of the headpiece and held on tight, all the while talking in the low, steady voice that could calm the most jittery beast.
“Get away from him before you’re hurt. I don’t want help.” The woman spoke in English, not dialect. She thought him an Englischer, and why not? That’s what he was now.
Ignoring
