The Preacher's Daughter (23 page)

‘‘But
Isaac
was the one who was lost,'' said Louisa. ‘‘Surely the father didn't believe that the so-called punishment for disobedience was to rest solely on his
eight-year-old
son. Seems unnecessarily cruel.''

‘‘And Zeke was, no doubt, already bearing the weight of blame.''

What a horrendous guilt trip to put on a person, let alone a kid
. Louisa was truly aghast.

‘‘To this day, no one knows what happened to Isaac Hochstetler.'' Annie's eyes shone with tears. ‘‘Ach, not sure why this bothers me so.''

Louisa reached out a hand. ‘‘Well, you're softhearted, Annie. One more reason why you're an incredible artist.''

She nodded slowly. ‘‘Maybe so.''

‘‘You may talk big, but you're sensitive on the inside.''

‘‘I s'pose I am.''

‘‘Well, we both are,'' Louisa admitted.

She followed Annie down to the creek, where they stood silently and watched the water surge beneath the covered bridge.

Then they turned and walked down the creek a bit and, later, back again to the first tree. ‘‘In case you're wondering, the rope swing in my painting is long gone from here. My mother says it was taken down after Isaac went missing. But I have no idea who would've done that.''

‘‘Maybe Zeke's father?''

‘‘Could be, but I never heard that.''

‘‘But you put it back in your painting . . . where it belongs.''

‘‘At least in my heart it's there.'' Annie glanced at the sky, then back at Louisa. ‘‘So, you see. Our village of Paradise hasn't always been as peaceful as you might think.''

She felt inadequate to offer the slightest measure of sympathy. ‘‘I can only wish that Zeke's brother had never disappeared.''

‘‘Isaac would be getting married 'bout now, prob'ly.'' Annie forced a smile. ‘‘I remember playing there in the creek . . . his brother and my brothers, too. We were such good little friends.''

‘‘How do you remember what happened when you were so young?''

Annie shrugged. ‘‘Mamm says I remember things clear back to when I was only three. So, jah, I have a right clear memory of Isaac. It was just the most terrible thing when he was kidnapped. I even wondered if something like that could happen to me.''

‘‘Is it possible he simply wandered off—got lost in the night?''

‘‘I don't see how, not with his brother right there. Every inch of the township was searched—the little waterfall across from the old stone mill, and the Eshelman Run, all through the community park and the fields. It's a nightmarish mystery, that's what.''

‘‘Did the police question Isaac's family . . . all his relatives?''

‘‘I don't know.'' Annie frowned. ‘‘The church brethren handle things their way, so I doubt he was ever even reported missing.'' Louisa was stunned. ‘‘You've got to be kidding!''

‘‘It's the way we do things, that's all I can say.''

‘‘And the brethren? You mean all the men in your church?''

‘‘Our
ministers
—one deacon, two preachers, and our bishop.''

Louisa pondered the curiously unexpected answers. She couldn't imagine a child vanishing in the area of Colorado's Castle Pines without the authorities being called in. For that matter, she couldn't conceive of it happening that way anywhere on the planet. ‘‘How long ago was this?'' she asked.

‘‘Well, I was the same age as little Isaac when he disappeared . . . so sixteen years ago.''

‘‘An eternity for the family. . . .'' Louisa couldn't begin to think how she would feel if one of her own family was taken . . . and a mere child, too.

Annie brushed a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. ‘‘Plenty of folk put their lives on hold right along with the Hochstetler family,'' she said. ‘‘But Isaac's family didn't stay put here for long.''

‘‘You mean they left because of what happened?''

‘‘Jah, never returned. They cut themselves off from the very church of their baptism and, eventually, from their son Zeke.''

Foregoing their plan to sketch there, its beauty now overshadowed by somber thoughts and images, Annie and Louisa walked back to the waiting horse and buggy.

When they returned home, Louisa was surprised at Annie's insistence in discussing the topic of the kidnapping with her mother. Annie seemed to take advantage of the kitchen being deserted and began to pour lemonade into three glasses. Then she boldly suggested they all sit at the table ‘‘for a little while.''

Louisa cringed inwardly, but at Annie's urging she reluctantly brought up the long-ago incident. ‘‘I was just curious about the events surrounding that night.'' Louisa went on to say that she and Annie had gone to the creek to look around. Nothing was said about Annie's painting, of course.

Barbara's round face became quite flushed, and she began to blink her eyes as she looked first at Annie and then back at her lemonade. It was obvious she was reticent to discuss what she recalled, at least with an outsider. Either that or she was still peeved at Louisa, especially, for the profile-drawing session two nights ago.

If I'm not careful, I'll get booted out and fast. . . .

Louisa immediately felt apologetic. ‘‘You know, that's all right,'' she spoke up. ‘‘You don't have to talk about this now, or at all.''

‘‘No . . . no, I want Mamm to tell you what she knows,'' Annie interjected. ‘‘Besides, it's been a long time since I've heard the story.'' She leaned forward at the table, eyes fixed on her mother.

‘‘Well, all I'm goin' to say is that the perpetrator—the person who stole Isaac away, prob'ly killed him, too—will certainly be required to answer to almighty God for the treacherous deed.'' Annie's mother turned to look directly at Louisa. ‘‘And, I believe the Lord God and heavenly Father looks not so kindly on
anyone
who purposely sets out to harm one of His own.''

Jeepers, I've been told
. Louisa felt the heat of embarrassment rise in her face. Before she could make an attempt to excuse herself, Annie's mom said rather pointedly she wanted to speak with Annie ‘‘right away.'' Translated to mean—and Louisa was absolutely sure—that she personally needed to get lost as soon as she finished her lemonade so Annie could get an earful in private.

Frustrated and aghast at Mamm's pointed approach, Annie shifted in her seat. Her mother had never reacted in such a way, that she recalled. ‘‘You're terribly upset,'' Annie said softly.

Mamm sat solemn-faced, fanning herself with a corner of her apron, even though it was anything but warm in the kitchen. ‘‘I'm glad you're having a good time with your friend, Annie, but you daresn't be tempted by the fancy drawings she makes.''

Tempted?

‘‘Louisa's drawings are wonderful-good. Did you see how close to perfect her profile was of me?''

‘‘Now, Annie.''

‘‘No, I'm serious. She has an amazing gift.''

Her mother's face softened quickly, and she reached a hand over to touch Annie's arm. ‘‘Dear one, you must not allow Louisa's talent to draw you in . . . to entice you away from the People.''

It already has. . . .

‘‘Havin' Louisa here has been the best thing for me, Mamm. You just don't know.'' She bit her lip thinking about her breakup with Rudy just then, but she caught herself.

‘‘I see in your eyes how happy you are, but Louisa certainly isn't Amish and won't be stayin' here forever. So you need to be thinking 'bout your future . . . who you'll settle down with and marry.''

Annie shook her head, taking quick short breaths. ‘‘Well, you best enjoy your grandchildren from my brothers, 'cause honestly, I don't see myself becoming a bride now.'' It wounded her to admit it, but truth was the boys her age were all getting hitched.

Mamm's face fell. ‘‘You can't mean it.''

Once the difficult words were out in the air, Annie felt some better. Now Mamm would stop bringing up this painful topic, just maybe.

‘‘Well, it hurts me to think . . . another baptism season has come and gone already.''

Jah, Annie, you've missed out on joining church yet again!
Annie grimaced at her own thoughts. ‘‘Well, why's everything all tangled up with what's expected of me?''

‘‘No . . . no, you mustn't be thinkin' on it that way. It's what is good and right and true, Annie. That's what.'' Mamm sighed loudly, her face ever so serious. ‘‘You may not know this, but there's much more to the story of little Isaac Hochstetler, and what with our talk about your future 'n' all, it just might be time for you to hear it, lest you yield to temptation yourself and turn your back on all that is right.''

Annie hadn't the slightest idea what her mother meant.

Mamm began to explain. ‘‘Isaac's father committed a deadly error . . . no other way to say this.'' She paused, placed her hand over her throat, and then continued. ‘‘You see, Annie, the divine lot for Preacher fell first on Daniel Hochstetler one month before the kidnapping occurred. He out and out refused to accept the ordination.''

Annie could not believe her ears. A terrible, bad omen. . . .

‘‘ 'Tis a decision unto death.''

‘‘Oh, Mamm . . . I never knew of this.''

Her mother nodded, face drawn. ‘‘It's scarcely ever talked about, even in a whisper, for all good reason. So . . . your father was God's second choice for preacher . . . no getting round it.''

‘‘I never would've guessed someone would be so unwise . . . turning away from the drawin' of the lot,'' Annie said softly.

‘‘The People called him
‘Ichabod
—the glory of the Lord has departed,' '' Mamm whispered. ‘‘It was nearly like a shunning, and some of the brethren
did
banish him. Then, not long after, the family up and left, only to be heard from again when Ezekiel returned and wed Essie.''

Annie listened carefully, wondering why on earth Mamm was sharing such ominous news.

But then quite suddenly she knew. Sure as a mackerel sky means rain, she knew.

Jesse accepted a mug of coffee from Esther. Then, when she'd left the kitchen, the little boys in tow, he looked at Zeke and motioned toward the back door with his head.

Zeke followed willingly, carrying his own coffee and talking all the while about the nice weather ‘‘this late in the season.''

In the barn, Jesse offered Zeke a cigar, but he shook his head, saying he never cared so much for the odor. ‘‘Well, just thought I'd . . . pay you a visit,'' Jesse said, stumbling over his words. He felt downright awkward, but he wanted to know how Zeke was doing. ‘‘I'm awful sorry . . . 'bout your brother. Such a terrible shame.''

Zeke stared a hole in him. He was silent for a time, taking one gulp of coffee after another. At last, he spoke. ‘‘Where's he buried?''

Shuffling his feet, Jesse hadn't expected this. ‘‘The bishop and I took great care to find an out-of-the-way spot for your brother's bones. Bishop wants it kept quiet.''

Eight big steps past the edge of the cemetery, four short ones past the first tree,
thought Jesse.

Zeke ran his hand through his light brown beard. ‘‘I beg to differ with that. He's my kin . . . I have the right to know!''

‘‘S'pose you do.''

‘‘No supposin' about it, Preacher. I want to pay my respects.''

The fire in Zeke's eyes could not be missed, and Jesse wondered if he'd made a mistake by coming here. ‘‘I say we follow the bishop on this,'' he stated flatly. ‘‘No need to argue with the man of God.''

Zeke shook his head slowly. ‘‘Well, seems a man ought to be able to quietly go and say good-bye to his own brother.''

Seems so,
thought Jesse. But he wouldn't budge where Zeke was concerned. The man was as volatile as any of the farmers he'd ever known. As headstrong as Zeke's own father had been. ‘‘The womenfolk . . . that's what the bishop's most concerned 'bout. Such an upheaval your Isaac's disappearance caused amongst the People. No need in stirring all that up again.''

Zeke eyed the spare cigar. ‘‘I just might take you up on your offer, Preacher,'' he said, pointing at his pocket.

Jesse pulled out the cigar and handed it to the distraught younger man. ‘‘I best be headin' on home. Always plenty of chores to tend to.''

When Zeke lit up and puffed some, but didn't say a word for a good long time, Jesse figured he was ready to get back to work, too. But Zeke followed him all the way out to the horse and buggy, and as soon as Jesse was settled in the front seat, reins in hand, Zeke said, ‘‘You ain't heard the end of this, Preacher.''

Jesse looked at him, this man who'd suffered such torment his whole life. To think that selfsame misery had turned to a stone wall in the end—something Zeke could not get past and apparently needed to.

‘‘It's time to put this to rest,'' Zeke said, his voice cracking.

Compassion swept through Jesse. He couldn't just ride out of the man's lane without giving him something to go on, at least. ‘‘All right, then. I'll talk to the bishop for you.''

‘‘And I won't rest till I hear back,'' Zeke said. ‘‘Gut day!''

Jesse directed the horse forward slowly, and not even when he made the turn onto the paved road did he hurry the steed.
Such a can of worms!
he thought, hoping Zeke might simply forget and go about his farm work. Because there was no way he was going to get Bishop Andy to budge on this matter.

Chapter 24

F
ollowing breakfast and kitchen cleanup on Thursday, Annie hitched up the team with some help from Luke. She was anxious to take Louisa to the quilting bee, along with Mammi Zook, who required extra care getting in and out of the family buggy. Mamm had decided to remain at home in case Yonie returned from his hunting trip with a deer, so Annie headed out to Sarah Mae's with her grandmother and Louisa filling up the front seat.