A Forbidden Rumspringa Read online

  About A Forbidden Rumspringa

  When two young Amish men find love, will they risk losing everything?

  In a world where every detail of life—down to the width of a hat brim—is dictated by God and the all-powerful rules of the community, two men dare to imagine a different way. At 18, Isaac Byler knows little outside the strict Amish settlement of Zebulon, Minnesota, where there is no rumspringa for exploration beyond the boundaries of their insular world. Isaac knows he’ll have to officially join the church and find a wife before too long, but he yearns for something else—something he can’t name.

  Dark tragedy has left carpenter David Lantz alone to support his mother and sisters, and he can’t put off joining the church any longer. But when he takes on Isaac as an apprentice, their attraction grows amid the sweat and sawdust. David shares his sinful secrets, and he and Isaac struggle to reconcile their shocking desires with their commitment to faith, family and community.

  Now that they’ve found each other, are they willing to lose it all?

  © 2014 Keira Andrews

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-0-9938598-2-3

  Cover design © 2014 Dar Albert

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. No persons, living or dead, were harmed by the writing of this book. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Dedication

  To Anne-Marie, Becky and Rachel for the amazing beta work and enthusiasm for this book. Isaac and David thank you, and so do I. Also to the ex-Amish who so generously shared their stories and answered my many questions.

  Author’s Note

  The most surprising thing I learned while researching this book was how much variation exists in the Amish world. My settlement of Zebulon is fictional, but is based upon the practices of the Swartzentruber Amish, one of the most conservative subgroups of the Old Order. While there are many similarities, I discovered that even among the Swartzentrubers, each community has its own specific rules. Something that may be true of one Amish settlement might not be true of another.

  “David Lantz?” Isaac realized he was catching flies, and snapped his jaw shut.

  With a frown that drew his dark bushy eyebrows together, Father placed a ribbon over his page and closed his worn leather Bible. The wooden kitchen chair creaked as he sat back.

  Beside him at the battered table, Mother faltered in her sewing. Her face was shadowed in the flickering light of the kerosene lamp. It was running out of fuel, but Father and Mother were apparently content to squint. In her long navy dress and black apron, Isaac thought Mother would all but disappear in the low light if not for the stark white cap—its pleats precisely half an inch apart—covering her light blonde hair. The untied strings hung over her shoulders.

  Isaac shifted from one bare foot to the other, a loose floorboard squeaking beneath him. None of them wore shoes in the house except during church, and in the summer they were often barefoot around the farm as well. He traced a seam on the floor with his big toe.

  The aroma of the chicken stew Mother had served for dinner still hung in the air. While minutes ago he had been happily full, now Isaac’s stomach churned. He tugged on his collar, sweat prickling the nape of his neck.

  “It’s only that he’s…” Isaac’s mind raced, but he failed to find a suitable term in their dialect of German to describe David Lantz. Even if they were permitted to speak English in the house, words failed him. He fell silent and clasped his hands behind him to keep from fidgeting with the small piece of wood and folding knife tucked into his pocket.

  His father, Samuel, stared for an uncomfortably long moment before continuing in his usual measured tone, his words slow and considered as if each was being etched in stone. “You want to be a carpenter, and David Lantz is the best in Zebulon.”

  Guilt roiled in Isaac like acid in his stomach. Father had arranged this job since he knew how Isaac loved woodworking. Father had been generous, and this was how Isaac repaid him? Still, the idea of spending almost every day with David Lantz made him feel surprisingly unwell. “But…” Isaac cast about for a good reason. “He’s not even following church yet.”

  “Ruth, didn’t Abram’s Sarah say David will begin his instruction this Sunday?”

  Mother didn’t glance up from her sewing. “Yes.”

  David Lantz was finally joining the church? While Isaac should have felt joy at the news, his chest was strangely hollow. There had always been something different about David, but that would surely disappear once he was baptized and took a wife. And why should Isaac object? He wished he understood the nonsense that went through his mind sometimes.

  As a thud echoed, Mother narrowed her gaze toward the main room. She called out sharply. “Boys. Into bed.”

  Isaac suspected the footsteps scurrying upstairs also belonged to his little sister Katie. Once all was quiet once more, Mother spoke again, her needle poised over the patch she was sewing over the worn elbow of Ephraim or Joseph or perhaps Nathan’s shirt.

  “You aren’t baptized yet either, my Isaac.” She jabbed the needle into the cloth. “We’re not sure what you’re waiting for. Isn’t it time you joined the church? Don’t you want to grow a beard and be a man? Find a wife?”

  Not really. “I’m barely eighteen! David Lantz is twenty-two already.”

  Father stroked his long beard. Although his brows were still somehow dark as pitch, his hair and the beard hanging from his chin were mostly gray. “It is not unwise to show patience and have surety before committing to join the church. After all, this is why we’re baptized as adults rather than children. So we can make a commitment to God and the community with our whole hearts.”

  “Yes, Father,” Isaac mumbled.

  “We know you’ll find the path to heaven. Every man and woman must come to their choice in their own time, just as you will. The right choice.”

  Isaac resisted the urge to snort. Choice. The word was meaningless in Zebulon. Of course he would join the church. What else was he to do? At the thought, a current shot through him—a mixture of dread and the dark excitement he kept locked away, using the key only in the smallest, blackest hours of the night. He cleared his throat.

  “I just wonder if he’s ready to take on an apprentice.”

  “There’s no reason he should not,” Father replied. “Unless you wish to stay working with me on the
farm after all.”

  “No, no,” Isaac answered with far too much haste. “As long as you can milk the herd without my help.”

  “We’ll manage.”

  “It’s just that…”

  “Has David Lantz been unkind to you?” Mother asked, a furrow in her forehead and the sewing abandoned in her lap.

  “Not at all. It’s only that he’s…” Terrifying. “I’m only surprised, I suppose. I didn’t expect this opportunity.”

  Mother smiled slyly. “It’s good you should get to know him better. He might be your brother before too long.”

  “Mom!” Flushing, Isaac wished he could be anywhere else.

  Mother stared with tight lips, and Father raised a bushy brow as Isaac realized what he’d said. It had been a struggle when they came to Zebulon to stop calling his parents ‘Mom and Dad,’ but the new Ordnung the community followed decreed the words too modern and worldly. “I’m sorry. Anyway, I hardly know Mary Lantz.”

  Mother tsked. “Of course you do. We all know each other in Zebulon. Oh Isaac—still so shy with the girls. Your father was the same way.” She chuckled, and her fingers flew, the silver needle glinting as she lowered her head to her task once more.

  The black wood-burning stove belched, and Isaac listened to the ticking of the clock Mother wound at the start of each month. The only other item hanging on the white walls was a simple calendar from the feed shop. With enough Amish customers from Zebulon now, the owner had started making a calendar without pictures.

  Isaac closed his eyes for a moment, glimpsing his future working shoulder to shoulder with David Lantz while courting Mary, for he’d need a wife after he started following church. His stomach lurched again, and he wasn’t sure what to feel. Should he try to dissuade Father?

  With a silent sigh, his mind returned to the Bible passage most familiar to him—repeated so often it was practically carved into his bones. They were only permitted to read the Bible in German, but he thought of it in English. His pitiful little rebellion, since of course he would do as he was told.

  Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. Honor thy father and mother; which is the first commandment.

  Father returned to his Bible and sipped his mug of tea. “You will begin Monday.”

  And that was that.

  The drone of the engine was little more than a vibration in the air, underlying the symphony of the cicadas beyond the barn, but Isaac toppled over the milking stool in his haste. Ephraim’s head shot up.

  “What?”

  Isaac was already out of his milking stall and at the open barn door, blotting his forehead with the sleeve of his navy shirt and straightening his flat-topped straw hat. With a swipe of his fingers he made sure the black band around it was neat. He’d undone the three hooks at the neck of his collarless shirt, so he quickly redid them before straightening his galluses and brushing off the seat of his black pants.

  “Wait! You got to go last time!” Ephraim joined him at the door, hands on his hips. At sixteen, he was almost as tall as Isaac—possibly even taller and brushing six feet with the unruly mess of sandy curls atop his head.

  “I’m older. Finish the milking.”

  Leaving Ephraim’s huffs and muttering behind, Isaac hurried past the chicken pen, the birds clucking and squawking as he kicked up dust. He was so used to having dirty feet after seven years living with Swartzentruber ways that he hardly noticed. He ducked under listless sheets on the clothesline that ran between the washhouse and their home.

  Isaac knew his brother had a perfectly valid point about fairness, but they didn’t get many visitors. He couldn’t resist—especially when Father was on the other side of their land tending to the small crop of soybeans he sold to neighbors.

  Holstein cattle grazed on the rolling hills beyond the barn, their cream and black hides stark amid the sea of green. They had seventeen cows, and sold two tons of milk a week to a local organic dairy. The dairy picked up the milk, but their truck never came this late in the day. Isaac’s pulse raced as he glimpsed the vehicle approaching.

  The late afternoon sun glinted off the silver chrome of a big car the English called an SUV. Isaac wasn’t sure what it stood for, but it was a sight to see—high off the ground like a buggy, but sleek and shiny. Formidable. He wondered how it would feel to have that engine thrum beneath him. Hot tightness in his belly warned of the danger of such thoughts, and he focused on the couple clambering down from the vehicle.

  The man greeted him, smiling widely as he took off his sunglasses. “Hello! We saw the sign at the end of the drive. Hope we haven’t come too late in the day, but my wife would love to see the quilts.” He swatted at a horsefly.

  “Not too late at all. I’ll get my mother.” Isaac glanced at the house, knowing she would be glued to the kitchen window. The black curtain fluttered, and Mother appeared in the doorway a few moments later. Isaac called out in German to tell her to bring the quilts.

  Isaac turned back to the English couple. “It’ll just be a moment.”

  The redheaded woman was about forty. There were dark sunglasses perched on her head, and her lips were bright red. She wore shorts that didn’t even reach her knees, and a sleeveless shirt with buttons down the front.

  “What a cute place you’ve got here!”

  “Thank you.” Isaac smiled politely. Their simple two-story wooden house was trimmed in dark gray on the ground floor and navy on top. Black curtains hung in all the windows, and the roof was battered tin. It was anything but cute, and the dark red barn, washhouse and little ice house all needed new coats of paint. At least the outhouse was hidden from sight in a stand of trees.

  Mother dragged a trunk outside, and Isaac hurried over to help. Katie was close behind with another armful of neatly folded quilts she could barely see over. At ten and the only daughter left, she was already an experienced quilter. Around her load, Katie peeked at the visitors.

  Isaac returned to them. “You can go on over and take a look.”

  The man was tapping his phone, and didn’t join his wife. He stood a head higher than Isaac, and had very broad shoulders. His light hair was close cropped, and he had a short beard and mustache. Isaac tried to think of something appropriate to say.

  Is it rude to talk to someone when they’re using their phone? Am I standing too close? Although the man wasn’t talking on it, just touching the screen with his thumbs.

  “Are you speaking to someone when you do that?” Isaac blurted.

  The man jumped as though he’d forgotten Isaac was there. He tapped a few more times and slipped the narrow phone into his jeans pocket. “Sorry, I was just texting my mom. She’s looking after the kids for the weekend.”

  “That’s all right. So…that’s sending a message? Texting?”

  “Oh right—I guess you don’t text around here, huh?” He pulled out his phone again. “Do you want me to show you?”

  Yes! Isaac glanced toward the house. Mother was smiling politely as the English woman chattered and crouched down to examine the quilts. They were far enough away that Isaac couldn’t make out the words, but Mother met his gaze.

  She called out in German. “All right?”

  Isaac nodded and turned back to the man. “Thank you, but I’d better not.”

  He shrugged and pocketed his phone again. “Sure.”

  An awkward silence followed, and Isaac thought maybe he should just leave the man to his texting.

  “Is that Dutch your mother’s speaking? What do they call it…Pennsylvania Dutch?”

  Isaac smiled. “It’s actually a German dialect. I’m not sure how it came to be called Dutch.”

  “Is that right? I’ll be damned.” The man raised a hand. “Excuse my language.”

  “It’s fine.”

  The visitor opened the door of his SUV and pulled out a plastic water bottle. “My wife was thrilled to see there’s an Amish community here. She loves buying authentic crafts and that kind of stuff.”

  “
That’s…good.” Most English tourists who came through happened by when Father was home, and Isaac couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to one. What do English people talk about? “Uh, where are you from?”

  “Winnipeg—up in Canada?” He extended his hand. “I’m Darren Bell, and my wife is Michelle.”

  Isaac shook his hand. “Isaac Byler. Nice to meet you.”

  “How long have you all been here, Isaac? I don’t remember there being any Amish folks living down this way the last time I was through. Although that was quite a while ago, I suppose. ”

  “We’ve lived here about seven years.”

  “Did you come from Pennsylvania?” Darren took a drink from his bottle, his throat working as he swallowed.

  “No, from Ohio. A place called Red Hills.”

  “Ohio, huh?” Darren leaned an elbow back on his vehicle, his white T-shirt stretching across his muscles. “And why did you move to northern Minnesota? Winters weren’t cold enough for you?”

  Isaac realized he was staring at Darren’s chest and the faint shadow of dark hair beneath the white cotton. He jerked his gaze up to Darren’s face, laughing uneasily. “They were definitely cold enough for me. But we wanted to break off and start our own settlement, and the land here is plentiful and a good price.” It was true enough.

  “What’s the population of this place? I’m actually not sure of the name since there doesn’t seem to really be a main part of town.”

  “Zebulon. There are about a hundred and eighty of us.”

  “Guess you know everyone here, huh? I grew up in a little place in eastern Manitoba, and it’s not quite the same living in the city.” He laughed. “Not that Winnipeg is a booming metropolis. Still, it’s nice to have people around you can depend on.”