A Forbidden Rumspringa (Gay Amish Romance Book 1) (2 page)

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.”

“It is.” Although Isaac often wondered what it would be like to live in a city and be free to do what he wanted without everyone finding out.

“Why did you all want to start a new community?” Darren held up his hands. “I’m sorry—stop me if I’m being too nosy.” He glanced at his wife and smiled ruefully. “She could be here a while.”

“I don’t mind.” Isaac could imagine how Father would grumble after the English left if he’d been asked these questions. “Our bishop felt our old settlement had become too modern and worldly. Sixteen families followed him here. Two more came after, and another last year.”

“Too modern?” Darren laughed. “Really?”

Isaac chuckled, nudging up his hat to scratch his forehead. “I know it must seem crazy to the English.”

“I’m sorry—I don’t mean any offense.”

“Don’t worry.” Isaac glanced behind and lowered his voice. “It seemed pretty crazy to me at first. There were already a lot of rules in Ohio, and here we have even more. I don’t think an English person would last long in Zebulon.”

Darren tilted his head, still smiling easily. “So Michelle and I are what you’d call English, right? Why English and not American? Or Canadian as the case may be.”

“I asked once when I was a boy, and Father said it’s just our way. He says that a lot.”

“I bet.” Darren took another swig of water. “So it wasn’t strict enough before for your old man and the other people who moved here?”

Isaac stared at a drop of water on Darren’s lower lip. “Uh…” He shoved his hands in his pockets and refocused. “Yeah. They thought the Amish where we lived had become too lax. There were rubber-covered rims on buggies instead of steel, and some families even had telephones. Not inside the house, of course—but in little shacks at the end of their driveways. There was indoor plumbing, and…”

Darren waited, his eyebrows raised.

“And young people were running too wild.”
Ruining it for all of
us.
“Here in Zebulon we follow the ways of the Swartzentruber Amish.”

“Swartz…Swartzentruber? What does that mean?”

“It’s a name. After they separated from the bigger Amish community in Ohio the bishops were called Swartzentruber. It stuck, I guess.”

Darren crossed his tan arms, the plastic bottle dangling from his fingers. “Well, you learn something new every day. I thought all the Amish were the same.”

“It’s all right, most English people think that. But there are Old Order, New Order, Swartzentruber, Beachy.” Isaac smiled. “Of course we all think
our
Ordnung is the right one. Our rules, I mean.” He shouldn’t be speaking so frankly with a tourist, but something about Darren loosened Isaac’s tongue. “And I guess we think you’re all the same too.”

Darren’s teeth gleamed as he smiled. “Fair enough.” He called to his wife. “Sweetheart, we shouldn’t keep these folks too much longer. It’s almost suppertime.”

“Just another minute,” she answered.

“Don’t worry.” Isaac reassured him.
She can take as long as she wants if she buys something.

“All right, where were we?” Darren stroked his beard. “When did all this happen? The Swartzenhubers first going out on their own, I mean.”

Isaac was struck with the bizarre thought of what Darren’s short beard would feel like against his own cheek. He stared at his dirty feet and didn’t correct Darren’s mispronunciation. “Oh, a long time ago. A hundred years or so, I reckon. There are Swartzentrubers all over the place now. Some here in Minnesota, down in Fillmore County. We’re a little different up here in certain ways. Most settlements are. We all like to do things our own way.”

“Do you mind telling me how you’re different?”

Isaac hooked his thumbs under his galluses. “One thing is that we wear two of these. Some Swartzentrubers only use one.”

“Suspenders? Why not two?”

“They say it’s too vain.” Isaac shrugged. “But I think they’re great for holding up your pants. Bishop Yoder agreed, fortunately.” He watched as Darren stroked his chin. “Is that itchy?”

Darren’s brow creased. “Is what itchy?”

Isaac fiddled with the brim of his hat before shoving his hands in his pockets. “Having a beard all over your face like that. Not just on the bottom.”

“Oh, that.” Darren shrugged. “It can get a little hot in the summer, but no, it’s not itchy. Amish men don’t have full beards?”

“Honey?” The woman’s voice rang out. “Which one do you think would go better in Mom’s apartment? Come and look.”

Darren smiled. “Excuse me—duty calls.”

Isaac watched him trot over to where his wife examined the quilts. With their bright colors and intricate patterns, Isaac didn’t understand how the quilts weren’t too worldly. But they sold for a pretty penny to the English, and he certainly wasn’t going to complain.

With everyone’s attention on the quilts, Isaac drifted closer to the SUV. With a quick glance to be sure Mother wasn’t watching, he stood as near as he dared to catch a glimpse in the mirror on the side. Although he’d grown up with a mirror in the bathroom, in Zebulon Bishop Yoder had declared them to be the devil’s plaything—dark instruments that encouraged vanity and pride. Isaac had rarely seen his reflection since he was eleven.

Heart racing, he ducked his head. Beneath the straw hat, his short sandy hair swept over his forehead in the style of most Amish men, but his hair didn’t have to cover his ears and he wore no beard since he hadn’t been baptized yet. It was so hot in the summers that Isaac kept his hair as short as he dared.