Returning To His Amish Past
From her first glimpse of his big-city suit, Ellie Miller knows Bram Lapp is trouble. The handsome Englischer says he wants to reclaim the life he left long ago. Even if his smile disarms her, all of Ellie’s energy must go to her children and their struggling farm…and to atoning for her mistakes.
A criminal’s trail has brought FBI informant Bram to Ellie’s warm and welcoming Indiana community. Now he’s posing as the kind of man he once hoped to be. Someone steadfast and upright. Someone who might be worthy of Ellie. Because no matter how much she claims she doesn’t want a second chance at love, he knows he’s found the home they were meant to share.
“Last night you told me
you never intended to stay here.”
Ellie kept her eyes on the far side of the lake, where a heron stalked in the shallows. “I know I said I’d trust you, Bram, but I don’t know what to think. You’re like two different people sometimes—sweet and tender one minute, and then harsh and almost frightening other times.”
“Ja, I know, and I’m sorry.” Bram paused, his own eyes on the motionless heron. The bird was nearly invisible in the shadow of the trees, his gray-blue coloring a shadow within a shadow. Living undercover. How did a man stop living a lie?
“I want to stay, Ellie. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to.” He took her hand in his, and she looked at him.
“Even if you stay, we can never be more than friends.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, her blue eyes reflecting the water.
“Aren’t we already more than friends, Ellie?”
JAN DREXLER
A recent graduate from Homeschool Mom-hood, Jan Drexler devotes her time to the voices in her head who have been clamoring for attention during the past few decades. Instead of declining Latin nouns and reviewing rhetorical devices, her days are now spent at the computer, where she gives her characters free rein.
She lives in the Black Hills of South Dakota with her husband of thirty years, their four adult children, an extremely furry Husky, and Maggie, the cat who thinks she’s a dog. If she isn’t sitting at her computer living the lives of her characters, she’s probably hiking in the Hills or the Badlands, enjoying the spectacular scenery.
The Prodigal Son Returns
Jan Drexler
He shall cover thee with his feathers,
and under his wings shalt thou trust:
his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.
—Psalms 91:4
To the storytellers in my life, especially
my grandmother, Ethel Sherck Tomlonson Rupel, and my parents, John and Veva Tomlonson.
To my dear husband and children,
who never stop believing in me.
And to the ladies of Seekerville.net. Without you, I’d still be typing away, alone in my writer cave.
Soli Deo Gloria
Contents
Chapter One
LaGrange County, Indiana
May 1936
A high-pitched scream forced Bram Lapp’s feet into a run even before his mind could identify the source. He raced up the dusty farm lane between a garden and a plain white house at the top of the sloping yard, and when the next scream sounded, ending in a terrified child’s voice yelling, “Ne, ne!”, adrenaline rushed in, pushing him faster. He knew that sound all too well—a child was in danger, terrified. Grim possibilities flashed through his mind.
Rounding the corner of the barn, Bram’s slick leather soles skidded sideways in the gravel. His feet found purchase, and he focused on the little girl crouched in front of him. A chicken flapped at the end of her outstretched arm, but her eyes were on the four draft horses looming over her. He dived toward her, letting his momentum carry him beyond the horses. Grabbing the girl in his arms, he rolled them both past the
dinner-plate-size hooves and slid to a halt at the edge of the grassy backyard.
Bram shoved the child off his chest onto the grass, spitting feathers from his mouth, trying to see past the squawking red hen in his face. Where was she hurt? She screamed even louder as he wrenched the protesting chicken out of her hands and tossed it behind him.
Wide brown eyes cut from the horses to his face and then back again, her screams turning to ragged crying. She tried to pull away, but he kept her close with a firm grip on her arm. If she was hurt, or bleeding, the worst thing she could do would be to run and hide somewhere. He’d seen enough of that with kids on the Chicago streets.
He brushed at the feathers caught in her disheveled brown braids. She no longer looked like a copy of the chicken that still scolded him from a distance, but the tears running down her face clenched at his stomach. He turned her to one side and then the other. No blood that he could see. She ignored his touch; her eyes