The way his datt had saved him.
Perry Mast had been an ordained deacon—an important position within the church district. One of his responsibilities had been to go into the Amish community and secure information about transgressors. He’d also been charged with meting out admonitions, usually at worship. They were burdensome duties, but his datt had borne them with courage and fortitude.
Noah would never be the man his father had been; he’d made too many mistakes—sinned too many times—most of which he was not repentant for. That was why he’d had to live in the tunnel, why his father had chained him and used the whip. It was why he’d been denied food and, sometimes, water. His datt had loved him and wanted only to ensure his son’s place in heaven. Noah understood that. He’d accepted his punishment with the same strength and grace with which his father had doled it out.
As part of his penance, his datt had sent Noah into the Amish community sometimes to seek out the rebellious members, the ones who’d fallen into sin. Noah had brought them home, where his father had meted out the appropriate punishment.
Noah had decided early on that, while he would never be a deacon, he could continue his father’s work. His father had taught him well, after all, and Noah had been an astute student. His datt, he mused, would be pleased.
Noah had worked hard through the summer. Held down two jobs. But he had a place now. A little house set on two acres. He’d bought a nice young gelding for his buggy, and also a cow. By spring, he’d have a calf, the beginning of a herd.
Rachel stood at the kitchen counter with her back to him. She wore cutoff shorts and a white T-shirt, both of which hugged her female curves. He loved the way her long brown hair tumbled over her shoulders. He loved the feel of it in his fingers, the way it smelled when he brought it to his face and breathed in her scent.
Yes, he thought as he drank in the sight of her, she is the one. He knew she would make a good wife. She would bear him children. She could be saved, and he was just the man to do it.
“Rachel,” he said.
She turned. Her eyes widened, as if she was surprised to see him, which was silly, since he’d been coming for a month now. She held a can of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Then she smiled, and he was so dazzled by her expression, he forgot all about her vices. With patience and admonition, they would be eradicated.
“Hey, Noah.” She shoved a can of beer at him. “Want a Bud?”
“Sure.” He popped the tab and sipped, uncharacteristically nervous. “What are you up to?” he asked.
“Just trying to cop a buzz.”
He fingered the syringe in his pocket. “You want to take a drive out to see my new place?”
Her eyes lit up. “I’d love to,” she said, and they started toward the door.