Brian's Choice by Vannetta Chapman Page A

watching the bridge spin round and round until finally the Jag flipped. The car spun on its hood, collided into the bridge railing, and then ricocheted back to the other side. He heard Bridgette scream. The sound of glass shattering and airbags exploding filled his ears. He found himself staring through a shattered windshield up at an impossibly blue sky.
    And then there was only darkness.

ONE
    Cody’s Creek, Oklahoma
    Three years later
    Brian had a strong desire to give his 1982 Ford tractor a swift kick. Instead, he reached his hand farther down into the engine in the hope of finding what was wrong. Possibly mice had taken to eating the wires again, or perhaps they had decided to build a nest deep in his engine this time.
    He’d closed his eyes and was completely focused on the components of the old tractor’s engine when he heard the clip-clop of a horse and buggy.
    More than one horse and buggy.
    He pulled out his hand, grabbed a rag he kept in his toolbox, and swiped at the sweat running down his face. Sweating always caused the scar along his hairline to itch, a small penance to pay the rest of his life. The tractor, though—having to deal with the tractor felt like sweet justice, cosmic revenge, God’s sense of humor. Maybe it was all three.
    Looking up, he saw three buggies coming down his lane.
    Bishop Levi Troyer led the pack. Any other time, Brian would have been happy to see him, but he had a feeling this was not going to be a social visit. The other two buggies suggested more serious matters.
    He quickly ticked off the things he may have done wrong but couldn’t come up with anything. With harvest approaching, tractorproblems, and a lack of money, Brian barely left his small farm except to go to church.
    An overpowering urge to go inside and clean up caused him to look toward his house. Funny how such habits still plagued him. He’d first embraced the Amish lifestyle two years earlier and had been accepted into the church last month. Anyone looking at him wouldn’t suspect he’d spent his first twenty-nine years as an Englischer . Anyone who could smell him certainly wouldn’t think so.
    Though their religious beliefs were as conservative as any New Order Amish community, their Ordnung was somewhat relaxed and allowed the use of tractors in the fields and even to drive to town. Buggies were still used for church meetings, weddings, and funerals. Brian had thought that hypocritical when he’d first arrived in the small community of Cody’s Creek, but after planting and harvesting his first crop, he’d understood it was a simple fact of necessity. The Oklahoma soil could not be farmed with horses unless you were able to replace those horses often.
    He dropped the rag on top of the toolbox and strode toward Bishop Levi’s buggy. Levi had a tractor in his field like every other Amish family, but he insisted on using the buggy for all of his traveling. The older man lifted a hand in greeting as he pulled on the reins of his mare. By the time Brian reached him, he’d struggled out of the buggy and was reaching for his cane.
    Bishop Levi. The man had been a safe haven in Brian’s personal storm. He’d been like a father to him. The bishop was older, with a solid white beard and a pronounced limp. He carried the cane in his left hand wherever he went. He reminded Brian of the lives he had destroyed.
    An irresponsible driver hadn’t caused Levi’s injury. Moreover, Brian had lived with him an entire year, and he had never heard the man complain about what must have been a painful condition.
    â€œHow are you, Levi?”
    â€œ Gut . Danki . And you?”
    â€œFine except for the aggravations of modern technology.”
    â€œTractor giving you trouble?”
    â€œYes.” Brian nodded toward Joseph Byler and Luke Hershberger. Luke was a minister in their church and Joseph a deacon. “What’s this about?”
    â€œNeighbors