Free The Amish Heart of Ice Mountain by Kelly Long Page A

bent into her, forcing her to arch her back. “Like hell you don’t,” he breathed.
    Then a thought triggered mercifully in her brain. “You’re touching me,” she cried, almost in desperation against her own traitorous body. “You’re breaking your word.”
    He squeezed her breast and laughed softly. “Damn right, sweet, and it’s my word to break. Besides, I’m a little drunk, and maybe I won’t remember . . . or else I’ll never forget.”
    He moved so fast that she couldn’t catch her breath. He flung the glass jar from him and she heard it shatter against a rock. Then he grabbed her basket and tossed it aside, too. She was about to protest when he slammed his mouth into hers, catching her small hands in each of his own and raising them above her head.
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    He pressed her hard against the thick tree, ignoring her tight, breathy cries as he worked his tongue against her lips, demanding entry until she yielded and he drove deep into her soft mouth. She whimpered, but he pressed on, wanting something and nothing and everything from her. She tasted like honey and spring, and he swayed a bit on his feet, shaken by how much he wanted her as his wife in truth. And it would be so simple— right here.... But something in his spirit compelled him beyond the demands of his body, and he tore himself away from her with a savage cry, letting her hands drop and bending over to put his hands on his knees, like a runner after a marathon, trying to catch his breath.
    Then he felt the air from the rush of her skirt and straightened in time to see her run off into the laurel as if the devil himself was at her heels....

Chapter Eleven
    â€œI was shunned for far less than that buwe ’s letter.” Mahlon spoke in gruff tones as he tipped in the aged bentwood rocker. He sat on his front porch next to Anne in the waning light of day as Ernest and Samuel lugged milk pails back from the nearest barn.
    â€œPerhaps,” Anne said softly. “But Bishop Umble is a just man, while Bishop Loftus was . . . not.”
    â€œJust? Jah . . . I guess. But what does justice have to do with mercy?” Mahlon swallowed hard as his mind telescoped far into his own past....
    He’d been eighteen the summer after he’d joined the church. There had been no opportunity for Rumspringa under Bishop Loftus’s rule. Either a youth joined the church or left the community—not that he hadn’t wanted to leave. He’d wanted to go when he’d been nine, since the first time he saw his fater strike his mamm. But that was kept in silence, along with so many of the altercations that took place during his growing-up years—an adolescence full of secrets and lies and darkness....
    Then that summer day came—a picnic after a church meeting and moments that seemed highlighted in his consciousness, frozen like tender apple blossoms caught in a cruel ice storm. His mother had tripped and spilled the bowl of fragrant potato salad down his fater ’s shirtfront.
    Mahlon had held his breath, sudden alarm and unexpected rage coursing through him. If they were at home, he knew the abuse his mother would have suffered for such an infraction. And for a moment he’d forgotten where they were. Blinded by the urge to protect her, he’d grabbed his mamm , pulling her instinctively behind him, then turned to face his fater , who’d risen to his full height, a good head taller than Mahlon. Anger flashed in the man’s eyes, so quickly only Mahlon saw it. But it hadn’t mattered; nothing had existed except the fact that he needed to keep his mother safe. For once, he needed to take a stand. He swung and struck his father full in his long-bearded face.
    The blow made an echoing sound that broke into his mind, and he suddenly became aware of the people gathered around him, staring at him in horror. He’d struck his father, dishonored him before all.