Chapter 10: The Butter Feast
The harvest moon rose fat and golden over Lancaster, bathing the fields in a glow that seemed almost unearthly. The Yoders’ yard had been transformed into a feast: long trestle tables groaning under platters of bread, jugs of cider, crock after crock of butter fresh from the churn. Lanterns swung from poles, casting halos of light where neighbors gathered, laughing, gossiping, singing.
Marybeth moved among them with trays in her hands, her smile practiced, her heart pounding. Tonight felt like a test—though of what, she could not name.
It did not take long. Josiah stood and raised his cup, his voice clear enough for all to hear. “Neighbors! The Lord has blessed us with a bountiful season, and with women of virtue who make our homes steadfast. None more than Marybeth Yoder, whose hands bring forth butter sweeter than honey. It is my prayer she will join me in covenant, to make of our households one.”
The tables erupted with murmurs. Some clapped. Some gasped. Anna nearly dropped her cup.
Marybeth’s face burned. She opened her mouth, but no words came.
Then Elijah stepped forward.
He had no cup, no speech prepared. Only the weight of his presence, the steady fire in his eyes. He looked at Josiah, then at Marybeth, and spoke plain: “Virtue is not for display, nor for possession. It is lived. And Marybeth owes her choice to no man but herself.”
The crowd stilled, stunned. The bishop shifted uneasily. Josiah bristled, lips thinning.
Marybeth’s pulse roared in her ears. Without thinking, she set down her tray and slipped into the shadowed edge of the barn. A moment later, footsteps followed—firm, certain.
“Elijah,” she whispered when he caught up to her, lantern light catching in his eyes.
“I will not watch you bartered like butter at market,” he said, voice low, fierce.
Her breath shook. “You’ve made it worse.”
“Or truer.”
The silence between them was heavy, humming. His hand lifted—hesitant, then sure—fingertips brushing the edge of her jaw. She did not step away. The lantern swayed above, shadows painting them closer.
“Marybeth,” he murmured, and the way he said her name was not holy and yet more sacred than any hymn.
Her hand rose to cover his, holding it there. Her eyes closed. The world narrowed to warmth, breath, the electric charge of nearness. His forehead touched hers. She felt the tremor in him, the careful restraint.
The voices outside blurred, laughter and gossip dimming. Here, there was only the thunder of her heart and the whisper of his breath.
When his lips finally brushed hers, it was not bold, not reckless—it was the breaking of a dam too long held.
The kiss deepened, hunger threaded with reverence. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer; his arms wrapped firm around her waist, drawing her against the solid line of him. Lantern light wavered as though the night itself trembled with them.
Heat curled low in her belly, wild and frightening and sweet. The world fell away—barn, feast, whispers—all gone, until there was only this: the press of lips, the taste of him, the sense that she had stepped across a line she could never return from.
And she did not want to return.
The lantern flickered, sputtered, then steadied. They broke apart just long enough to breathe, foreheads still touching, neither ready to let go.
“Marybeth,” Elijah whispered, raw. “If this is sin, then I am already lost.”
Her answer came in the softest confession, against his lips: “Then let us be lost together.”
The kiss swallowed the rest.
Fade to black.