The Alliance Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE ALLIANCE

  and other novels by Jolina Petersheim

  The Alliance

  “I found myself gripping the last page, unable to put down The Alliance even after I’d read the closing lines. Finally, an apocalyptic novel ablaze with hope—just the kind of story I champion. A must-read.”

  SARAH MCCOY, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE MAPMAKER’S CHILDREN AND THE BAKER’S DAUGHTER

  “The Alliance is a gripping story that shows how cultural differences drop away in the face of life-altering circumstance and only the most deeply held truths survive. I raced to the end and wanted more. Can’t wait for the conclusion of this series!”

  FRANCINE RIVERS, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF REDEEMING LOVE AND A VOICE IN THE WIND

  “Through her authentic, sympathetic characters, Jolina Petersheim conveys hope and redemption in impossible situations. Readers will not want to leave the world portrayed in The Alliance, even as it falls apart around them.”

  ERIKA ROBUCK, AUTHOR OF THE HOUSE OF HAWTHORNE

  “An absorbing and thought-provoking ‘what if?’ drama that takes a compassionate look at what divides and ultimately unites us.”

  MARYANNE O’HARA, AUTHOR OF CASCADE

  “I’ve just discovered rising star Jolina Petersheim, and I’m hooked! The Alliance was a mesmerizing peek at what might happen if everything we thought we believed was suddenly tested. I can’t wait for the next installment!”

  COLLEEN COBLE, AUTHOR OF MERMAID MOON AND THE HOPE BEACH SERIES

  “Beautifully written and unique, The Alliance examines the conflict between our humanity and our need to protect that which we hold dear. A book that begs to be savored on many levels.”

  LISA WINGATE, NATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE SEA KEEPER’S DAUGHTERS

  “Captivating. Intriguing. A story that takes us beyond what we believe. This well-written tale marks Jolina Petersheim as a poignant storyteller.”

  RACHEL HAUCK, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE WEDDING CHAPEL

  “The Alliance is a cut above. Lovely prose and a fascinating concept make this unique novel a sure winner. Petersheim just gets better and better.”

  J. T. ELLISON, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF NO ONE KNOWS

  “The Alliance is gripping because it could be true and riveting because of the author’s fine way with words, turning paragraphs into scenes you won’t easily forget.”

  EVA MARIE EVERSON, AUTHOR OF FIVE BRIDES

  “With each stroke of her exquisite literary pen, Jolina Petersheim explores the unexpected world of who we are when the worst happens.”

  LYNNE GENTRY, AUTHOR OF THE CARTHAGE CHRONICLES SERIES

  “Ah, the simple life—that’s what you might think when you pick up a book about an Old Order Mennonite community. And there is a simple beauty to the faith and hope Petersheim weaves through her apocalyptic tale. But the story itself is complex, multi-layered, and all too believable for comfort’s sake. Check your expectations at the door and dive into this parable about what really matters when the dross of the world is burned away.”

  SARAH LOUDIN THOMAS, AUTHOR OF MIRACLE IN A DRY SEASON

  The Midwife

  “This powerful story of redemption, forgiveness and the power of Christ over sin challenges readers to consider modern attitudes in light of eternal truths.”

  LIFE: BEAUTIFUL MAGAZINE

  “Petersheim is an amazing new author. . . . [The Midwife is] a tale that explores what happens when you have a second chance at making things right, even if it opens old wounds.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  “Petersheim explores learning to trust God and what it means to be a mother in this well-written story. . . . It is filled with well-developed characters, love, intrigue, and mystery . . . [and] will be hard to put down.”

  CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES

  “An emotional work that is sure to draw in parents and non-parents alike with an extraordinary story full of troubled characters.”

  JOSH OLDS, LIFEISSTORY.COM

  The Outcast

  “Petersheim makes an outstanding debut with this fresh and inspirational retelling of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. Well-drawn characters and good, old-fashioned storytelling combine in an excellent choice for Nancy Mehl’s readers.”

  LIBRARY JOURNAL, STARRED REVIEW

  “From its opening lines, The Outcast wowed me in every way. Quickly paced, beautifully written, flawlessly executed—I could not put this book down.”

  SHE READS

  “A powerful and poignant story that transcends genre stereotypes and is not easily forgotten. The caliber of Jolina’s prose defies her debut author status, and I’m eager to read more.”

  RELZ REVIEWZ

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Jolina Petersheim online at jolinapetersheim.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  The Alliance

  Copyright © 2016 by Jolina Petersheim. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of clouds copyright © juliakaye59/Dollar Photo Club. All rights reserved.

  Cover and interior photograph of sky copyright © ChiccoDodiFC/Dollar Photo Club. All rights reserved.

  Cover and interior photograph of plane copyright © ASP Inc/Dollar Photo Club. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of laundry copyright © Jason Lindsey/Alamy. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of buggy copyright © Juanmonino/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Ron Kaufmann

  Edited by Kathryn S. Olson

  Published in association with Ambassador Literary Agency, Nashville, TN

  Some Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Some Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  The Alliance is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Petersheim, Jolina, author.

  Title: The alliance / Jolina Petersheim.

  Description: Carol Stream, Illinois : Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., [2016]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015045428| ISBN 9781496413994 (hardcover) | ISBN

  9781496402219 (softcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Mennonites—Fiction. | Interpersonal relations—Fiction. |

  GSAFD: Christian fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3616.E84264 A79 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015045428

  ISBN 978-1-4964-1450-2 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4964-0230-1 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-1451-9 (Apple)

  Build: 2016-03-01 13:14:49

  To my husband, Randy, without whom this story—and my life—would be impossible. No hero I write can compare to you.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Preview of The Divide

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  One of the thin
gs I love most about writing is the way it takes me on a journey of discovery, particularly discovering God and who I am through him. The Alliance has been my most challenging writing “journey” so far, but through its creation, I’ve learned that without Christ’s anointing, I am a wordless vessel. I’ve also learned that the body of Christ can work together as the perfect community, if we allow ourselves to be of one mind and accord through him.

  Our family went through a challenging season in the winter of 2015, and Tyndale House somehow knew exactly what I needed and when, offering me both support and space to heal. I am grateful for each member of my team: Karen Watson, who offered to come to Wisconsin to rock my babies, Stephanie Broene, Kathy Olson, Shaina Turner, and Maggie Rowe. You all have become so dear to me. Thank you for your patience and kindness and—Kathy—for allowing me to do an extra round of edits, even though it added more work to your plate.

  I am also thankful for Wes Yoder, my agent, who shares my love for homegrown carrots, family history, and working in the dirt. Your quiet steadfastness has been crucial for me during this publishing journey. Thank you.

  To my readers: thank you, thank you, for your support. You cannot know how much comfort it brought me to receive your care packages, to read your messages, and to feel your fervent prayers surrounding us. You have become more than my readers; you have become my friends.

  I want to thank my parents, Merle and Beverly Miller, for loving me even after I moved their granddaughters twelve hours away. Your care packages, Mom, are the materialization of children’s dreams. I love you and Dad very much. I love you, too, Josh and Caleb. Sometimes a girl needs brothers to help counter all her sparkle and pink; God knew I sure needed mine.

  Thank you, Mom Betty and Dad Rich Petersheim, for all the work and love you poured into us—the winter of 2015, especially. Thank you, also, for the unconditional acceptance of our dreams. We couldn’t have made this move if not for you both.

  Joanne Petersheim, sis-in-love, thank you for speeding through the night to reach the hospital, watching my babies, cleaning my house, making me tea, crying and laughing with me during that dry-bones winter. So glad God gave me you.

  Misty, my beloved best friend: thank you for traveling twelve hours to bring me two Bantam chickens, birthday cake, and books for my girls; and for sharing late night walks, talks, tea, and period dramas on BBC. Despite the distance between my farm and yours, I know we’ll always be close. I love you so much.

  To my daughters, Adelaide and Madeleine. Right now, you’re sitting on the couch with your wonderful “da-da,” and I can’t help but stop typing to watch your smiles and listen to the soundtrack of your mischievous joy. You two make my world. My chest aches with love for you.

  To my husband, Randy: thank you for encouraging me to dream, to live without fear, to hold fast to the promises of God. This past year, more than any other, has made me feel like we are truly one. I cannot imagine this simple, beautiful life without you. I am relieved and overjoyed that I do not have to try. I loved you; I love you; I will love you. Always.

  To my heavenly Father: Thank you for this faith-filled journey, which helped me face one of my greatest fears and discover that—even while I was in it—you were always by my side. I know that I can trust you with every aspect of my life and with the lives of my family. I love you. Thank you for loving me even when I was unworthy and still calling me your child.

  Leora

  BUFFERED BY GRASSLAND, the collision is strangely quiet. Dirt sprays as the small plane scrapes away the top layer of Montana soil, coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of our field. Black smoke billows as fire leaps to life on the front end of the mangled plane. Standing for a moment in shock, I leave my sister, Anna, eating cold peach supp at the table and run out the open back door. The corners of my mouth stretch as I scream for Jabil, who is down the lane, working beneath the pavilion. I cannot see him, and I doubt he will be able to hear me. But over the din of the devouring flames, I do not hear anything. Not the whine of the saw blades that sometimes soothes my sister’s tantrums. Not the fierce roar as Jabil and his crew power-wash bark from the once-standing dead trees that will soon become the walls of another log house.

  On the back porch, I grab a piece of firewood left over from winter and leap down the steps. I cross through the gate and wade into the meadow and see that, around the plane, a diameter of grass is seared by the heat of the fire. I scream for Jabil again, and then I scream for my younger brother, Seth, who is working down at Field to Table at the end of the lane.

  I run up to the plane and stare into the cockpit. The windshield is shattered. The pilot is slumped over the control panel. Blood trails down half his face like a port-wine stain. For a moment, I think he is already dead. Then I see his fingers twitch near the throttle.

  “Can you hear me?” I yell. The man groans and tries to look at me without turning his head. I use the butt of the log to hit the door handle, because the handle itself is too far off the ground for me to reach. When it won’t budge, I try to break the side window, thinking it’d be better for the pilot to be cut by the glass than burned to death. But the glass is too thick and the window, same as the handle, is too far off the ground for me to put any leverage behind my swing. “You have to help! I don’t know how to get you out!”

  The pilot says nothing. His deep-set eyes close as he loses consciousness, his jaw slackening beneath a tangled beard. I hear a sound over the crackling flames and turn to see Jabil and his logging crew charging down the lane. Some of the men are still wearing hard hats or protective goggles, and the sawdust from their work sifts from their bodies like reddish sand. Their uniform steel-toe boots stamp the meadow as they surge toward us—about ten of them—and create a circle around the wreckage. Jabil is carrying a crowbar; his brother Malachi carries a shovel; Christian, a fire extinguisher; and the Englischer, Sean, a bolt cutter.

  They did not need me to scream for help because, of course, they would have seen the plane crash on their own. The entire community must have seen it. I keep holding my worthless piece of firewood to my chest and watch the crew extinguish the fire and pry open the cockpit door; then Jabil tries to lift the pilot out by his arms. The man falls toward him, but his feet remain lodged under the crumpled floorboard. Jabil uses the crowbar to work the pilot’s feet free. Christian tugs on the pilot’s shoulders, and he slides out into the waiting loggers’ arms. The plane’s metal ticks and acrid smoke from the charred engine burns my throat and eyes. I back up from the plane in case it catches on fire again.

  Jabil turns to me. “We take him to your house?”

  “Jah.” I gouge the wood with my nails. “Of course.”

  Jabil Snyder has been foreman of the logging crew since his father’s sudden passing last year, when, literally overnight, Jabil became the wealthiest man in the community. At twenty-one, he is only two years older than I, but next to his uncle, the bishop, he is also the most revered. Therefore, when Jabil calls out commands, the men respond in unity. They move across the meadow as one, the pilot’s broken body borne by their work-hardened arms. Running in front of them, I open the gate and prop it with an overturned wheelbarrow. I dart up the steps into the house, and Anna looks up from her bowl.

  “We need the table,” I say in Pennsylvania Dutch. “You’ll have to move.”

  My sixteen-year-old sister continues watching me with the eyes of a child, her smile serene despite the bedlam outside. “I mean it,” I continue, because sometimes she understands more than she lets on. I take her bowl of supp over to the countertop. Anna frowns and stands to retrieve it, as I expected she would. I drag the chairs away from the table and remove the tablecloth and quart jar full of weeds Anna picked and arranged like flowers.

  Knowing the pilot’s appearance will upset my sensitive sister, and the small crowd in our home will upset her even more, I carry the supp bowl, cloth napkin, and spoon into the back bedroom we share.

  “Read to you?” Anna asks, glancing up at me wit
h an impish smile. What she really wants is for me to read the book to her.

  “Later,” I promise.

  I tug my sister’s dress down over her legs and kiss the white center part of her twin braids. Closing our bedroom door, I hurry down the hall and see Jabil is supporting the pilot’s head and shoulders and Malachi the legs as, together, they maneuver his body onto the table. His clothes are singed, and blood from his head wound stains the grooves of the beautiful pine table that—like most of the furniture in this house—was crafted by my vadder’s skillful hands.

  “You have scissors?” Jabil asks. I withdraw a pair from the sewing drawer and pass it to him. Touching my hand, he meets my eyes. “Sure you want to be here for this?”

  At my affirming nod, he turns and cuts off the pilot’s Englischer clothes by starting at the breastbone and working his way down. His thick, calloused fingers are so confident and swift, it seems he’s been performing this action all his life. My face grows warm as the T-shirt falls away, exposing the pilot’s chest. Besides my younger brother, I have never seen a shirtless man, as such immodesty is prohibited in the community.

  The pilot is smaller-boned than Jabil, who, along with his brothers, I once watched lever a main barn beam from horizontal to vertical without breaking a sweat. But the pilot is still muscular and lean. A thick silver band hangs from a chain around his neck, engraved with the words Semper Fi. A cross, ends elongated like spears, is tattooed from the pilot’s left clavicle down to his pectoral—biology terms I recall from the science book I borrowed from the Liberty Public Library, back when I had time to spend studying, simply to absorb knowledge, and not to prepare for the tedious classes I did not want to teach.

  I turn and see that Jabil is extracting a pistol from the holster on the belt threaded through the pilot’s jeans. I pivot from the sight—and the fear it evokes—and wrap my arms around my waist. “Has somebody tried calling 911?”