was long past the midday meal, so where was the proprietor? Glasses and a pitcher of lemonade stood by the cash register with a sign that read Refresh Your Thirst. Ice cubes, mint and lemon slices floated in the clear pitcher, a sight that made Marshall realize just how thirsty he was. Noticing a brass bell beside the cash register, he rang it before pouring himself a glass of the lemonade and taking a deep swallow.
Marshall gasped as the strong taste of sour lemon filled his mouth and made his eyes water. He grimaced and began to choke just as the door swung open to reveal a young Amish woman in a green dress and white kapp. He tried to clear his throat and coughed.
“Atch,” she said, and clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle. “You weren’t supposed to drink that yet.” She held up a pint jar of raw sugar in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. “I still need to add the sugar.”
“You’re telling me,” Marshall replied. Rather, he tried to reply, but his voice came out in a strangled croak and he began to cough again.
She pointed at him with her spoon and grimaced. “Sorry. Though my mam did teach me to make lemonade so you could taste the lemons.”
“Did she?” He laughed, then choked again. When he found his voice, he spoke, captivated by the pretty young woman’s eyes, her smile. “Your mam would approve of this batch for certain.” Marshall wanted to ask her how he was supposed to know there was no sugar in the lemonade yet, but he was enjoying the back and forth too much. Instead, he wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve. He spotted a smudge of topsoil and wished he’d taken the time to go to the house to change his shirt before coming to the shop. He also wished he’d worn his better straw hat; this one had a bite out of it, thanks to his brother’s pet goat.
The woman hurried past him, putting the service counter between them before depositing the jar of sugar beside the pitcher. “I am sorry,” she repeated. Then she giggled again.
Marshall watched her. “I can see I’ll have to be more careful about reading signs literally when I come in here.”
“Maybe you should.” She smiled to herself as she added the sugar to the pitcher and stirred with the spoon.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was sure they’d never met before because he would have remembered her, but there was something so familiar about her. It was like the taste of his favorite pie. All pies were different, but blueberry had its own special flavor. This girl wore the Amish clothing of every other local girl he knew, but there was something remarkably different, yet familiar, about her...as though he’d known her all his life. And suddenly he wanted to know her for the rest of his life.
Just this morning he and his grandmother, who lived with him and his little brother, were discussing his marriage prospects. Or lack of, in her eyes. For months she’d been talking about how it was time for him to start thinking about settling down and having a family of his own. He wondered what she would think if he walked back into the house this afternoon and told her he might have found the girl for him.
The woman regarded Marshall with shining almond-shaped eyes as green as spring grass. “What can I do for you?” She eyed the leather strap in his hand.
“I’m Marshall, Marshall Byler,” he told her, deliberately stalling in explaining his reason for coming. “I live just down the road. The farm with the old pear trees by the mailbox?”
She didn’t respond.
Marshall wasn’t in the least bit discouraged. He liked a bit of chase with a girl. “And you must be a Miller?”
She shook her head and continued to stir. “Ne.”
He took a step forward and inspected her closer. She was tall for a woman, perhaps taller than he was. And slender as a willow. She wasn’t a beauty in the usual sense, not tiny and softly rounded like his neighbor Faith King. But when this newcomer turned those intense green eyes on him, he found himself almost stunned. Not to mention slightly tongue-tied. She was sharp as a straight razor, this one, and direct in her speech, more outspoken than most of the girls around here. Deliciously tart...like her lemonade.
Marshall smiled at her, a practiced expression that had caused more than a few feminine hearts to flutter. Surely, this maedle behind the counter could see his charm and recognize him for the superior fellow he was? He held up the broken strap.
She seemed not to notice his smile. Instead, all business, she left the spoon in the pitcher of lemonade and put out her hand. “Let me see what we’re dealing with.”
“You’re not a Miller?” he ventured, determined to have her name.
She accepted the piece of leather from him and scrutinized it. “This damage looks fresh.”
“Ya,” he admitted. “My gelding’s young, still green in the harness. He shied at a groundhog and caused a bit of a panic with his teammate.”
“Neither animal harmed, I hope?” she asked.
Marshall warmed to the concern in her eyes and shook his head. “Ne, both fine.” He hesitated. “You asked about the horses, but not the man?”
She lifted her head and inspected him with a new interest, or so he hoped. “You look to be in one piece, Marshall Byler.”
Then she returned her attention to the harness. “This strap has given a lot of service and the leather is near worn through here and here.” She indicated two places on the leather. “It could be fixed, but you might be better off with a new one.”
“Let’s see, if you aren’t a Miller, you must be one of Rosemary’s daughters. I’ve met two of your sisters.” He eyed her. “You don’t favor any of them, which is why I didn’t make the connection. Why haven’t I seen you at any of the singings?”
“Mended or made new?” she asked. “What will it be?”
Marshall drew himself up to his full height, bringing his eyes level with those intriguing green ones. “What’s your name?”
Her lips tightened again, and flecks of gold tumbled in the green irises. “Lovage. Lovage Stutzman.”
He rapped his knuckles on the counter. “Ah, I knew you were one of Rosemary’s daughters. She was a Stutzman before she married Benjamin, right? My grandmother is distantly related to some New York Stutzmans. What kind of name is Lovage? I never knew an Amish girl called Lovage.”
She tied a yellow paper tag to one end of his harness strap. “My mother likes herbs,” she explained. “I’m Hannah Lovage, but I’ve never used Hannah.”
He removed his straw hat and used his handkerchief to wipe his forehead. It had seemed so much cooler in the harness shop than outside, but it was definitely heating up inside. “Rosemary’s eldest daughter, then. I know your stepbrother Will. You’re the one who stayed behind to see to the sale of your mother’s property.”
She nodded, inspecting him through dark, thick lashes.
What was it about those eyes? And now that he studied her close up, something was striking about her high cheekbones, the curve of her jawline, the way her soft brown hair framed her face. Ne, perhaps she wasn’t pretty by conventional standards, but she was handsome. She was what his grandmother would call a timeless beauty. A woman who would keep her looks
