His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Or to make appointments or contact family. Most communities have at least one telephone.”

Why was he laughing at her? He was the guy who wore funny clothes, rode around in a buggy, yet still used a telephone. His life made no sense. She should be laughing at him. She drove her fist into her hip bone. “Who pays for the phone?”

“Everyone. We’re a community.”

“I see.” The work gloves slid stiffly over her fingers and cracked when she bent her knuckles.

He jerked to a stand. “I almost forgot. I have something for you.”

She flicked her hand toward the wood pile. “Looks like you’ve got quite a bit of lumber.”

“Something else.” He bounded up the porch steps and returned with a brown paper bag. “A gift.”

Whiffing chocolate, she opened it. “Whoopie pies?”

He looked toward the barn and ran a thick palm over the back of his neck. “Made fresh this morning. I remembered how you like them.”

Was this gift a peace offering? If so, it was effective. Softening her shoulders, she smiled. “I love them. Thank you.” She popped the present into the glove compartment and opened the rear hatch. With almost zero help, he easily negotiated the lumber into the vehicle. As she predicted, it all fit on the collapsed back seat, and within minutes, she had him on the road, windows down, lush fields of corn rolling by.

“Does this pop-top have music?” he asked.

“I’m sorry?” She must have heard him wrong.

“Does this pop-top have music?” he repeated more loudly.

“Oh, music!” Telephones and the radio. What came next? Online dating? “Sure. My dad had a really nice stereo installed.” She reached to switch on the radio and thought better of it. “Do you want me to turn it on?”

“Show me how.”

Countless fingers had long since worn off the markings on the tuner controls. “Turn the knob on the left.”

Jonas turned it, and “My Hometown” by Bruce Springsteen poured from the speakers.

“Oh, man. Now that’s a blast from the past.” She hummed a few bars. “The same knob also controls the volume. Feel free to turn it down if you don’t like Springsteen—he’s the singer. The other knob changes the station.”

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “I’ve heard this song before.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Really?”

Spreading his lips in a wide grin, he met her gaze. “On the radio.”

A mischievous gleam twinkled in his eyes. She pursed her lips in an answering smile. “Intriguing. Go on…”