The sound cascaded over her like icy spring water. “No way!” That creek was at least fifty yards from the barn. His brother must have the arm of a quarterback.

He thumped the back of her seat. “For days, Samuel tinkered with the radio, trying to make it work. He took it apart and put it back together more times than I can count, but it never played again. I still keep it in the barn where Samuel hid it.” With a sound between a sigh and a chuckle, he turned back to the road.

Glancing over, she caught a wistful look in his eyes. Where were Jonas’s brothers now? “I think I would like Samuel.”

He righted his hat and clasped his hands between his knees. “No one can resist Samuel.”

She was fairly certain irresistibility ran in the Rishel family. How many brothers did Jonas have, anyway?

He boosted the volume again.

Cruisin’ with the Amish. She giggled. What would Jennifer say? When they arrived at her house, she escorted him into the spanking clean garage and flicked on the lights.

After thoroughly examining the automatic garage door opener, he gave a quick once-over to the workspace. “This’ll do.”

She wouldn’t have minded a tad more enthusiasm…or a trophy. Her hands still smelled like wood polish. Men.

“I’ll unload the lumber and get to work.”

As quickly as he loaded the wood, he had it piled in neat stacks on the garage floor. Clad in long black pants, suspenders, and rolled-up shirtsleeves, he didn’t even break a sweat. She, on the other hand, was drenched. Enough modesty. Time to change into shorts.

That first day, he worked in the garage all afternoon. She hovered close enough to clock when his cheeks finally glistened, and he shrugged the suspenders from his shoulders to hang at his sides. She vacuumed the van and weeded the flower garden alongside the garage—peeking through the squeaky-clean window. Though the pegboards offered an array of power tools, he used only his own hand tools with the occasional assistance of a battery-powered drill he brought with his supplies. Like the antique tools her father found in her grandfather’s attic after he died, Jonas’s had smooth, worn, wooden handles. Her mother donated her grandfather’s collection to the local history museum where they were displayed in a glass case. Jonas made his tools sing.

In the afternoon, she brought him lemonade and a box fan. He accepted the drink with a smile but squinted at the fan over the edge of the glass. She plugged it in and, with her fingers on the power knob, lifted one shoulder in question.

He ran a handkerchief down the side of his neck and nodded. “Thank you.”

She switched it on and hopped to sit on the wide white, storage freezer her mother kept stocked year-round.

He drained the lemonade in one long breath.