He stared at the ceiling as color crept over his jawline to his cheeks. “Not easily. You helped some.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You hit your head.”

Would the mortification ever cease? She dropped her gaze. Her wrist bones were peaky knobs, inelegantly splotched with freckles. Sometimes she felt like nothing but gawky, pointy bits. And he got an eyeful of them all. “I’m sorry.”

“Your skin is like finely woven silk.” With the back of his index finger, he traced the contours of her cheek. “Cool to the touch.”

She peeped from beneath her lashes. “Have you ever felt silk?”

A smile crept across his lips. “I’ve imagined it.”

She buried her face in his work shirt, more precious than the finest brocade. “Have you ever spent all day in bed?”

He let out a low chuckle. “Not once.”

“You should try it sometime.”

“All right.”

The floodgates of inquiry burst wide, and she was curious as a five-year-old. “Can I explore all over your house?”

His laughter made the bed squeak. “If you want. Not much to see.”

More mirth at her expense? She tensed and shot him a glance. The tenderness in his gaze melted her brittle pride. In the creek, he said she gifted him with laughter—a lifeline after years of grief. Nonetheless, she felt a need to defend the request. “I’ve never been inside an Amish house. Except your pantry.”

“It’s plain.”

She followed his gaze to the unadorned walls. “I have lots of questions.”

He dipped his chin. “Time for answers.”

“When may I start?”

“Whenever you like.”

Sunlight toasted the room, and she kicked out from under the sheet. With care for her injuries, she shifted to face him. “Why do Amish men have beards and no moustaches?”

His laughter rattled the headboard. “Of all things!”

Resisting the urge to punch him, she balled her fist and plunked it on her hip. “I’m serious. Why?”

“An earnest request for Anabaptist history. As you wish.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “The soldiers in Europe where our ancestors lived wore moustaches. As Christian pacifists, we do not wish to emulate them.”

“But you do have beards.” Sunlight caught his chin, and the little scar beneath his jaw flashed white. “Most of you.”

“When a man is married, he allows his facial hair to grow. Our images of Jesus show him bearded. We strive to be like him, but we know we fall short.”

“Huh.” She nodded. “That’s a really satisfying explanation.”

His lips pressed into a firm line. “Not everyone agrees with my decision to shave my face.”

His jaw was so square and strong she wanted to bite it. “You are very handsome.”

He rolled his eyes and groaned.

“You are!”

“I’m getting old.”