How old was he? She studied his features. Thirty? Thirty-two? She nuzzled beneath his chin and brushed a kiss over that tiny scar. Sleep settled over her body, unclenching stiffening muscles and easing bruised limbs until another chuckle roused her. “What?” she murmured.

“Do you know what we’re doing?”

She pointed and flexed her toes, and her ankle cracked. “Going back to sleep?”

“We’re bundling.”

“Fascinating. Tell me more after I nap.”

He snuggled her closer. “In the past, when an Amish boy and girl courted, they would get into bed together and crawl under the blankets—”

“Wait—what?” Sleepiness evaporated in an instant. Bruised ribs or no, she raised onto one elbow.

“Fully clothed—”

“Did their parents know about this?”

“Their parents encouraged it.”

His expression was serious, but a flash of mischief pinballed in his gaze. She whapped one rock-hard pec. “No way.”

“Actually, yes. Bundling is a traditional custom among Amish youth—quite common in this area until recently.”

As insane as the notion was, he spoke with such decisiveness she almost believed him. “Okay, so they’re lying together in bed…and then what?

“Well, then they would…” He cleared his throat.

“They would what?”

He shrugged. “Talk.”

She tucked her chin and gave the hairiest of eyeballs. “Talk?”

“Yes, talk.”

A guffaw burst from her lips. “I don’t think so!” He raised his hand in apparent oath, and for a second, she thought he would grab his Bible and swear. “You’re saying teenagers—boyfriends and girlfriends—lie in bed together, under a blanket”—she lofted the quilt—“and talk?”

“With their parents’ blessing.”

She leveled him with a gaze worthy of an ace prosecutor. “Did you and your wife just talk?”

His jaw dropped for long enough a daredevil fly could have buzzed in and out again. He snapped it shut. “Bundling has fallen out of fashion.”

“Yeah, ’cause parents are catching on to the fact their kids aren’t just talking under that blanket.” With a good yank, she freed the quilt and kicked it onto the floor.

“I don’t think so.”

She snugged beneath his chin. “You have some strange customs, my friend.”

He was quiet a moment. “So, tell me more about this…Easter hare…”

Despite bruised ribs, she laughed until her belly ached.

In truth, talk was all she and Jonas did that afternoon. Eventually, she dozed, and when he left to do the evening chores, she barely stirred. When she woke again, the room was silent save for cicada song and the gentle puff of his breathing. She groped on the nightstand for matches and, finding them, lit the candle. Taking careful hold of the candleholder, she slipped out of bed. One hand atop the bedpost, she steadied herself. After a full day off her feet, her legs were wobbly as a baby deer’s. Overwhelmingly, however, she needed to find the bathroom. Or the outhouse. Or whatever.