Though her joints were swollen, and her skin was thickly veined, her hand was as graceful as a ballerina’s.

“Four miles west of here, out Mifflintown way, turn right onto Old Cowan Road—you can’t miss it—then Stoltzfus’ farm is third on the left. A wee sign that says “Sarah’s” sits in a pot of pink geraniums. You’ns go on down their lane and knock on the door. Now, not the front door. The side door. Sarah makes the prettiest quilts in the county.”

The Amish woman spoke with the same lilting accent as Jonas. The sound was comforting, even familiar. But why?

The woman slipped the couple’s jam into a paper bag and bid them farewell.

Of course. Nana Shiffer had spoken with just the same melody. No wonder Tessa was drawn to these people.

Seemingly up for an adventure in cow country, the couple exchanged excited glances. Although Green Ridge didn’t lure the vast numbers of city people who flocked to Lancaster County, a few more adventurous quilt-seekers made it to the Amish communities of central Pennsylvania and were well rewarded.

Again, she scanned the tables. If she wanted information, she should definitely buy something. She selected a pint of berries. Perhaps she’d try her hand at her mother’s strawberry shortcake recipe. How hard could it be? Wouldn’t a shortcake, by definition, be easier than a tall cake?

Steps from the counter, she spotted the label of a flaky-looking pie: “Rishels’ Baked Goods.” Bingo! This woman could certainly help. She plunked her strawberries on the counter.

As she rang up the purchase, the woman smiled. “Two fifty for the strawberries. Picked fresh this morning, don’t you know.”

Stalling, she slipped off her backpack and groped for her wallet. “They smell heavenly. I’d love to make shortcake. My mother has a wonderful recipe.”

“They’ll do for shortcake. Real good in fry pies, too. They’re a might sweet, though. Go gentle on the sugar.” The woman slid the carton into a brown paper bag and creased the top in one smooth swipe.

She really didn’t want to break some ancient Amish code of privacy, but the time was now or never. She drew in a breath. “I wonder if you could help me with something.”

“Oh?” The woman perched on a stool and folded her hands in her lap.

She beamed her most sincere smile. “Do you happen to know the Rishels? I need to find their farm.”

“Nora and Jonas or Elam and Lovina?”

Nora. So that was Mrs. Rishel’s name. “Nora and Jonas.”

The woman tilted her head. “Are you a friend?”

Like a copper penny.

Giddiness flickered in her belly. “I don’t know them personally, but I need to ask them a favor. Well, not exactly a favor—I need to buy a bunch of pies.”