“Three dozen pies, if I’m not mistaken.” He mounted the steps in a single leap, tossed his hat onto a spindled bench, and turned. “And she’s not my wife.”

Her face flamed. “I’m sorry, I thought—”

“She’s my sister.”

“And Rebecca?” She caught herself. “Sorry. It’s none of my—”

“My niece.” He ran a tanned hand through his hair.

Tiny beads of sweat dotted his upper lip, and his indigo shirt clung to his shoulders. No doubt he’d worked hours already.

“Nora told me someone was coming. I figured it was you.”

He skimmed past and tromped down the porch steps, leaving the sweet scent of hay in his wake.

“Come on around,” he called over one shoulder. “The pies are in the pantry.”

Certain the color would never fade from her cheeks, she followed him around the house to where a neat kitchen garden lay, surrounded by fruit trees. She lingered at the gate, an intricate, arched, wooden trellis around which morning glories twined. Within the fence, raised beds teemed with herbs and vegetables. Ducking under a low-hanging bough, she hustled to catch up with him. “Your garden is lovely.”

He gestured her toward the back door. “Nora keeps it up. I don’t do much.”

“She should be proud.” She paused at the doorstep and pivoted. “I’m Tessa, by the way. Tessa Meadows.” Lifting her chin, she thrust out a hand.

With a tilt of the head, he regarded her, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

She willed down the blood that throbbed toward her still-burning cheeks but seemed to be making a pit stop at her neck.

“Jonas Rishel.”

He enveloped her hand in a firm handshake. Her racing blood made a detour to her collarbone and set it on fire.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.

A rough patch at the base of one finger chafed tender skin on her palm. Even her scalp tingled at his touch.

He nodded once and released her hand.

The back door opened to a sizeable pantry. “Your home is beautiful.”

His face darkened. “It’s too quiet.”

The simple white curtains hung still. A rainbow of jams, jellies, and preserved vegetables didn’t make a peep. Nine crates of pie sat soundlessly on the wide, wooden counter. But somehow, she didn’t think that’s what he meant.

She leaned over the crates, inhaling the buttery scent. “They’re gorgeous.”

He stacked the trays and turned. “How did you find us last week?”

“I came looking.”

One tawny brow rose.

Great. Now she was a stalker. “Well, that sounded crazy—I just mean—I came looking for your farm. Esther King gave me directions.”

“So, we have Esther to thank.”

“Or to blame.” She shrugged. Maybe she should stop talking.

He settled back against the counter. “You’ve got yourself a lot of pies.”

“They’re for a celebrity auction.”

“Ah, you fatten them before you sell them. Very clever.”