Of course, he knew how to roll down a car window. He was probably used to automatic ones and only hesitated because he didn’t see a button. She made a mental note to search, “why don’t the Amish drive,” later that evening. From what she’d seen, the Amish accepted car rides regularly. When they needed to travel long distances, they even took the train. So, why was riding as a passenger perfectly acceptable but taking the wheel verboten? She flicked her gaze back to her passenger. Maybe she’d ask him some day.

A pungent smell of freshly fertilized fields rushed through the windows. Whenever Jenn visited Green Ridge in early summer, she held her pert nose and gagged at the pervasive odor of manure. Tessa secretly liked the scent. It smelled like home.

Jonas’s eyes were closed, his head tipped against the headrest, damp hair sticky on his forehead. He looked tired. She usually cursed the sluggish forty-five miles-per-hour speed limit on Route 45. Cursed but obeyed it. Route 45 was infamous for speed traps. Today, she relaxed into the leisurely pace, the reassuring chug of the motor like a heartbeat vibrating through the floor.

He lifted his eyelids.

She whipped her gaze to the taillights ahead, catching a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. Her hair swirled around her face, lodging in her mouth and lashing her eyes. She swiped at it in vain. “The air feels nice.”

He inhaled deeply. “Smells like planting.”

As she veered into the driveway and cut the motor, a truck out on the highway downshifted with a groan. Badly in need of oil, the van door squeaked closed. She always thought of her house as so quiet, but it wasn’t Amish quiet. She waved in the direction of the sycamore. “The tree’s around back.”

Retrieving his tools, he followed her, stopping to survey the house. “It’s old.”

She drew up beside him. “Built in 1893.”

“Brick.”

“Yup.” Afternoon sunlight lit the front façade with a russet glow, and the wide front porch opened its arms to them. A pleasing contrast to the brick, delicate, wooden gingerbread curlicued beneath the eaves. After hours sanding and repainting it butter-yellow last summer, she knew every spiral and spoke of that fancy Victorian trim. The porch swing rocked in the breeze, its metal chains creaking an invitation to sit. Her house never looked more welcoming.

He let out a soft sound of approval.

“When was your home built?” she asked.

“The main structure was built in the early 1900s. My grandfather added the Dawdy Haus in the nineteen sixties, and we’ve altered it several times since.”

“Dawdy Haus?” The unfamiliar phrase rolled from her tongue with surprising ease.

“The smaller house attached to the big one. For the grandparents.”