He tossed her under one arm like a sack of flour and righted it, loosening a tawny curl that escaped the wide brim and fell over one brow. His gaze passed over Tessa’s face.

Her unruly hair and short shorts tweaked at her consciousness. What did the Amish call outsiders? English? She was definitely dressed like an English woman. And not one from a Jane Austen novel.

He deposited the giggling girl right-side up on the floor and approached the table. “I’ve rarely seen hair that color myself. Like a copper penny.”

She stared at the mangled whoopie pie and blushed even deeper. For a brief moment, she felt his gaze trail down her body like a caress. Or did she?

“Jonas!”

She started and whipped up her head.

An angular Amish woman stood silhouetted in the doorway at the rear of the stand.

“Mamm!” The little girl whirled and bounded toward her.

The woman thrust out a hand. “Slow down, Rebecca.” She swiveled to the man. “Jonas, see to the horse. The storm—”

“In a moment.” He turned to Tessa. “Seventy-five cents, please.”

“I’m sorry?” She winced at the tremor in her voice.

“For the pie. Seventy-five cents.”

“Right. Of course.” She dug in her wallet and handed him three quarters.

“Thank you.” The change clanged into a metal box, and he smiled. “Have a nice day.”

He sauntered out the door with the easy confidence of a man who earned his right to exist by simple hard work. No apologies. No pretensions.

“Will that be all?”

The wiry woman assumed his place at the table. Her light brown hair was combed so tightly under a white prayer cap that she had a quarter of an inch part down the middle of her forehead. She drummed two fingers on the box and glared.

Tessa felt the woman’s modest dress and the firm line of her mouth like a silent rebuke. “Yes, thank you. Good afternoon.”

The woman sniffed and scowled.

Behind her, the little girl touched her hair and wiggled her fingers in a secret goodbye.

She veered from the booth, and the market swam in a dreamy haze of color and sound. Jonas. His name was Jonas…and he thought her hair looked like a copper penny. As she retreated into the throngs, a rumbling for more french fries vied with the butterflies in her stomach. She pulled up short. All she held was a single, squished whoopie pie. Sneaking a glance over one shoulder, she blew out a breath. Her fries stood forsaken and alone on the Rishels’ table.

Rebecca was there, too, flitting about and re-arranging pies.