The Amish Spinster's Courtship. Emma Miller
the sugar to the pitcher and stirred with the spoon.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was sure they’d never met before because he would have remembered her, but there was something so familiar about her. It was like the taste of his favorite pie. All pies were different, but blueberry had its own special flavor. This girl wore the Amish clothing of every other local girl he knew, but there was something remarkably different, yet familiar, about her...as though he’d known her all his life. And suddenly he wanted to know her for the rest of his life.
Just this morning he and his grandmother, who lived with him and his little brother, were discussing his marriage prospects. Or lack of, in her eyes. For months she’d been talking about how it was time for him to start thinking about settling down and having a family of his own. He wondered what she would think if he walked back into the house this afternoon and told her he might have found the girl for him.
The woman regarded Marshall with shining almond-shaped eyes as green as spring grass. “What can I do for you?” She eyed the leather strap in his hand.
“I’m Marshall, Marshall Byler,” he told her, deliberately stalling in explaining his reason for coming. “I live just down the road. The farm with the old pear trees by the mailbox?”
She didn’t respond.
Marshall wasn’t in the least bit discouraged. He liked a bit of chase with a girl. “And you must be a Miller?”
She shook her head and continued to stir. “Ne.”
He took a step forward and inspected her closer. She was tall for a woman, perhaps taller than he was. And slender as a willow. She wasn’t a beauty in the usual sense, not tiny and softly rounded like his neighbor Faith King. But when this newcomer turned those intense green eyes on him, he found himself almost stunned. Not to mention slightly tongue-tied. She was sharp as a straight razor, this one, and direct in her speech, more outspoken than most of the girls around here. Deliciously tart...like her lemonade.
Marshall smiled at her, a practiced expression that had caused more than a few feminine hearts to flutter. Surely, this maedle behind the counter could see his charm and recognize him for the superior fellow he was? He held up the broken strap.
She seemed not to notice his smile. Instead, all business, she left the spoon in the pitcher of lemonade and put out her hand. “Let me see what we’re dealing with.”
“You’re not a Miller?” he ventured, determined to have her name.
She accepted the piece of leather from him and scrutinized it. “This damage looks fresh.”
“Ya,” he admitted. “My gelding’s young, still green in the harness. He shied at a groundhog and caused a bit of a panic with his teammate.”
“Neither animal harmed, I hope?” she asked.
Marshall warmed to the concern in her eyes and shook his head. “Ne, both fine.” He hesitated. “You asked about the horses, but not the man?”
She lifted her head and inspected him with a new interest, or so he hoped. “You look to be in one piece, Marshall Byler.”
Then she returned her attention to the harness. “This strap has given a lot of service and the leather is near worn through here and here.” She indicated two places on the leather. “It could be fixed, but you might be better off with a new one.”
“Let’s see, if you aren’t a Miller, you must be one of Rosemary’s daughters. I’ve met two of your sisters.” He eyed her. “You don’t favor any of them, which is why I didn’t make the connection. Why haven’t I seen you at any of the singings?”
“Mended or made new?” she asked. “What will it be?”
Marshall drew himself up to his full height, bringing his eyes level with those intriguing green ones. “What’s your name?”
Her lips tightened again, and flecks of gold tumbled in the green irises. “Lovage. Lovage Stutzman.”
He rapped his knuckles on the counter. “Ah, I knew you were one of Rosemary’s daughters. She was a Stutzman before she married Benjamin, right? My grandmother is distantly related to some New York Stutzmans. What kind of name is Lovage? I never knew an Amish girl called Lovage.”
She tied a yellow paper tag to one end of his harness strap. “My mother likes herbs,” she explained. “I’m Hannah Lovage, but I’ve never used Hannah.”
He removed his straw hat and used his handkerchief to wipe his forehead. It had seemed so much cooler in the harness shop than outside, but it was definitely heating up inside. “Rosemary’s eldest daughter, then. I know your stepbrother Will. You’re the one who stayed behind to see to the sale of your mother’s property.”
She nodded, inspecting him through dark, thick lashes.
What was it about those eyes? And now that he studied her close up, something was striking about her high cheekbones, the curve of her jawline, the way her soft brown hair framed her face. Ne, perhaps she wasn’t pretty by conventional standards, but she was handsome. She was what his grandmother would call a timeless beauty. A woman who would keep her looks over the years.
“And you live here now, right?” he asked. “Your stepbrother Will said everything was settled for your mother in upstate New York. He called you Lovey.”
“Just moved in. Have you made a decision about the strap?” She held it in the flat of her palm.
“What?” He’d been concentrating so much on her appearance that he hadn’t really heard what she’d said.
“Mended or replaced with new? Your britchen strap.” She raised her eyebrows. “The reason you came to my stepfather’s harness shop?”
“Um...whatever you think.” He pressed his hands on the counter, leaning closer to her, and on impulse asked, “Lovey, would you let me drive you home from the singing this Friday night? It’s going to be at Asa King’s.”
“It’s Lovage and I would not.” She wrote his name on the tag in small, perfect print. “Come back in five business days and this will be ready.” She wrote on a receipt pad on the counter and ripped off the page.
“Why won’t you let me take you home from the singing? Have you got a steady beau?”
“Ne, I don’t have a beau. I won’t go home with you from the singing because there is no singing at the Kings. It was canceled.”
He grinned. “Fair enough.” He thought fast, unwilling to walk away without some commitment from her. “Wait, there’s a softball game Saturday night. At the bishop’s farm. How about that? Men against the women. You do play, don’t you? You look like a pitcher.”
“Catcher,” she replied. She handed him the receipt.
“So...is that a maybe you’ll let me take you home Saturday night?”
She smiled sweetly. “Ne. It is not. Thank you for your business, Marshall Byler. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take this back to the workroom.”
“Will you at least think about riding home with me?” he called after her as she walked away.
She didn’t respond, but Marshall wasn’t in the least bit discouraged. She’d come around. He knew she would. The girls always did. “Nice meeting you, Lovey Stutzman. See you Saturday.” He rapped his knuckles on the wooden counter a final time.
“Lovage,” she called over her shoulder.
Marshall was still grinning when he walked out of the harness shop and back to the wagon, where Sam waited for him.
“What are you so happy about?” Sam asked, looking up at his big brother.
“I’m more than happy. I’m ecstatic, blissful, elated.” Marshall climbed up into the wagon and took the reins. “Because