A Perfect Amish Match. Vannetta Chapman
to Beth Scott,
a dear friend. God blessed me
when our paths crossed.
Continued thanks to my editor, Melissa Endlich, for guiding me through the Love Inspired process. All of the people at Harlequin have been a joy to work with. A special thanks to my agent, Steve Laube, for his wisdom, hard work and sense of humor.
I wouldn’t even attempt to write without the help of my family, pre-readers and friends. You all are a constant source of inspiration.
And finally, “Giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ” (Ephesians 5:20).
Contents
Olivia Mae Miller had her hands covered in flour and was breading chicken breasts to slip into the oven when Mammi called out, “Someone’s at the door.”
It was late Wednesday afternoon, the first day of May. She’d opened the doors and windows to allow the spring breeze into the house. She could just make out the silhouette of a tall man through the screen door. Olivia Mae added dashes of salt, pepper and garlic to the chicken, then popped the baking dish into the oven. Finally she snagged a dish towel off the counter and hurried through the living room, hoping the sight of a stranger wouldn’t upset her grandfather. Some days he could become quite agitated. Other days he was sure the person was a long-lost relative.
“Can I help you?” She peered through the screen, looking up to take the measure of the man on their porch.
“Are you Olivia Mae?”
“Ya.” Still she didn’t step outside. Maybe he would go away if she wasn’t overly friendly. She had dinner to finish preparing—potatoes and corn and salad. The doctors said small amounts of salad were very important for people her grandparents’ age. She really couldn’t afford to run behind on their schedule. Evenings were difficult when they didn’t manage to tuck Daddi into bed early. She almost said, “We’re not interested,” to shoo away the man.
But then the stranger held up a wooden box that had been tucked under his arm. “I believe this is yours.”
“Oh, my.” Still wiping flour off her hands, she pushed through the door, forcing him to take a few steps back. “Where did you find that?”
He placed the box in her hands. “I’m an auctioneer over in Shipshewana, and it was in a lot—”
“From my grandparents’ old house. I must have left it there, and then they moved. But I still don’t understand how you ended up with it.”
“I thought it was something that my mamm would like.”
She must have looked alarmed, because he quickly added, “I didn’t actually buy it. I couldn’t. Since I’m the auctioneer, that wouldn’t be proper. I asked my bruder to bid on it, which he did.”
The man was rambling and refused to make eye contact. He seemed nervous for some reason. Olivia Mae pulled her gaze from him to study the box she was holding—cherry wood, sanded smooth, with a trio of butterflies carved in the bottom right-hand corner.
“After the auction, when I opened it, I saw the papers that had your name on them.”
Her head jerked up at the mention of her letters. “They’re still in here?”
“I didn’t—didn’t read them. Just saw your name, and my youngest bruder was standing there, and he knew you—knew of you. We both agreed it should be returned to the rightful owner. Didn’t seem likely that you would intentionally auction it with the letters inside.”
She moved over to one of the porch rockers, and Tall-Dark-and-Handsome followed her. Olivia Mae sank into the chair, opened the box and unfolded the top sheet. It was her handwriting all right, from so many years ago. Pain as sharp as any paring knife sliced through her heart. She shook her head, refolded the letter,