The Amish Spinster's Courtship. Emma Miller
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he said, walking two steps behind her. “You’ll be in over your head when we marry if you can’t sew.”
She stopped short, whirled around and looked at him. “What did you just say?”
“I said, if you can’t sew, it could be a problem. I’ve never known an Amish woman who couldn’t sew.” He knitted his brows. “How will you make shirts for me or baby clouts?”
“Baby clouts? Who’s making baby clouts?” She looked up at him wide-eyed, wondering if the summer heat had gotten to his head. Except that it was still morning and not all that hot out. “I was talking about harness-making. My sister is apprenticing as a harness maker. I can sew. I don’t sew leather.” She caught her breath, flustered again. “And that’s not what I meant. You’re putting words in my mouth.” She dropped her hands to her hips. “What did you say about me being in over my head?”
His smile widened. “I said you’d be in over your head when we marry if—”
“What are you talking about, marry?” she interrupted. “I don’t know you. We’re not even—” She blushed again. “We’re not even walking out together.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he said, interrupting her. “And that’s a problem. We’re not walking out yet.” He sidestepped around her and opened the gate, standing back and holding it for her. “And I think that’s important to our relationship. We should get to know each other before we take our vows. It’s the custom here in Kent County. We walk out together, court, marry. In that order.” He winked at her. “Is it different where you come from?”
“Enough.” She raised her hands, palms out. “I’m not amused by you. We aren’t walking out together. We aren’t courting. And we certainly aren’t getting married. You came to get a harness mended. I waited on you. That’s it. That’s the only connection we have.”
“Not exactly.” In an exaggerated motion with his hand, he indicated the garden behind them. “We’ve had this time together.”
“What are you talking about now?” she asked, still flustered, wishing desperately that she wasn’t. She also wished he wasn’t so handsome. That his forearms weren’t so tanned and muscular. That his smile wasn’t so...beautiful.
“And we’re neighbors,” he told her. “We have that connection.”
“We are not neighbors. You live two miles away.”
His grin widened to crinkle his entire face. Marshall had a high forehead and a dimple in the center of his square chin. With his broad shoulders and self-assured manner, he was one of the most attractive young men she’d ever met. Which made her nervous. She wasn’t used to attention from such a cute guy and she half suspected that he was poking fun at her. Because surely he wasn’t really interested in her.
Once, at a frolic when she was fifteen, a cute boy had caught her eye and she’d wanted him to notice her. She’d even broken her own rule and smiled at him, trying to flirt casually like Ginger did. It worked. The boy had noticed her, all right, but he’d only turned to a friend and whispered something she couldn’t quite make out. She had heard the word broomstick, then they’d both laughed, obviously at her. She’d cried into her pillow half the night, and she still remembered the slight painfully. Not for all the apples in an orchard would she make the same mistake a second time.
“Ah,” Marshall continued, holding up his finger to her again. “You asked someone about me. You wanted to know where I lived, which means you are interested in me.” He pointed at her. “Admit it. You like me.”
“I do not like you,” she protested.
“You don’t like me?” He opened his arms. “What have I done to deserve that? I’m a nice fellow. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you. Your brother Will likes me. He and I have become good friends.”
“Will is my stepbrother,” she corrected.
Marshall removed his straw hat and pushed back his dark hair. It was nice hair, neatly trimmed and thick. “That’s what he said when I asked him about you last night.”
He smiled at her and she felt her pulse quicken. He did have a sweet smile, a dangerous smile that made her stumble over her words and confuse her thinking.
Marshall met her gaze. “I wanted to see you again,” he said softly. “That’s why I came to check on my harness. I was hoping to see you, Lovey.”
Suddenly, the oxygen was sucked out of the air. The sound of her pet name on his lips made her throat tighten. But she liked it. She did. Marshall was teasing her again, wasn’t he? A boy like him couldn’t like a girl like her.
Could he?
“I wanted to see you and ask if you’re coming to the softball game tomorrow night,” he went on.
“Maybe,” she said quickly, still flustered. He just kept looking at her. “I...I haven’t decided yet.”
“I see.” Marshall nodded. “Well, I hope you do. And if you do, will you let me drive you home in my buggy? It’s a nice buggy...”
It had been a long time since anyone had asked Lovage to ride home in a buggy with him. So long that she didn’t know how to respond. Lovage bit down on her lower lip.
Then she heard the sound of feminine giggling. She and Marshall both glanced in the direction of a hedge of blueberry bushes and she spotted her sisters Bay, Tara and Nettie all peeking around the hedge, watching them.
Lovage quickly looked back at Marshall. He was waiting, smiling. He didn’t give a lick that they had an audience.
“Come on, Lovey.” He reached out and touched her elbow. “It’ll be fun. Say you’ll ride home with me Saturday night.”
She swallowed hard and grasped at the first answer that came to mind. “I might,” she told him. “If you’re on your best behavior.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Marshall walked past her, his stride long and powerful. “It’s a date,” he said, loudly enough not only for her sisters behind the blueberry bushes to hear, but possibly everyone up at the house.
“But, Marshall,” she called after him. “I didn’t say—”
“See you tomorrow, Lovey.”
All Lovage heard then was a burst of giggles from the blueberry hedge.
“You want to go ahead and get Toby unharnessed?” Marshall asked his brother. The wagon had barely come to a halt in the barnyard and he pressed the reins into Sam’s hands and leaped to the ground. “Rub him down before you let him into the pasture. It’s a hot day.”
“Ya.” Twelve-year-old Sam, a carbon copy of a younger Marshall, gripped the wide leather reins with both hands, seeming to puff up with pride at being given the task. “I’ll give ’im a good rub and a scoop of grain.”
“Mind you, the harness needs to be wiped down, as well.” Marshall backed away from the wagon, clamping his hand down over his straw hat. Sounds coming from the henhouse distracted him for a moment. He could hear chickens squawking and flapping their wings. He looked back to Sam. “Give me a holler if you need any help.”
Sam eyed his big brother from under the brim of his hat, which was identical to Marshall’s. Small for his age, he sometimes struggled with the chores requiring brute strength or simply height, but he more than made up for it with heart. And smarts. If he wasn’t strong enough to do something, like lift a hundred-pound bag of feed, he’d throw together a contraption of one sort or the other to accomplish the task. He had pulleys and