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  She’d hated it.

  He’d loved it.

  Jonas paused mere steps away and sized up her camera-ready look. The suit was new, a soft gray not unlike the silvery sky above. Or the granite headstones in the cemetery. He’d have to tell her about that, about little Clayton Landis. Though maybe she’d already heard. Women always know these things.

  Her hair was more tamed than usual, gathered into a tidy clump. Nah. Not a clump. A French something-or-other. Her lips and cheeks were pinker than he’d ever remembered—not makeup, not his Emilie—and her graceful hand waved through the air as she spoke with yet another woman who’d been waiting for her on the sidelines.

  All at once, Emilie turned his direction and flashed him the most dazzling smile he’d seen her display yet.

  “Hello, Jonas.”

  He loved the way she said his name.

  “Please forgive me.” Emilie inclined her head toward the waiting reporter. “The Record Express is here for an interview now. You know …” She shrugged, avoiding his gaze for a moment. “The anniversary and such.”

  “Sure. No problem.” He couldn’t resist squeezing her hand, if only for a moment. “Are you busy later?”

  “The … well, the Intelligencer Journal will be calling at four-thirty for a brief story as well.” She was blushing like a schoolgirl. He liked schoolgirls as long as they were his age and single. And named Emilie.

  “So, after your media blitz today, might you have time for an old friend?” He tipped his chin down. “One who knew you before you became famous?”

  “Of course, silly. Besides, I have another houseplant for you. How is your fittonia doing?”

  “Er.… it’s good. Yeah, good.” Good and drowned. How was he supposed to know the shower would wash out all the dirt, or that shampoo and plants shouldn’t mix? “I’ll take good care of this new one, I promise.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

  Not much got past this woman.

  “Emilie, I also need to talk to you about … some things.” Several, in fact. “Okay if I swing by your house about seven?”

  She nodded, already being pulled into another photo shoot, this time with a woman and her Nikon. “See you at seven,” she mouthed, then gave the newspaper reporter her full attention.

  Trix, patiently waiting her turn, barked with abandon as Jonas scratched her head and pointed them toward home, rehearsing in his mind the words he was going to say, beginning with a prayer request for one very dead fittonia.

  Emilie watered the leafy pepperface plant with great care. Too much water and the roots would rot. Then again, it may be weeks before Jonas remembers to give you another drink, little one. She splashed in a bit extra, pinched off a withered stem, then polished its waxy leaves with a paper towel.

  She glanced at the clock. Ten minutes. That is, if the man was on time. He’d been doing much better in that department, though. Much better in lots of departments. He was still wearing his jeans-and-T uniform, but lately he seemed freshly shaved every time she saw him.

  “That way I won’t scratch your tender skin when I kiss you,” he’d informed her when she mentioned it. She’d turned scarlet. Was warming again now at the memory. Smiling too.

  Oh, Jonas. The man made her feel sixteen again. Check that. Sixteen had been an awful year. In fact, other than one milkshake with the now-very-married Brian Zeller, Emilie couldn’t compare any of her earlier experiences with men—boys, really—to the roller-coaster ride she’d lived through in the last few days with Jonas Fielding.

  He was bright, attentive, caring, funny. Both devout and irreverent, if such a thing were possible. And my, but the man had a way of making her heart beat faster with nothing more than a feathery touch; a dark-eyed glance; a single, chaste kiss. Surely Jonas would see fit to let her press on with her Gemeinhaus research now.

  As thrilling as their time together had been—then and since—it was what happened between his black-suited appearance in her doorway and their breath-stealing moments in the kitchen Thursday evening that filled her heart and mind. She was having a hard time putting words to her feelings, but she’d tried on three occasions, with mixed results.

  Her mother had wrinkled her brow. “You feel like you know God? Emilie Gayle, what a silly thing to say! You’ve always known who God is, dear, ever since you were old enough to say the word.”

  Her father had listened, nodded, and agreed with her mother. Of course. They both perked up, though, when she mentioned she’d been having tea with Jonas Fielding at the time.

  “On a date, did you say, Emilie?”

  Things had gone much better with Beth last Friday.

  “Emilie, you prayed what?” Beth’s eyes had shone with tears as they’d sat together on her enclosed back porch that afternoon, Sara napping on the nearby loveseat, the house unusually quiet.

  Emilie gulped, still uncomfortable with emotionally charged words, no matter how accurately they described things. “I … uh, told the Lord I loved him. And asked his forgiveness for not … well, including him more in my life.” There. Not so bad.

  Beth hugged her neck then asked for minute-by-minute details, which Emilie shared as best she could. Except for that business in the kitchen. She’d start blushing again. Fie! She did blush again, even without mentioning it, prompting Beth to ask if anything else had transpired.

  Emilie jerked her chin toward the back door, feigning interest in the window shade, the doorknob, anything. “Jonas and I kissed, and that’s all I’ll say about it.”

  Beth laughed so loudly that Sara stirred in her sleep. “That’s more than enough information, Em,” Beth assured her in a stage whisper.

  It was then, staring out the back door, that Emilie noticed a wire fence enclosing a grove of hemlock and tall, old pine trees in a square area behind the Landis property. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “An old graveyard.” Beth tucked Sara’s blanket up under her chin and smoothed her curly, blond locks. “Saint Somebody-or-other.”

  Emilie was on her feet, nose pressed against the glass pane. “Of course! St. James. After Zinzendorf preached here, the settlers joined forces—Lutheran, Reformed, and Mennonite—and founded a Union Church. It was named after James because the log church was dedicated in July 1744 on the day of his festival. The log structure is long gone, of course—dismantled in 1771 and used to build a miller’s house along Carter’s Run—but the graves are still here.”

  Beth chuckled softly and shook her head. “Do all these facts just live in your head, Em?”

  Emilie shrugged. “Afraid so. Four years later this congregation joined with the new Moravian one. A decade later, the first Easter morning service was held right in this graveyard.”

  Beth’s smirk was less than subtle. “With trombones, I suppose.”

  “No, those came later. French horns were first used in 1763, but the trombones didn’t come into use until 1779 when—” Emilie realized Beth was covering her ears and trying not to laugh. “Okay, I’ll stop. Really, Beth, you should know better than to throw an historian a bone like that. With trombones. Honestly, it’s your own fault.”

  “Mea culpa.” Beth joined her by the door. “How many people are buried there, do you know?”

  “On record, about one hundred-eighty.” Emilie pursed her lips, sorting through her mental file cabinets for accurate details. “The first was a child. Michael, I think.”

  “Oh.” Beth stepped back from the door, as if it were hot. “I … had no idea.”

  “Yes, it’s unfortunate.” Emilie turned to add, “Many of the early burials were infants and children …” Her voice trailed off as she gazed at Beth’s blanched features and trembling lower lip.

  “Beth, are you okay?”

  The younger woman sank onto the couch next to Sara, patting her daughter’s sleeping form as if for comfort. “I … just never realized there were little ones buried there.”

  “As there were in every colonial cemetery, sad to report.” Emilie p
erched on a nearby straight-backed chair, at a loss about what to say next. After a few awkward moments of silence, she gave in to the obvious question. “Is something wrong?”

  She watched Beth blink a few times in quick succession, then press a hand against her stomach, as if feeling queasy. “I’m … okay. Just caught me off guard, I guess.” Her smile was tentative. “Sorry. You were talking about …?”

  “About putting you to bed right along with Sara, if you won’t argue with me.” Emilie surprised herself by sliding her arms under the child and lifting her up, cradling Sara against her, amazed at how light the little girl was.

  She moved toward the kitchen, speaking over her shoulder in a soft tone. “Suppose I carry Sara up to her room and you join her for a nap, okay? You look positively wiped out. Hard morning at the church office?”

  Beth didn’t object, but simply followed her through the house and up the carpeted steps. “I guess. We’re getting ready for the big anniversary on Tuesday. By the way, be prepared for some media interviews, Em. You’re our in-house historian, you know.”

  “Happy to be of service.”

  The thought warmed her heart, then and now.

  Beth’s prediction had come true. Emilie had indeed been busy all day today. Bubbling about her Moravian heritage had turned out to be more meaningful than she’d expected. Perhaps because of her work on the commemorative book, which was more than half done. Or because of the last seven weeks in Lititz, living in the heart of the town she loved. Or maybe it was one Moravian in particular—of the male persuasion—who’d put that sparkle in her voice.

  No.

  She knew better. It was what the Germans had called Durchbruch. Her breakthrough. Her awakening. A change for the better, her resources translated it. Indeed. All that and more.

  By any name, it made her more determined than ever to claim the Kissel Hill Road property for the church. Not for her own glory, not anymore. For the glory of the Lord. He’d given her wings and he’d shown her the richness of her roots. Emilie longed now to plant those tender new shoots in the genuine, fertile soil of Moravian history.

  Another homely little plant.

  Jonas stared at the leafy object in the clay pot and tried to appear elated. “Great! What’s this one called?”

  Emilie regarded him with a dubious look. “It’s a peperomia obtusifolia. Pepperface, for the uninitiated.”

  “That would definitely include me.” He poked at the leaf, surprised when it felt like wax. Lord, don’t let me kill this one. Without a doubt, the woman would take it personally. “I don’t suppose you’d consider stopping by once a month and watering this for me?”

  She gasped. “Once a month?”

  “Uh … every week?”

  Jonas couldn’t tell if she was perturbed or pleased. With Emilie, the difference wasn’t always obvious.

  “If you think it’s necessary, I’m certainly willing.”

  He watched Emilie press her lips together, as if trying to look put out. Instead she looked like she’d happily swallowed a canary. Pleased, then.

  Without bothering to hide his own grin, he took her free hand and led her into the living room, settling her on the couch before joining her. Close but not too close. The woman was still a tad skittish, like a colt getting used to its legs.

  “So are we ready to talk Gemeinhaus vs. golf course? It’s time Emilie. Past time, to tell the truth. I haven’t got a day to spare if I’m going to have everything finished for the grand opening.”

  She was picking at some lint on her slacks, clearly buying time. “I thought that after … well, after Thursday, you’d be more open to letting me do some digging.” Her gaze lifted. “You know. Just a little digging?”

  He groaned. “There is no such thing as a little digging when it comes to a golf course, Em. We’re talking about fully designed and executed greens here. A serious investment. Besides, you don’t know the exact spot you’d need to dig up, do you?”

  Though her gaze was steady, her light brown eyes flickered slightly, as if shot through with a ribbon of steel. “Not the exact spot, no. We can make very educated calculations based on terrain, but there would be some … ah, exploratory work, no doubt.”

  No longer willing to relax against the sofa’s upholstery, he straightened. “Then the answer is simple. No.”

  Emilie’s back also stiffened. “It’s not a question of you saying no, Jonas. You don’t own the land.”

  “No, the borough of Lititz does. And I have the support of every man on the steering committee—”

  “Every man, is it?” She was on her feet. “I should have known!”

  “Wait a minute!” He shot up like a rocket. “This is not a male–female issue.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Her eyes were daggers. “What sort of issue is it, pray tell?”

  “It’s financial.” He threw his hands in the air and started pacing. “It’s practical. It’s legal. It’s—”

  “It’s historical,” she shot back, stalking behind him. “It’s spiritual. It’s ethical.”

  He stopped and swung around, startling her. “Emilie, we’ve been over this before. If you had absolute, concrete proof that these ruins existed underground, I’d be the first one to cheer when the archaeologists showed up. But you’re working on theory and conjecture and a flimsy map from two and a half centuries ago, a map you don’t even possess.”

  “I’ve seen it.” She sniffed.

  “Well, I haven’t, and neither has anyone on my team.” A problem he planned to remedy somehow. “Remember how you had to stand before your mentoring committee to defend your doctoral dissertation?”

  She glared at him. “How would you know about such a thing?”

  Oops. “Never mind that now.” He put his hands on his hips, hoping it looked menacing. “The point is, however difficult that day was, it was a walk in the park compared to convincing a dozen businessmen that you need to rip up their five-million-dollar golf course.”

  Her eyes widened. “Five … million?”

  “You got it, sweetheart. Major moolah.”

  Her shoulders drooped noticeably. “I had … no idea.”

  Emilie’s look of chagrin almost made him sorry he’d barked at her. Almost.

  “Jonas, I need time to think. Talk to my academic peers.”

  “You do that, Em. But time is a luxury I can no longer afford.” Easy, man. The woman is hurting here. He consciously softened his voice. “We’re getting on with things at the course.” Reaching out a hand to touch her elbow, he stopped just short of it when she jerked away from him. “Emilie, after all that we’ve shared—”

  “Exactly.” Chagrin moved to pure hurt. “I thought you cared about … the same things I did.”

  “Many of the same things, I do.” He leaned toward her, so slowly he felt certain she couldn’t detect it. “I care about the Lord and pleasing him. I care about honoring my commitments to this town. I care about the land and how it’s used. And I care about you, Emilie Getz. Quite a lot.”

  She pointed her chin away from him, so their gazes no longer met. “I’m not at all sure how I feel about that last one.”

  “I’m very sure.” He reached up and gently eased her chin back toward him, tipping it up, lightly rubbing his thumb across her tightly closed lips. “Emilie, you need to know something. I’ve dated plenty of women in my time—”

  “Humph!” She started to pull away, but he held her chin firmly.

  “Please let me say this. I’ve never known anyone like you. So utterly different from me and yet we … get along. Very well.” He lowered his head ever so slightly. “I’d say exceedingly well.” Lower still. “Don’t you think?”

  Emilie had apparently stopped thinking altogether. In fact, she was barely breathing. Her eyes were fixed on his and her lids were beginning to droop.

  “Don’t you think?”

  She managed a smile. “Think? Not if I can help it.” With that, she kissed him. A butterfly sort of kiss, soft and f
eminine, landing only for a moment, then flitting away. “Jonas, will you promise me that no matter what happens with the land—”

  “Yes. I promise.” Then he kissed her. Not at all like a butterfly. More like an eagle that unexpectedly swoops down on its prey and won’t let go as it soars ever upward.

  Moments later, when bird and prey made a safe landing, Emilie leaned back to look him in the eye, her daggers long sheathed. “I have a question for you.”

  “Me first. Are you busy Saturday night?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Might this be an actual date you’re suggesting, Mr. Fielding?”

  “Not ‘might be.’ Yes, a date. A nice Valentine’s Eve dinner at the General Sutter Inn. You game?”

  Her smile was a thing of beauty. “Of course, silly man. Will you be … ah, wearing that black suit of yours?”

  She did like it. “Could be. Now, what’s your question?”

  Stepping back as if to assess him, she pursed her lips. “You mentioned a minute ago about the oral defense of my dissertation. Frankly, that’s not the kind of thing a man who plays with dirt usually knows much about. Where exactly did you get your education?”

  “Lehigh. For my bachelor’s.”

  “Ohh?”

  He grinned, watching her closely. “University of Pennsylvania. For my master’s.”

  Her face went ashen. “Your what?”

  “And Rutgers.” He couldn’t keep the grin from spreading to both ears. “For my Ph.D. in Community and Regional Planning.”

  “Your …? You …!” He watched her knees buckle. “You’re a.… a …” “Yeah, I’m a doc, too.” He steadied her wobbly self with one hand, and nudged her on the chin with the other. “But you can still call me Mr. Fielding. I promise I won’t mind one bit.”

  Sixteen

  When you fish for love, bait with your heart, not your brain.

  MARK TWAIN

  “Emilie, when Jonas walks through your door tomorrow night, I want his stubbly jaw to bounce off the hardwood floors.”

  Confused, Emilie stared across her stack of research books. “You mean because they’re freshly polished?”