Chapter 8: Temptation Under Lamplight

The creamery always smelled different at night. In the morning it was cool and clean, a place of order. At night, under lamplight, the air grew thick with warmth and shadow. Marybeth had never thought to find herself here after sundown—yet here she was, sleeves rolled, dasher in hand, coaxing butter long past the hour when decent folk had shuttered their lamps.

Her mother had asked her to finish the last of the cream. “It will spoil if we wait,” she said. But Marybeth suspected the task might just as easily have waited until dawn. Still, she came. Perhaps part of her had wanted to.

The lantern swayed from its hook, spilling golden light across the churn. The dasher rose and fell, her arms aching, breath quickening. She told herself it was the labor. She knew better.

The door creaked.

“Elijah,” she breathed, startled.

He stood in the frame, hair damp with evening air, eyes darker than the night behind him. “Brother Yoder said the hinges needed oil,” he explained, holding up a small tin. His gaze flicked to the churn. “I didn’t expect—”

“I was only finishing,” she said too quickly.

For a moment neither moved. Then Elijah stepped inside, setting the tin on the shelf. “Two hands lighten the load.”

He took the handle when she offered it, his fingers brushing hers with deliberate slowness. The churn filled again with the steady rhythm of wood plunging through cream. The sound seemed louder in the hush of night.

Marybeth found herself watching the rise and fall of his arm, the way the lamplight caught on his wrist, the scar like a white thread. She caught her lip between her teeth, pulse fluttering.

“Your mother should not send you alone after dark,” Elijah said softly, eyes on the dasher.

“She trusts me.”

“And she should. But trust is not the same as safe.”

Her throat tightened. “Then why are you here?”

He looked up at last, and the question hung heavy in the space between them.

Before either could speak again, the door groaned open.

Anna slipped inside like a cat, grinning wide when she saw them. “Oh, I knew it!” she whispered, eyes dancing.

Marybeth jumped back, cheeks burning. “Anna—it’s not—”

Anna lifted both hands, laughter bubbling behind her teeth. “Say no more. My lips are sealed.” She mimed turning a key, but her smirk betrayed her.

Elijah set the dasher aside, jaw tight. “It’s late, Anna.”

“And darker still,” she teased, wagging her brows. “Don’t worry—I can keep a secret better than a butter crock.”

She left as quickly as she’d come, the door banging shut behind her.

Silence fell again, thicker now, laced with danger.

Marybeth pressed her palms to her apron, heart hammering. “She’ll tell.”

“Or she won’t,” Elijah said, voice low. He stepped closer, close enough that the lamplight gilded the edge of his face. “Some secrets stay in the churn until the lid is lifted.”

Marybeth’s breath caught. The air between them shimmered like butter about to break.

But she found no words—only the sound of the dasher dripping, the lantern swaying, and her heart thundering like hooves on a bridge.