Tara with her gleaming hair, uncut hair, hair the color of hard, white spring wheat. The bones of her face carefully sculpted and polished from birth. Her lips too red, lips she didn't want. A pretty face she didn't want, hating her reflection when she caught it in panes of glass or mirrors in stores. A slender body she could live with so long as others could ignore it, which apparently was an impossible hope. The boys always wanted to court her, arriving in their buggies to escort her to Sunday night hymn sings. She felt like putting potato sacks over her face and body and walking everywhere in her brother Samuel's clunky work boots. An Amish woman who does not want the beauty God has given her. Who does not look forward to the love of a man in her life. Who stares up at the ancient house on the hill with its secrets and darkness, keeping its spirit at bay with prayer and faith. Tara, who is content to wander the fields and meadows of her family farm before dawn each morning and walk with Father God the rest of her life. Until one day a stranger comes to town, joins her Amish church, and opens up his own smithy to care for the blacksmithing need of the community. Him she finds she cannot avoid.