He Had a Bucket, She Had Intentions
It started with a glance—and a gallon of fresh milk. Jenna Beck, time-slipping seductress of the interracial frontier, stepped into that rustic barn like temptation on two legs and one holy mission: find the finest BWC the Amish could offer. The farmhand was flustered. His shirt was damp. His suspenders were hanging on for dear life. And Jenna? Jenna was staring straight at the churn. She asked him if the cream was fresh. He asked her to pray with him. She licked her lips and said, “Only if we hold hands.”
She Churned the Cream—and Stirred the Loins
Inside, under candlelight and sinfully close quarters, Jenna got to work. Elbows deep in churn-duty, she locked eyes with her latest butter buddy. “It’s not just milk that thickens under pressure,” she whispered, as he fumbled a hymnbook and forgot the Lord’s Prayer. Her curls bounced with every pump of that wooden stick. He didn’t know if he was falling in love or just forgetting his vows to the Order—but he knew one thing: this woman was not here for preserves. Jenna Beck was here to shake the foundations of purity, one butter paddle at a time.
Buggy Ride of Blushing Regrets and Barn-Raising Fantasies
By sunrise, Jenna was back on the cart, reins in hand, dress hiked just enough to scandalize a deacon. She winked as the men lined up behind her to frame the barn. No one could explain why the structure was being raised faster than ever. Maybe it was morale. Maybe it was hormones. Maybe it was Jenna’s contagious energy—or the rumors of what she did behind the haystacks with Ezekiel. All they knew was: she’d been here. And things would never be the same. Somewhere between the butter, the barn, and the BWC, Jenna Beck made the Amish feel things they weren’t allowed to write down.
