Page 17 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

Dahlia knelt near the low stone wall, her fingers brushing away a damp layer of pine needles to reveal the flat top of a foundation stone.

"It was a cottage," she realized, looking up at Beckett as he stared down at her. "A small house. Someone lived back here, completely hidden from the road."

Beckett looked at the stacked stones, his jaw tight as he studied the layout.

"There are no utility poles in these woods, and there's no record of a building permit in the town hall. Whoever built this was living entirely off the grid." His brows drew together in a curious frown.

Dahlia stood up and dusted off her hands. He could see her mind racing and knew she must be comparing the physical foundation with the parcel maps she'd been analyzing. She pulled her portfolio open, unzipping the leather compartment to slide the curling paper map out once more.

"This clearing sits exactly within those missing six acres," Dahlia explained, tracing her finger over the blank space on the paper. "This land was kept out of the official registry for a reason. My mother didn't just maintain the fence; she kept this entire place a secret."

Beckett bent down and touched the rough stone of the foundation, his expression unreadable.

"Your mother knew every inch of this valley. If she kept this cottage off the books, there's a darn good reason." His frown deepened as questions tumbled into his head.

"I'm going to find out what that reason was," Dahlia insisted. And Beckett saw the determination in her eyes. "There's a cardboard box in her closet filled with undocumented agreements and handwritten letters. I didn't think they were important, but now I'm going to read every single scrap of paper she left behind." She glanced at him. “In fact, I’m going to go through my mother's office and bedroom or anywhere else she stored documents to find out what exactly this place was and who lived here.”

Beckett looked at her, his eyes warm in the filtered woodland light.

"We'll figure it out," he promised, his voice low and steady.

She glanced at him, her eyes flashing with surprise.

“You’ll help me?” Dahlia’s voice was low and soft.

“Yeah,” Beckett agreed. “I’ll help.” He glanced out across the land. “Now I’m invested in this mystery too.”

Dahlia nodded. He noticed that quiet determination intensify as they turned to make their way back through the hemlocks.

“I guess you, my sisters, and the festival committee were right after all, Beckett,” Dahlia admitted. “This farm is not just a spreadsheet to be balanced.” She gave a soft snort as their eyes met. “It’s a puzzle of hidden anomalies.” A smile spread across her face, making his heart race. “It seems my trip here will need to be extended because I’m not going to leave until she'd found the answers.”

Beckett drew in a breath as he watched her, and his heart lurched at the prospect of her being here for longer than she’d initially planned. Rosalind’s words from right before she died rushed into his head.

I always thought that you and Dahlia were meant to be. The universe will guide you back together of that I have no doubt. She smiled weakly. But there’s no harm in giving it a gentle nudge.

Suddenly, he realized what Rosalind had meant. She’d ensured that his and Dahlia’s paths would run into each other again.

DAHLIA

Later that day, the sky above the Berkshire foothills turned the color of a bruised plum, the late-summer air thick with the sulfurous scent of an approaching storm. From where she sat at the farmhouse kitchen table, Dahlia watched the first fat drops of rain splat against the windowpane. Her operating schedules, cost projections, and list of supplier contacts lay spread across the scarred wood of the table, the papers curling in the damp draft that slid beneath the sash. The wind gathered force with a low, hollow roar, shaking the farmhouse's shutters.

She had spent the last three hours buried in columns of numbers, trying to find some clean and logical path through the rising debts of the farm. It was a familiar armor, hiding behind spreadsheets and legal terminology, but today, the numbers seemed to dance on the page, refusing to settle into the neat answers she wanted. Dahlia kept getting pulled back to what they had found on the mysterious six acres of land adjoining their farm. She shook her head, forcing her focus back to the papers in front of her. But a vicious blast of wind against the window from the storm was not going to let her concentrate on what was in front of her.

Dahlia stood, her fingers gripping the edge of the wooden table, remembering how the roof of the cider barn was already compromised. The old shingles near the eastern rafters were dry and crumbling from decades of neglect. If the rising gale got beneath the main timber doors, the starting harvest inventory of empty crates, fresh pulp bags, and packaging stock would be ruined before the first apples were even hauled from the orchards. Dahlia could not afford another financial setback, especially not one caused by her own failure to secure the property.

None of her sisters were currently home, which meant it was up to her to ensure the barn was locked down. Without another thought, Dahlia ran to the back porch, pushing the screen door open and plunging into the cold wind. The rain hit her in a sudden sheet, stinging her neck and soaking her knit sweater within seconds. She crossed the gravel driveway, her balance wavering as a fierce gust tore across the open yard. Her hair whipped wild across her face, blinding her for a second as she fought her way toward the timber structure. The sky had gone almost entirely black, the trees along the boundary line bending at wild angles against the storm.

When Dahlia reached the cider barn, the massive sliding timber doors were already rattling against their iron tracks, vibrating with a high-pitched whine as the wind tried to pry them outward. Dahlia lunged forward, her fingers catching the cold metal of the sliding latch. She pressed her shoulder against the damp pine timber, trying to force the massive doors together, but the wind was too strong, pushing back with an unyielding pressure that made her joints ache. Her palms scraped against the rough wood, her skin burning as she fought to slide the bolt into place. The door refused to budge, caught in a cross-wind that threatened to lift it off the track entirely.

A shadow fell over her, blocking the biting spray. Beckett was suddenly there beside her, his broad frame shielding her from the worst of the gale. He carried two folded canvas tarps under his arm, his face pale and wet under the brim of his wax-canvas cap. He didn’t waste breath on questions. He leaned his shoulder against the door beside hers, his muscles straining against his canvas jacket as he threw his full weight against the wood.

With their combined effort, the sliding latch finally slipped into the iron bracket with a metallic clang. Dahlia leaned her forehead against the wet timber for a single second, her chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. The scent of wet canvas, pine resin, and cold rain wrapped around them in the small space between their bodies.

Beckett checked the latch, his gloved hands ensuring the pin was secure before he turned to her. The wind screamed through the rafters overhead, and the first dark stream of water began to trickle down the interior siding from a leak near the roofline.

"We need to get the tarps over the dry crates," he said, his voice straining to carry over the roar of the wind against the metal roof.

Dahlia nodded, wiping the rain from her eyes with the back of her wet hand. She grabbed the edge of the first canvas tarp, her fingers gripping the rough, waterproof fabric as they hauled it toward the stacked rows of empty crates in the dim center of the barn. Every gust of wind shook the timber frame, but here inside the shelter, the quiet space between them was already beginning to tighten.