Page 18 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

Dahlia pulled the stiff edge of the canvas over the highest tier of pine crates, her fingers cold against the rough and waterproof fabric. Beside her, Beckett pulled his corner taut, tucking the sheet over the corners of the wood to shield the clean packaging stock from the leaks starting to drip from the rafters. They worked in a silent rush, moving between the stacks until the final pile of crates was completely covered.

With the immediate threat to the inventory secured, the frantic energy of the storm receded, leaving them in a forced quiet. Outside, the violent assault of the storm continued, rain hammering the corrugated metal roof with a deafening rattle that vibrated through the high wooden timbers. Cold air whistled through the narrow gaps in the vertical siding, carrying the scent of ozone and wet grass, but the interior of the barn remained dry, smelling of cedar dust, pine wood, and the sweet undercurrent of fermenting apples.

Dahlia pulled her damp knit cardigan tighter around her shoulders, shivering as the drafty air touched the wet fabric of her sleeves. She moved away from the crates, finding a spot near the center of the workspace where the light from a single small window fell across the floor. The space felt immense in the dimness, the shadows swallowing the towering stacks of empty wooden barrels that lined the walls.

Beckett stood near the workbench, shaking the water from his hands before running a palm over his wet hair. He did not say anything immediately. Instead, he reached for a clean flannel rag on a nearby shelf and began to dry his skin, his movements slow and steady. The golden glow from his lantern sat on the corner of the wood, casting long shadows that stretched across the floorboards.

"It is louder in here than I remembered," Dahlia said, her voice sounding small against the roar of the rain overhead. She leaned against the high stack of covered apple crates, her fingers tracing the rough-sawn edge of the pine wood. A small splinter caught against her palm, and she pressed her thumb over it, welcoming the pricking sensation to anchor her thoughts.

"The metal roof is newer than the ones on the farmhouse," Beckett replied, setting the rag down on the bench. He did not sit. Instead, he leaned his hip against the wood of the bench, his eyes watching her in the soft light. "It was put up the summer before your father passed. He wanted to make sure the harvest stayed dry, no matter what the autumn brought."

The mention of the past brought a sudden warmth to the drafty room. Dahlia looked up at the high ceiling, her gaze tracing the thick timber beams that supported the roof. "I remember the noise of the hammers that summer. I complained that I could not hear myself think inside the house."

"He was proud of this barn," Beckett said softly, his chest rising with a quiet sigh. "He used to sit on that very stack of crates after a long day of pressing, just watching the orchard. He always said the valley had a way of settling itself if you gave it enough time."

"He had a way of making everything seem simple," Dahlia murmured. She looked down at her fingers, still resting on the rough wood of the crate. The tight knot of anxiety that had kept her shoulders rigid for days finally began to loosen. Surrounded by the scent of pine and old harvest history, the spreadsheets and debt projections she had left on the kitchen table felt incredibly distant. "When he was here, the farm didn’t feel like a list of obligations and liabilities. It felt like a home."

"It was a home," Beckett said. He moved a fraction closer, his tall frame blocking the cold draft that slipped through the door. "It wasn’t built to be a business empire. It was built because he loved the trees."

"But love doesn’t pay the interest on a mortgage," she countered, though there was no anger in her voice. It was a soft admission of the reality she had been fighting since her return. "I spent twelve years in Chicago analyzing assets, restructuring companies, and finding the logical solution to every financial puzzle. I thought I could come back here and apply the same rules. I thought if I just organized the records and cut the waste, the pieces would fit together."

She paused, her fingers sliding over the weathered wood. "But the pieces don’t fit the way they do in an office. Out here, there are too many things you can’t control. The rain, the frost, the soil. It is all so unpredictable."

"You can’t force the land to follow a schedule," Beckett said, his low voice carrying a gentle and steady resolve. "But that doesn’t mean you are failing. It just means you’re trying to carry the entire weight alone."

Dahlia looked up, her gaze meeting his eyes in the dimness. For the first time since she had returned to the valley, she did not feel the need to defend her choices or justify her absence. The protective armor she had worn like a shield in Chicago felt thin, almost useless in the quiet of the old barn. "I don’t know any other way to do it," she whispered.

Beckett

The wind howled against the side of the barn, a persistent scream that made the thick timbers groan, but Beckett barely heard it. Beckett’s focus was entirely on the small metal hinge in his hands. He rubbed an old cotton rag along the rusted brass bracket, his movements slow and rhythmic, keeping his eyes down so he didn’t have to face the sudden stillness that had settled between them.

A few feet away, Dahlia sat on an upturned pine crate. Her shoulders were hunched, her arms crossed tight over her chest as she shivered under her damp cardigan. The warm, golden light of his kerosene lantern sat on the edge of the workbench, casting long and soft shadows across her pale face. In this dimness, with her dark hair curling damply against her neck, she looked so much like the girl who had left the valley three decades ago that his chest tightened with a familiar ache.

Beckett had spent years trying to convince himself that the space between them was natural, that the choices they had made were the only ones that made sense. But standing this close, with the scent of pine resin and rain wrapping around them, those arguments felt thin.

"The wind is catching the eastern corner," Beckett told her, his voice dropping into a low tone that was still able to carry over the storm. He set the brass bracket down on the wooden bench, his fingers lingering on the cold metal. "But don’t worry, we should be safe here. Our families built these frames to bend with the weather, but the roof needs work before the real winter hits."

“I know.” Dahlia didn’t look up immediately. Her thumb traced a small groove in the side of the pine crate, her expression thoughtful in the amber light. "My father was always so certain about this place. He believed the farm would always find a way to survive."

"Yes, that’s why it was built to last," Beckett murmured, his knuckles brushing against the dry fabric of his work pants as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "Do you remember when we were young?” He glanced upward. “We used to sit up in the rafters during these storms, throwing wood shavings down into the empty bins. You always wanted to climb higher than the beams would allow."

“Yes, I always wanted to be higher. To touch the stars.” A faint smile touched Dahlia’s lips, though it didn’t reach her eyes. "My father would always tell me to never give up on my dreams but just be careful to not fly too high too fast.” She gave a soft snort. “I spent so much time looking at the horizon back then. I thought if I just went far enough, I would find a life that made sense."

"You wanted something bigger," Beckett replied, his eyes fixed on her face. “There was never anything wrong with that. Your parents were always so proud of you. They knew they couldn’t keep you here on the farm. You were meant for bigger things.”

“Mmm,” Dahlia breathed. “I felt like a traitor when I left for college. While my mother was telling me to go, I could see the flash of hurt in her eyes, like I was betraying her by leaving.”

“I think you must have mistook that look,” Beckett defended Rosalind’s intentions. “Your mother wanted more than anything for you to succeed. That’s why she pushed so hard to ensure you had what you needed to go where you were meant to go.” His eyes met and held Dahlia’s. He felt the familiar extra few thumps of his heart and the instant draw towards her. “I…” He stopped and swallowed.

“Then why do I feel like I’ve let them down?” Dahlia’s voice was soft. “Not just my parents but my sisters.” She sighed wearily. “It’s like there are these walls up between us.”

“I don’t think it’s just about you,” Beckett said, glad that she hadn’t noticed his slight hesitation or hadn’t pushed him to continue to say what he’s stopped saying. “Each one of your sisters carries their own burdens, guilt, and remorse about leaving in their hearts.”

“Not Junie,” Dahlia reminded him. “She stayed.”

“Yes, but her pain is more about her missed opportunities,” Beckett pointed out. “I’m sure if Junie had a chance, she would’ve left too.”

“Well that just makes me feel a whole lot worse.” Dahlia gave him a brittle laugh. “As the oldest this should’ve been my burden to bear—I’m the one that should’ve stayed behind.”