Page 22 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

Within minutes, the gravel yard was a swirl of voices, laughter, and the pleasant scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. A long line immediately formed near the main counter, where Dahlia had set up the digital register to process sales. She pressed her fingertips against the smooth glass screen, trying to swipe through a transaction for a basket of small gourds, but the display remained frozen on a spinning loading circle. The tablet had lost its cellular connection, leaving her stranded without a way to process card payments.

"Is the network still down?" Junie asked, leaning over the wooden counter. Junie had been carrying a flat pine crate of fresh cider donuts, their sweet cinnamon scent filling the air around the register. Junie's sleeves were rolled past her elbows, her forehead already shiny with perspiration. "There are thirty people waiting, and the line is starting to loop around the apple display."

"It's not connecting," Dahlia replied, her fingers tapping the unresponsive glass screen with a rapid patter. She didn't look up, her focus locked on the diagnostic settings. "I've tried resetting the signal, but the reception is too weak. It must have dropped when the crowd arrived."

"We'll have to use the manual backup box," Junie suggested, setting the donut crate down on the counter with a soft thump. She reached under the shelf and pulled out a battered box with a rusted lock. She slid the latch open, revealing neat compartments of green bills and silver coins. "It's the way we've always done it when the valley's reception goes quiet. We'll write out manual receipts."

Dahlia felt a rise of irritation in her chest, her fingers curling against her paper notes. She was used to systems that worked with predictable efficiency, where a lost connection was a minor glitch resolved by an IT department, not a mounting crisis in front of dozens of restless tourists. She forced her shoulders to drop, taking a slow breath as she tucked the useless paper charts into her pocket.

"Let's do it then," Dahlia reluctantly agreed, sliding the cash box closer. She grabbed a small pad of carbon paper and a plastic pen from the drawer. "I'll handle the cash sales. You keep the donuts moving."

Before she could write the first receipt, a loud blast from a horn echoed from the main road, followed by the deep rumble of a diesel engine. Dahlia looked past the edge of the canopy. A flatbed truck loaded with wooden crates of cider apples had pulled into the main driveway, its bumper blocking the entrance to the parking pasture. The driver had stopped right in the middle of the access lane, and a dozen cars were already backed up behind him, their horns beginning to blare.

Teddy emerged from the cider barn, her face flushed as she waved her arms at the driver. She had a wooden clipboard tucked under her arm, her fingers gesturing toward the side lane behind the barn.

"The delivery is two hours late," Prue gritted through clenched teeth, appearing at Dahlia's side. Prue had been holding a bundle of hand-printed craft tags, her hands trembling slightly as she looked at the growing traffic jam. "They're supposed to unload in the back lot, but the driver is refusing to budge until he gets a signature for the manifest."

Dahlia looked at the frozen register, the long line of visitors, and the gridlock in the driveway. The structured morning she had planned had completely evaporated, replaced by the messy reality of a farm that didn't care about schedules. She took a deep breath, slid the metal lock of the cash box shut, and handed the receipt pad to Prue.

"Keep the cash line moving," Dahlia instructed, her voice calm and steady despite the rush of adrenaline. "Just write down the totals and keep the change simple. I'll handle the truck."

She moved out from under the canvas canopy, her fingers smoothing her cotton shirt as she headed toward the driveway. The cool wind whipped her hair across her face, carrying the scent of pine needles and apples. There was no office to retreat to, no tech support to call, and no company protocol to follow. Only the farm, her sisters, and a delivery truck blocked the gate, and she was going to have to clear the path herself.

Beckett

Beckett stood near the edge of the pumpkin patch, his hands resting in the pockets of his canvas jacket as he watched the frantic motion of the yard. Across the packed dirt, the morning crowd swirled around the farm stand in a colorful blur of autumn jackets and woolen caps. In the center of the rush stood Dahlia, her tall frame rigid with tension as she held her wooden clipboard like a shield. She'd worn tailored gray pants and a delicate cotton blouse, both completely unsuitable for the damp soil and cedar dust, her dark hair already coming loose from its pins as the wind whipped across her face. Even from this distance, he could see the tight line of her shoulders and the rapid, defensive tapping of her finger against the wood of her clipboard. She was trying to manage the morning with the same clinical, corporate efficiency she'd used in Chicago, but the valley was already resisting her.

A sudden rattle of metal against wood cut through the chatter of the crowd.

Beckett turned toward the small animal enclosure. The yellow school bus had just emptied its passengers near the main driveway, and thirty elementary school children were descending upon the yard in a tide of bright raincoats and high-pitched chatter. Instead of staying behind the wooden barriers, the class swerved toward the fence where a young dairy goat was pacing along the wire mesh. The goat, a small creature with a patch of brown fur shaped like a maple leaf on his shoulder, pressed his nose through a gap in the framing. With a sudden splintering crack, the weathered pine latch of the gate split under the animal's weight, the rusted screws tearing free from the soft wood.

The gate swung open, and the goat trotted straight out into the open yard.

Prue gasped from behind her craft table, her fingers dropping a bundle of hand-dyed lavender tags onto the counter. The children erupted into a chorus of excited screams, several of them lunging forward to chase the animal, which only sent the goat darting toward a display of painted ceramic mugs.

Dahlia moved toward the enclosure, her palms turning pale as she reached out to block the goat's path. She looked completely out of her depth, her eyes wide with a sudden panic as her paper flowcharts and schedules offered no solutions for loose livestock. She stood motionless, her arms slightly raised, her jeans already smeared with a streak of dry mud.

Beckett didn't rush. He slipped his hands from his pockets and approached the yard with a calm, deliberate rhythm that seemed to quiet the frantic energy of the children. Reaching into the deep pocket of his canvas jacket, he pulled out a small handful of dry pumpkin seeds. He held his palm flat, offering the treat to the wandering animal.

"Keep your hands flat," he told the nearest children, his low voice carrying a steady resolve that made them quiet down. "If you cup your fingers, he might pinch you."

The goat stopped, his ears wiggling as he sniffed the crisp air. He turned his head away from Prue's lavender displays, drawn by the scent of the seeds. He trotted toward Beckett's outstretched hand, his rough tongue licking the flat palm. With a smooth and steady motion, Beckett slipped a loop of hemp rope over the animal's neck, guiding him back toward the open pen without a chase.

Before the children could crowd the gate again, Junie appeared from the back of the cider barn, carrying a wooden bucket of sweet feed. She didn't look at Dahlia, focusing entirely on the excited school class. She knelt in the dirt, ignoring the damp soil clinging to her flannel shirt.

"Let's get them started on the scavenger hunt before they find the cider donuts," Junie suggested to the teacher, her quick smile instantly restoring order. She pointed her wooden scoop toward the tall green stalks of the corn maze. "We've got cards for each of them at the entrance."

The teacher thanked her, guiding the children away from the pen.

With the yard quiet again, Beckett pulled a small screwdriver from his pocket. He knelt by the split post, his shoulder brushing Dahlia's arm as he examined the damaged pine. The proximity brought the faint scent of rain and lavender, a soft contrast to the damp earth.

"The screw tore straight through the rot," he murmured, his thumb pressing the splintered wood to test the tension. "It won't hold another hour. We've to drill a new latch lower down."

"I'll hold the gate," Dahlia offered, her fingers gripping the top rail of the cedar fence to keep the post steady. Her knuckles were white with the effort, her breath coming in short, shallow puffs in the cool wind.

Beckett turned the screwdriver, his muscles straining against the canvas of his sleeve as he drove a fresh screw deep into the solid wood. "There are things out here that don't care about your schedules. The weather doesn't follow a list of goals, and the animals don't read calendars. You've got to adapt to the land."

"I'm beginning to see that," Dahlia admitted, her voice dropping as she released her grip on the rail. She looked down at her hands, which were covered in gray dust and raw cedar splinters. The elegant, defensive shield she'd maintained since her arrival felt incredibly thin. "Every time I think I've got a plan, something breaks."