Page 24 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

Beckett nodded, his hand resting on the wooden post. "We'll protect them. You're not carrying that weight alone anymore."

The distance between them felt incredibly small in the cool air, the silence stretching between them like a thread. Dahlia's breath hitched as Beckett reached up, his hand resting briefly over hers on the wooden railing. His palm was calloused and dry, his touch sending a sudden heat through her wrist. For a second, neither of them moved, their eyes locked in an unspoken promise that had been waiting for decades.

Then, Beckett slowly let his hand drop, offering her a smile. "Get some sleep. We've got another crowd coming tomorrow."

"I will," Dahlia promised, her voice barely a whisper in the dark.

She watched him retreat across the gravel, his figure disappearing into the dark of the pasture. When the sound of his movement had faded completely, Dahlia turned to look toward the north. In the distance, the hemlock ridge rose in silhouette against the starry sky, dark and silent. The locked cabinet, the mysterious six acres, and whatever secrets her mother had kept hidden in those high woods needed to be solved.

Dahlia took the last sip of her cider, casting one more glance toward the ridge. Her thoughts settled as determination grew. “Tomorrow is another day, and I’ve got plenty of time to figure out the mystery of the six acres and save the farm.” She spoke her promise to the wind. “But come what may. I will do both.”

DAHLIA

The morning light filtered through the thin cotton curtains, casting long shadows across the faded floral wallpaper of Dahlia's childhood bedroom. She stood near the window, her fingers tracing the wood of the sill where the white paint had peeled to reveal the gray pine. Outside, the mist had settled over the valley, wrapping the pumpkin patch and the distant orchard in a quiet shroud. She'd spent her early years wishing she were somewhere else, yet today, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the sweep of the land. After her promise to the wind the previous evening, a fresh determination hummed in her veins. She'd resolve the mysteries of the ridge, and she'd save the farm. She'd do both.

On the wooden nightstand, the sudden vibration of her phone cut through the silence, the glass screen buzzing against the dust-dusted pine. Dahlia turned, her hand reaching out to lift the thin device before the sound could carry down the hallway to her sisters' rooms. The display showed a Chicago area code she hadn't seen in weeks, a familiar sequence of digits that brought a dull ache to her temples. She slid her thumb across the glass, her breath hitching as she lifted the receiver.

“Hello, this is Ms. Marchetti,” Dahlia answered.

"Hello, Ms. Marchetti,” the senior recruiter from the executive firm said, his smooth, practiced cadence instantly pulling her back to the world she'd left behind. He spoke with the crisp efficiency of someone who didn't waste seconds on small talk. "I have some news. The board has agreed to your terms, and they're ready to send over the formal package today. It's a managing partner position, starting the Monday after Thanksgiving."

Dahlia suddenly felt like she couldn’t breathe, with a chill spreading through her chest. Just a few short weeks ago, she'd have snatched this offer without a second thought. It was the exact escape route she'd been waiting for, the perfect landing pad that'd justify her return to the city. Yet, as she looked down at the gravel yard where Junie had already set out the empty display crates for the morning's sorting, the triumph she'd expected to feel didn't come. There was only a quiet weight that seemed to press her down heavily on her heart.

"I'll need to review the details first," Dahlia replied, her voice steady though she had to clear her throat to find it. She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, her gaze tracking a single leaf as it drifted from the sugar maple branch. "Please send the documents to my email, and I'll look them through over the weekend."

"Don't take too long, Ms. Marchetti," the recruiter warned, his tone carrying that sharp edge of expectation she knew all too well. "They're moving quickly, and they'll want a signed agreement before the holiday. It's the opportunity you've been working toward for years. Don't let it slip away."

"I'll have an answer for you by Monday," Dahlia promised, her fingers gripping the cool glass of her phone tightly. She waited for his brief sign-off before she ended the connection, letting the quiet of the farmhouse rush back to fill the room.

For the first time since she got her mobile phone, Dahlia didn't put it in her pocket. Instead, she set it face-down on the wooden nightstand, the glass tapping the pine with a soft sound. Dahlia pressed her palms flat against her thighs, smoothing the rough denim of her jeans as she tried to steady her breathing. She hadn't told her sisters about the position, and she'd no intention of doing so now. They'd only just managed to find a fragile peace around the kitchen table, their mother's mysteries finally drawing them together after decades of tension. If she told them she was already looking at the exit, the trust they'd built would crumble before the morning's dew had even burned off the pasture.

More than her sisters, her thoughts drifted to Beckett. She'd spent the previous evening standing with him under the porch light, her hand resting beneath his as they watched the dark ridge together. The memory of his warm, calloused fingers against her skin still lingered like a quiet brand on her wrist. He'd promised she wouldn't carry the weight of the farm alone anymore, and she'd believed him. How would she look him in the eyes and tell him she'd already planned her departure?

"There's nothing to discuss yet," Dahlia murmured to the empty room, her voice barely a whisper against the quiet hum of the house. She told herself she was only being practical. There was no signed contract, no formal agreement, and no reason to disrupt the farm's opening week with speculation. It was better to keep it hidden, tucked away like her mother's unsolved property lines, hidden cottages in the woods, and the mysteriously locked cider barn cabinet until she had a formal offer in hand.

Dahlia turned to her dressing table, using her mother’s silver back brush; she ran it through her hair. She had to face the day, and she couldn't do that while lingering in her room. Dahlia smoothed her cotton shirt, took a slow breath, and opened her door, determined to focus on the farm's immediate survival—even if her own future had just become a terrifying question mark.

Beckett

Beckett wiped a smear of black linseed oil from his fingers onto a cotton rag. The cider barn was cool, the scent of fresh pine sawdust and hay trapped within the high timber framing of the old building. A row of weathered pine signboards lay across the long workbench, waiting for the stencils that'd direct the weekend crowds to the cider press and the winding paths of the hayrides.

A figure appeared at the open doorway, and he looked up. His pulse jolted then raced. Dahlia stood on the threshold, the golden morning light catching the fiery sparks of red in her dark hair. She kept her hands tucked into the pockets of her old farm jeans, her shoulders held with a rigid stiffness that'd nothing to do with the cool autumn breeze. Even with her denim worn at the knees and her sleeves rolled past her elbows, she looked like she'd been preparing to face a hostile board meeting. He'd noticed the change in her clothing immediately; she'd traded her pristine, mud-streaked city pants for the faded denim of her youth, yet her posture remained tightly guarded.

"Morning,” Beckett greeted her.

“Morning,” Dahlia replied. Her eyes swept over the work bench where he stood. “The sorting tables are cleared." Her voice carried a tight, controlled quiet that instantly set off an alarm in his chest. She moved toward the workbench, her eyes fixed on the row of signs. "I thought I'd help with the painting before the morning rush."

"Sure, the more help the faster the work goes," Beckett replied, handing her a small sponge brush. He didn't ask what'd brought that sudden, vibrating tension back into her eyes. He'd spent enough decades watching her to know when she retreated behind a fortress. "We're starting with the directions for the cider stand."

Dahlia took the brush, her fingers brushing his palm for a brief second and an instant spark zapped up his arm. But Beckett resisted the urge to pull away. Dahlia sat on a low crate near the end of the bench, positioning a brass stencil over the pine board. "The crowd will be larger this weekend. We've got to make sure the signs are clear after the fiasco of opening day."

"They will be," Beckett assured her, centering his own stencil on the adjacent sign. He watched her dip the sponge into the dark paint. Her movements were too fast, too precise, her jaw clamped tight as she pressed the color into the gaps. "Why are you so tense this morning? Did you have another fight with your sisters? I thought you’d all called a truce?”

“No, we’re getting along a lot better.” A faint, brittle smile touched Dahlia’s lips, but it didn't reach her brown eyes. "I don’t want anything to go wrong. I'm just trying to ensure we're prepared. There're a lot of details to track."

"You're doing fine," Beckett told her. He slid a completed signboard to the side to dry, the wood scraping softly against the bench. To pull her away from whatever thoughts were chasing her, he tapped his finger against the edge of a circular brass plate. "Do you remember this one? The old set's been here since we were fifteen."

Dahlia looked down, her focus settling on the stencil of a crescent moon wrapped in ivy leaves. Her expression softened, the rigid line of her shoulders dropping a fraction.