Page 29 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

He didn't wait for her to reply, nor did he want to see the pity or confusion that might rise in her eyes. Beckett turned back to his tractor, his movements deliberate as he grabbed the cold iron handrail of the fender. He pulled himself up onto the steel seat, his focus locked onto the black metal steering wheel.

He turned the key. The diesel engine roared to life, a rhythmic throb that filled the quiet pasture and drowned out the wind. Without looking back at the stone wall or the small figure standing in the weeds, Beckett shifted the gears and drove toward the northern barn, leaving her alone in the cold dusk.

DAHLIA

The smell of crushed apples and damp wood filled the cider barn, a sweet scent that had been the rhythm of Dahlia’s mornings for the past month. Outside the open double doors, the gravel yard hummed with the voices of weekend tourists. Car doors slammed in the distance, and the farm stand cash registers chimed in a steady tempo. The fall season was now in full swing, turning the surrounding hillsides into a blazing canopy of crimson and gold, and bringing peak-harvest crowds that swarmed the pumpkin patches under a crisp blue sky. It was the busiest Saturday of October, and the farm was finally operating at a profit.

Dahlia stood by the ancient steel press, her fingers resting on the cool metal of the safety guard. For three hours, the machinery had thrummed, drawing the sweet amber juice from the pulped Macouns and Honeycrisps, filling the plastic gallon jugs that her sister had been stacking in the display coolers. It was a flawless system, one Dahlia had spent the previous night detailing in her spreadsheet.

Then, the press screeched.

It wasn't a gradual slowdown. It was a teeth-rattling grind of gears that shook the thick timber support posts of the barn. A loud metallic pop echoed through the rafters, followed immediately by the smell of scorched rubber. The main drive belt flapped once, loose and lifeless, before the entire massive assembly shuddered to a silent halt.

The silence that followed was deafening. Outside, the crowd had grown louder, but inside the barn, the stark absence of the motor’s thrum felt like a physical blow.

Dahlia didn't hesitate. She lunged for the red cutoff switch, slapping the plastic button even though the electrical current had already stopped. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild and frantic pulse. The press had died on the peak day of their highest-margin sales.

"No," she murmured, her voice tight as she grabbed a steel socket wrench from the wooden pegboard. "Why today!” She drew in breath and rubbed her forehead. “Please not today.” She puffed air into her cheeks and pursed her lips. “Dahlia, you can fix this."

She refused to look toward the northern window where the gray fields lay silent. Since her confrontation at the fence line one week ago, when Beckett had told her that she made herself a stranger and he refused to be her fall comfort, Dahlia had vowed to handle the farm’s physical emergencies herself. She didn't need Beckett’s tools. She didn't need his knowledge of the old machinery. She was a professional, and she could solve a mechanical puzzle.

Dahlia knelt on the cold concrete floor, ignoring the damp apple mash that smeared across her jeans. She jammed the socket wrench onto the casing bolt of the gear housing, straining her muscles as she threw her weight against the iron handle. The metal didn't budge. The bolt had been rusted into place decades ago, held fast by layers of grease and neglect.

“Shoot, shoot, shoot!” Dahlia hissed through clenched teeth.

Her palms stung against the steel grip, but she didn't stop. She shifted her angle, her fingers slipping against the rough iron frame as she pulled with everything she had.

"What happened?" Prue asked, rushing through the double doors, her canvas apron stained with cinnamon sugar. She paused near the bins, her eyes wide as she took in the silent press and the loose drive belt. "The cider lines are empty, and there's a queue of twenty people waiting for hot cider. I’ve already run out of the jugs we filled this morning."

"The gear assembly seized," Dahlia answered, her breathing ragged as she kept her hands locked on the wrench. "I’m removing the housing now. The drive key probably sheared off."

"You can't remove that housing," Prue countered, her voice rising in panic. She crossed the concrete, her face pale. "It takes three people just to lift the iron plate. You're going to break the wrench, or worse, you're going to strip the bolt."

"I've got it, Prue," Dahlia insisted, her jaw set as she strained against the tool. "I’m not going to sit here and watch our highest-profit weekend disappear because of an old bolt. I can handle this."

"You can't," Prue said gently. She reached down, her fingers wrapping around Dahlia’s wrist, her touch firm enough to force Dahlia to ease her pressure on the wrench. "You're trying to prove something, and it's going to cost us the press. Look at your hands."

Dahlia let her arms drop, her shoulders sagging as she looked down at her palms. They were black with old grease, her skin scraped raw where the wrench had slipped. Her fingers trembled, not just from the physical effort, but from the raw and burning frustration that had been coiled in her chest for seven long days.

"We need this press," Dahlia whispered, her throat tight. She didn't look at her sister. "We can't afford to halt production today."

"I know," Prue replied, her tone softening as she knelt beside her on the concrete. "But we can't fix this alone. We need help."

"I’m not calling him," Dahlia said, her voice loaded with defensive pride.

"I didn't say we'd need to call him," Prue pointed out, her eyes holding a calm patience. "There are other people in this valley who care about this farm. People who’ve been waiting for us to just ask for a helping hand."

Dahlia stared at the seized iron gears, the cold steel mocking her lists and schedules. She couldn't fix it. The realization was a bitter pill, but as she looked at her sister’s determined face, she knew her pride was a luxury they couldn't afford.

"Who?" Dahlia asked.

"Everyone," Prue told her, throwing up her hands. “Kevin, Micah, take your pick. Heck, I think even Nell or Martha know how to fix this old thing.”

The cold draft from the open double doors swept across the concrete floor, carrying the sweet scent of cinnamon sugar from the farm stand and the strong smell of scorched rubber from the seized motor. Dahlia stood by the timber support post, her grease-blackened fingers curled into the wood's rough grain. The socket wrench lay on the floor at her feet, a useless piece of steel.

Every time a shadow fell across the gravel yard, her chest went tight, her breath catching in her throat. She kept expecting to see the familiar frame of the neighbor who’d spent three years keeping these fields alive. But the northern pasture remained silent. He’d made his boundaries clear, and he wasn't going to cross them to save her from her own stubbornness.

“Okay, call someone,” Dahlia told Prue, who nodded and ran off.