Page 30 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

She was glaring at the press as if giving it a black look would scare it into working when she caught movements out of the corner of her eye. She looked up, and her heart stuttered when she saw Prue walking beside Beckett, crossing the threshold, carrying a massive steel chest of mechanical tools. He wore his favorite canvas coat, his face set in a blank mask. Behind him, Kent Hillion, the town’s large veterinarian, entered the barn, followed by Evan, who clutched a cardboard box.

“Great!” Dahlia muttered. “So much for not contacting Beckett.”

“Dahlia…” Prue said with a big smile. “As I was crossing the garden to find help, I ran into Beckett who’d heard the screech of the press and…” Her grin grew and her eyes flickered with mischief. “Well, he was already on his way with help.” She scrunched up her face and shrugged. “We need to get it going so… here they are.”

“Thanks,” Dahlia said with a nod and stepped out of the way.

"We got it," Evan assured her, his voice cracking slightly with excitement as he set the box on the wooden workbench. "The hardware store had a rebuilt three-horsepower motor in the back room. They were holding it for a pump repair; I was already bringing it here just in case anything happened to this one.”

Without a word or even a nod of acknowledgment to her, Beckett set his massive tool chest on the concrete with a solid thud. He didn't ask for a spreadsheet or a liability waiver. He didn't even look at Dahlia, keeping his eyes fixed entirely on the broken machinery. He simply knelt by the seized housing, his large hands moving over the fractured iron collar that secured the main drive shaft. He took charge with unassuming authority, his movements fluid and precise.

"The structural fitting split when the gear locked," Beckett murmured, his voice low and flat. "A standard wrench isn't going to clear this collar. It has warped the threads."

"I tried to force the casing bolt," Dahlia admitted, her voice tight as she looked down at her stained palms. "I thought I could clear the casing myself."

"You would’ve stripped it," Beckett said, showing no judgment as he unlatched his steel chest. He withdrew a long, sturdy gear puller and a substantial metal clamp. "This old casting has seen forty winters. It doesn't yield to a hurry. You have to coax it."

He adjusted the clamp, his broad shoulders tensing as he applied steady pressure. Beside him, Kent knelt on the other side, assisting with the alignment, while Evan carefully lifted the replacement motor from the cardboard box. Beckett directed them with unflappable command, gesturing for the teenager to hold the bracket.

"Steady on that bracket," Beckett told him, his fingers adjusting the clamp as the fractured metal began to yield with a dull groan. "Don't let the shaft slide."

"I've got it," Evan replied, his face smudged with dirt, but his eyes were bright with a fierce and protective determination

Dahlia retreated toward the wooden storage crates, her hands tucked into her pockets to hide their trembling. She watched the three of them work, realizing that she could no longer push payment on Beckett or anyone who came to help on the farm of their own accord. She gave a soft sigh, knowing that, try as she might, she wasn’t going to change the way the town conducted their barter-type transactions.

Here, there were no invoices. No one was tracking hourly rates or asking who’d pay for the replaced motor. Kent was a busy vet with many farm visits on his schedule, and the hardware store had surrendered their only backup motor without a single receipt. And Beckett... Beckett, whom she’d hurt so deeply just a week ago, was here laboring over her family's broken machinery as if the fence line between their farms had never existed.

They were here because her mother had kept their livestock healthy, because her sisters were their neighbors, and because the valley had a quiet memory of who’d shown up when the winter was hard. And Beckett was here because his connection to this land and her family ran deeper than any fence or pride.

The iron collar finally cracked, the split halves clattering onto the concrete floor.

"That's the worst of it," Kent said, wiping his grease-stained fingers on a rag as he stood. He looked at the newly aligned motor, a faint nod of satisfaction showing on his weathered face. "The new shaft’s resting true. It’ll hold."

Beckett stood slowly, his tall frame blocking the pale afternoon light. He still didn't look at Dahlia, keeping his eyes fixed on the aligned gears as he wiped his grease-blackened palms on a rag. He closed his steel tool chest with a solid snap, his movements deliberate and measured.

Dahlia took a slow breath, her chest feeling an unfamiliar warmth that had nothing to do with her schedules.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice sincere. "I don't know what we would’ve done if not for all of you."

Kent looked at her, then toward the open door where the murmurs of the crowd outside had softened.

"Of course, we’re always happy to help,” Kent replied, his voice quiet as he closed his smaller case.

Beckett didn't reply. He picked up his massive tool chest, his jaw tightening slightly as he shifted his weight. He began his retreat toward the open double doors, his expression unreadable, leaving Kent and Evan to finish securing the bolts. He didn't look back, maintaining his professional boundary with absolute consistency, but his presence had saved the day.

Outside, the crowd grew louder, a restless buzz of visitors waiting near the display bins. They'd expected fresh apple cider, and instead, they faced a closed barn.

Inside, Teddy crouched near the wooden platform, using her tools to inspect the main support beams. The old pine timbers required stabilization to prevent warping from the vibration of the new drive shaft. Teddy inserted cedar wedges under the floor bolts, her expression focused as she secured the frame.

Prue appeared at the door, her shoulders relaxed. She didn't look at the machinery. Instead, she kept her eyes on the crowd outside.

"They don't know where to go," Prue said, her tone calm. "I'm going to redirect them."

"How?" Dahlia asked.

"We can use the display carts," Prue replied.

Prue began to rearrange the wooden flatbed carts, shifting them into a wide curve that guided the visitors away from the entrance and toward the grassy slope near the porch. She moved several large pumpkins, placing them as natural barriers to channel the line. Within minutes, the cluster of visitors formed an orderly queue.