Page 31 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

But the crowd was still empty-handed.

That was when the tables arrived. Nell led the way, with three older ladies from the community church following behind. They carried folding tables and checkered tablecloths, setting them up directly in front of the waiting queue. Nell shook out a tablecloth, letting the fabric settle over the wood with a soft rustle.

Nell opened a large wicker basket, withdrawing warm apple pies that filled the yard with the aroma of cinnamon. Another lady placed a glass carboy of chilled sweet cider on the table, along with a stack of small paper cups.

"We've a slight delay on the hot cider," Nell announced to the crowd, her voice carrying across the yard. "But while we wait for the press, we're handing out warm pie slices and cold samples. On the house."

The response was immediate. The visitors shifted their attention to the tables, their faces brightening as they received samples and slices of pie. The tension in the yard evaporated, replaced by laughter and quiet chatter.

Dahlia stood near the door, watching the red paint of the tractor as it crossed the boundary line back into the northern pastures. He didn't look back.

Inside, the new motor hummed in a steady rhythm, the gears turning without a sound. Kent gathered his tools, wiping his palms on a cloth before closing his smaller case.

"Is there anything else you need help with?" Kent asked, his voice low.

"No, thank you," Dahlia replied with a small smile. "You've done more than enough."

Kent nodded, picked up his box, and moved toward the exit.

Nell wandered over from the tables, watching Prue adjust the flatbed carts while Teddy packed up her wedges. She stood beside Dahlia, her expression thoughtful.

"I see you're starting to remember how neighbors work in these parts," Nell noted.

"I do realize that," Dahlia replied, keeping her voice quiet. "I know everyone helps each other. I'm not that jaded."

An older woman who'd accompanied Nell from the driveway drew near. Dahlia recognized her from her youth, though the years had silvered her hair and softened her face.

"I'm so sorry about your loss. I’ve been meaning to stop by since the funeral," the woman said apologetically, her eyes warm. "Rosalind was a rare soul. Years ago, when I had nowhere else to run, she gave me a place to stay. I was terrified, completely alone, and she kept me safe. If you ever need anything, please let me know."

As they turned away, Dahlia watched them go. The realization settled deep within her: the farm didn't survive on isolated self-sufficiency. It survived because people felt personally connected to it and to the woman who'd spent her life protecting them.

Dahlia watched Nell and the other woman move toward one of the display tables. Her brow furrowed. She remembered the cottage ruins on the ridge, the stone foundations hidden under the hemlocks. She racked her brain, trying to remember when her mother had helped that woman, or why she would've needed to hide.

A cold feeling crept up Dahlia’s spine. She turned her head and glanced back toward the cider barn, in the direction of the locked cabinet.

What secrets were trapped inside it?

DAHLIA

Later that day, Dahlia crossed the northern pastures under a darkening sky, making her way toward the gray farmhouse that stood near the orchard edge. The lights from the kitchen windows cast long gold squares across the damp grass, offering a quiet guide through the twilight. She paused near the porch, her chest tensing as she looked at the simple wooden door. A week had passed since they stood at the fence line, and her palms still felt the cold sting of his confession. But the cider press was running, the afternoon’s crisis had been resolved, and she couldn't let another night pass without speaking to him.

She ascended the wooden porch boards and knocked on the screen door frame.

A moment later, Beckett appeared on the other side of the wire mesh. He didn't look surprised to see her, nor did his expression hold any of the anger that had sharpened his features during their last encounter. He simply pushed the door open, gesturing for her to enter the warm kitchen.

"Come on in," he said, his voice quiet. "I just put a pot of coffee on."

"Thank you," Dahlia murmured, entering the kitchen and letting the door click shut behind her.

The room was clean and simple, smelling of roasted coffee beans and clean pine. A yellow Formica table sat in the center, its surface worn white at the corners where decades of elbows had rested. There were no lists on the counter, no neat files of papers, just a ceramic mug and a glass jar of sugar.

Beckett moved to the stove, pouring the dark liquid into two mugs. He didn't offer any blame, and he didn't ask what she was doing on his property after she’d told him to stay on his side of the fence. He set one mug on the table before her, then pulled out a wooden chair for himself.

"Kent said the press was running true," Beckett noted, sitting down and wrapping his palms around his own mug. "He said the alignment held."

"It did," Dahlia said, taking a seat opposite him and holding the warm ceramic between her hands. The heat was a relief against her chilled fingers. "The motor thrummed perfectly, and we cleared the backlogged orders before dusk. I... I wanted to thank you for arranging the parts."

"No problem," Beckett replied, his expression calm. "The press needed fixing. It wasn't something you could've managed with a standard socket wrench."