Page 34 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

Dahlia looked down at the envelope, the glossy paper reflecting the sunlight. "The firm didn't need to send you here."

"The firm wanted to make sure you understood how valued you are," Julian countered, leaning his forearms on the edge of the counter, his posture relaxed. "We've got three major accounts launching in November, and there isn't anyone else who can manage the transition. You've had your autumn vacation, but it's time to return to where you belong. You've achieved too much to throw your career away on a small-town operation."

The words carried a persuasive weight that slid easily into her mind. In Chicago, this conversation was the language of her daily life, focusing on value, targets, and executive progression. It was a predictable world where success was measured in billable hours and corporate status.

"I haven't made a decision yet," Dahlia murmured, looking toward the northern pastures.

In the distance, she could see the silhouette of Beckett’s tractor moving near the orchard line. He was working, his tall frame dark against the bright autumn grass. Only twelve hours had passed since she'd stood in his kitchen, her fingers lacing with his as she promised him she didn't want to run anymore. The warmth of his touch still seemed to linger on her skin, a quiet anchor that fought against the cold pressure of the contract before her.

"There isn't a decision to make," Julian said, his tone carrying an easy confidence. "This is senior partnership within three years. You've spent your entire adult life working for this milestone. You aren't a farmer. You're a strategist, and the city is waiting for you."

Dahlia reached out, her fingers brushing the smooth surface of the envelope. The paper was cold, a stark contrast to the warm ceramic mug she'd held in Beckett's kitchen. She felt the terrifying pull of the exit, the promise of a world where she knew exactly how to win, where her value was printed on a ledger, and where she didn't have to risk her heart to belong.

"I'll read the contract," Dahlia whispered.

"I'll be at the inn in town until tomorrow morning," Julian noted, straightening his coat. "Let's have dinner tonight and finalize the details. It's a generous offer, and we're ready to welcome you home."

He turned away, moving back toward his sleek vehicle with the same efficient movement that defined his entire life.

Dahlia watched him climb into the driver's seat, the engine starting up immediately before the black sedan navigated the gravel driveway, disappearing past the maples.

She stood silent in the fall air. The safety of her old life was resting against her side, a perfect, familiar escape route. She looked back toward the northern ridge, her chest tensing as she realized she'd already allowed a part of herself to slip back across the border.

Dahlia watched the dust from the driveway settle, the faint scent of expensive cologne and exhaust still lingering in the cold air. The silver envelope sat on the wooden counter, its crisp edge caught in a slant of fall light. Her fingers lingered on the thick paper, feeling the high-grade linen texture that represented the world she’d left behind. It was a clean exit, complete with corporate security, direct deposit, and predictable metrics. It was exactly what she’d spent her life chasing, packaged in a single document.

She put it in her coat pocket because she didn't want to look at it. Instead, her gaze shifted past the farm stand, tracking the dirt track that wound toward the machinery sheds on the northern border.

She needed to see him. She needed the grounding weight of his presence to counteract the dizzying pull of Julian’s promises. Lacing her fingers together, she tried to steady her breathing, but her chest remained tight.

She made her way past the display carts, leaving the gravel yard behind as she crossed into the wider pasture. The grass was pale, turning a dry gold under the clear sky. In the distance, the metal roof of the tractor shed caught the light, gleaming like a silver beacon against the dark hemlocks of the ridge.

As she drew closer, she heard the rhythmic sound of metal striking metal, a slow clink that echoed inside the open barn.

Beckett stood near the massive red tractor, his tall frame bent over the open side panel of the engine housing. He held a brass brush, cleaning the accumulated carbon from the fuel injectors. He wore his faded denim jacket, his face shadowed by his cap. He didn't look up when she entered the shed, but the rhythm of his brush paused for a fraction of a second, his shoulders tightening beneath the fabric.

"The wind's coming around from the north," Beckett said, his voice flat, his focus remaining on the engine block. "We'll have frost by midnight. We need to cover the remaining Macouns."

Dahlia paused near the wooden worktable, her fingers sliding over a row of organized sockets. The cold steel was a stark contrast to the warm kitchen where they’d sat together only hours ago.

"I can tell her," Dahlia replied, her voice soft in the cavernous space. "But she’s already got the crates stacked."

Beckett didn't answer. He adjusted his position, his fingers moving over a fuel line with a professional efficiency that excluded her completely. The warmth that had defined their late-night conversation was gone, replaced by a wall of polite distance that made her chest ache.

"Julian was here," Dahlia said, wanting to clear the space between them before the silence hardened into something unbreakable. "He drove from the airport to hand-deliver a contract."

Beckett’s fingers paused on the valve. He slowly straightened, his height blocking the pale light of the doorway. He wiped his oil-stained palms on a cotton cloth, his movements deliberate. His eyes met hers, but there was no heat in them, no shared memory of his hand lacing through hers in the quiet of his bedroom. There was only a proud mask.

"I saw the car," Beckett noted, his tone flat. "It’s a nice vehicle. Clean."

"He came to offer me the senior track," Dahlia explained, her voice tightening as she watched his closed expression. "The firm restructured the entire consulting division to create the role. It’s what I’d been working toward before I came back."

"You worked hard for it," Beckett said, his voice quiet, his tone holding a polite neutrality that cut deeper than any anger. "You spent years building that career."

"I did," Dahlia said, her brow furrowing as she searched his face. "But I didn't ask him to come here. I didn't expect him to show up with an envelope."

"But he did," Beckett pointed out, setting the brass brush on the metal tray with a soft rattle. "Because he knew you’d listen. He knows what you wanted."

"I wanted to thank you for the press," Dahlia countered, her hand shifting on the workbench as she tried to bridge the physical distance between them. "I wanted to talk about last night. About what we said."