Page 45 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

The drawer was empty, save for a thin layer of sawdust at the very back. Dahlia frowned, reaching her arm into the deep cavity to feel for any stuck files that might've slipped behind the tracks. Her fingers brushed against a tiny wooden ridge along the rear panel. It felt like an intentional seam, a small wooden lip that sat flush against the bottom board.

Curiosity flaring, she pressed her thumb against the ridge. The bottom board shifted, tilting upward at a slight angle. It was a false bottom, constructed so precisely that it'd remained invisible for decades. Dahlia slid her fingers beneath the wood, lifting the thin panel to reveal a shallow compartment underneath.

Resting in the dark space was a single sheet of brittle parchment.

Dahlia lifted the paper, her palms tingling as she spread it flat on the desk surface under the warm glow of the reading lamp. The document was old, its edges slightly frayed, but the ink remained dark and legible. It was a formal property document, bearing the unmistakable looping signature of her mother, Rosalind Marchetti, at the bottom.

Dahlia's breath caught as she read the legal description. The deed referred to a specific parcel of land along the hemlock ridge, a section of six acres that lay directly beyond the registered northern boundary of their farm. The document declared that these six acres didn't belong to the Marchetti estate, despite sitting within their physical fence line.

She looked at the named owner on the deed. The text clearly stated that the six acres'd been transferred to a woman named Hannah Hillion.

Dahlia stared at the elegant script, her mind racing as she tried to place the name. She’d spent her childhood in this valley, and she knew the name of every farming family, every local merchant, and every resident in Harvest Hollow. But Hannah Hillion was a complete blank. No one with that name'd ever bought cider at their stand, attended the local church, or registered a business in the county.

She touched her mother's signature, her fingers tracing the faded ink. Rosalind hadn't ever mentioned this property to her daughters. She'd kept the six acres entirely off the farm's public books, leaving it hidden behind this false bottom.

Dahlia clutched the document against her chest, a quiet chill settling in her veins. Her mother's legacy wasn't just a simple story of a struggling pumpkin farm anymore. It was a tapestry of secrets, and she'd just pulled the first loose thread.

Beckett

Beckett hauled the final crate of cedar shingles toward the tractor shed, his muscles stretching under his flannel shirt. The midday air was crisp, carrying the scent of dry pine and incoming frost. The harvest festival had passed weeks ago, leaving the fields in a peaceful rest. Teddy was near the main barn doors, using a hand plane to smooth a sticking pine frame. He paused near the workbench, wiping his palms with a dry rag as he looked toward the farmhouse.

Through the clear pane of the kitchen window, he spotted Dahlia. She was standing completely still, her hands pressed against her cheeks as she stared out at the northern ridge. Her posture was tense, her shoulders rigid beneath her wool sweater. There was an unfamiliar look on her face that instantly made his chest tighten. She didn't move, nor did she look toward the yard where he stood. She was simply frozen, staring at the empty orchards.

Sensing her distress, he tossed the rag onto the bench and moved toward the house. He didn't rush, maintaining a steady approach as he ascended the low porch. He opened the screen door, letting the latch click softly behind him, and crossed the threshold into the warm kitchen.

She didn't turn when he entered. She remained near the window, her fingers clutched around a brittle piece of parchment that was trembling in her hand.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice low and gentle in the quiet room.

Dahlia slowly turned to face him, her eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and shock. She held out the document, her hand shaking slightly as she offered it to him.

"I found a false bottom in the desk," she whispered, her voice carrying a tremor. "This was inside. It's a property deed."

Beckett reached out, his fingers catching the edge of the fragile paper. He held it flat, his gaze scanning the looping ink lines. His heart thudded against his ribs as he read the description. The document detailed a transfer of six acres along the northern ridge, sitting directly beyond the farm's legal fence line. But it was the signature at the bottom that made his breath hitch. It was her late mother's looping script, clear and undeniable. And the named recipient of the land was a woman none of them had ever mentioned.

"Who is she?" he murmured, looking back at her. "Who is this woman?"

"I don't know," Dahlia replied, her palm resting flat on the wooden table to steady herself. "I've spent my entire life studying this farm's records, and I've never heard her name. There's no record of a transfer in any of the ledger books."

Beckett watched her, his protective instincts flaring as he saw the analytical wall she'd built since her return begin to crack. He set the document on the table and reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. Her skin was cold, but her grip tightened instantly around his, seeking his steadying warmth.

"We'll find out," he promised, his voice firm as he squeezed her hand. "You're not facing this alone."

Dahlia looked at their joined hands, her breathing finally slowing to a peaceful rhythm. The panic in her eyes dissolved, replaced by an unyielding resolve that made his chest swell with pride. She wasn't running back to Chicago, nor was she trying to solve the puzzle behind protective walls. She was standing her ground, ready to fight for the truth with him by her side.

"We need to ask her," she declared, her tone firm, gesturing toward the folder of their godmother's old paperwork on the counter. "She spent decades working on the estate. If anyone knows what secrets were concealed on those six acres, it's her."

"I'll help you gather them," Beckett replied. "We'll call everyone inside and get the answers we need."

Dahlia

Dahlia sat at the oak table, the cool evening air drifting through the screen door. Beside her, Beckett stood quietly near the kitchen counter, his arms folded against his chest, a solid and supportive presence. Her sisters were seated in a tight semicircle under the warm glow of the single light fixture, their tea mugs completely forgotten. Across from them sat their godmother, Nell Vance, her posture unusually rigid, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

Dahlia reached into her coat pocket and withdrew the brittle parchment deed she’d discovered in the false bottom of her father’s desk. She laid the document flat in the center of the table, her palms smoothing the curling edges of the yellowed paper.

"I found this tonight," Dahlia said, her voice quiet but carrying a steady resolve. "It was hidden in a secret compartment. It bears her signature, and it details a transfer of six acres along the northern ridge, sitting directly beyond our registered boundary."

Junie leaned forward, her brow furrowing as her eyes scanned the ink lines. "Six acres? The farm's legal records don't mention any land along the ridge. We've always maintained the orchard within the legal fence line."