Page 6 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

"The northern pump is acting up again," Beckett said, his voice dropping as he stepped over the mossy stones onto her side of the property line.

"You shouldn't be on this side of the wall, Beckett," Dahlia replied, holding her leather portfolio tightly against her chest as her boot sank another inch into the cold clay.

"I wouldn't be here if your pipes weren't leaking all over my alfalfa field," Beckett answered, his boots leaving deep tracks in the mud as he walked toward a cluster of overgrown blackberry bushes.

Dahlia followed him, her breath coming in quick puffs in the chilly air as she struggled to keep her balance on the slippery ground.

"The irrigation system is our responsibility, and I'm going to hire a professional plumber to handle the maintenance next week," Dahlia explained, her voice tight with defensiveness.

"Next week will be too late for the late-harvest pumpkins," Beckett countered, kneeling down in the wet grass near the base of a rusted iron pipe.

A high-pitched squeal rose from the pipe, and a sudden spray of cold water erupted from a hairline crack in the black plastic coupling. The mist soaked Dahlia's face and splattered across the cover of her neat portfolio. She gasped and took a hasty step backward, her heel catching on a thick maple root nearly sending her toppling over. She managed to catch her balance without embarrassingly crashing to the ground.

"Hold this," Beckett ordered, thrusting a heavy iron wrench toward her.

Dahlia grabbed the cold metal tool, her fingers slipping against the wet handle.

"I am perfectly capable of calling a repair service from my phone," Dahlia retorted, her chin rising as she blinked the spray from her eyelashes.

"The water is flooding the lower ditch right now," Beckett pointed out, his hands already deep in the dark mud as he searched for the shut-off valve. "If we don't close this valve immediately, the pressure will split the main line."

"Where is the valve?" Dahlia asked, glancing around.

"It is under that rusted iron cover near your left foot." Beckett's fingers strained against a stubborn brass bolt.

Dahlia knelt in the wet grass, ignoring the cold moisture that instantly soaked through the knees of her pants. She reached for the heavy metal cover, her fingers slipping on the wet rust.

"This cover is completely jammed," Dahlia complained, her fingers turning red from the cold metal.

"Use the handle of the wrench to pry it open," Beckett suggested, his forehead beaded with sweat despite the chilly fall morning.

Dahlia slid the flat end of the iron wrench beneath the lip of the rusted cover. She pressed down with all her weight, her jaw clenching as she strained against the stubborn metal. With a loud grunt, the lid popped loose, revealing a dark concrete chamber filled with murky water.

"I see the brass wheel," Dahlia announced, her heart pounding with a strange rush of adrenaline.

"Turn it clockwise," Beckett commanded, his voice tight as he tried to hold the split coupling together with his bare hands.

"It is stuck," Dahlia gasped, her fingers struggling to find a grip on the slimy metal.

"Use both hands," Beckett urged, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding the high-pressure leak. "You have to force it."

Dahlia placed both hands on the wheel, digging her fingers into the metal ridges. She took a deep breath and threw her entire weight into the turn. The valve gave a sudden, scraping screech and turned. The rushing sound of water inside the pipe faded to a gentle trickle, and the spray died down to a slow drip.

Dahlia sat back on her heels, her hands covered in black rust and her sleeve dripping with muddy water. She looked up at Beckett, who was sitting in the mud across from her. A smear of dark grease ran across his jaw, and his shirt was soaked through.

"You're a mess, " Beckett remarked, a small smile appearing at the corners of his mouth.

"You aren't exactly ready for a catalog shoot yourself," Dahlia countered, wiping her wet cheek with the back of her clean wrist.

"At least the water is off, and the main line is saved," Beckett added, shaking the mud from his fingers.

"Thank you," Dahlia said, her voice softening as she accepted his outstretched hand to pull her up.

His hand was warm and rough, his grip firm as he lifted her easily from the wet ground. For a brief second, Dahlia felt the warmth of his fingers on her damp skin, a sudden contrast to the chilly morning air. She quickly pulled her hand back and smoothed her coat.

"Your mother always kept a spare set of brass couplings in the green tool chest in the cider barn," Beckett mentioned, looking down at the split pipe.

"I’ll add that to my operating list," Dahlia replied, her fingers searching her damp pockets for her pen.