Page 7 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

"You don't need a list for this," Beckett told her, his tone turning serious as he looked at her portfolio. "You just need to go to the barn and get the brass parts."

"A list is how I ensure tasks are completed efficiently," Dahlia asserted, holding her ground despite the mud on her trousers.

"Some things on a farm can’t be managed with spreadsheets," Beckett said, turning his back to her as he began to examine the damaged threads on the iron riser. "Your mother knew that. She knew that some problems require a wrench, not a corporate meeting."

"My mother is gone," Dahlia reminded him, her voice carrying a clear edge of grief that she hadn't intended to show. “And perhaps, if she did use a spreadsheet or two, the farm wouldn’t be in the mess it currently is.”

Beckett stopped working. He stood perfectly still for a moment, his broad shoulders tense under his wet shirt. He turned slowly to face her, his blue-gray eyes dark.

"I know she's gone. I'm the one who was here when it happened," Beckett said softly, the words hanging heavy in the chilly morning air. “Your mother managed things as best she could with the resources she had.”

The silence between them was thick, broken only by the steady dripping of water from the repaired coupling. Dahlia stared at him, her throat tightening as she tried to find a response that didn't sound defensive.

The muddy water pooled around the cuffs of Dahlia's gray pants, but she barely felt the dampness soaking into her skin. She watched as Beckett tightened the rusted brass coupling with one forceful turn of his wrench. The hiss of escaping air died down, replaced by the steady gurgle of water rushing through the PVC pipe.

"That should hold for the rest of the harvest," Beckett said, wiping a streak of dark grease from his forehead with the back of his hand. He stood up slowly, his tall frame silhouetted against the morning sun that was finally beginning to burn through the valley mist.

"I appreciate the assistance," Dahlia replied, holding her gold pen tightly against the paper of her notebook. She stood on a dry patch of grass near the fence line, trying to keep her ruined boots from sinking any deeper into the wet clay. "I’ll add the repair to our operational log. If you can provide me with an invoice for your labor and the replacement brass parts, I will write you a check from the farm account immediately."

Beckett stared at her, his blue-gray eyes narrowing as he set his heavy iron wrench down on a weathered cedar post.

"I don’t have an invoice," Beckett told her, his voice quiet and dry. "I don’t charge my neighbors for fixing a split irrigation line."

"You don’t understand," Dahlia countered, stepping closer to the fence, her notebook clutched to her chest like a shield. "I’m organizing the farm finances on a professional basis. I can’t have outstanding debts or informal arrangements on the ledger. It is a matter of standard business practice."

"This isn’t a Chicago business, Dahlia," Beckett muttered, picking up a rag from his tool bag to wipe the cold mud from his fingers. "This is Harvest Hollow. Neighbors help each other when things break down."

"It is still a business, Beckett," Dahlia asserted, her voice rising slightly as her frustration flared. "The farm is in serious financial difficulty. My sisters and I don’t need charity, and we certainly cannot afford to owe favors to the neighbors."

"Don’t worry, Dahlia, you don’t owe me any favors," Beckett remarked, his tone laced with a touch of bitterness as he looked at her. Something she could not define flashed in his eyes for a fleeting moment. "I didn’t do this for you. I did it for your mother."

Dahlia went cold, her fingers tightening around her gold pen until her knuckles turned white.

"Of course you did," Dahlia stated, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Your mother was seventy-four years old," Beckett explained, looking out over the neat rows of green pumpkin vines that stretched across the valley floor. "During her last three years, she was too weak to lift the heavy seed bags, and her hands were too stiff from arthritis to turn the main irrigation valves. She was too proud to ask her daughters for help, because she didn’t want to drag you back from Chicago or pull Teodora away from her restoration projects in Portland."

"She should’ve told us," Dahlia muttered softly, a sudden wave of guilt washing over her chest. "We would’ve come home. I would’ve hired someone to help her."

"That is exactly what your mother did not want: hired help." Beckett shook his head, turning back to face her. "She wanted to keep this farm running on her own terms. So, I started coming over in the early mornings before the sun was up. I plowed the northern fields, I cleared the clogged drainage ditches, and I patched the tractor engine when it refused to start."

"That was very kind of you," Dahlia told him, her jaw clenching as she tried to push aside the guilt that was growing stronger with every word he uttered. "While my mother may have been stubborn and didn’t want to worry us, you had my office number in Chicago. You should’ve called me."

"Rosalind asked me not to say anything to her daughters," Beckett told her, his voice steady and calm. "She knew how busy you were with your corporate restructuring plans and your executive meetings. She didn’t want to be a burden to any of you."

"She wasn't a burden," Dahlia retorted, her eyes stinging with unshed tears as she opened her folder and turned to her checkbook, her hand shaking slightly as she uncapped her gold pen. "But I can’t accept charity. I will not have you working our land for free. Please, tell me what three years of agricultural labor is worth to you, and I’ll write the check right now."

Beckett stepped toward her, his boots making a squelching sound in the thick mud. He reached out and gently placed his hand over the paper of her checkbook, stopping her pen before she could write a single digit.

"Put the checkbook away, Dahlia," Beckett commanded, his touch warm even through the damp air. "I don’t want your money. I didn’t spend my mornings in these fields because I wanted a paycheck from you."

"I… I…" Dahlia stammered, her eyes meeting his, her breath catching at the intensity of his gaze.

"I did it because your mother was like a second mother to me," Beckett murmured, his hand lingering on the edge of her portfolio for a brief second before he pulled it back. "When my father died, and my own farm was drowning in debt, Rosalind was the only person in this valley who stood by me. She shared her equipment, helped me harvest my sweet corn, and sat with me at my kitchen table, ensuring I never gave up when I thought I was going to lose everything. I helped her because she was family to me."

Dahlia closed her checkbook slowly, the paper making a clicking sound as the portfolio shut.

"I’m sorry, Beckett,” Dahlia’s voice was low and filled with compassion. “I didn’t know about any of that.”