Page 14 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“On the farm,” he says, as though this is meaningful.

“Right. Is there a problem with the orchard?”

“I have some—” He clears his throat, shifts his weight. “I haven’t been there since before.”

“Before?”

“Since I was eighteen.”

“I see.” I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Well, is there anything I can do to convince you? For example, I can assure you there isn’t a single crying baby in earshot. In fact, in the evenings, it’s so quiet you can hear the frogs in the creek.” Not just quiet. Silent. “And you can stay as long as you want. You could even move in now. Harvest won’t start for almost a month, and early fall on the orchard is downright languid.”

Logan’s fingers tap on the counter, but at least he looks like he’s considering. “I only need a place until my insurance money comes through. They’re saying it could be around two months.”

“That’s no problem,” I assure him. “We’ll have the bulk of the work done by then. And any help you can give in the meantime would be extremely appreciated.”

Still, he hesitates. “Let me think about it.”

A desperate feeling claws up my throat. I don’t want to push him too hard or demand to know what happened—I’m well aware of how it feels to have people ask questions with uncomfortable answers. But, at the same time, I want to give myself a fighting chance. June’s nephew was my last lead. And Val’s warnings keep pounding through my mind.

“Do you want to maybe think about it on the farm?” I ask. “Might be easier to do with frogs and silence instead of a crying baby.”

His eyebrows rise. “A trial run?”

“Yeah, exactly. Come back to the orchard, see how you feel about it. If you don’t want to be there, you can leave at any time, no hard feelings.”

Logan considers this for long enough that I wonder if I’ve offended him. Long enough that a guy in a puffy vest pauses to study the chalkboard menu and, when Logan doesn’t greet him, moves on.

Before I have a chance to wonder what June might think about that, he says, “All right.”

“All right?”

“All right, let’s do a trial run.”

My lips lift. “Yeah?”

“I can be there tomorrow.”

And for the first time in weeks, my chest unknits. “As early as you’d like. I get up with the sun.”

Chapter Three

The next morning, as the sun gilds the white-capped mountain, I shove a wide-brimmed hat low on my forehead and tug on a pair of boots underneath a dress. That first pull of damp early autumn air hits my lungs as I step into the rows. Dew catches the sunlight in sparkling prisms and the scents of soil and pine waft past me on the next gust of wind.

These early mornings in the rows feel both like a solemn duty and a heady privilege. Not for the practical reason I’m out here (surveying for problems), but rather because every corner of this land holds my roots.

There’s the row of trees I helped plant when I was in fifth grade on a rare spring break that Mom let me visit. I still remember the smell—fresh rain on warm dirt—and the formidable weight of the post driver in my small hands. At the time, the root stock barely reached my temple and I could scarcely imagine a day that these trees would rival the barn. Now? They arch above me like summer antlers, casting dappled shadows over the same patch of ground where I once knelt.

And here’s the stump where I tripped and scraped my elbow. I still have the half-moon scar where Uncle Martin pressed a Bob the Builder Band-Aid before rubbing a callused thumb against my cheek.

“They’ve marked you,” he said. “Just like you’ve marked them.”

I ducked my face, hiding the tears shining on my cheeks. “Like we’re hurting each other?”

Uncle Martin pressed a knuckle to my chin and lifted my eyes to his, studying me without flinching from my tears or brushing them away. “Maybe sometimes,” he said. “Love often does that. But no. I meant the trees will always know you’ve been here.” He gently tapped the spot that would eventually become my scar. “And you’ll always know they’ve been with you.”

I’m still rubbing the raised skin at my elbow, my heart heavy with his absence, when I hear the rumble of tires against gravel. Shielding my eyes from the rising sun, I find a cloud of dust kicking up behind a clean truck with red paint.

I jog out to the driveway and Logan rolls down the window, leaning a tanned forearm on the sill.