“She deserves better than this,” I tell him.
He thumps his tail once, sympathy in canine form.
Outside, the last of the light fades over the ridge. The farm looks the same—fences, fields, pumpkins glowing faintly orange in the dusk—but it feels different now, hollowed out.
I pocket the phone and stare toward the road she’ll drive tomorrow, knowing I won’t be waiting at the end of it.
And for the first time since this season began, I let myself think the words I’ve been avoiding:
Maybe saving the farm means losing her.
The thought hurts worse than I could have imagined.
EIGHT
TRICIA
The next morning, I almost drive past the employee entrance.
I want to.
It would be so easy. I can just keep driving until the road curves back toward town.
I could go back to the cabin and crawl into bed. With the extra chill in the air and gray skies, it’s the perfect morning for hiding under a comforter and pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
“But”—I tell the fog settled in the valley—“I made a commitment.”
And if there’s one thing my parents taught me when I was growing up, it was always to finish something you started.
Even if facing Quinn and his siblings feels like the hardest thing in the world.
It’ll be almost as bad as welcoming guests who have no doubt seen footage of my walk of shame. The picture and subsequent video has made the rounds on social media courtesy of Karen.
“If ever there was a woman who lived up to her name,” I mumble as I put my car in park.
Taking a deep breath, I turn off the car, grab my bag, and force myself to get out.
I eye the barn, where other staff members are arranging who will ride to their worksites with who and change my direction. I’d rather walk than be forced into a one-on-one conversation with any of them.
Tightening the grip on my bag, I start the long trek to the front office. I’m nearly through the pumpkin patch when a horn honks.
“Jeez.” I nearly jump out of my skin as Dylan’s truck pulls to a stop beside me.
He rolls down the window. “Hop in.”
“That’s okay.” I avoid making eye contact. “I can walk.”
“You can. But you might also lose the feeling in your toes before we even open the gate.”
He makes a fair point. My pride slips and, with a sigh, I open the passenger door and climb into the cab.
Dylan doesn’t say anything. He hands me a piping cup of apple cider.
“Thanks.” I wrap my hands around it, savoring the warmth and the scent of cinnamon and apple wafting through the air.
He nods, puts the truck in drive and pulls back onto the gravel path. A country song plays lightly over the radio.
Dylan doesn’t sayI’m sorry. He doesn’t sayI heard. “I know we haven’t known each other long,” he says, eyes on the road, “But for the record, you don’t strike me as the walking type.”
