My weary heart starts to steady as I control the things I can.
It lasts about as long as it takes for the bell over the door to ring and the temperature in the room to drop ten degrees.
Karen breezes in with a to-go cup and a smirk. Her perfume arrives before she does—sharp and expensive, like a warning label.
“Good morning,” she says to the room, which is just me. “How’s thefamily establishment?”
“We open at ten on weekdays,” I say evenly. “How can I help you?”
She makes a show of glancing around, lands on a flyer for the festival, and tsk-tsks.
“Parading around decent folk with your… antics.” She takes a delicate sip. “I’m amazed you people have time to run a farm when you’re busy sleeping with the help.”
My palms go cold. The instinct to fight rises hot under my tongue, and I press it down.
“If you’re here to complain, the suggestion box is by the door.”
“This is me suggesting,” she says brightly, voice projecting for an invisible audience. “That a young lady who can’t keep her hands to herself should perhaps find employment somewhere less… public. Men like Mr. Carver need to focus. This place requires serious people.”
I keep my voice level. “I came here to work. That’s what I’m doing.”
“Oh, of course you did.” She sets her cup on the counter, leans in like we’re sharing a secret. “It’s a shame, though, isn’t it? How fast some girls move when there’s a paycheck or a piece of property involved.”
The door opens again, and the shift in the air tells me who it is before I look. Quinn steps in, sleeves shoved up, grease on his forearms, jaw set. There’s a bolt in his hand and a look in his eye that turns the room solid.
“Mrs. Montgomery,” he says, voice calm but carrying. “You’re out of line.”
She straightens, startled. “I’m addressing a legitimate concern.”
“No,” he says mildly. “You’re harassing my employee.”
“She’s more than your employee,” Karen says, syrup curdling. “She’s?—”
“Someone I respect,” he cuts in. “Someone who’s made this place better. If you can’t recognize the difference between gossip and truth, that’s your failing, not ours.”
Color rises under her makeup. “Your parents would be ashamed.”
“My parents taught me to stand up for people who do the right thing,” he says. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. “And they taught me not to throw stones when my own house is made of glass. Maybe watch who your husband’s own late night activities before you come throwing words likebrothelaround my land.”
Silence falls around us. Somewhere outside, a truck rumbles past. The clock on the wall ticks like it’s afraid to be heard.
Karen’s mouth opens. Closes. She snatches up her cup, the lid pops off, cider sloshes onto her manicured hand, and she flinches like the farm itself bit her.
“This isn’t over,” she snaps.
“Good,” Lanie says from the doorway, and we all startle because none of us heard her come in. She leans against the frame, arms folded, cool as a blade. “I’d hate for the city council to think you’d stopped lobbying the bank on behalf of your timber interests. See you at the festival. Or not.”
Karen glares and leaves. The bell smacks the doorframe on the way out.
The adrenaline leak is slow and disorienting. I realize my hands are flat on the counter, my breath a careful measure. I look up at Quinn, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the room.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“I’m fine,” I say, which is half true. “You didn’t have to?—”
“Yes,” he says. “I did.”
The words soften something in me I was trying very hard to keep hard. It hurts.
