For a moment, I thought I was dreaming—a half-dream where engines sound like thunder rolling through hayfields. But the sound kept growing until I caught the low reverse-beep echoing off the barn.
I shoved my hair into a messy bun, grabbed yesterday’s jeans off the chair, and headed for the door.
Outside, the morning was bright and sweet with dew, the sky just starting to burn blue at the edges. Mr. Alan Mutters—Everwood’s grocery manager and unofficial town gossip—was backing a delivery truck up to the event barn like a man aiming for a trophy.
“Morning, Doc Thomas!” he called, waving an invoice. “Don’t mind me. Just dropping a few things off.”
I frowned. “Alan, there’s no event scheduled this week. Not for two.”
He killed the engine and jumped down, landing with a grunt. “Yep. Got a note from Cassie—says the wedding’s in three weeks, but they wanted the food early. Some of it’s perishables, but the freezers are plugged in, right?”
“They’re plugged in,” I said, still squinting. “But won’t three weeks turn your lettuce into compost?”
He shrugged, all small-town logic and charm. “Orders came in early, warehouse mix-up. Better to stash it here than leave it melting behind the store. I’ll sort it in a day or two.”
“Suit yourself,” I said, though something about it itched.
Alan patted the side of the truck, already climbing back in. “You’re a peach, Doc. Tell that fella of yours he still owes me a fishing trip.”
Inspector trotted up beside me, tail flicking. “Yeah,” I muttered to the cat, “I don’t know either.”
Inside, the house smelled like butter and potatoes and the faint crackle of pepper on a hot skillet.
Austin stood at the stove, sleeves rolled, flipping diced potatoes with the precision of a man who measured happiness in even cubes.
“You’re cooking,” I said.
He didn’t look up. “Observant.”
“Alan Mutters just dropped a truckload of food at the barn. Says it’s for a wedding in three weeks.”
“Good to know,” he said, as if people stored mystery shipments on our property every Tuesday.
“You don’t think that’s odd?”
“Not as odd as you wandering outside barefoot before coffee.”
I checked my feet. He wasn’t wrong.
He slid a plate across the counter—eggs, seasoned potatoes, toast buttered to perfection. “Eat before you solve the world.”
“You deflect worse than the mayor.”
“Efficiently.”
Breakfast tasted like comfort: smoky, buttery, exactly what morning was supposed to be.
He refilled my mug. “So, birthday lunch with the girls still Friday?”
“Yeah. Cassie said something about sandwiches and gossip disguised as celebration.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “And when’s your next pop-up? Doc Wilson said the fair animals made you a legend.”
“Next weekend, probably. Why?”
“Just planning around it.” He smiled over the rim of his coffee. “Justin says your saddle’s fixed. You riding soon?”
“As soon as I get a free morning.”
