Chapter Two
Daphne lasted the full four hours.
That should've been the only thing I carried with me while I shut off the spigot, coiled the hose, and checked the latch on the shed door.
She'd shown up. She'd worked. She'd completed the shift.
But nothing about Daphne had felt simple since she'd stood inside the P-Patch gate in those pale pink shoes with tiny bows on the toes and court paperwork clutched in one hand like it might bite her.
I hung the hose where it belonged and flexed my fingers once before I reached for the hours clipboard.
My shirt had dried, but I could still feel the cold shock of water hitting my chest. Worse, I could still see Daphne's face afterward, all wide green eyes, flushed cheeks, and that soft mouth trying not to smile while she braced for me to be angry.
I hadn't been angry.
That was the problem.
The paper still held the facts. Four hours signed. Sixteen left. Nadine's probation office would care about the boxes, the dates, my signature, and whether Daphne kept showing up.
That was my job too.
My job wasn't to remember the way she'd laughed after soaking me, bright and mortified and so relieved I hadn't made it worse for her. My job wasn't to think about her ruined shoes tapping against the shed floor while she initialed the line besideher name. It sure as hell wasn't my job to notice how her blouse clung after the heat got to her, or how fast I'd looked away because she was under my supervision and I wasn't an idiot.
I noticed anyway.
The late July sun threw the tomato cages into long shadows across the paths. Beyond the far fence, past the city's garden beds, my land dropped toward Beargrass Lake.
That view usually settled me.
Today, it didn't stand a chance.
I finished the hours sheet, locked it in the metal file box, and shoved the shed door closed hard enough to rattle the latch. The sound snapped through the quiet garden.
The snap helped.
A man needed something sharp when his head was trying to wander somewhere it had no business going.
I checked the tomato cages first. One had split near the bottom, and Tyler's repair job involved enough wire to hold together a bridge and enough poor judgment to make the whole thing lean. I cut it loose, reset the stake, and wrapped it properly while the smell of wet soil rose from the beds.
The P-Patch looked softer after everyone left. There was no Birdie moving down the rows with her clippers, no Gus making the compost pile look personally intimidated, no Tyler asking questions that made me question whether public education had failed him, and no Daphne crouched in the carrot bed, frowning at weeds like they'd wronged her.
I tightened the last wire and stepped back.
The city owned the garden. The city handled the water meter, the insurance forms, the sign on the gate, and the cheerful language about community pride. I handled tools, volunteers, crew assignments, bed rotation, and people who came in mad at the court and left surprised that tomatoes weren't impressed by their attitude.
The south edge of the P-Patch ran against a narrow strip of scrub grass. Past that, the fence line marked the start of my land. Pines, slope, old access road, and the clean blue flash of Beargrass Lake through the trees.
I called that view worth protecting.
Fletcher called it underutilized.
My phone rang before I made it to the fence.
I didn't have to check the screen to know.
Still, I pulled it from my back pocket.
FLETCHER.
