Page 3 of The Pumpkin Patch Problem

He looked toward Teodora, who was leaning against the porch railing with her arms crossed. "And the drainage tile along the stone wall? Did your family install that during the same summer?"

"The drainage system is my responsibility," Junie countered immediately, edging closer to his side of the counter. "I coordinate the maintenance, and I'm the one who deals with the contractors. I'll locate the property maps from the office."

"The maps have already been reviewed," Micah reminded her, his voice calm and dry. "The discrepancy isn't about your maintenance schedules. It's about a series of unrecorded land transfers that predate the family's ownership by decades."

Dahlia watched them from the threshold of the farmhouse, her posture elegant and silent. Micah recognized the corporate intelligence in her expression, but she remained silent, letting her sister manage the interaction. It was clear that Junie was used to carrying every burden, wrapping herself in endless tasks to convince herself that she was the only one who could keep the family safe. He noticed the dark circles under her warm brown eyes, a telltale sign of exhaustion she tried to hide behind her quick smile.

He was familiar with that kind of exhaustion. He'd spent his childhood watching his own family run themselves ragged trying to keep up appearances, avoiding every difficult conversation until the silence had cracked them apart. He'd promised himself he'd never participate in that kind of quiet again. Facts were cleaner, even when they were hard.

"I'm not here to find an excuse to fine you," Micah said, resting his hand on the smooth wooden counter. "The county merely needs to untangle a legal knot. The deeds are messy, and they've been sitting in a drawer without a proper audit since the sixties."

"The fence has been there for decades," Junie insisted, her jaw setting as she glared at his binder. "The land's been part of our harvest since before I was born."

"As I mentioned before, physical use isn't the same as legal title," Micah countered, his tone gentle but unbending. "The registrar's flagged several transfers that don't match the municipal registry. We have to identify the original owners before we can correct the boundaries."

Junie clenched her fists against the pine counter, her chest tightening as she stared at the maps in his folder. Micah saw the worry in her face, but he also saw the unyielding strength that made him want to keep looking. He wasn't going to offer her a comforting lie to ease her tension. She deserved the truth, even if it arrived in a county folder on her busiest morning.

Junie

Junie smoothed the fabric of her apron, keeping her attention fixed on Micah’s binder resting on the wooden counter. The pages within carried coordinates that could uncover whatever her mother had spent years protecting, and she wasn't about to let a county official disrupt the progress they'd fought so hard to secure.

As she stacked the last of the wooden crates, she felt the familiar, dull ache in her shoulders. She was conscious of how she'd intervened earlier, answering Micah's queries before Prue or Teddy could even formulate their thoughts. She knew she'd appeared overbearing, but the habit of shielding her family was a heavy coat she'd worn for eighteen years, and she couldn't simply slide it off. Her sisters had only just returned, and she was determined to keep the stress of this boundary dispute from touching them.

"The physical measurements will have to wait until the weekend rush clears," she said, her voice steady despite the rapid drumming in her chest. "The crowd's only going to get heavier as the afternoon approaches, and we can't have county equipment blocking the access lanes."

Micah looked down at his clipboard, his spectacles slipping slightly down his nose as he adjusted his grip on his pen. "I don't require heavy equipment to run a chain. A standard transit and a measuring tape'll suffice to check the fence line. I'm not here to cause a scene."

"You're welcome to survey the outer perimeter of the southern plots," Junie replied, keeping her posture rigid as she gripped the edge of the wooden counter. "But the cider barn and the farmhouse are completely off-limits. If you need to verify anything inside those structures, you'll have to schedule a time when I can accompany you. There'll be no wandering."

Micah's mouth twitched with a faint, dry amusement that only added to her growing irritation. He rested his hand on his thick binder, his gaze holding hers with unyielding focus. "The registry doesn't indicate any secret gold mines in the cider barn. I'm merely looking for the original corner posts."

"The rule is absolute," Junie insisted, her chin rising as she met his gaze. She knew the cider barn held secrets and wondered if they were ready to find out the truth, especially the locked cabinet and the brass key Dahlia'd spotted. "This is our family's home, and we have a right to privacy during our busiest season. I'll locate the historical records myself and deliver them to your office when the weekend is over."

She knew finding those records wouldn't be easy. Her mother's bookkeeping had always been notoriously eccentric, with deeds scribbled on the backs of old seed packets and receipts tucked into glass jars in the pantry. But she'd rather spend all night sorting through dusty boxes in the attic than let Micah look through their family's private affairs.

Micah studied her face for a long moment, his expression sober. He seemed to read the exhaustion behind her warm defenses, but his honesty was too deeply ingrained to let him offer any comforting lies. "I respect the boundary. I'll focus my efforts on the stone wall along the orchard line today. But those historical records are messy, and we'll have to reconcile the deeds eventually. The county won't let this slide indefinitely."

Junie’ fingers tightened around the edge of the counter, watching as he tucked the binder under his arm. He didn't offer any soothing platitudes or reassure her that everything would turn out fine. He simply gave her a brief, sober nod before turning toward his green pickup truck parked near the southern pasture.

As the truck engine hummed to life and the vehicle rolled down the driveway, passing the faded red mailbox at the edge of the orchard, Junie let out a long breath. She stood alone behind the wooden counter, the scent of the doughnuts doing little to warm the cold dread settling in her stomach. The protective armor she'd worn for years felt strangely thin against his unyielding honesty, and she couldn't shake the feeling that the truth he was seeking would change everything.

JUNIE

The metal clip of the fiberglass measuring tape bit into Junie's palm, the cold surface a sharp contrast to the afternoon sun. She adjusted her grip, tensing her shoulders as she held the ring firmly against the weathered wood of the corner fence post. Across the narrow path of the southern boundary, Micah leaned over his brass transit, his spectacles sliding down his nose as he turned a small adjusting screw.

"The registry coordinate places the marker three feet to the east," Micah said, his voice level as he squinted through the lens. "The boundary line from the nineteen sixty-eight filing follows a straight bearing from the old oak, not the curve of the sumac planting."

"The wild sumac has always been the boundary," Junie replied, keeping her posture rigid as she held her end of the line. "We planted the rows according to that tradition, and we've never had a neighbor dispute the harvest lanes."

"Tradition is a comforting guide," Micah countered, not looking up from his tripod as his fingers adjusted the dial. "But I’m afraid the registrar's office doesn't accept tradition when verifying tax maps. The legal description relies on measurable landmarks and recorded bearings."

Junie tensed her jaw, her knuckles turning white around the tape ring. The friction between his rigid documents and her family's lived history felt like a cold draft on a warm afternoon. She'd spent her life relying on her mother's word as absolute truth, wrapping her sense of security in the quiet consistency of the farm's daily routines. To hear him treat those memories as mere folklore made her chest tighten with defensiveness.

"We've run this orchard for forty years without needing a piece of paper to tell us where our trees belong," Junie insisted, her chin rising. "We've paid our taxes, we've managed the soil, and we've kept the community supplied with fruit and pumpkins. It's a system that works."

"It's a system that's been operating on a loophole," Micah corrected, his tone direct but stripped of any harshness. He straightened. "The maps have been inaccurate for half a century. I'm not questioning the time and labor you've invested. I'm simply looking at the legal reality. The deeds have to match the physical ground."

"The deeds are decades old," Junie argued, her voice dropping as she tried to keep her frustration from carrying across the open fields. "They've been sufficient for our family through every crisis. If we start moving the boundary markers now, it's going to throw the entire southern harvest into confusion."