Page 122 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

I stepped back. “I need to deal with parking.”

Beau nodded, this time he said nothing as I turned toward the pasture.

My first step hurt, and I hated knowing he probably saw that too.

Chapter

Fourteen

CARSON

By two, the town had accomplished more than I expected and considerably less than Rosie seemed to think was possible.

Sixteen pumpkins lined the barn even though I had only approved eight. Clover wouldn’t admit where the other eight came from and I didn’t have the energy to fight with her, because I knew Pops would have loved it.

The first hay wagon sat completely outside the equipment barn for the first time in five years, and Walter had already created a repair list. Jax had complained about every item on it, which made all of us laugh.

Rosie had marked rough vendor rows with small orange flags across the field. June had claimed a spot near the barn for Sugar and Pine, and immediately entered an argument with a local candle maker over booth depth. And Darlene had created a handwritten sign reading: MARIGOLD IS BACK

I made her remove it; I wasn’t ready to hang any signage when we still had weeks to prepare.

I stood beneath the oak tree near the edge of the pasture and watched people move across land that had felt increasingly smaller over the last five years.

Kids carried pumpkins. Men repaired wagon boards. Women measured tables. Meme and Margaret sat together on the porch drinking sweet tea, probably judging everybody. Hunter helped Clover move hay bales despite her insisting she didn’t need him. He never argued with her, but did everything silently, ignoring her protests by simply picking up the heavier end.

Farther away, Rosie stood beside Jax near the wagon. She was pointing toward one of the wheels. Jax had both hands on his hips. Even from here, I could tell he was disagreeing with whatever she wanted.

Rosie pointed again. Jax bent closer to inspect it. For one brief second, Rosie looked less like the woman who could command an entire town with a clipboard and more like someone trying not to laugh.

Then my attention naturally drifted toward the Jones brother who kept stealing my attention—Beau. He stood on a ladder near the side of the barn checking an exterior fixture. Sunlight caught along his tanned forearms as he reached overhead, shirt pulling tight across his broad back, showcasing muscles I didn’t know he had.

I looked away, not wanting to get caught ogling. Then I hated myself for being twenty-five years old and apparently incapable of seeing an attractive man without becoming stupid.

But physical attraction wasn’t the part frightening me anymore. I had been attracted to Beau from the moment I laid eyes on him. I could fight off the butterflies in my stomach, but he was creeping into my heart one inch at a time.

I liked the way he treated Meme. The way he listened when Walter talked about Pops. The way he’d watched my old racing videos and somehow understood that asking about the accident would have been crossing a line. The way he gave me numbers when I asked for numbers instead of discounts I hadn’t requested. The way he’d noticed I was hurting and somehow managed not to turn me into a fragile thing because of it.

That was what scared me.

Men could desire a body, and I had become far too good at deceiving everyone. I might have rocked a pair of bootcut jeans, but once they were off…now that was a different story.

I had stopped believing one could want the inconvenient parts attached to mine.

There was an ugly little voice inside me that had learned to speak after the accident. It reminded me that Beau liked the version of Carson he could see. Blonde hair, green eyes, freckles, and jeans that were molded to a round ass. He seemed to love my sarcasm, and volunteered himself to help at the ranch despite working a full-time job. He also liked the fact that I was a former barrel racer because he had watched all my videos, but he didn’t know about removing a prosthetic at night.

Or skin breakdown.

Or phantom pain.

Or the mornings when standing hurt before I even started my day.

He didn’t know that some days I sat on the edge of my bed staring at my prosthetic leg because putting it on felt like work before the real work even began.

He didn’t know I had once convinced myself motherhood would be harder for me because how did you chase a toddler when your leg decided not to cooperate?

He didn’t know I worried a husband would eventually become a caretaker. That fear embarrassed me more than the prosthetic ever could.

Because I knew better, I had heard the stories, seen people who were genuinely happy even though they were amputees. I knew they married and raised families, ran successful businesses, and even competed in sports. I knew they lived full lives because I had spent months researching what the quality of my life would be after the accident.