Page 18 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

“We don’t have enough empty bottles for the entire route.”

“I know.”

“And half the morning’s milk is already spoken for.”

“I know, Meme.”

The frustration in my voice silenced her.

None of this was her fault. It wasn’t mine either, though that never stopped the problems from becoming mine to solve.

Milk deliveries had once been a smaller piece of Marigold Ranch’s income. Pops sold to local stores, restaurants, and bakeries because he believed in keeping business within Willow Creek, but most of the ranch’s money had come through a regional distributor.

That agreement disappeared six months after he died.

A larger dairy offered lower prices and more consistent volume, and the distributor dropped us with less than thirty days’ notice. Since then, every local account mattered. Losing even one created a gap in the monthly budget that I had to fill somehow.

The mortgage didn’t care that our truck had broken down.

Neither did payroll, feed costs, veterinary bills, or the refrigeration system that had started making a noise I was actively pretending not to hear.

“I’ll take care of it,” I said, gentler this time.

“You shouldn’t have to take care of everything.”

“Someone does.”

The answer came too quickly, and the moment it left my mouth, I wished I could take it back.

Meme carried plenty. She had watched her granddaughter nearly die, lost her husband, and then woken up one morning to discover the life Pops had managed for more than forty years now depended on two women who were still learning how to survive without him.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“So am I.” She exhaled slowly. “Call me when you know what’s wrong with the truck.”

“I will.”

“And don’t drive home in the dark if the storm keeps up.”

“That may not be my decision.”

“Carson.”

“I’ll call you.”

She sighed, accepting that as the only promise I was willing to make. “I love you.”

“Love you more.” I ended the call and stared at the dark screen for several seconds before setting the phone beside me.

My coffee had stopped steaming.

I lifted the mug anyway and took a drink, needing something to occupy my hands before I destroyed what remained of my nails. The coffee was stronger than I usually liked, but the sweetness helped, and the heat soothed the tightness in my throat.

Through the office window, Beau looked over again.

This time, I caught him.

He didn’t immediately turn away. His gaze held mine for a second, his expression unreadable from across the garage, before the older woman called his name and pulled his attention back toward her car.