Page 190 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

Chapter 25

CARSON

Two days before the Harvest Festival, Marigold Ranch looked more alive than it had in five years, while I felt like I was being held together by caffeine, stubbornness, and whatever remained of my ability to ignore pain.

The ache in my left leg had started sometime yesterday afternoon, though if I was being truthful with myself, my body had probably been warning me long before then. I had simply been too busy to listen. There were vendor maps to finalize, parking signs to place, pumpkins to arrange, livestock areas to secure, and approximately seven thousand questions being thrown at me by people who had somehow decided I was qualified to answer all of them.

By nine that morning, I had already fed Blueberry, checked on the cows, answered fourteen emails, discovered that one of the portable handwashing stations Rosie ordered was leaking, walked the temporary parking field twice, and mediated an argument between two vendors who both believed their booths had been promised the spot closest to the entrance.

The sun hadn’t even climbed high enough to burn away the thin layer of dew covering the pasture.

Pops would’ve loved every second of this.

The thought had followed me everywhere lately.

There were moments when I could almost feel him here again, not in the heartbreaking way I had for years, when remembering him felt like pressing repeatedly against a bruise just to make sure it still hurt, but differently. I could imagine him standing near the barn with his arms crossed, complaining about where Rosie wanted to put something while secretly enjoying the fact that everyone was back.

Orange and amber lights stretched between the barn and the oak trees. Fresh pumpkins lined the walkways. The old hay wagons had been repaired and painted. The fences no longer sagged in places I had spent years pretending not to notice, and the pumpkin field we had thrown together with help from half the town wasn’t anything close to the enormous one Pops used to grow, but there was enough bright orange pumpkins scattered among the vines to make a child believe it was endless.

Even the old sign at the entrance had been restored.

MARIGOLD RANCH

The lettering had faded almost completely before Walter and Beau took it down. Now the yellow flowers painted around the edges were bright again, and someone had added a smaller wooden sign beneath it.

HOME OF THE WILLOW CREEK HARVEST FESTIVAL

I hadn’t approved that addition.

For the first time since I agreed to bring the festival home, I could almost imagine doing this again next year.

If I survive this year.

My left leg burned as I crossed the kitchen, and I shifted more of my weight onto my right without thinking.

“Carson.”

I kept walking, ignoring Meme’s warning tone. There were three vendor packets spread across the island that needed to be organized before Rosie came back, and my laptop had been dinging every few minutes since I’d set it down.

“Carson Rome.”

I stopped.

Meme stood near the sink with both hands planted on her hips. She had chosen an orange floral dress today, despite the fact that she planned to spend most of the afternoon outside. Her white hair was pinned away from her face, pink lipstick perfectly applied, and she somehow looked more put together at nearly eighty than I did at twenty-five.

“What?”

“Sit down.”

“I don’t have time.”

“Make time.” It was a demand, not a request.

“I have to bring these out to Rosie.”

“Rosie has two perfectly good legs and a mouth loud enough to summon help from three counties over. She’ll survive.”

I tried not to smile.