Page 210 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

A truck door slammed near the house. For one ridiculous second, my heart jumped, then I remembered Beau was at work. I didn’t know when some sound from the driveway would make me expect his truck… I’d simply gotten used to him being here.

That realization would have terrified me a month ago. Now it mostly made me smile.

Saturday afternoon, he’d walked into my kitchen while my prosthetic was resting against the cabinet and talked about Rosie putting liquor in cider.

I’d thought about that moment more than I wanted to admit.

Three nights earlier, I’d sat in the tack room with my heart pounding hard enough to make me nauseous while Beau saw the part of me I’d spent five years protecting from him. I’d watched every movement of his face, searching for the moment attraction became something else.

I’d spent years thinking acceptance would feel enormous and now I wasn’t so sure that it was everything I had feared it would.

I smiled against Blueberry’s mane. “He’s annoying.” Blueberry exhaled in agreement, even though I knew she liked Beau, who had been not so secretly feeding her apples when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Voices drifted from the driveway. A woman and a little girl stood outside the fence near the pumpkin field. I recognized them vaguely from yesterday. The little girl couldn’t have been older than seven, with two dark braids.

“Sorry.” Her mother lifted a hand apologetically. “I know you’re closed today.”

“You’re fine.”

“We left her jacket here yesterday. One of the volunteers said it might be in lost and found.”

“I can check.” The girl wasn’t looking at me.

She was staring at Blueberry. “Is that the horse?”

I glanced behind me. “Depends which horse you’re looking for.”

“The fast one.”

My stomach tightened.

Her mother looked embarrassed. “She saw a picture yesterday…” She smiled apologetically, as if that would make up for her daughter’s words.

I already knew which photo. Someone had put together a small display inside the barn showing old photographs of Marigold’s Harvest Festivals.

I’d approved it without looking closely enough at every picture.

One of them was of me and Blueberry—I couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Blueberry was coming around the third barrel, dirt flying behind her while I leaned with her through the turn. The photograph had been taken at exactly the right moment.

“That’s her,” I said.

The girl’s eyes widened. “You rode her?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you still?”

My hand stopped against Blueberry’s neck. Children asked things adults had learned not to. Nobody in Willow Creek asked whether I rode anymore. They knew better.

“Not much.” I shrugged.

“Is she going to race at the festival?”

Her mother’s face went pale. “Honey.”

“It’s okay.” Except the words lodged somewhere beneath my ribs, and came out cracked. The girl looked disappointed. “We aren’t having races.”

“You should.”