Page 25 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

“She has my condolences.”

That laugh came harder, loosening some of the tension that had settled in my shoulders since finding her soaked beneath the garage overhang. The corner of her mouth curved too, though she kept her face angled toward the passenger window as if she didn’t want me to see it.

“What’s the first stop?” I turned the music lower.

“The diner.”

“That’s not far.”

“They ordered six gallons. The grocery store ordered eight, but the rest were private deliveries outside town.”

“Jax will handle those.”

“He doesn’t know the route.”

“You wrote down the addresses.”

“That doesn’t mean he knows Mrs. Patterson’s driveway floods, or that the Bakers’ dog will chase the truck if he doesn’t bring treats, or that Mr. Monroe can’t lift the crate himself.”

“You do this every Tuesday?”

“Every Tuesday.”

“And the other days?”

“Ranch work.”

She said it simply, as though running a dairy farm required nothing more than waking up and deciding to do it. From the little I remembered of working at Marigold Ranch during high school, the days started before sunrise and rarely ended before dark.

James Rome had believed there was always one more task worth completing before supper.

He also believed teenage boys needed to spend every available hour doing manual labor so they stayed too tired to get into trouble. Dad agreed enthusiastically.

“You have employees?” I asked.

“A few.”

“How many is a few?”

“Enough to keep the farm operating.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was the only one you’re getting.”

I looked over. Carson sat with one knee angled toward the door, her fingers twisting slowly inside the oversized sleeve of my jacket. Her expression remained composed, but she had gone too still.

Money.

Staffing.

The ranch.

Those were subjects she guarded.

I understood pride well enough to know when continued questions would sound like judgment rather than interest.

“All right.”