Page 56 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

“She doesn’t like help,” I finally said.

“That’s obvious.”

“She doesn’t like anyone even noticing she might need it.”

“That sounds right, James never asked Dad for help, even when he needed it.”

I adjusted the light hanging beneath the hood. Every time I offered Carson something yesterday, starting with my jacket, coffee, carrying a milk crate, a ride home, there had been a split second where she looked like she expected a condition to follow. Like kindness couldn’t be given freely.

It wasn’t gratitude she struggled with.

It was trust.

There was a difference.

I didn’t know where it came from. I had a few guesses, but it wasn’t my business. What bothered me more was what I had seen at Marigold Ranch. The place wasn’t falling apart. Not yet at least. But it was more work than any woman should handle on her own.

From the quick glance I had, it looked like years of fixing only the things that absolutely had to be fixed. A patched roof instead of a new one. Reinforced fencing instead of replacement. Equipment that probably needed maintenance nobody had time for.

The ranch looked like someone had spent five years choosing between problems and praying they picked the right one.

Carson had said they were managing, and I believed her. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was hanging on by a thread.

Managing and thriving were not the same thing.

Dad finally appeared from the parts room carrying a small cardboard box beneath one arm. “Found one.”

Jax straightened. “What?”

Dad set the box on the workbench. “Original-style upper radiator hose.”

“How old is that?” I looked at the faded label.

“Old enough that I forgot I had it.” He seemed mighty proud of his find, and I didn’t want to be the one to ruin it.

“That’s reassuring.”

“Rubber’s still good.”

“You opened it?”

“I have eyes Beau.”

I reached for the box, but Dad pulled it back.

“Wash your hands.”

I looked down at the grease coating my fingers. “I work in a garage.”

“And that part’s been sealed for twenty years. Don’t put your dirty hands all over it.”

Jax muttered something beneath his breath, and moved away before Dad could redirect his attention. I washed my hands at the utility sink while Dad opened the packaging like he was handling something valuable.

Maybe to him, it was.

“You had parts for James’s truck sitting here this whole time?”

“Not specifically his.” Dad said, voice low as he inspected the hose. “But I used to keep old Chevy parts because half the town drove them.”