Page 98 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

“Pops started planning in August. Meme complained that he ruined fall by talking about it before summer ended. I’d come home from rodeos and spend every free day out here getting things ready.” I could see it clearly. The wagons freshly painted. Pumpkins stacked near the barn. Orange lights stretched from tree to tree. Pops standing in the pasture, arguing with Walter about where the bonfire should go.

“I knew where everything went.” My voice softened without permission. “The same vendors had the same places every year. June’s family had tables near the barn because they needed electricity. Kids carved pumpkins by the old oak because Pops didn’t want knives near the animals. Hayrides started at sunset. Closing night always ended late because nobody wanted to leave.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I loved every second of it.”

Beau was silent as he watched me, navy eyes scanning my face while his fingers twitched at his side like he wanted to comfort me. But he didn’t move. “And then?”

I hated the question. Not because he shouldn’t ask. Because I knew the answer. “Then I didn’t.”

It wasn’t exactly true, because a part of me still loved fall and Halloween.

“If we bring everyone back here, everything changes.”

“Things have already changed.”

My eyes snapped toward him. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“Probably.”

“You didn’t lose anything here.”

“No.”

“You got to go home after that summer. Pops was just some guy who taught you fences and made you shovel stalls.”

“He wasn’t just that.” The answer came more firmly than I expected. I stared at Beau. He looked toward the open barn doors. “Your Pops was one of the first adults who treated me like I could actually be good at something.”

Something in my chest shifted. I parted my lips, but he continued before I could respond.

“Dad was hard on us because he loved us. I knew that. But when you’re seventeen, knowing why somebody expects a lot from you doesn’t make it less irritating.”

“Sounds familiar.” I almost smiled.

“James expected the same things. The difference was, I wasn’t his kid. He didn’t have to.” Beau ran a hand over the wagon railing, eyes downcast, consumed with memories.

My Pops was a stubborn old rancher who overworked himself, smoked too much, and told terrible jokes. And it looked like I wasn’t the only one who knew.

“I didn’t know you remembered him like that.”

“I didn’t realize how much until I came back here.” The answer settled somewhere deep.

Maybe that was what frightened me about bringing the festival back. Not that people would change Marigold Ranch. That they remembered it. That they remembered Pops. That this place belonged to more people than just me.

I’d spent five years guarding it, like grief gave me ownership over every memory made here. But…

“I don’t want them coming in and making it something else.”

Beau nodded slowly. “Then don’t let them.”

I frowned. “That’s helpful.”

“I’m serious.”

“Forty people were practically assigning themselves jobs last night.”

“Then tell them no.”

I waved my hand through the air. “They don’t listen.”

“Make them.”