Chapter 4 #2
When Seth landed in jail, Ivy found the strength to return to town, and to patch things with me. She and Colt were together now and everything seemed back on track for Ivy.
All these years later, I clung to the guilt, knowing she might never have gotten together with Seth if I hadn’t left her for ten minutes alone with him and Trevor at the fair in the first place. And… if only I’d known then that Seth wasn’t the only Brewster to worry about.
It was the quiet ones who could be the most dangerous.
I figured I’d catch a few more customers while I was on this side of the county, and gunned my rig, speeding like I was trying to leave the past far behind. In my rearview mirror, the road behind me was empty. I checked it twice anyway.
By the time I reached the orchard, the sun had dropped enough to turn the trees gold at the edges. The guys from the ranch were gathering empty bags and loading bins into our cold storage. The long day settled over everyone in tired shoulders and dusty boots.
I cut the engine in front of my house and sat there a second, willing my face into something normal, releasing the tension in my muscles. Then I got out.
Knox noticed me immediately and met me halfway. “You look like you’ve been trying to outrun the devil.”
I gave him a tired glare. “Nice to see you too.”
His brows stitched together. “Something happen?”
“No.” That came too fast.
His gaze stayed on my face. “Daisy?”
“I’m simply tired, Knox. As usual.”
“I can see that. But I asked if something happened.”
There was too much in his voice. Concern. Patience. That infuriating steadiness that made me feel one honest answer away from falling apart.
So I did what I always did. I shrugged it off. “Horse threw a fit. Long drive. End of story.”
He studied me for another beat, and I could practically feel him deciding whether to call bullshit.
“Does that mean another bath is in order tonight?”
I sputtered and laughed out loud. “No. I think it’s straight to bed for me.”
“That’s a shame.”
The guys climbed back into the trucks. My sisters headed inside the house. Everyone moved on while the whole orchard had that end-of-day haze to it, the trees mostly empty now. Except we still stood here, dancing around each other.
Knox hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “For the record, I’m very good at friendship.”
Despite everything, my mouth twitched. “Are you?”
“Outstanding at it.” His eyes held mine. “If you need to talk, or… need a helping hand, call me.”
I choked on another laugh. He said it lightly, but there was nothing light in the smoldering way he looked at me. A friendly smolder?
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I managed, a sly smile growing on my face when I didn’t mean to.
Then he tipped his hat and turned away, leaving me there with my heart knocking hard against my ribs.
I watched him get into his truck, the line of his shoulders, the solid strength of him, the way he looked like a man of his word who would show up every single time a woman shouted his name.
That was the problem, wasn’t it?
He would. For me.
Somewhere between the orchard and the county line and the run-in with Trevor and his veiled threats, I’d started wishing I was the kind of woman who knew how to lean on Knox when he offered.
But I wasn’t. Not when I had sisters to look after and this orchard and the past pulling me into back into a twisted knot.
After a quick dinner of macaroni and cheese, I showered and then tried to sleep. But an hour later, with too many things stacked up in my head, I gave up, sighed, and turned on the bedside lamp. I reached for one of Dad’s journals.
I’d been working through them slowly, reading several pages at a time most nights.
Dad’s handwriting was so familiar it hurt.
I often traced his cramped, careful print, with my finger, every letter deliberate, nothing wasted.
Reading it felt like sitting in the same room with him.
Some of his entries made me laugh out loud at the memories, others had me in tears.
Hard to decide if that made it easier or worse to get through them all.
Tonight I was in the final journal of the year before the accident. He noted fence repairs, and ordering feed for the livestock before the price went up. Even a whole paragraph debating whether to try a new Honeycrisp strain from a grower up in Canada.
I used small yellow sticky tabs to flag things. Not sure why. The ordinary entries outnumbered the flagged ones by a long stretch, but sometimes I couldn’t understand what Dad was about.
It seemed he kept an eye on things happening around our property.
Like trucks and unfamiliar vehicles coming and going at the neighboring Amos operation.
He included descriptions of them and times arriving and leaving.
Plus he noted several visits from Sheriff Patrick—the elder, father of the current sheriff.
Some other entries mentioned Congressman Brewster and delays on county license renewals, along with other things he noted the congressman had been voting on, bills he supported or not. Almost like he was searching for a connection between things that may not be there.
Tonight I’d barely turned three pages before I gasped at an entry.
Patrick stopped by again. Seemed urgent this time.
Asked specifically about the back road vehicles and whether I’d seen anything connected to the Brewster name.
I told him about the conversations with the congressman’s office over the property line survey last spring, the pressure to sell to him coming at us almost daily now, the strange insistence on the back acreage specifically.
Sheriff went quiet. He said not to discuss this with anyone, and he’d be in touch.
I sifted through the next several pages containing mentions of the mounting debt.
Everything Dad tried to do to manage it, ultimately pinning his hopes on the upcoming apple harvest to save them.
The stress of it was clear, trying to raise four daughters, keeping his wife happy—in the middle of it all he’d joked about selling a kidney if he thought the money would help things improve.
I remember Dad often being up all night from what must have been insurmountable worry. And then, when his doctor diagnosed him with an ulcer, it didn’t help that Ivy sometimes stayed out all night with Seth Brewster. Dad noted a few incidents where he’d argued with her about staying away from him.
The last entry made me shiver, made just a few days before the accident: Sheriff died today. Suspicious? But I can’t dwell on that right now. Not when these evil Brewsters are circling my daughters like vultures.
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing Trevor Brewster out of my head.
Wait—the dates. I had never put together how close the two incidents were, between the sheriff’s death and my parents’. Could there have been a connection? The authorities ruled the sheriff’s death a homicide, which went unsolved for years.
In my parents’ case, there were no signs of foul play. The authorities chalked up the accident to perhaps an animal in the road they had tried to avoid. But that explanation never felt right to me.
I jolted. The wind outside must have knocked a tree limb against my window.
I set the journal down on the nightstand and peered out.
Or maybe a bird, since the orchard was dark and not a breeze rustled through the trees at all.
The house was quiet around me. Just a cool October night in Montana.
Except for the chill running down my spine, thanks to the eerie feeling that someone was watching me.
Could it be… happening all over again?
I reached up and shut the curtains, and then turned away from the window, practically diving under the covers.
Which was silly. There’s no way the past would repeat.
I’d taken care of that myself, kept insurance to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.
But then Trevor’s threats today—no, the congressman would keep him in line. He had too much to lose if he didn’t.
I took a deep breath, refusing to go back to that time where looking over my shoulder, worried I’d see Trevor, had become a habit, and fear ruled my life.
One thing became clear. Patrick Sr. and my father had been building something.
A case, a record, a body of evidence about the Brewsters and whatever operation they’d been running through the county?
And Dad, always methodical and careful, wrote everything down.
He had been watching, noting, reporting.
Perhaps right in the middle of danger without realizing it.
My father had gathered information, but he hadn’t lived long enough to find out what would come of it. Neither had Patrick, Sr. But I knew someone who would probably find this information useful.
I’d bring them to the sheriff, tell him what I’d found, and let him decide what to do with it all.
It wouldn’t bring Dad back. It wouldn’t undo what our family and the Patrick family had lost. But it was the least I could do, something Dad hadn’t been able to finish, and that was enough reason to do the right thing.