Chapter Four
C allie crouched beside the herb display, nudging a crooked tag back into its slot and brushing a smear of dirt off her knee. Her hands smelled of lemon balm and lavender, normally enough to soothe her.
Not today.
Sunlight filtered through the oak trees lining the edge of the property, and though it wasn’t even full morning, heat was already settling in across the gravel paths.
Somewhere behind her, the soft clink of pottery and the low murmur of voices told her that employees were moving through their usual routines of watering hanging baskets, checking inventory near the greenhouse, and chatting softly as they restocked seedlings.
She stood slowly, stretching her back and letting her gaze sweep the nursery. Her place. Her peace. Most mornings, it grounded her.
Callie pressed her lips together and shook her head, trying to clear the image of last night’s dance from her brain. The easy rhythm, the quiet tension, the stupid little spark that had bloomed in her chest when he’d leaned in and murmured something that made her laugh even when she didn’t want to.
It had been fun. That was all. A dance, a little flirting, a bit of distraction after a long day. Nothing more.
Except her pulse still quickened when she thought about how close they’d stood, and the way he looked at her. Steady. Focused. Like she wasn’t another local business owner with dirt under her nails, but rather someone he wanted to be near.
Her phone buzzed from the workbench near the potting shed. She walked over and checked the screen.
Maggie: You better still be planning to take a real lunch today. You danced. Don’t ruin it with your usual feral gremlin behavior.
Callie snorted and typed back a reply.
You say that like it’s a choice.
She slipped the phone in her back pocket and glanced toward the staff lot. No sign of Sammy yet, which meant he was still with Nate. The traitor had jumped ship the second her manager had said the word walk this morning.
Callie hadn’t expected to see Nate at the Texas Pub last night. He’d just stopped in for a beer—then spotted her and passed along that the overdue pavers had finally arrived. Of course they had. Right after she left.
A smile tugged her lips as she started toward the front of the nursery, the crunch of gravel under her boots a familiar rhythm. Rosie was chatting with a couple near the native wildflowers, and Les gave her a quick wave as he loaded a flat of tomatoes into a cart.
Then she heard it.
A low hum beneath the birdsong and rustling leaves. An engine. Not one she recognized.
Callie slowed as a white box truck turned off the road and onto their drive. No company logo. No magnetic signage. Only mismatched side panels and a dented bumper that hadn’t seen a collision specialist in years.
That wasn’t one of hers.
The truck crawled up to the delivery shed and stopped. From a distance, she spotted the driver. A man in his late forties, maybe fifties, with a ball cap, mirrored sunglasses. He stepped down and raised a hand in a lazy wave.
“Morning!” he called out. “Got a delivery for Morgan Creek.”
A few of her employees glanced toward the truck, but no one moved to intervene. Deliveries weren’t unusual, and this part of the property was generally her territory anyway.
Callie stayed where she was, arms crossing over her chest. “From whom?”
He tugged a clipboard from the cab and glanced at it. “Filled through a third-party supplier. Some backlogged stuff outta Houston.”
Her brows lifted.
“We don’t use Houston,” she said flatly. “You got a name on that order?”
“Signed off by an assistant,” he replied with a shrug.
Her jaw tightened. “I don’t have an assistant.”
She moved closer, slowly and deliberately. Rosie’s laugh floated faintly behind her, followed by the soft squeak of a hose nozzle shutting off. Normal morning sounds. Normal day.
But her gut said otherwise.
“You got a name?” She moved closer, her boots crunching against the gravel.
He didn’t answer, simply turned toward the back of the truck and rolled open the door with a rusty rattle.
Inside were two large plastic containers. No labels. No packing slip visible.
“Look, I just deliver the stuff. You don’t want it, that’s on you.”
Callie’s fingers curled tighter over her elbows as the chemical scent hit her full force. Sharp. Acrid. Sterile in a way that didn’t belong anywhere near plants. It curled in her nose and tightened her stomach.
Whatever was in those bins, it wasn’t mulch or potting soil or any kind of agricultural supply she’d ever ordered. And someone had gone out of their way to make sure it ended up here.
She took another step forward, boots crunching the gravel, close enough now to really study the containers. Heavy-duty plastic. No brand logos. No shipping labels. Just two industrial-sized bins that practically screamed Don’t touch .
Across the lot, Nate was helping a customer load a trunk with hanging baskets. Rosie was dragging a hose past the greenhouse, singing along under her breath to the country song playing from the overhead speakers.
Business as usual.
Or was it?
She eyed the delivery guy again. He was cool and calm as he reached for one of the containers and gave it a casual tug toward the edge of the truck bed.
“I can drop ’em near your storage area if that’s easier,” he offered, as if he hadn’t delivered a couple of red flags in broad daylight.
“Don’t,” Callie said, the word cutting clean through the space between them.
The man froze. “Ma’am?”
“I said don’t move those.” Her voice stayed steady, even, but inside, something tightened like a wire pulled too taut.
Near the greenhouse, Nate glanced at her, and Rosie stopped moving. Callie didn’t meet their gazes, but she could feel a ripple of tension that snapped straight through the work rhythm. Employees weren’t hovering, but they’d heard her tone. And in Harland, that meant people watched .
She pulled her phone from her pocket and tapped to call the sheriff’s office. Gabe had told her to call him directly if anything ever felt off.
This definitely qualified.
The driver shifted. Barely a tick, but she saw it. His shoulders drew tight, and his hand wrapped a little too firmly around the edge of the truck’s roll-up door.
Gabe picked up on the second ring. “Bryson.”
“It’s Callie Morgan,” she said quietly, still watching the man. “I’ve got a delivery here that doesn’t check out. No supplier info. No documentation. Driver’s acting…off. Can you swing by?”
“Ten minutes out,” Gabe said without hesitation. “Stay where you are. Don’t touch anything.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” She hung up.
A beat passed.
Then the man closed the truck door, too slowly. Slid the clipboard onto the seat as if he was trying to decide whether to run or talk his way out of this. “If this is a bad time—”
“It is.”
“I can come back.”
“You won’t,” she said, her gaze locked on his. “Because this delivery was never supposed to come here.”
Something flickered in his expression. Not surprise. Irritation, maybe. Or calculation. Then, he climbed back into the cab, turned the key, and backed out in a wide, lazy arc.
Callie didn’t move. Didn’t blink. She stood there, arms crossed, every muscle tight with adrenaline.
The truck rolled away, tires kicking up dust.
She exhaled and pulled out her phone. On instinct, she snapped a quick shot of the retreating truck before it disappeared down the drive. The image wasn’t perfect, blurry edges, a little glare, but the license plate was visible. Barely.
Across the way, Nate wandered closer, glancing between her and the road. “You good?”
“I will be,” she said, not taking her eyes off the bend. “Let the front office know any more surprise deliveries, I want to hear about it first.”
Nate didn’t move right away. “That didn’t look like a standard run. You want me to pull the logs and double-check today’s schedule?”
She gave a short nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Got it.” He lingered a beat, his gaze sweeping the gravel lot as if he might spot a leftover answer. “If that guy comes back, I’ll be standing right here.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t.”
She accessed the photos on her phone and zoomed in on the picture. The plate was Texas-issued. Mud-splattered, but legible.
It might be something, or it might be nothing.
But whoever had sent that shipment hadn’t just made a mistake.
They’d made a statement.
The crunch of tires on gravel five minutes later had her heart rocking in her chest until her mind registered the fact it wasn’t the white truck returning, but rather the sheriff’s black SUV pulling into the side lot.
She tucked her phone into her back pocket and stepped toward the vehicle rolling to a stop.
The driver’s door opened, and Gabe Bryson climbed out, his sheriff’s badge catching the light, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. He took in the space with a practiced glance, then met her eyes as he approached.
“What happened?”
Callie gestured to the spot where the truck had been. “Delivery showed up about twenty minutes late. No logo. No paperwork. Driver didn’t have a name for who ordered it, but claimed it was back-ordered stock from Houston. Said it was signed for by an assistant.”
“You don’t have an assistant,” Gabe said flatly.
“Exactly.”
He crouched beside the tire indentions, inspecting them like they might speak. Callie watched him, trying to steady her breathing, but the tension still pulsed low in her spine.
“I asked for the sender’s name. He didn’t have one. I said I was calling you, and he left.”
“You see what was in the shipment?”
She nodded. “Two plastic containers. Looked industrial. No labels. Chemical smell was strong. Sharp. Not anything we’d ever stock.”
Gabe stood and pulled out his phone to take his own photos. “You get a picture of the truck?”
“Rear shot as it pulled out. Plate’s visible.” She pulled her phone back out, opened the image, and handed it to him.
He took her phone and frowned at the photo. “I’ll run it. Might be real. Might be stolen.”