6. Dahlia #2
They kept moving, their shoulders occasionally brushing as the path narrowed near the drainage ditch.
Each touch was like a burn on his skin, and Dahlia's soft intake of breath showed him she felt it too.
But Beckett chose to ignore it as they continued on.
The ditch was wide and shallow, filled with a sluggish stream of muddy water and choked with dead cattails.
Dahlia paused at the edge, her quick mind measuring the distance.
The wet clay of the bank looked slick, threatening to slide under any weight.
Before she could search for a dry crossing, Beckett cleared his throat. He pulled his right hand from his pocket and extended it toward her, his palm flat and stable.
Dahlia hesitated, her eyes darting from his calloused fingers to the mud below. He could see in her expression that she didn't want to admit she needed the support, but the damp slope offered no traction. Reluctantly she slid her hand into his, her small fingers wrapping around his rough palm.
As their fingers touched, the warmth of her hand stood in contrast to the fall air, sending a tingling sensation up his arm.
It was a familiar heat, one he'd spent thirty-two years trying to push from his memory. For a single second, neither of them moved, their hands locked over the muddy gap. He could tell by the sudden widening of her eyes that she’d been as affected by the touch as he had.
As soon as they were on steady ground, Beckett noticed how Dahlia pulled her hand back quickly, her knuckles tightening around the rolled map as she focused on the paper. He shoved his hands back into his pockets and watched her.
"We've got to cover the eastern boundary before the rain starts." Dahlia’s voice was slightly strained as she pointed toward the treeline.
"The rain won't hit until dusk," Beckett replied, his voice quiet. He turned back toward the woods, his shoulders squaring. "But we'll move faster if we cut through the old orchard."
They moved in silence toward the dense rows of apple trees, but the quiet between them didn't feel as empty as before.
The unaddressed ghost of her departure still hung in the air, a massive weight they both refused to touch, but the physical rhythm of the land was pulling them back together, one boundary line at a time.
The orange wood of the cedar fence posts had grayed to a soft slate, weathered by decades of Berkshire winters.
Dahlia stopped near a particularly thick post, its flat top worn smooth and slightly concave, holding a small pool of rainwater from the morning's drizzle.
Beckett looked at her, noting that she was looking at the sturdy wire fence that stretched from the post, disappearing into the dense stand of hemlocks and birches that marked the northern edge of the pumpkin patch.
Beckett caught up with her, his chest rising and falling in a quiet rhythm. He reached out, his hand resting it on the top of the cedar rail.
"This is the line," he said, gesturing toward the wire. "Your mother asked me to help her string this wire about ten years ago. She was very specific about the path. Rosalind had me clear the brush all the way back to the stone ledge."
Dahlia checked the county parcel map once again. The heavy paper resisted, curling back in on itself like a stubborn scroll. She used her hand to pin the top corners flat against the top of the cedar post, pressing down until the wood grain left a faint texture on the white paper.
"Hold this side," Dahlia ordered, not looking up.
Beckett leaned in, his shoulder brushing against hers as he pressed his thick thumb against the bottom edge of the paper to hold it flat.
The warmth of her arm felt through his canvas jacket, as her scent tantalized his senses, making Beckett’s jaw clamp as he fought against the sensations zapping through him.
Get a grip, Beckett, he told himself. She’s not here for long, and I don’t need the pain of her leaving again.
But he couldn’t help but notice how Dahlia's fingers trembled slightly at his nearness or the feeling of satisfaction that he was not the only one being affected by their closeness. He cleared his throat, holding back a smug smile.
"According to the official town records," Dahlia explained, her voice resuming its boardroom tone as she traced the black ink boundary with the tip of her pen.
"The family parcel is a perfect rectangle.
It's registered as exactly forty acres. The line is supposed to run straight from the old well house to the edge of the creek. "
Beckett's eyes narrowed as he studied the paper, his head close to hers.
"That's not how the physical fence runs," he noted, his voice low.
He reached out with his free hand, his finger tracing a curved path on the map that extended far past the neat black line she'd drawn.
"The wire we strung curves outward, looping around that ridge of hemlocks before it angles back toward the water.
Your mother insisted on that loop. She told me it was all part of the original purchase, even if the town's survey was outdated. "
"It's not just outdated," Dahlia countered, her sharp eyes tracing the physical area in front of them.
She shifted the map slightly, her finger pointing to the legal description printed in the lower margin.
"This deed was filed in nineteen-eighty.
If the physical fence line follows the wire you strung, we're occupying land that isn't on our tax parcel.
That's a major title defect. It's an administrative hazard that could halt any restructuring or refinancing. "
Beckett let out a dry laugh, his breath blooming in a tiny cloud in the cool air.
"Only you'd look at a piece of beautiful woodland and call it a title defect," he remarked, his gaze shifting from the map to her face.
His eyes held a teasing light that made her neck flush.
"Your mother didn't care about tax parcels.
She cared about the land. She always told me that the town clerk's office didn't know this valley half as well as the families who cleared the stone from the soil. "
"That sentimentality won't satisfy a bank examiner," Dahlia retorted, her fingers tracing the edge of the map.
She leaned closer to the paper, comparing the physical landmarks with the sterile grids of the county survey.
She drew a quick calculation on the margin of her legal pad, her pen scratching against the paper.
"Look at the scale. If that wire fence curves all the way to the stone ridge, that adds a massive wedge of land to our property. It's not just a minor discrepancy."
Beckett's hand remained flat on the map, his knuckles close to hers. "How much of a wedge?" he asked, his tone turning curious.
"By my estimate," Dahlia replied, her voice dropping as she looked from her pad to the dark woods beyond the fence.
"It's approximately six acres. Six missing acres that aren't recorded in the town ledger, aren't taxed, and aren't listed on our secondary mortgage paperwork.
Yet, the physical boundary is clearly marked, and we've been maintaining it as part of the farm. "
Beckett stared out toward the hemlocks, his jaw tightening slightly.
"Six acres," he repeated, his voice quiet. "That's a lot of land to lose track of."
"We didn't lose track of it," Dahlia insisted. He could see her mind racing with the legal and financial implications. "It's as if someone deliberately kept it off the official records. But the physical fence is permanent, and it's been there for years. There has to be an explanation."
Beckett looked down at the map, then back to her.
"The stone ridge is thick with briars and wild growth," he mentioned, his eyes searching hers with a quiet intensity. "Nobody's been up there since your mother got sick. If you want to know why she kept that wire where she did, we'll have to go look at the physical boundary ourselves."
He saw Dahlia hesitate, her eyes filling with worry.
"We'll go look at it," she decided, her hand releasing the map. "We need to see exactly where that wire ends."
Beckett let the paper curl back up, his hand dropping back to his side as he turned toward the tree line. Dahlia quickly slid the rolled map back into her portfolio, zipped the cover closed, and held it tightly against her chest, ready to follow him into the overgrown brush.
Beckett shoved his hands back into his pockets, trying to ignore the tingling from the brief warmth of Dahlia’s hand against his.
They looked past the wire fence, where the rusted strands disappeared into a dense thicket of hemlocks and overgrown briars.
The land rose sharply toward a rocky ridge, the trees growing so close together that they blocked most of the bright sun.
"The fence continues right through there," Beckett said, gesturing toward the tangled brush. "Nobody's cleared this path since we were kids. It's completely overgrown, but the wire's still standing under the vines."
"We've got to see where it ends. If the physical boundary runs all the way to the top of the ridge, we're looking at a completely different acreage than what's registered in the town books." Dahlia glanced ahead, shaking her head as she gave a resigned sigh.
Beckett didn't answer immediately. He looked at her tailored gray pants, fancy leather boots, and designer jacket, then back at the dense wall of brambles.
"It's thick in there. You'll ruin your fancy clothes and boots." He met her gaze.
"I don't care about the clothes and boots. They can be cleaned or replaced," Dahlia countered, her chin rising as she met his gaze. "I care about the farm. If there're six acres missing from the records, we've got to find out why."
Beckett's mouth curved into a dry line that looked almost like a smile, and he nodded.
"Stay close behind me," he instructed, using the wood to sweep aside a cluster of wild blackberry briars.