6. Dahlia #3
Dahlia followed him into the shadows of the hemlocks.
The air grew instantly colder, carrying the scent of damp moss and decaying cedar.
Beckett moved slowly, his broad shoulders easily pushing past the low-hanging branches, while Dahlia kept her head down, shielding her face from the snapping twigs.
The ground was soft underfoot, carpeted in decades of pine needles that muffled every sound.
They climbed higher toward the ridge, the physical wire of the fence remaining a rusting guide on their left.
After several minutes of slow progress, the dense trees suddenly gave way to a hidden clearing.
The clearing was circular, sheltered by a steep rock face on the eastern side that completely blocked the wind.
They stopped and looked around the quiet space. It didn't look like wild forest anymore. Near the center, a parallel line of moss-covered gravel stretched toward the rock face, the outline of an old driveway that'd been swallowed by ferns and wild blueberry bushes.
"I didn't know this was here," Beckett murmured, his voice dropping in a way that seemed to respect the absolute stillness of the clearing. He walked toward the center of the clearing.
Dahlia walked over to join him, her eyes scanning the overgrown ground.
A few feet from the gravel line, a crooked iron hand pump rose from a bed of damp ferns.
The iron was flaked with rust, its handle frozen in a downward tilt.
Beckett reached out, his hand wrapping around the cold iron, and gave it a firm tug.
The metal groaned, a scraping sound that echoed off the rock face, but the handle didn't budge.
"This pump hasn't drawn water in thirty years," Beckett remarked, wiping a smudge of rust from his palm onto his flannel shirt. "There must've been a well here."
"Not just a well," Dahlia whispered, looking at a structure nestled against the base of the rocky ridge.
Beckett turned and watched her walk toward the rock face.
He noticed the pulse in her neck quicken as her eyes locked onto something.
Beckett moved to stand beside her. His eyes widened when he saw that, half-buried beneath a thick blanket of decaying leaves and wild ivy, sat a rectangular perimeter of stacked fieldstone.
The stones were weather-worn, fitted together without mortar in the traditional style of the valley's old builders.
Inside the perimeter, several old unstable timbers lay at an angle across one another, the remains of a wooden frame that'd collapsed long ago.
Dahlia knelt near the low stone wall, her fingers brushing away a damp layer of pine needles to reveal the flat top of a foundation stone.
"It was a cottage," she realized, looking up at Beckett as he stared down at her. "A small house. Someone lived back here, completely hidden from the road."
Beckett looked at the stacked stones, his jaw tight as he studied the layout.
"There are no utility poles in these woods, and there's no record of a building permit in the town hall. Whoever built this was living entirely off the grid." His brows drew together in a curious frown.
Dahlia stood up and dusted off her hands. He could see her mind racing and knew she must be comparing the physical foundation with the parcel maps she'd been analyzing. She pulled her portfolio open, unzipping the leather compartment to slide the curling paper map out once more.
"This clearing sits exactly within those missing six acres," Dahlia explained, tracing her finger over the blank space on the paper. "This land was kept out of the official registry for a reason. My mother didn't just maintain the fence; she kept this entire place a secret."
Beckett bent down and touched the rough stone of the foundation, his expression unreadable.
"Your mother knew every inch of this valley. If she kept this cottage off the books, there's a darn good reason." His frown deepened as questions tumbled into his head.
"I'm going to find out what that reason was," Dahlia insisted.
And Beckett saw the determination in her eyes.
"There's a cardboard box in her closet filled with undocumented agreements and handwritten letters.
I didn't think they were important, but now I'm going to read every single scrap of paper she left behind.
" She glanced at him. “In fact, I’m going to go through my mother's office and bedroom or anywhere else she stored documents to find out what exactly this place was and who lived here.”
Beckett looked at her, his eyes warm in the filtered woodland light.
"We'll figure it out," he promised, his voice low and steady.
She glanced at him, her eyes flashing with surprise.
“You’ll help me?” Dahlia’s voice was low and soft.
“Yeah,” Beckett agreed. “I’ll help.” He glanced out across the land. “Now I’m invested in this mystery too.”
Dahlia nodded. He noticed that quiet determination intensify as they turned to make their way back through the hemlocks.
“I guess you, my sisters, and the festival committee were right after all, Beckett,” Dahlia admitted.
“This farm is not just a spreadsheet to be balanced.” She gave a soft snort as their eyes met.
“It’s a puzzle of hidden anomalies.” A smile spread across her face, making his heart race.
“It seems my trip here will need to be extended because I’m not going to leave until she'd found the answers.”
Beckett drew in a breath as he watched her, and his heart lurched at the prospect of her being here for longer than she’d initially planned. Rosalind’s words from right before she died rushed into his head.
I always thought that you and Dahlia were meant to be. The universe will guide you back together of that I have no doubt. She smiled weakly. But there’s no harm in giving it a gentle nudge.
Suddenly, he realized what Rosalind had meant. She’d ensured that his and Dahlia’s paths would run into each other again.