11. Beckett
BECKETT
The morning sun was slow to rise as it stretched lazily in the distance, its golden rays slowly penetrating the dewy earth.
Beckett knelt on the cold soil of his southern pasture, his fingers black with grease as he adjusted the tension on his tractor’s hydraulic coupling.
The metal was frigid, biting into his knuckles, but he welcomed the sting.
It was better than the quiet vibration that'd settled in his chest since yesterday afternoon.
His mind kept looping back to the cool shadow of the cider barn, to the sudden desperate warmth of Dahlia’s lips against his.
For a brief second, the thirty-two years of distance between them had vanished, replaced by a heat that'd made his knees go weak. But then she’d pulled away, her hands curling into fists as she retreated behind the safety of the workbench, her eyes wide with a panic that’d cut him deeper than any words.
Dahlia had rebuilt her corporate fortress block by painful block, insisting their connection was nothing but nostalgia.
He stood slowly, wiping his greasy palms on a rag.
Across the low stone wall that marked the property line, the Marchetti pumpkin fields stretched out under the pale light of the dawn sky.
In the distance, near the bright canvas canopy of the farm stand, Dahlia had already been moving between the wooden display tiers.
Even from here, he recognized her elegant posture, her dark hair pinned back, and the faded blue of the old farm jeans she’d reclaimed.
She'd been dragging a flatbed cart loaded with white pumpkins, her movements determined and restless.
Beckett leaned against the rusted fender of his tractor, his hand tightening around the cold steel handle of his wrench.
He knew her patterns. He knew the frantic, hyper-efficient way she organized things when she'd been trying to regain control.
Dahlia had always kept one foot out the door, ready to retreat to the familiar rules of her Chicago life the moment the valley started to feel too real.
And now, with Chicago always pulling her back, she'd probably been expecting him to chase her.
She'd been waiting for him to push past her walls, to demand answers, or to beg her to stay.
He wasn’t going to do it.
Quiet was still a choice, and he’d chosen to stand his ground.
He’d spent decades loving her from the next farm, protecting her mother’s fields and keeping his mouth shut because he’d believed his silence was a form of protection.
But he wouldn’t be a comforting fall interlude to keep her warm before she climbed back into her sedan and left him in the dust. If she wanted her distance, he’d respect the boundary she’d drawn.
He’d keep himself on his own side of the fence.
He knelt back down on the damp earth, focusing his attention on the rusted grease fittings of the loader arm.
He forced his thoughts away from her, letting the familiar and repetitive task guide his hands.
He pumped the grease gun, watching the black lubricant seal the joints, protecting the steel from the grit of the fields.
It was the same quiet care he’d given her family's land, a silent labor that had never required an explanation.
For three years, he’d quietly crossed that stone wall to mend Rosalind’s irrigation lines, to clear the fallen timber after spring storms, and to keep the old tractor running when the engine threatened to seize.
Beckett had done it because he loved the land, and because he’d loved the family who lived on it.
But he’d also done it in the quiet hope that one day, Dahlia would look across the fields and see that her home was still waiting for her.
Now that she was here, she was still looking for the nearest exit, her eyes always scanning the horizon for a reason to run.
Beckett didn't need to chase her across the gravel yard. If she wanted to build her future in the city, Dahlia would have to make that choice without him pleading his case. He’d stay behind his own fence, working his own soil, and letting the cold fall wind clear the lingering warmth of her kiss from his mind.
He turned his wrench with a forceful motion, his knuckles turning white as the bolt locked into place.
He'd keep his own boundaries, and he'd keep his silence.
The rattle of the metal toolbox on his tractor fender was the only warning before her shadow fell across the damp rye grass.
Beckett didn't look up immediately. He kept his fingers locked around the grease gun, forcing the dark lubricant into the dry-fitting of the loader arm with steady pressure.
His hands were cold, his skin chapped from the October wind, but he welcomed the physical resistance.
It was simpler than trying to find a rhythm for the thoughts that'd been churning in his chest since their silent standoff at the boundary line.
When Beckett finally straightened, wiping his palms on a stained cotton rag, Dahlia was standing a yard away on his side of the low stone wall.
Her posture was rigid, a perfect imitation of the professional shield she wore when she was reviewing her plans or directing her sisters from the farmhouse porch.
Today, Dahlia wore her faded blue farm jeans, the fabric worn from bygone days.
But she carried her shoulders as if she were conducting a presentation and about to deliver an annual review.
In her hand, she held a crisp white envelope.
She extended her arm, holding the envelope out over the rusted hood of his tractor.
"This is for the tractor maintenance," Dahlia said, her voice even and detached, as if she were addressing a contractor. "And the work on the northern pasture. As well as the three years you spent keeping the apple orchards clear before I returned."
Beckett looked at her hand, then down at the envelope. The clean white rectangle looked absurd resting against the grease-spattered green paint of his equipment. He didn't reach for it. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his canvas coat, his jaw tightening until his teeth ached.
"I didn't send you an invoice," Beckett replied, his tone flat as he braced his weight against the fender.
"You didn't have to," Dahlia countered, her eyes scanning his face with a defensive intensity that made him want to grab her shoulders just to stop the restless motion of her gaze.
"I can calculate labor rates. I know what a commercial operator charges to clear windfalls and spray the Macoun blocks.
This covers your fuel, your time, and the wear on your machinery. It is a fair settlement."
"A settlement," Beckett repeated, the word tasting like dry chaff in his mouth.
"We can’t operate on vague understandings," Dahlia insisted, her fingers gripping the edge of the envelope until the paper creaked. "You've been doing the work of a full-time farm manager without a contract. It’s a legal liability for the estate, and it’s a debt I’m not going to leave unpaid. Take the check."
Beckett let out a quiet breath, his chest rising against the cold draft that swept down from the hemlock ridge.
The insult of the clean white envelope was a throbbing ache under his ribs.
Dahlia wanted to pay him off. She wanted a neat line in her ledger that’d erase the thirty-two years of history between them, a practical transaction that’d let her climb back into her sedan and drive to Chicago without feeling a single tug of regret.
"No," Beckett refused her offer. “I never asked for payment. Keep it. Put it toward something else the farm needs.”
"Don't be stubborn," Dahlia snapped, her voice rising in pitch as her frustration grew. "You can’t afford to donate three years of professional labor to a struggling farm. This is a business transaction. It has nothing to do with anything else."
"You think this is about fuel and hours," Beckett murmured, making her pause.
He took his hands out of his pockets, his fingers black with grease, his palms rough and scarred from decades of valley winters.
He reached out and snatched the envelope from her fingers, the clean paper instantly gathering a dark smudge where his thumb pressed.
Dahlia let her hand fall, a faint sigh of relief escaping her lips as if she’d finally closed a difficult deal.
But Beckett didn't put the envelope in his pocket.
He held it between his hands, his gaze locked on her face.
With a deliberate motion, he tore the thick paper in half.
The sound of the clean parchment ripping was loud in the quiet pasture, followed immediately by the rustle of the paper check inside as it split down the center.
He didn't stop. Beckett folded the pieces together and tore them again, reducing her fair settlement to four neat squares of white paper.
"What are you doing?" Dahlia fumed, her face turning blotchy red with anger as she watched the pieces.
Beckett opened his hand, letting the paper squares flutter down onto the frost-dusted weeds near the tractor tire.