12. Dahlia #2
Dahlia retreated toward the wooden storage crates, her hands tucked into her pockets to hide their trembling.
She watched the three of them work, realizing that she could no longer push payment on Beckett or anyone who came to help on the farm of their own accord.
She gave a soft sigh, knowing that, try as she might, she wasn’t going to change the way the town conducted their barter-type transactions.
Here, there were no invoices. No one was tracking hourly rates or asking who’d pay for the replaced motor.
Kent was a busy vet with many farm visits on his schedule, and the hardware store had surrendered their only backup motor without a single receipt.
And Beckett... Beckett, whom she’d hurt so deeply just a week ago, was here laboring over her family's broken machinery as if the fence line between their farms had never existed.
They were here because her mother had kept their livestock healthy, because her sisters were their neighbors, and because the valley had a quiet memory of who’d shown up when the winter was hard.
And Beckett was here because his connection to this land and her family ran deeper than any fence or pride.
The iron collar finally cracked, the split halves clattering onto the concrete floor.
"That's the worst of it," Kent said, wiping his grease-stained fingers on a rag as he stood. He looked at the newly aligned motor, a faint nod of satisfaction showing on his weathered face. "The new shaft’s resting true. It’ll hold."
Beckett stood slowly, his tall frame blocking the pale afternoon light. He still didn't look at Dahlia, keeping his eyes fixed on the aligned gears as he wiped his grease-blackened palms on a rag. He closed his steel tool chest with a solid snap, his movements deliberate and measured.
Dahlia took a slow breath, her chest feeling an unfamiliar warmth that had nothing to do with her schedules.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice sincere. "I don't know what we would’ve done if not for all of you."
Kent looked at her, then toward the open door where the murmurs of the crowd outside had softened.
"Of course, we’re always happy to help,” Kent replied, his voice quiet as he closed his smaller case.
Beckett didn't reply. He picked up his massive tool chest, his jaw tightening slightly as he shifted his weight.
He began his retreat toward the open double doors, his expression unreadable, leaving Kent and Evan to finish securing the bolts.
He didn't look back, maintaining his professional boundary with absolute consistency, but his presence had saved the day.
Outside, the crowd grew louder, a restless buzz of visitors waiting near the display bins. They'd expected fresh apple cider, and instead, they faced a closed barn.
Inside, Teddy crouched near the wooden platform, using her tools to inspect the main support beams. The old pine timbers required stabilization to prevent warping from the vibration of the new drive shaft.
Teddy inserted cedar wedges under the floor bolts, her expression focused as she secured the frame.
Prue appeared at the door, her shoulders relaxed. She didn't look at the machinery. Instead, she kept her eyes on the crowd outside.
"They don't know where to go," Prue said, her tone calm. "I'm going to redirect them."
"How?" Dahlia asked.
"We can use the display carts," Prue replied.
Prue began to rearrange the wooden flatbed carts, shifting them into a wide curve that guided the visitors away from the entrance and toward the grassy slope near the porch.
She moved several large pumpkins, placing them as natural barriers to channel the line.
Within minutes, the cluster of visitors formed an orderly queue.
But the crowd was still empty-handed.
That was when the tables arrived. Nell led the way, with three older ladies from the community church following behind.
They carried folding tables and checkered tablecloths, setting them up directly in front of the waiting queue.
Nell shook out a tablecloth, letting the fabric settle over the wood with a soft rustle.
Nell opened a large wicker basket, withdrawing warm apple pies that filled the yard with the aroma of cinnamon. Another lady placed a glass carboy of chilled sweet cider on the table, along with a stack of small paper cups.
"We've a slight delay on the hot cider," Nell announced to the crowd, her voice carrying across the yard. "But while we wait for the press, we're handing out warm pie slices and cold samples. On the house."
The response was immediate. The visitors shifted their attention to the tables, their faces brightening as they received samples and slices of pie. The tension in the yard evaporated, replaced by laughter and quiet chatter.
Dahlia stood near the door, watching the red paint of the tractor as it crossed the boundary line back into the northern pastures. He didn't look back.
Inside, the new motor hummed in a steady rhythm, the gears turning without a sound. Kent gathered his tools, wiping his palms on a cloth before closing his smaller case.
"Is there anything else you need help with?" Kent asked, his voice low.
"No, thank you," Dahlia replied with a small smile. "You've done more than enough."
Kent nodded, picked up his box, and moved toward the exit.
Nell wandered over from the tables, watching Prue adjust the flatbed carts while Teddy packed up her wedges. She stood beside Dahlia, her expression thoughtful.
"I see you're starting to remember how neighbors work in these parts," Nell noted.
"I do realize that," Dahlia replied, keeping her voice quiet. "I know everyone helps each other. I'm not that jaded."
An older woman who'd accompanied Nell from the driveway drew near. Dahlia recognized her from her youth, though the years had silvered her hair and softened her face.
"I'm so sorry about your loss. I’ve been meaning to stop by since the funeral," the woman said apologetically, her eyes warm.
"Rosalind was a rare soul. Years ago, when I had nowhere else to run, she gave me a place to stay.
I was terrified, completely alone, and she kept me safe.
If you ever need anything, please let me know. "
As they turned away, Dahlia watched them go. The realization settled deep within her: the farm didn't survive on isolated self-sufficiency. It survived because people felt personally connected to it and to the woman who'd spent her life protecting them.
Dahlia watched Nell and the other woman move toward one of the display tables.
Her brow furrowed. She remembered the cottage ruins on the ridge, the stone foundations hidden under the hemlocks.
She racked her brain, trying to remember when her mother had helped that woman, or why she would've needed to hide.
A cold feeling crept up Dahlia’s spine. She turned her head and glanced back toward the cider barn, in the direction of the locked cabinet.
What secrets were trapped inside it?