Chapter 15
Ethan
Ethan had been pretending to prune a very already-pruned apple tree for the better part of an hour. He wasn’t proud of it. But the far end of the orchard gave him the perfect view of the old wishing well, and of Honey, who currently sat cross-legged beside it with Pickles curled in her lap.
He told himself he was just keeping an eye on things and making sure the animals weren’t bothering her too much.
But then he sent her a text. Something dumb about the goats and chickens revolting that made her laugh, and he hadn’t been able to walk away after hearing it.
The conversation they’d had yesterday shifted something between them.
Now, he found himself doing things like trying to make her laugh.
And watching her when he should’ve been working.
And humming.
Jesus. He was humming.
He leaned on the tree trunk and watched her move instinctively through the scattered sea of gold and silver coins. She brushed them into piles, moving carefully to not disturb her tiny companion.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” she said down to the baby goat cradled in her lap. “I’m just trying to work here. Don’t mean to disturb your nap.”
The goat flicked an ear and let out a sigh so content, Ethan felt it in his chest.
She laughed softly and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the afternoon sun casting a glow over her and the wishing well. Her boots were dusty, her jeans had smudges, and there was hay stuck to the back of her head.
And damn it if something about the whole picture didn’t knock the breath out of him.
Then a shape shifted at the edge of his vision—a blur of white and fury—and before he could call out a warning, it was too late.
“Shoot.” Ethan dropped the shears and took a step forward, but by then Dolores had already made contact, nudging Honey with all the subtlety of a freight train.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh no.”
Honey swallowed and tried to sit very, very still.
Dolores was a sheep with a bit of a temper. Ethan knew she was harmless, but Honey was a city girl, and he figured a full-grown sheep looming behind might be…a lot.
“Morning, Ms. Baxter,” he called out. “There you are, you big beautiful oaf.”
Honey very cautiously turned her head in his direction. “Excuse me?”
He crossed the grass and crouched beside them. He scratched behind Dolores’s ears the way she liked as if he wasn’t seconds from hauling her back to the pen.
Dolores let out a satisfied snort, confirming what Ethan already knew. She was jealous.
“She’s adopted the kid,” Ethan said, glancing at the dozing ball of fluff in her lap. “Thinks you stole her baby.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” she said, gesturing to Pickles, who yawned and blinked up at her with innocent eyes.
“Oh, my mistake,” Ethan said, biting back a grin. “Don’t worry. The pen’s all fixed. You’ll have no more visits from Pickles.”
She narrowed her eyes, and he already knew her well enough to realize she’d refuse to admit that she’d grown fond of the little kid.
He saw it anyway.
Honey folded her arms and asked, “What brought you out here anyway? It’s the weekend. I thought you’d be busy, I don’t know, doing dad things.”
“Normally, yeah.” He gave Pickles one last pat before setting him down beside Dolores, who immediately nudged the kid like she was counting limbs.
“But the girls are going to the Sugar Spoon Showdown in town. It gets very competitive.” He lifted his brows like he expected Honey to comment on the violation of magic being used to compete, but she bit her tongue.
“Marlene’s taking the girls, I figured I’d get the day to myself. ”
Which apparently meant making excuses to hover around Honey.
Before he could dwell on that too much, a pair of small boots stomped through the orchard, scattering dirt and indignation.
“Dad!” Emma burst into view, face flushed. Her hair was pulled into some kind of lopsided braid-ponytail combo with a bobby pin half sticking out. “Marlene says we have to leave in five minutes, and you promised you’d help with my hair.”
Ethan opened his mouth, but didn’t get the chance to respond.
Brooke poked her head out from behind a tree and skipped toward them with a teasing grin. Melly followed behind.
“It’s because Brody Fitch is going to be there,” Brooke sing-songed.
Emma gasped. “I hate you!”
“You can’t say hate,” Melly added.
“Girls,” Ethan said in his best Dad-voice, rubbing his temples. “Emma, your hair looks great. You don’t need to—”
The rest of the sentence dried up in his throat as soon as he caught the unmistakable shimmer in Emma’s eyes. She blinked fast, trying to hide them, but he knew that look.
He hated this part. He hated the reminder that he couldn’t be everything they needed all the time.
He could handle the scraped knees and runaway goats and forgotten homework, but this?
This thing wrapped up in glittery barrettes and middle-school feelings felt like he was trying to lasso smoke with a rake.
Before he could even reach for a half-baked solution, Honey moved.
“Come here,” Honey said gently, crouching down and patting the stone beside her. “I can fix this.”
Emma hesitated only a moment before she sat, clearly trying not to look too relieved.
Honey reached into her back pocket and pulled out a tie.
Ethan watched her in silence as she started easing through the tangled strands with gentle fingers.
Then, she got to work. Her hands were gentle as she wove Emma’s thick hair into a crown braid that wrapped around her head like something out of a storybook.
She tucked the ends neatly and used the remaining pin to secure the final strand.
“There,” Honey said, brushing stray hairs from Emma’s forehead.
Emma ran to her dad’s phone, checking her reflection on the screen. “It’s perfect,” she whispered. Then, louder, “Thanks, Honey.”
She shrugged. “Any boy who doesn’t fall over himself with compliments is not worth your time. Save your energy for someone who knows the difference between pretty and remarkable.”
Emma blushed, the smile tugging at her mouth even as she tried to suppress it.
From somewhere down the orchard row, Marlene’s voice rang out, “Girls! Let’s go!”
Brooke took off running, tugging Melly behind her. Emma followed at a slower pace, one hand brushing carefully over her braid like she was making sure it was still in place.
Honey watched them go, Ethan watched Honey, and then they were finally alone.
When the orchard had gone quiet again, with just the rustle of leaves and the distant sound of Marlene corralling children, he leaned against the well and folded his arms loosely over his chest.
“I used to be able to do a ponytail,” he said quietly. “When they were little, they didn’t care if it was crooked. They didn’t care if their socks matched or if their clothes were from the same place we bought groceries. It was easier then.”
Honey glanced over at him. She sat down again beside her piles of coins. “You’re doing well.”
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, shifting a little on his feet, “try telling that to a preteen who just wants to look cute for some boy.”
“No, I mean it,” she said, sitting up straighter now, her voice firm. “You might not have spreadsheets, or color-coded systems, or kids with matching socks, but the girls are clearly loved. And they know it.”
She turned toward him, looking him dead in the eye.
“I’ve seen the way Emma leans into your side without even thinking. The way Melly’s hand always finds yours the second she enters a room. And the way Brooke tosses you sass like she knows you’ll catch it and throw it right back.”
He let out a breath, a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Some days I just feel like I’m guessing,” he said. “Like everything I do is a shot in the dark, and I’m just hoping I don’t mess it all up.”
He’d said it before he had a chance to second guess it. With Honey looking at him like she wasn’t fazed by the noise and mess of it all, the words just slipped out.
“I’ve never wanted this kind of life,” she mused. “The chaos, the mud, the things with teeth that chew through your garden hose.”
That pulled a real smile from him.
“But…” she added, tone softer now. “It’s nicer than I thought. You’ve built something good here, Mr. Hale, even if it doesn’t always feel easy.”
There was a pause, and Ethan was suddenly aware of how close they were standing. Close enough that if he shifted his hand just slightly, his fingers might brush hers.
He looked out across the orchard, where the wind rustled the leaves of an apple tree and the fencing leaned a little to one side. The place had flaws, sure. More than he had time or money to fix. But it was home.
Honey took a breath. “What I’m saying is you’ve got something here people want. They just don’t know about it yet.”
He lifted a brow.
“At the risk of overstepping…”
“What is it, Ms. Baxter?”
“I think people are lonelier than they let on,” Honey said. “And this place...it feels like the kind of spot that could fix that. Even if just for an afternoon.”
Ethan was quiet for a long moment as he considered. Then he looked at her, a new interest in his eyes. Another beat passed between them, the kind that could tilt one way or another if someone just reached.
“What are you saying?” he asked.
“Do you ever think about turning the farm into an experience?” she asked. “Petting zoo, pumpkin patch, hayrides. Even city families are desperate for places that let their kids get dirty and touch something real. You’ve already got the charm. You just need a little structure.”
She braced herself, probably waiting for him to tell her she had gone too far, that she’d overstepped again.
And honestly, she had. He didn’t need more animals to feed. He wasn’t in the market for livestock or miracles. The farm was a sinking ship, and no farm-experience gimmick was going to change that.
But then he looked at her.
She’d told him just yesterday that she never got to be a kid. That life had handed her mess and responsibility before it ever gave her safety.
When she came here, only a week ago, she flinched at every noise and mumbled to herself often.
These last few days, he’d watched her soften.
It didn’t make sense how a woman like her, sharp-edged and full of spreadsheets, could go soft over a bleating little creature like Pickles, but it did something to him, watching her settle down in the dirt, smiling softly as Pickles chewed on the hem of her cardigan.
He thought about what she’d said, about never wanting a life like this.
He wondered if maybe she would have wanted it once, in that part of childhood she never got to keep.
If maybe she’d wanted animals and bedtime stories and something steady to come home to.
Life hadn’t worked that way for her, and now here she was, pitching ideas and drawing up plans and trying to save a farm she didn’t owe anything to.
Trying to save him, if he was being honest.
And damn it…he wanted to let her.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
She blinked. “Go where?”
“We have a couple hours before the Showdown. There’s a guy we can probably catch before it starts. Trent Westbrook. He’s got a new litter of goats that are about to wean.”
“Goats,” she echoed. “I have work to do.” She gestured to the piles of coins around her still waiting to be sorted.
“This was your idea.”
“But what do you need me for?”
“He and I have…history.”
Honey tilted her head. “What kind of history?”
“I married his sister.”