Chapter Thirty Eight #2
She’s completely out—little lips puckered, lashes fluttering, hands tucked under her chin. My heart clenches. I missed her more than I realized. And I already dread the thought of going back to work Monday. I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want to leave either of them.
It’s a problem.
A big, huge freaking problem.
I need to call Abby, ASAP. This is a code-red.
“How have you been, Georgia?” Bea calls across the kitchen, peeling potatoes while looking at me like it’s second nature. It makes my whole body flinch. “Last time we talked, you weren’t feeling too well. Kade said you had another flare-up.”
She gives me a look that’s full of honest sympathy, not pity or questions. Like she believes my illness is real.
I shift Aurora in my arms and lean my hip against the counter across from her. “I’m doing better,” I say, cheeks warming. “Thank you so much for everything you sent over with Kade. I really appreciate it.”
Bea waves me off. “Least I could do.”
“The salts were amazing,” I admit, ducking my head a little. “Seriously. Magic.”
She blinks. “Salts?”
“Yeah—the bath salts. Kade said they were your recipe.” I shrug, pushing Aurora’s hair back. “They were on his window ledge.”
Her face lights up. “Oh! Yes. I didn’t realize he had any left.
Gemma and I used to make them pretty often for the farmers market.
They were quite popular, actually, but…” She sighs.
“After she moved, I wasn’t able to dedicate the time it took for the salts, candles, and teas.
I spend most of my time with the bees since we cut back on staff. ”
Something about her tone makes me pause. I hesitate, then step closer, lowering my voice so the girls don’t hear.
“You said you needed help with the Honey Bea Bash,” I say carefully. “Hazel mentioned that the farm’s struggling…”
Bea flinches.
Shit.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt, heat rising to my cheeks. “That was out of line. I didn’t mean to pry. I just—” I exhale sharply. “It’s probably the social worker in me. I want to help.”
Her expression softens, the sharpness melting away. I ramble on before I can stop myself.
“When you asked me to help, I agreed because I wanted to. Because I think your family is wonderful, and what you’re doing out here is amazing. There’s so much love and community. I just…” I tip my shoulders, helpless. “Wanted to be involved, I guess.”
In something.
In everything.
Oh, and I also wanted to get to know you well enough to ask if you know anything about my family.
I don’t say any of that, though, because I’m a coward.
And because Bea Archer, standing a foot away with her kind, motherly eyes and that calm presence, makes it so hard to breathe through the feelings I can’t seem to hold back anymore.
“Well,” she finally says, her voice thick but steady, “aren’t you just a surprise.”
My mouth opens to respond, but she cuts me off with a soft shake of her head and turns her attention back to the potatoes she’s now chopping.
“Honey Bea has been my dream since I was eighteen years old and falling in love. Not the land or the wheat or the big production of it—but a home, a family, bees and flowers.” Her lips twitch like she’s holding something back, but her eyes gloss over anyway.
“It was our dream—my William’s and mine.
And we had it, for a long time. We grew it, expanded it.
We lived on this land. Loved on it. Loved hard. ”
Her gaze flicks to her daughters, who are still bustling around the kitchen, and she blinks fast to clear her eyes. “Still do.”
I don’t say a word. I just bounce Aurora gently against my chest and let the lump in my throat burn while this wonderful, resilient woman lays her soul bare in a kitchen that smells like breakfast and safety.
“Anyway,” she murmurs with a sigh, wiping her hands on a towel.
“Things were already shifting before William passed. People want quick and cheap now. They want things packaged and shipped and on their doorstep in twenty-four hours. They don’t want to drive out to the country for wildflower honey or cut their own bouquets.
They don’t care if the meat’s fresh or the produce local.
They care about convenience. And convenience is killing places like ours. ”
Her voice tightens. “Then William passed, and not long after, Cooper Ridge moved into Summit, and everything I thought I could handle just… fell apart.”
Cooper Ridge.
My brows pinch. That name sounds familiar.
“Those Ridge Ranch people are all assholes,” she mutters, chopping more aggressively now, the knife hitting the board with a little more force. “Insufferable fuckin’ pricks. Every last one of them.”
And then it clicks.
The asshole from the bar.
The guy Kade nearly went full Hulk on.
“Would it make you feel better,” I murmur, trying not to smirk, “to know your son beat the shit out of their leader the other night?”
Bea freezes mid-chop, brows shooting up. “Clint the Cunt Cooper?”
A loud, unfiltered laugh bursts from me before I can stop it. Aurora stirs, and I quickly clamp my mouth shut, but I nod as Bea grins. “Yep.”
“That’s my boy,” she says proudly, resuming her chopping with a little more pep.
When the laughter fades, I press gently, “So what does Cooper Cunt Ridge have to do with everything happening here? Hazel mentioned them trying to destroy Heart Springs.”
“Nice one,” Bea says with a dry chuckle, but her smile doesn’t last. “Cooper Ridge is big. Corporate-level big. They started buying up land about five years ago—first on the outskirts, then moving in closer. They’ve got backing, infrastructure, investors.
They undercut pricing to push out the smaller farms, then sweep in and buy what’s left for pennies. ”
She pauses, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “They’ve offered to buy Honey Bea a few times. Said we were wasting prime acreage. I turned them down every time. The last time… they weren’t so happy about it.”
The way her voice goes quiet has a chill crawling down my spine.
“What do we do?” I ask, heat rising in my chest. “How do we stop them from ruining this place? From running over people like you and your family?”
Bea gives me a tired smile. “What can we do? We’re small. They’re big and rich. I don’t have the funds to fight, as much as I wish I did.”
“Maybe not a court fight,” I say, voice low, eyes narrowing. “But this is the country, Bea. Don’t you all do things a little differently out here?”
She huffs a laugh and squeezes my hand. “It’s a rural farming town, sweetheart. Not the Wild West.”
“Fuck that.” My eyes widen and I wince. “Sorry—”
“Don’t be. ‘Fuck’ is one of my favorite words,” she says, grinning. “Don’t censor yourself on my account.”
That earns a giggle from me, and then I shrug, adjusting Aurora on my hip.
“There’s gotta be something we can do. You have a town full of people who’d do anything for the Archers.”
My mind kicks into gear.
I’ve done this before.
Not like this, not against a corporate farm with deep pockets and dirty tactics—but I’ve organized in crisis.
It was one of my favorite parts of working at Safe Haven, the nonprofit I worked for in New York.
We helped women and children get out of dangerous situations and rebuild from nothing.
My role was boots-on-the-ground: coordinating shelter placements, hosting community fundraisers, securing grant funding, and mobilizing people fast when everything was on the line.
Yes, I used to work in social work back in New York, but the field is broad, and this is the first time I’ve ever been a caseworker. When I moved to Summit, DCFS was the only opening. I transferred my license, took the required state modules, and jumped in.
It’s harder than I expected. More red tape. More impossible choices I’m not sure I was quite prepared for.
But this? Saving Honey Bea from Cooper Ridge before they buy this farm’s soul?
That I can fight.
“What are you thinking?” Bea asks quietly.
“We fight smart. We tell your story. We host events on the farm—open markets, honey tastings, kids’ days, fall festivals, whatever it takes to get people here and keep them invested.
We rally support from the town, hit social media, and use your community ties.
Make the farm a symbol of what’s worth protecting in Summit. ”
Her brows lift. “And Cooper Ridge?”
“We expose them. Public records, labor practices, land zoning violations, anything we can find. We use their size against them—make it personal. Make it public. If we can’t outspend them, we out-heart them. People fight harder for things they love.”
Bea stares at me for a long second, then nods slowly. “Well damn, Georgia Walker. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
I smile, but it’s sharp. “You’re not the one who should be worried.”
“Country justice,” she murmurs, eyes flicking toward the window. “Now that might just be the kind of fight we can win.”
“Time to cowgirl up, Archers,” I say with a grin, my heart thudding with adrenaline.
Because when everything else feels like it’s spinning—too fast, too big, too scary…
Too good.
This?
This feels right.
This is something I can do.
Bea turns to me with a wide, hopefully smile. “Giddy fuckin’ up, Cooper Cunts.”