CHAPTER SIX
FINLEY
I tug another stubborn weed out of the gravel, tossing it into the pile at my feet. Every year, this fall petting zoo sneaks up on me, and every year I swear it will be the last. But then I remember Mom—how her eyes lit up when kids ran with handfuls of feed, eager to feed the goats.
She loved this place full of wide smiles and red cheeks. So, I keep doing it, even if the crowd makes my skin crawl. After what happened to her, having people around the farm is just…harder than I like to admit.
The day Alex was here—I can still see it—the way her eyes went wide with panic. The sound of hooves pounding against the dirt. For one sickening second, I thought she would be flattened. But this time, I wasn’t a helpless boy.
I shake my head hard, forcing the memory back. I hated seeing that fear on her face. She doesn’t belong here. Not on my farm, not in my head. And yet—there she is.
That red hair, the sweet smell of her perfume. The infuriating smile that’s always plastered on her overwhelmingly beautiful face.
I huff, dragging another weed loose with more force than necessary. Damn woman’s been here one time, and she’s wedged herself into every corner of my mind.
I straighten, rubbing the dirt from my palms against my jeans. The driveway is finally cleared, one of the many chores checked off the list.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me from my thoughts of Alex and the little dimples that light up her cheeks.
It’s from Michelle, the neighbor who always helps set up for the event:
I’m so sorry Finley. I won’t be able to come set up the photo op or help decorate for this weekend. Family matters came up.
I drag a hand down my face, the steps groaning under my weight as I head inside. “Damn it,” I grit out under my breath.
I reply before tossing my phone on the kitchen table.
Okay. Hope everything’s good.
What the hell am I supposed to do now? I can plow a field, fix a tractor, even wrestle a bull—but I don’t know the first damn thing about setting up a photo backdrop for family photos.
A sigh tears from me, rough and heavy. Just won't have photos. Simple. Families can live without their picture-perfect backdrop. It’s just one less thing to worry about.
I yank open the fridge and grab the left-over sub wrapped in wax paper. Dropping into the chair at the kitchen table, I unwrap it and take a bite.
I lean back in the chair, my eyes land on the frame hanging on the wall. The photo. Me at ten years old, grinning with a gap-toothed smile, my mom’s arm hooked around my shoulder. Her copper hair pulled back, her laugh frozen like she couldn’t hold it in long enough for the camera.
The last photo we took together. At the last fall event she ever hosted.
My throat tightens, and I blink hard.
No.
There will be photos. There has to be. No matter what it takes. I set the sandwich down and press my palms flat against the table, jaw tight. One way or another, I’ll figure it out.
Guess I’ll have to make a trip to the market. I finish the last bite of my sub, wiping my hands on a napkin.
My eyes drift back to the photo, lingering on every detail. Scattered props around us—the pinecones, wooden crates, baskets of apples, fall signs, turkeys made of colored paper.
Then I stand, tossing the napkin in the trash and grab my jacket. Time to run to the market, gather what I can, and make this happen.