Chapter 3
THREE
QUINN
The sun dips low in the sky when the last family leaves the farm.
Weekdays can be hit or miss. But thanks to the early—and unexpected—field trip arrival, today was a hopping first day of the season.
It’s still too soon to tell if the whole season will be like this. I hope it will. I hope it’ll be enough.
I need it to be enough.
I’m nearly back to the barn when a flash of blonde fur zips by.
“Pumpkin!” I call out, but it’s no use. The golden retriever I adopted last spring is long gone.
Though she’s grown into a giant, she’s still very much a puppy. Everything is a game. There’s always something new to explore.
I can only hope she doesn’t decide to explore the trash bin behind the Snack Shack. Again.
Parking my truck in front of the barn, I hope out and freeze in step.
There, only a few yards away, is Pumpkin. Wagging her tail happily, tongue dangling out the side of her mouth, and mud caking her paws.
“Oh, man.”
It isn’t until I step closer that I get the full picture. There, in a pile of mud, and covered with paw prints is Tricia.
“Fuck.”
I race to cover the distance between us. “Are you okay?”
Tricia glances up at me, somewhat dazed. “I think so.”
I pull Pumpkin back as she leans forward to give Tricia’s face a bath and offer the gorgeous, curvy brunette a hand. She stares at the hand with those clear blue eyes of hers that stir my soul.
“Go on,” I say. “Neither of us bites.”
“I’ll get mud all over you.”
“I’m not afraid of a little mud.” I extend my hand even more. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
She places her hand in mine. I ignore how well it fits and the sudden jolt that shoots through me.
Once she’s on her fee, I keep her hand. Just so she’s steady, and lead her toward the trailer parked behind the barn.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“It’s where I stay during the season.” I open the door and help her inside.
“To babysit the pumpkins at night?”
“Something like that.” I chuckle. “The truth is, I have a hell of a commute otherwise.”
“How big of one?”
“A short flight over the mountain.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re right. That’s a hell of a commute.”
I have a sudden, deep urge to pull her into my arms. I shake off the notion.
“You can shower, warm up. I’ll run your clothes through a quick wash.”
Her eyes go wide. “Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Pumpkin tackled you on my watch. Let me make it right.” I jerk my chin toward the gravel pad where the trailer sits under the cottonwoods. “Five minutes.”
She hesitates. Pride, politeness, both. Then another gust of wind catches her and she caves. “Okay. Five minutes.”
“The shower’s down the hall,” I say, pushing open the bathroom door to show her the latch. “Second shelf is clean towels. I’ll—uh—find you something dry to wear while your clothes run.”
“Right.” She glances down at her mud-caked clothes. “Thanks.”
Her smile punches higher than it should. I nod, uncomfortable with how much I feel that, and retreat before I say anything stupid.
When I pick up her jeans, a folded paper slips from the back pocket, skidding to the linoleum at my feet. It’s not a receipt. It’s thick with pencil lines.
Curiosity gets there before my manners do.
I unfold it. The air whooshes out of my lungs.
It’s the farm. She’s sketched our fields and buildings in sweeping lines, added flourishes of vines and leaves that make them feel alive.
There are little annotations in the margins: “photo spot?” by the big white birch. “Zipline hours board” drawn like a pennant along the fence. And so on.
She’s even added the forty-odd pumpkin varieties with tiny labels arcing around each patch—Cinderella’s Carriage, Dark Knights, Baby Boo, and more.
It’s all there in black and white.
I fold the paper carefully and set it on the counter.
The bathroom door clicks. She steps out, bare feet and damp hair, donning one of my older flannels and a pair of sweats.
She looks way too damned good in it.
It would look better on my floor.
I shake off the thought. “Doing okay?”
She tugs at the collar. “I look I a lumberjack.”
“You look… good.”
“High praise, I’m sure.” The color is back in her cheeks.
My gut clenches.
“Coffee?” I ask.
Her eyes light up, sending another punch to my gut. “Yes, please.”
I pour two mugs and slide one across the counter. Our fingers brush. Electricity jolts up my wrist.
I point to the folded paper on the counter. “Is this yours?”
“Oh. Did that fall out of my pocket?” Her shoulders tense. “I was doodling on my lunch break. I meant to throw it out.”
“If you toss this, I’ll dig it out of the trash.” I unfold it. “It’s more than a doodle. It’s a work of art.”
She ducks her head. “I used to draw like this all the time when I was younger. Then I had to get a real job. It didn’t leave a lot of room for hand-drawn anything.”
“You worked in marketing.”
“Yeah.” She wraps her hands around the mug.
“For a big company. Too big. The work was fine. But somewhere along the way I forgot why I even took the job.” She shrugs at herself.
“Anyway. They decided to outsource the art. I took it as a sign to reboot. The cabin up here is free. I figured I could… reset. Meet people who aren’t on Teams.”
“And you’re doing it. Plus, you’ve met a dog with boundary issues,” I offer.
Pumpkin makes a floor-circling decision and collapses with a huff near her feet, head on paws, eyes tipped up adoringly at her. I don’t blame him.
“And his owner who makes good coffee,” she says. “It’s a start.”
I glance back at the map to keep from staring at her too long. “You did this in one lunch break?”
“Don’t give me too much credit. I’ve been clocking your layout from the second I walked in. You’ve got great bones. The paths flow, the views open up in smart places. The problem’s getting people to notice the magic you’ve already got.”
Hearing her talk about my place with such passion makes my heart pound a little harder and my mouth goes a little dry.
“This place hasn’t felt like magic in a long time.” I swallow hard. “Sometimes all it takes is someone who hasn’t stared at it so long they’ve stopped seeing it.”
I set the mug down before my hand gives me away. “I could use help with that. I can’t pay agency rates, but I’m not asking for free labor. We need a real map. Fresh signage. The website’s a disaster. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“I’ve noticed,” she admits, gentle. “But it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”
“I can pay you extra on top of your hourly. Piece by piece. Or a rate you pick for the project.” I hear myself rushing, afraid she’ll say no and this small spark I haven’t let myself believe in will gutter out. “I know it’s a big ask. If you’d rather not—”
“I want to,” she says quickly, too quickly, like she’s afraid I’ll pull the offer back if she thinks about it. Then she reins herself in. “I mean… yes. Let’s talk scope and a reasonable price. I’m not out to gouge you.”
“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”
She flips the paper around and slides it between us so we’re both looking at the same thing.
“What if we anchored everything around a sense of simple discovery?” she says. “You’ve got the big stuff—the cannons and activities—but there’s so much in between that could be charming. Little moments of bliss.”
“It’s perfect.” I clear my throat. “So, what do you say? Can you stay late tomorrow so we can get started?”
She nods, a slow, sweet grin spreads across her lips. “Tomorrow sounds perfect.”