Chapter 2
TWO
TAEGEN
The GPS on my phone seems a little confused.
“Turn left onto Carver Farm Road,” the robotic voice says over the speaker, pronouncing it like Car-verr.
I snort and take a swig of coffee out of my travel mug. “You’d better not let the Carvers hear you say their name wrong. No one will ever take is seriously.”
A problem I unfortunately know all too well. I spent the better part of a decade, trying to get people to take me seriously first as a newspaper reporter and then as a digital journalist. Thank goodness, I finally went out on my own.
Well, mostly on my own.
My phone rings, and I answer the call on my car’s dashboard.
“Tell me you’re almost there,” Patti says without a hello. My new editor at the town’s paper never wastes syllables on small talk.
“I’m two miles out,” I answer. “It’s picturesque out here. Mountains on one side, trees turning orange and red on the other. It’s basically a Hallmark movie.”
“Perfect. Save that description for your article.”
“Copy that, boss”
“Don’t be afraid to get deep descriptive,” she says. “The piece is going to be called ‘Go Big or Gourd Home.’”
“Cute.”
“Yes, but cute isn’t enough. I want depth. Stakes. A story people will click.”
“Patti,” I say carefully, “it’s a column about things to do at a pumpkin patch. It’s not exactly a crime report.”
“Every small town has skeletons. Figurative, literal—whatever sells. That’s what readers want.” She rustles paper, probably flipping through the current draft of the crime novel she’s drafting. “Give me something juicier than pumpkin varieties and pie contests.”
“Maybe a ghost haunting the hay maze?”
“Now you’re thinking like a journalist.”
I roll my eyes. Right, because serious journalists make up stories about ghosts and hay mazes.
I turn onto Carver Farm Road, the tires kicking up dust behind me.
“You know,” I chew on the inside of my cheek, “in full disclosure, I grew up with the Carver kids.”
“The town is small. Everyone knows someone.”
“Yeah, but Dylan and I were best friends until senior year. I’m not exactly a prime candidate to go digging for dirt.”
“Please. You’ll be fine. Small-town bias isn’t real when you need a good quote.”
The line crackles. I’m no doubt seconds away from losing contact.
“Your deadline is Friday,” she says. “Get photos. Get color. Get me something with bite.”
The call cuts before I can tell her pumpkins don’t have teeth.
The farm sign appears around the bend: Carver Family Pumpkin Patch – Open for the Season!
The paint looks fresh and the cool air has a hint of smoke in it and sugar no-doubt coming from the Snack Shack.
I park ing the gravel lot, shoulder my camera bag, and remind myself this is just another assignment.
Easy. Get in, get quotes, get out.
The moment my boots hit the ground, someone calls, “Hey there! You must be the reporter!”
A woman with a sleek ponytail and a clipboard strides toward me, extends her hand to me. “Hi, I’m Tricia. I handle the marketing and media relations.”
“Taegen Miles,” I shake her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too! Lanie, she’s here!”
A familiar face pops out of the office trailer, wiping cider foam from her sleeve. “Seattle sends us journalists now? Guess we made it big.”
“That’s me,” I say, laughing. “Bringing big-city flair to the pumpkin capital of Alaska.”
Lanie grins. “Don’t threaten me with a good headline like that.”
Before I can answer, a tall man in a flannel jacket joins us. Broad shoulders, steady eyes, and a stern expression on his face.
Quinn Carver. He was always the most serious of the siblings, even when we were kids.
“Taegen Miles,” he says, offering a firm handshake. “I remember you from Little League. You used to strike out Dylan every game.”
“Once,” I correct, though my cheeks warm. “And he never forgave me.”
Quinn’s mouth twitches.
“Well, he’s about to. He’s running tours this morning.” He glances past me toward the barn and raises his voice. “Dylan! Need you over here!”
The name lands like a pebble dropped into deep water.
I turn before I can think better of it.
He’s climbing down from a tractor, sun hitting his flannel-clad shoulders, a rag in one hand, grease on his forearms. Broader. Older. Different in all the right ways.
For a second, all I can think is: When did he start looking like that?
He spots me and slows. “Taegen.”
“Hey, stranger.” My voice comes out lighter than I mean it to.
Quinn claps a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“She’s writing an article about us. Needs the full tour—the works. Show her the new forest trail, yeah?”
Dylan’s jaw flexes once, the universal Carver sign for fine.
“Sure thing.”
Tricia grins. “You’re in good hands. He built half of what you’ll see.”
“Lucky me,” I say, even as my pulse misbehaves.
He offers his hand to help me climb into the trailer bed. It’s a small gesture, and polite. But when our fingers touch, a spark jumps like static.
I look up, and he’s already looking away, giving orders to Pumpkin—the golden retriever wagging at his heels.
The engine rumbles to life. Hay bales creak under me. I clutch my notebook, pretending to check settings on my camera.
“Ready?” he calls out without looking back.
“Absolutely,” I lie.
The truck jolts forward, bumping down the lane past rows of pumpkins glowing in the light. I try to focus on composition, on framing, on anything except the way his shoulder moves when he shifts gears.
This was supposed to be easy.
Get quotes. Get pictures. Get out.
But as the farm opens up around us—golden fields, the scent of cider, laughter drifting from somewhere unseen—I have a sinking, fluttering feeling that Patti’s going to get her skeletons after all.
Only this time, they might be mine.