Settling Home (Alder Creek #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Rosalie

“The goats are not supposed to eat your laundry, right?”

Uncle Walt laughed from the RV's driver seat, his weathered hands adjusting the rearview mirror. “Only if you leave it on the line past noon. Snickers gets hungry around that time.”

I shifted my weight on the gravel driveway, trying for a smile that didn't scream please don't leave me alone just yet. The morning sun was already too warm on my shoulders, and it wasn't even nine o'clock.

“You'll be fine, Rosie.” Walt climbed down and pulled me into a hug that smelled like diesel and hay. “You've got this.”

“Sure. Absolutely.” I stepped back, mentally cataloging everything that had broken in the past three weeks.

“The irrigation timer is making weird noises, the chicken coop door is held together with hope and duct tape, and yesterday Snickers ate half a bag of grain because I forgot to latch the feed bin.”

“She's always been an opportunist.”

“Maybe if you hadn't named your goats after desserts, they wouldn't have such an appetite.”

Walt's grin widened. “That's all Barbara's doing. We got to talking about favorite cookies, and… well, seemed fitting at the time.”

Barbara. The widow from North Carolina who'd turned my practical, routine-loving uncle into someone who wore his nicest flannel shirts and checked his phone every hour.

I'd never met her, but I already loved her.

Walt deserved this, deserved someone who made him light up like he had when he'd shown me her picture.

Last week, I caught him practicing what to say before a video call.

It was both adorable and slightly terrifying, watching my down-to-earth uncle turn into a smitten teenager.

Still, the timing could've been better. I could've used another week with him. Or another month. At the minimum, after he'd finished teaching me which valve controlled what in the irrigation system.

“Snickerdoodle, Sugar Cookie, and Chocolate Chip,” I recited, watching the goat trio in question hanging out by the barn.

Snickers, the cream-colored troublemaker with brown spots, was already testing a latch with her nose.

Sugar, solid white and sweet, stood nearby hoping for treats.

Chip bounced around them both, black and white and perpetually covered in dirt despite my best grooming efforts yesterday.

“Sugar's the only one who acts like her name,” I pointed out. “The other two are menaces.”

“They keep things interesting.”

Interesting. Right. That was one word for waking up to find Snickers had somehow opened the feed room and distributed hay across the barn floor while Chip headbutted the water bucket until it tipped over. Sugar had watched the chaos unfold, probably hoping I'd give her apple slices for being good.

Now that Walt was leaving, they were mine to care for. Along with two dozen hens who'd decided laying eggs was optional, a horse who needed careful feeding so he wouldn't overeat, and approximately eight thousand things I'd nodded along to when Walt explained them but definitely hadn't retained.

“You've got my number,” Walt said, jangling his keys. “Call anytime.”

“You're meeting Barbara. I'm not calling unless something's on fire.”

“Rosie—”

“Go.” I shooed him toward the RV. “Have fun. Be safe. Send pictures.”

“Call before a fire, please?” Walt paused with his hand on the RV door. “You know, when things are still smoldering and preventable?”

“That's what fire extinguishers are for.”

“The one under the kitchen sink expired last year.”

I stared at him. “You're telling me this now? As you're leaving?”

“Miller's Hardware has them on sale. James will set you up.” He grinned, clearly enjoying himself.

“Already added to my list.” Right between 'figure out why the irrigation timer hates me' and 'convince Snickers that the feed room isn't a buffet.'

Walt's expression softened, the teasing fading. “I'm really glad you said yes to this place, Rosie. Wasn't sure you would.”

My throat tightened. Three months ago, I'd been sitting in my Seattle apartment with a broken heart and a phone call that had changed everything. How'd you like to run the farm? Walt had asked, casual as anything, like he was offering me leftover pie instead of forty years of his life's work.

“Yeah, well.” I kicked at a loose stone, suddenly fascinated by the gravel. “Seemed like the right time for a change.”

The right time. That's what we call getting dumped and realizing your entire life plan was built on someone else's foundation. Just a change. Not a total life implosion that sends you running to the mountains with your uncle's goats as your new roommates.

“Something special about this place. Gave me forty good years. Figure it's got plenty more to give.”

“No pressure or anything.”

“You'll figure it out. You always do.” He squeezed my shoulder. “And Rosie? I'm proud of you.”

My eyes stung, and I blinked hard against the sudden pressure. I wasn't sure he should be proud. Not yet, anyway. Maybe not ever, depending on how the next few months went.

But it felt good to hear someone say it. Someone who believed I could actually do this, when most days I wasn't entirely convinced myself.

September. That was the deadline I'd given myself. Four months until the farmers market season ended and reality would catch up. Four months to prove I could turn childhood summers into an actual life. Before I'd have to look at the numbers and admit if this was all a beautiful disaster.

Before I'd have to slink back to Seattle with my tail between my legs if I failed.

Mom had already lined up an assistant job at her office. Just in case, she'd said, like she knew exactly how this would end. Filing. Scheduling. Answering phones and fetching coffee. Nothing creative, nothing mine. A safety net that felt more like a cage.

No. I'm going to make this work. I have to.

Because I'd said yes to this place, to Walt's faith in me, and I wasn't ready to let either of us down.

I finally met Walt's gaze, the corners of my lips tugging up despite everything. “Go meet your girlfriend before I start crying and scare all the animals.”

Walt's smile could've powered the whole valley. “Barbara's expecting me in North Carolina by Friday. Got the whole route mapped out. I'm stopping at the Grand Canyon, Memphis, the Smoky Mountains...”

I snorted. “That's a lot of driving.”

“That's the point.” He winked at me before climbing into the RV. Settling into the driver's seat, he looked as excited as a teenager who'd just gotten his license. “Haven't had an adventure in years. About time I started living a little.”

Through the windshield, I could see the GPS already mounted on the dash, a thermos in the cup holder, and what looked like a new pair of aviator sunglasses hanging from the visor. Walt had prepared. This wasn't a man having second thoughts.

“Tell Barbara I said hi,” I called up. “And that she's got great taste in farmers.”

“Will do.” He started the engine, and the RV rumbled to life. “Remember, Buddy gets hay twice a day, but watch his portions. He'll act like he's starving, but he's a con artist.”

“Got it. Buddy's a liar.”

“And check the coop latch every night. Snickers knows how to—”

“Walt. Go.”

He laughed, shifting into gear. “All right, all right. I'm going.”

I stepped back as the RV rolled down the long driveway. Walt honked twice, our old signal from when he'd dropped me at the bus station after summer visits, and then he was turning onto the main road, headed east toward his grand cross-country adventure.

The dust settled.

The RV disappeared around the bend.

And I was alone.

Completely, utterly, spectacularly alone on a farm I barely knew how to run.

The silence felt enormous. No engine rumbling, no Walt calling out instructions, just the rustle of leaves and the distant clucking of hens who were probably plotting their daily rebellion against laying eggs.

I stood there like an idiot, watching the empty road as if Walt might change his mind and come back.

He wouldn't. And honestly? I didn't want him to.

This was my chance. My fresh start.

The farm stretched around me—thirty-five acres of possibility and terror. Vegetables that needed tending, flowers for market bouquets, an orchard I'd somehow have to manage come harvest time. Animals depending on me to keep them alive. Equipment that spoke a language I was still learning.

September. I had until September to make this work.

I could do this. I'd spent ten summers here. I knew this place.

Except I'd been a kid then, collecting eggs and helping at the farmers market, not actually responsible for keeping everything alive and functional.

Okay, Rosie. Deep breath. You've got this.

I turned toward the barn. Snickers was eating the corner of a feed sack from a bin I'd definitely latched last night.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

She looked up, chaff sticking to her beard, completely unbothered.

Sugar trotted over, hopeful eyes fixed on my empty hands. Chip headbutted my leg, just for fun.

Day one. This is fine. Everything's fine.

“Right,” I said to nobody. “Let's see what else can go wrong before lunch.”

I'd made it exactly three steps toward the barn when my phone rang.

Walt's name lit up the screen.

Of course.

“Miss me already?” I answered, watching Snickers try to drag the feed sack out of the bin.

“Just passed the vet clinic in town.”

I waited. “And?”

“Doc Sterling's coming Tuesday. Buddy's annual checkup.”

“You made it to town and you're still giving me instructions?”

“Just keep an eye out for him. He'll probably show up around ten, maybe eleven. Hard to pin him down on exact times since he covers half the county.”

“Noted. So I just—what, have Buddy ready? Does he need to be in the barn? Groomed? Should I bake cookies?”

Walt laughed. “Just have him where Cal can find him. Barn's fine. Doc's used to working with him.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Cal's good at his job. Knows his stuff, doesn't waste time.” Walt paused. “Bit rough around the edges, but don't take it personal. He's got a lot on his plate.”

Rough around the edges. Great.

“Define rough.”

“Just don't expect small talk. He'll check Buddy, tell you what needs doing, and be on his way.”

Just great. Another man who would definitely think I'm too much. I'd had my fill of that particular hobby back in Seattle.

“Sounds delightful.”

“He runs a dog rescue behind the clinic too. Good man, even if he doesn't like to show it.”

I filed that away under 'information that doesn't help me right now' and refocused on Snickers, who'd abandoned the feed sack in favor of investigating the barn door latch.

“Anything else you forgot to mention? Surprise inspection? A goat rebellion?”

“That's it. Promise.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Rosie—”

“Drive, Walt. Barbara's waiting.”

He chuckled. “Tuesday morning. You'll be fine.”

The line went dead.

I lowered the phone and looked at Buddy, who'd wandered over to the fence and was watching me with his calm, seen-it-all expression.

“Apparently you have a doctor's appointment.”

Buddy blinked.

“With someone who's rough around the edges but good at his job.”

The horse shifted his weight, unbothered.

“Right,” I said aloud, mostly to convince myself I had a plan. “Chickens. I should feed the chickens.”

Buddy watched me trek toward the coop with what I swear was skepticism.

The hens were already making noise—clucks and squawks that managed to sound accusatory. Like I was late. Which I wasn't. It was barely nine.

I unlatched the coop door and stepped into the chaos of feathers and indignation.

“Good morning, ladies.”

Twenty-four sets of beady eyes fixed on me.

This is fine. They're just birds. Small, judgmental birds who may or may not decide to lay eggs today depending on their mood.

I grabbed the feed scoop from the bin, trying to remember Walt's ratio. One scoop per four hens? Or was it two scoops per six? Maybe it was just “fill the feeders and hope for the best.”

That one. Definitely that one.

The hens swarmed my feet the second I started pouring, pecking and shoving for the best position. One particularly bold Rhode Island Red—I'd mentally named her General Cluckington—hopped onto the feeder before I'd finished filling it.

“Excuse you. I'm working here.”

She fluffed her feathers and settled in like she owned the place.

She probably does.

I topped off the waterer, collected a dozen eggs from the nesting boxes, and backed out before anyone decided my shoelaces looked edible.

The air had warmed noticeably in the time since Walt left, the kind of heat that promised no mercy by afternoon.

The mountains rose around the farm like protective walls, their peaks still touched with snow even in June.

Walt's land—my land now, apparently—stretched across the valley floor in a patchwork of green pasture, garden beds that desperately needed weeding, and the creek that marked the eastern border.

It looked peaceful. Idyllic, even.

Looks can be deceiving.

I headed back to the barn, mentally running through the morning checklist. Goats: fed, watered, and currently plotting their next break in. Chickens: fed, watered, and most likely hiding eggs from me. Buddy—

A loud crack split the air.

I spun toward the sound.

The garden irrigation timer box hung open, its plastic cover dangling by one hinge. Water sprayed from a broken coupling, turning the garden into a muddy mess.

“No. No, no, no.”

I ran.

The valve was somewhere in this system—Walt had shown me, I'd watched him do it—but the sprays were already soaking the lettuce beds, pooling around the tomato cages, turning three weeks of careful watering schedules into a disaster zone.

Think. There's a shutoff. He showed you the shutoff.

My hands were already wet, my shirt plastered to my skin, and the valve—there—half-hidden behind the timer box and currently being defended by the world's most aggressive spray of water.

I lunged for it.

The coupling sprayed me directly in the face.

Great. This is going to be an interesting summer.