Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Callum
I had a plan. It was a good plan.
Grab my toolbox and old hinges I'd salvaged from the clinic barn. Drive out to Sullivan Farm. Fix that chicken coop door I'd noticed hanging crooked during Buddy's checkup. Leave a brief note apologizing for being an idiot. Be back at the clinic before eight.
Simple. Helpful. No conversation required.
I'd had plenty of time to work out the details while not sleeping, monitoring Pudding's recovery. The puppy was doing well, eating, alert, and showing no signs of infection. Safe to leave him for an hour.
Which gave me exactly enough time to fix a chicken coop door and avoid human interaction.
Except now, pulling down the dirt lane at six-thirty in the morning, I could see a figure in the vegetable garden.
Rosie. Awake. Outside.
Watering lettuce beds in cutoff denim shorts, a faded t-shirt, and oversized sunglasses despite the sun barely cresting the mountains.
Well. There goes the plan.
I parked by the barn and killed the engine, staring at my steering wheel. So much for the note. Now I'd have to apologize in person. I knew deep down it was better this way. But it also meant I could mess this up again. Say the wrong thing.
I'd have to be careful.
I grabbed my toolbox and the hinges from the truck bed, heading toward the coop. Maybe if I just got started, headed over there quietly—
“What are you doing here?”
Rosie had abandoned the lettuce beds, one hand shading her eyes despite the sunglasses. Her voice carried across the yard, sharp enough to make the goats look up from their morning grazing.
I held up my toolbox. “Fixing your chicken coop door.”
She crossed the yard, arms folded. “Why?”
“Because it's broken.”
“I know it's broken.” She stopped a few feet away, squinting at me behind her sunglasses. “I asked why you're here fixing it.”
“Because I noticed it during Buddy's checkup.”
“And you thought you'd just show up at dawn and fix it without telling me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” She repeated, pushing the sunglasses up into her hair. I caught her wincing in the sunlight. “Why are you really here?”
I set the toolbox down, studying her. “Are you okay?”
“I'm fine.”
“You're squinting.”
“The sun's bright.”
“It's barely up.”
She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Fine. I had a bit too much fun last night. Something you clearly don't know how to have.”
I picked up the toolbox again. “Then I'll let you get back to your hangover.”
“That's not—” She huffed, following me toward the chicken coop. “You still haven't answered my question.”
“I was condescending yesterday.” I set the toolbox beside the crooked door, examining the broken hinge. “I'm fixing your chicken coop as an apology.”
“That's not an apology, that's just—”
“I'm sorry.” I turned back to look at her, meeting her eyes. When she didn't respond, I pulled out my socket wrench and focused on the broken hinge.
“That's it?” Rosalie finally said. “You show up unannounced, fix my stuff without asking, and throw out a half-hearted apology?”
“It wasn't half-hearted.”
“It sounded half-hearted.”
I glanced up. She stood there, arms crossed, wisps of hair escaping her ponytail. Even hungover and irritated, she looked—
Focus.
“I mean it.” I turned back to the door. “It wasn't fair. You offered help, and I shut you down like you were incapable. That was wrong.”
“Oh.” Her arms dropped slightly. “Well. Okay then.”
I worked in silence for a few minutes, removing the broken hinge. The tension in my shoulders eased. She was letting me do this. Accepting the apology without making it more complicated than it needed to be.
Good. This is good.
The chickens clucked nearby, unbothered by my presence.
Rosie hadn't left. I could hear her breathing behind me, feel her watching.
Why was she still there?
My mind scrambled for something neutral to say. Something that wouldn't sound condescending or dismissive or—
“You know, there are easier ways to water a garden.” I didn't look up from the hinge, but I felt Rosie shift behind me.
“I'm aware of how irrigation works.”
“Then why are you out here at dawn with a hose?”
Silence.
I glanced back. She'd crossed her arms again, jaw tight.
“I like watering by hand. It's soothing.”
“That doesn't sound efficient.”
“Not everything needs to be efficient, Cal.”
“I'm just saying… You're making extra work for yourself.” I lined up the new hinge, testing the fit. “Why not use the irrigation system?”
Another beat of silence.
“It's fine.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“The irrigation system is fine.”
I set down my wrench, turning to face her fully. “Rosie.”
“What?”
“If it was fine, you wouldn't be out here at six-thirty watering lettuce by hand when you could be in bed sleeping off your hangover.”
Her shoulders dropped slightly. “It's broken. Happy?”
“When did it break?”
“The day Walt left.” She pushed hair out of her face. “I tried to fix it. I made it worse. Now water shoots everywhere except where it's supposed to go.”
“Why didn't you call someone?”
“Who?” She threw up her hands. “I'm trying to keep the farm running, the animals fed, the garden alive. I don't have time to hunt down a plumber and wait around all day for them to show up.”
I knew that feeling a little too well. I finished tightening the new hinge, testing the door's swing. Much better.
“Show me.”
She blinked. “What?”
“The irrigation system.” I stood, brushing dirt off my jeans. “Show me.”
“Why?”
“Because I can probably fix it.”
She stared at me. “You're a vet.”
“Who converted a barn into a dog shelter.”
Her eyebrows rose slightly.
“I know my way around tools.” I picked up the toolbox. “Irrigation systems aren't that complicated.”
She studied me for a long moment, arms still crossed. The morning light caught the gold in her hair, made her freckles stand out against the flush from her cheeks.
“Fine.” She glanced back at the chicken coop door, which now swung smoothly and latched perfectly. Something flickered across her face—maybe relief, maybe gratitude. “Thank you. For that.”
I nodded, gripping the toolbox handle a little tighter. One less thing for her to worry about. One problem solved.
It shouldn't have felt as satisfying as it did.
“This way.” She led me across the yard, past the farmhouse and toward the garden.
I followed, focusing on the toolbox in my hand. The weight of it. The metal handle digging into my palm.
Not on how her cutoff shorts had a patch shaped like a strawberry on the back pocket. Or how her ponytail swung with each step. Or how the morning sun turned her profile golden when she glanced back to make sure I was following.
Stop noticing things.
We finally reached the garden area. Rosie opened the gate and let me through.
The space was bigger than it looked from the road. Neat rows of lettuce, tomatoes, zucchini, and half a dozen other vegetables—all green and thriving despite the broken irrigation. Flowers bordered the edges in bright clusters, probably for market bouquets.
She'd been managing all this by hand.
Rosie led me to the corner where a control box sat mounted on a post, tubes and connectors snaking out in multiple directions.
“Here.” She gestured at the mess. “Walt explained it once. Something about zones and timers and...” She trailed off, rubbing her temple. “It just blew up. Water went everywhere. Now nothing works right.”
I knelt beside the timer box, looking for the problem. Water stains ran down the main line where it connected to the lateral pipes. Could be pressure issues causing connections to blow, but I needed to check the whole system first.
“Turn it on.”
“You sure?”
“I need to see what happens.”
She reached for the manual override valve, hesitating. “Just so you know—”
Water erupted from three different points along the line before she'd even finished turning the valve. One jet shot straight up like a fountain. Another sprayed sideways across the lettuce beds. The third hit me square in the chest.
I twisted away, water soaking through my shirt. “Turn it off!”
“I'm trying!” She wrestled with the valve, which apparently stuck going both directions. Water kept spraying.
I lunged for the main shutoff, cranking it closed. The spray died to a trickle, then stopped.
Silence.
I looked down at my soaked shirt, then at Rosie, who had her lips pressed together, fighting a smile.
“I tried to warn you.”
Water dripped from my hair onto my shoulders. My shirt clung to my chest, cold and uncomfortable.
“Well. That's refreshing.” I wiped water off my face, then looked at my soaked shirt again.
Rosie's smile broke free. “I'm so sorry.”
“No you're not.”
“I'm a little sorry.” Her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. “You should've seen your face.”
“I imagine it looked wet.”
That did it. She doubled over, laughing so hard she had to brace her hands on her knees. The sound was bright and unrestrained, nothing like the guarded reception I'd gotten earlier.
I felt my mouth twitch despite the cold water seeping through my jeans.
“Are you done?”
“Almost.” She straightened, wiping her eyes. “Okay. I'm good.”
I crouched beside the control box again, examining the setup more carefully. The timer itself looked intact. The main line showed stress cracks near the connections, but that wasn't the root cause.
Then I spotted it.
“There.” I pointed at the pressure regulator mounted before the zone valves. The gauge needle sat firmly in the red zone. “Your pressure's way too high.”
Rosie leaned over my shoulder to look. “Is that bad?”
“It's why everything keeps blowing apart.” I pulled out my wrench. “The regulator's supposed to keep pressure steady. It's letting too much through.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Need to adjust it first. See if that helps.” I loosened the adjustment screw, watching the gauge. The needle dropped slowly back toward the green zone.
“Okay.” I stood, surveying the damage. “Pressure's regulated now, but we still need to replace these couplings.” I pointed at the three blown connections. “They're cracked. Won't hold even with proper pressure.”