Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Rosalie
If someone had told me three months ago that I'd find inner peace while sitting in dirt, holding scissors, I would've laughed in their face.
Yet here I was. Sitting cross-legged between rows of lavender and rosemary, cutting herbs into bundles while the evening sun painted everything gold.
The heat had finally broken. All day, I'd been melting—shirt sticking to my back, hair plastered to my forehead, even the chickens looking miserable in the shade. But now, with the sun sinking behind the mountains, the air felt almost cool. Perfect.
I held up a bundle of lavender, checking the stems. Even? Check. Tied tight enough to survive Saturday's market? Double check.
Look at me. Practically a homesteading goddess.
I moved on to rosemary, the woody stems harder to cut through. My hands smelled amazing, like I'd raided a fancy spa's essential oil collection.
Tomorrow was the farmers’ market. My first solo market. Without Walt's steady presence at the booth, without his easy charm with customers, without his encyclopedic knowledge of which tomatoes were best for sauce versus salad.
I should be panicking. Racing around like a caffeinated squirrel, triple-checking my egg inventory, obsessing over whether I had enough bouquets, practicing my sales pitch in the mirror.
Instead, I was sitting here. Cutting herbs. Watching the sunset.
Maybe it was the lavender. Or the rosemary. Or the way the mountains turned purple and pink in the fading light, like someone had gone wild with watercolors.
Whatever it was, I felt... good.
I snipped another rosemary bundle and added it to my growing pile.
The market booth setup was already loaded in the truck—folding table, cute vintage tablecloths I'd found in Walt's linen closet, a handpainted sign I'd stayed up late last night finishing.
The eggs were collected. The flowers were in buckets of water in the barn, staying cool.
I was ready. Ish. Ready-adjacent.
A bee drifted past my nose, landing on a lavender sprig. I watched it work, methodical and unbothered, moving from flower to flower with absolute purpose.
My phone rang, jolting me out of my peaceful daze. I grabbed it, grinning when I saw the name.
“Uncle Walt!” I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear, gathering rosemary bundles as I talked. “How's North Carolina?”
“I arrived yesterday,” Walt said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “And Rosie... it was perfect.”
“Yeah?” I dropped my scissors entirely, giving him my full attention. “Spill everything. Was Barbara even better in person? Did you trip getting out of the RV? Please tell me you didn't immediately start talking about farming.”
“Yes, no, and no.” He chuckled. “I pulled up to her place around three in the afternoon. Nice little house with a garden out front—she grows roses, would you believe it? Anyway, I'm walking up to the door, practicing what I'm gonna say, and it opens before I can even knock.”
I grinned. “She was watching for you.”
“She was watching for me,” he repeated, voice going soft. “Came right out onto the porch, and I just... stopped. All those video calls, all those late-night conversations, and suddenly she's there. Real. Standing in front of me.”
My throat tightened. “And?”
“And she said, 'Walter Sullivan, you're even more handsome in person.' Just like that. Bold as brass.”
I laughed, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand. “I like her so much.”
“We sat on her porch swing until sunset,” Walt continued. “Talked about everything and nothing. We're taking it slow, seeing the sights around here. Yesterday we went to this little antique shop she loves. I found a vintage feed scale I'm thinking about shipping back.”
“Uncle Walt.” I tried for stern. “You're not supposed to be thinking about the farm. That's a very farm-related purchase.”
“It's an antique.”
“It's a feed scale.”
“Fine, fine.” He laughed. “You're right. I'm supposed to be focusing on Barbara.”
“Exactly. You're on a romantic adventure. Leave the farming to me.” I paused, softening. “I'm so happy for you, Uncle Walt. Really. You deserve this.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. That means the world.” His voice shifted, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “Though I have to admit, much as I'm trying to keep my mind on Barbara... I wouldn't mind hearing how things are going back home.”
I smiled. “The farm's good. Really good, actually. Tomorrow's my first farmers' market.”
“Your first market.” Pride filled his voice. “How are you feeling about it?”
“Honestly? Pretty confident.” I surveyed my herb bundles, the loaded truck visible through the garden gate.
“I've got eggs, flowers, these gorgeous herb bundles I’m just finishing. The booth setup looks amazing! I found a vintage tablecloth in your linen closet, the one with the embroidered corners? It’s perfect. ”
“That was Grandma's,” Walt said softly. “She'd love to see it put to good use.”
Grandma Sullivan. I'd never met her, she passed before I was born, but somehow that made it matter more. Using her tablecloth at the market, carrying on what she and Walt had built here.
“Everything's ready to go.” I picked at a lavender stem. “I also made a new sign.”
“A sign?”
“Handpainted. It says 'Sullivan Farm' with little chickens around the border. Very professional.”
Walt chuckled. “Sounds like you've got it all sorted.”
“I do.” Pride swelled in my chest. “I've got this, Uncle Walt. Honestly.”
“That's my girl.” His voice warmed. “Oh, before I forget—have you paid the property taxes yet? The bill should've come in by now.”
My hand froze mid-reach for another rosemary bundle.
Property taxes.
Property taxes?
I stared at the bundles like they might suddenly reveal hidden knowledge about municipal finance.
“Oh, absolutely.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “Yeah, took care of that already.”
Smooth, Rosie. Very convincing.
“Good, good.” Walt sounded relieved. “I meant to handle it before I left, but everything happened so fast. The bill's usually around fifteen hundred, give or take. Should've been in the mail mid-month.”
Fifteen hundred dollars.
Mid-month.
I mentally scrolled through the stack of mail I'd been sorting into Walt's pile and my pile. Had there been something official-looking? Something from the county? Something I'd set aside thinking it was meant for Walt?
Oh no.
“Yep, all sorted.” I kept my voice bright and breezy. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I appreciate that, Rosie. One less thing on my mind.” He paused. “Barbara's calling me for dinner. We're grilling tonight.”
“Ooh, fancy.” I forced enthusiasm into my voice. “What's on the menu?”
“Steaks, corn on the cob, her famous potato salad.” He sounded genuinely excited. “She says I'm too skinny.”
I laughed despite the knot forming in my stomach. “Uncle Walt, you've been the same size since I was six. But let her feed you. Enjoy every second.”
“I will.” His voice softened. “Give the animals my love, will you?”
“Already done. They miss you, but they're in good hands.”
“The best hands.” He paused. “I'll call again next week. You take care of yourself, sweetheart.”
“You, too. Eat all the potato salad.”
We said our goodbyes, and I sat there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear even after he'd hung up. Uncle Walt, sitting on a porch swing with Barbara. Grilling steaks. Planning antique shop visits. Happy.
He deserves this so much.
Then reality crashed back in.
Crap crap crap.
Property taxes. Fifteen hundred dollars. Mid-month.
I scrambled to my feet, scattering lavender everywhere. The herb bundles could wait. The peaceful sunset vibes? Gone. Completely obliterated by municipal financial obligations.
I ran toward the farmhouse, nearly tripping over a garden hose.
Please let it be in the stack. Please let me have set it aside like a responsible adult who totally knows how property taxes work.
I burst through the back door, making a beeline for the kitchen counter where I'd been sorting mail into two piles: “Rosie's Problem” and “Definitely Walt's Problem, Will Forward Later.”
Tax bill, tax bill, where are you, you expensive little nightmare?
I rifled through Walt's stack. A tractor supply catalog. Something from the Colorado Farmer's Association. A flyer for an upcoming town event.
No tax bill.
Okay, don't panic.
I spun toward my pile. Junk mail, a flyer from the hardware store, something about internet service...
There.
A white envelope with the county seal. “PROPERTY TAX STATEMENT” printed across the top in bold letters.
Found you, you sneaky financial obligation.
I tore it open, scanning the numbers. Due date: June 30th. Amount: $1,547.82.
June 30th. That was... I checked my phone. Ten days away.
Okay. Not ideal, but manageable. Walt had set up farm accounts for exactly this kind of thing. I just needed to pay it.
Simple.
I grabbed the envelope and headed down the hall to Walt's office—a small room off the living room that smelled like old paper and wood polish. His desk sat beneath a window overlooking the front yard, and filing cabinets lined one wall.
I settled into his chair and opened my laptop, pulling up the bank accounts.
Current balance: $3,204.56
Not terrible. Not great, but not terrible.
Except...
I grabbed a notebook and started listing expenses. Feed delivery next week. Vet bill for Buddy's checkup. Weekly farmers market booth fee. Gas for the truck. That weird supplement Walt had mentioned for Buddy's joints.
Then there were the regular bills. Electric. Water. Internet. My own groceries. Truck insurance.
I stared at the numbers, then at the bank balance, then back at the numbers.
After the tax payment and monthly expenses, things would be tight.
Really tight.
I should panic. This was definitely panic-worthy. This was the kind of situation that called for hyperventilating into a paper bag while questioning every life choice that led to this moment.
Instead, I sat there. Staring at the numbers. Breathing slowly.
This was it. The moment where I should call Walt back.
Tell him I couldn't do it. Admit I'd bitten off more than I could chew.
Let my mom know I'd be back in Seattle in ten days, and yes, I'd take that boring assistant position at her firm.
The one with the beige cubicle and the boss who microwaved fish in the break room.
I could practically hear my mom's relieved sigh. Thank goodness you came to your senses, Rosie.
My finger hovered over Walt's contact.
One call. That's all it would take.
Except...
No.
The word rose up from somewhere deep, visceral and immediate.
No. Absolutely not. Not happening.
There wasn't a single fiber of my being that wanted to go back. Not to Seattle, not to corporate life, not to playing it safe because safe was easier than scary.
I'd left for a reason. Multiple reasons. Aaron. The soul-crushing monotony of designing the same boring corporate presentations. The feeling of slowly disappearing into someone else's idea of who I should be.
I'd come here because this place made me feel like myself. The girl who collected eggs with dirt under her fingernails. Who talked to goats like they were people. Who handpainted signs at midnight and thought it was the best use of her time.
That girl didn't quit when things got hard.
That girl stayed. That girl fought. That girl figured it out.
So how was I going to figure this out?
I tapped my pen against the notebook, staring at the numbers like they might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying.
Money. I needed money.
Not a fortune. Just enough to cover the gap between what I had and what I needed. Enough to keep the farm running without draining the account to nothing.
I pulled the notebook closer and started a new list: Ways to Make More Money at the Market.
Eggs. I had those. Walt's regulars would buy them. But eggs were eggs—there was only so much I could charge for a dozen, even if they were farm-fresh and rainbow-colored.
Flowers. Same deal. Pretty, seasonal, but not exactly a money-maker. People bought them as treats, not necessities.
Vegetables. It was still early in the season—mostly fresh greens for now. Lettuce, spinach, some gorgeous rainbow chard that looked like nature's art project. Later I'd have tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, all the good stuff.
But that still wasn't enough.
I needed something interesting. Something nobody else had. Something that would make people stop at my booth instead of walking past to the bakery booth two stalls down with their amazing pies.
Think, Rosie. What do you have that nobody else does?
My gaze drifted back to the window. The sun had nearly set now, painting everything in shades of purple and orange. Beautiful. Peaceful. Completely unhelpful for generating revenue.
Movement caught my eye. Snickers, standing at her pen gate. Pushing it with her nose. Testing the latch with what I could only describe as scientific precision.
Don't you dare, you fuzzy little criminal.
The latch held. For now.
But watching her—clever, persistent, absolutely determined to cause chaos—and something clicked.
Goat milk.
I sat up straighter.
I'd been milking the goats every morning, following Walt's instructions like a dutiful farmer. Saving the milk in mason jars in the fridge because I wasn't sure what else to do with it. The jars were piling up, a monument to my lack of planning.
Lotion. Soap. Cheese. Those fancy farmers’ market people loved that stuff. Paid ridiculous prices for handmade artisan whatever-it-was.
I could make those things. Couldn't I?
People had been making soap for centuries. If medieval housewives could figure it out, surely I could manage.
My mind raced ahead, already seeing it. A beautiful market display. Rustic labels. Little sample jars of lotion for people to try. Bars of soap wrapped in brown paper and twine, smelling like lavender and looking expensive.
This is it. This is the answer.
I just needed the goats to collaborate.
I looked back out the window. Snickers had given up on the latch and was now headbutting Sugar for no apparent reason.
Piece of cake.