Chapter 15
Patrick Flynn had seen his great-nephew angry plenty of times before, but rarely with the particular intensity that now darkened Jack’s face as he caught sight of the tourist. The lad’s shoulders went rigid beneath his jacket, jaw clenching tight enough that Patrick could almost hear teeth grinding.
Outside, clouds scudded across the sun, momentarily dimming the golden light that had filled the shop seconds before. The timing wasn’t lost on Patrick – nature itself seeming to acknowledge the sudden shift in atmosphere.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Jack demanded, his voice low and hard as he stepped fully into the shop. Soil clung to his boots, leaving small clumps on the worn wooden floor. His hands – capable hands that could graft a sapling with surgical precision – clenched and unclenched at his sides.
The woman straightened her spine, those green eyes flashing with defiance. ‘I’m shopping,’ she replied coolly, holding up a jar of apple butter. ‘That’s what shops are for, isn’t it?’
Jack took another step forward. ‘I thought I made myself clear before. This is private property.’
‘The sign outside says “Open”, ’ the American girl countered, setting the jar down with deliberate care. ‘And your uncle has been kind enough to answer my questions about your products.’
Patrick watched the exchange with curiosity.
Jack’s hostility seemed disproportionate, even accounting for his usual wariness of strangers.
The lad practically vibrated with tension, though Patrick couldn’t help noticing how his gaze kept returning to the woman’s face, despite his evident desire to dismiss her.
‘Jack,’ Patrick said mildly, moving from behind the table with unhurried steps, ‘this lady has been expressing interest in our heritage varieties. Good eye for quality, she has.’
Jack’s head snapped toward him, betrayal flashing across his features. ‘She’s been asking about more than apples too, I’d wager.’ He turned back to her. ‘What was it this time? Production volumes? Property boundaries? Or straight to the land valuation?’
Patrick felt his eyebrows rise. He thought she was from one of those corporate outfits, then. That explained the heightened reaction, though not the intensity of it.
The woman set down the jar she’d been examining, her movements controlled but her cheeks flushing. ‘For the last time, I’m not interested in buying your orchard. I’m a tourist visiting my grandmother’s homeland, nothing more.’
‘A tourist who just happens to know about discontinued Sunrise cider? A tourist who just happens to find her way through the lake trail to our boundary? A tourist who conveniently appears right when Crest is making another push to acquire us?’ Jack’s voice rose with each question, filling the small shop.
‘I told you I don’t know who or what Crest is,’ she insisted, matching his intensity. ‘And I’ve already explained how I knew about the oak – Eva told me.’
Patrick cleared his throat, drawing both their attention.
‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, his voice cutting through the tension, ‘we might all take a breath.’ He turned to Jack.
‘Whatever you think this young woman’s intentions are, she’s still a customer in our shop.
We’ve never turned away anyone wanting to buy our apples, not in four generations. ’
Jack’s expression hardened further. ‘Times change. And we’ve never had so many corporate vultures circling.
’ He gestured toward her. ‘They send them in looking friendly, asking innocent questions, getting the lay of the land before the men in suits show up with their threats about “market realities”. ’
‘I’m not—’ the woman began, but Jack cut her off.
‘I want you off my land,’ he said flatly. ‘Now.’
Patrick felt a flare of irritation. The lad had good reason to be suspicious after the Crest Beverages business, but this was different. There was something genuine about the woman, something Jack was too blinded by his fears to see.
‘That’s enough, Jack,’ Patrick said, his voice firmer now. His age and the legacy of raising the boy gave weight to his words, stopping Jack short. ‘This lady is a guest, and she’ll leave when she’s ready. If she wants to purchase something before she goes, all the better for our accounts.’
The silence that followed was thick enough to slice. Jack stared at him, disbelief and embarrassment warring in his expression. She looked between them, clearly uncomfortable at being the cause of family friction.
‘I should go,’ she said quietly, heading for the door. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Flynn.’ The formality was clearly meant for Patrick alone.
‘Take this with you,’ he said, reaching for a bottle of their premium reserve cider. ‘Consider it an apology for the … misunderstanding.’ He met Jack’s glare with calm certainty, daring the younger man to contradict him.
She hesitated, then accepted the bottle with a small smile that transformed her face in a way that made Patrick’s heart constrict for some reason.
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘A poor substitute for proper hospitality,’ Patrick said, walking her toward the door. ‘Perhaps you’ll give us another chance at the festival if you’re still here.’
Jack made a sound that might have been protest, but Patrick silenced him with a look honed over decades of authority. Some battles weren’t worth fighting in front of strangers, and the lad knew it.
The woman paused at the threshold, the bottle cradled against her chest like something precious. ‘I’d like that,’ she said softly, then added with a glance toward Jack, ‘though not everyone seems to share the sentiment.’
‘Don’t mind him,’ Patrick said, lowering his voice though he knew Jack could still hear. ‘Bark’s worse than his bite.’
A smile flickered across her face. ‘So I’ve heard.’ With a final nod of thanks, she stepped outside, the door closing behind her with a soft thud.
Patrick turned to find Jack radiating silent fury, arms crossed tight across his chest. Beyond him, through the shop window, the woman’s figure receded down the path toward the main gate, autumn sunlight catching in her dark hair.
‘What are you playing at?’ Jack demanded once she was out of earshot. ‘Inviting that one to the festival? Giving away our reserve stock?’
Patrick moved back behind the counter, taking his time to gather his thoughts. Age had its privileges, including the right to make others wait for answers. He adjusted a display of honey jars before replying.
‘I don’t share your conviction that the girl’s here with ill intent,’ he said finally. ‘She asked good questions. Showed genuine interest in our methods, our history.’
‘That’s their technique,’ Jack insisted, stalking closer to the counter. ‘They research you, figure out what you’re proud of, then use it to soften you up before the kill. I’ve seen it before.’
The Crest affair had left deeper scars than he’d realized. Patrick studied his great-nephew’s face – the stubborn set of his jaw, the defensive posture, the almost desperate need to protect. All admirable qualities in their way, but sometimes a man’s strengths could blind him to opportunities.
‘She understands modern sales better than you or me,’ Patrick continued. ‘Said some interesting things about how we could better show what makes Goldenridge special without compromising our values.’
‘We don’t need marketing advice from some Yank blow-in who doesn’t know the first thing about apple growing,’ Jack muttered, but with less conviction than before.
Patrick hid a smile. The lad’s defenses were cracking, just a little. ‘Knew enough to appreciate the Pippin at first bite.’ He paused, then added casually, ‘Pretty thing, isn’t she? Even when she’s angry.’
The color that rose to Jack’s cheeks confirmed what Patrick had suspected since the moment his great-nephew had burst through the door – the lad’s intense reaction wasn’t solely about business concerns.
‘That’s got nothing to do with anything,’ Jack said stiffly. He pushed away from the counter, clearly eager to escape the conversation. ‘I need to get back to the irrigation lines in the east section. Those new couplings are leaking again.’
Patrick nodded, recognizing the retreat for what it was. ‘Clean those boots before you track half the orchard through the place. Brid’s coming up with the hotel order later, and you know how she notices dirt.’
With a grunt of acknowledgment, Jack headed for the door. He paused with his hand on the latch, looking back with a frown still creasing his brow. ‘Don’t go inviting her to anything else,’ he said, an attempt at firmness undermined by uncertainty. ‘The American one. I don’t trust her.’
The door banged as he left, leaving Patrick alone in the quiet shop. Outside, the clouds had parted, allowing sunlight to stream once more through the small windows.
He moved back to the table, his old joints protesting the day’s exertions.
Jack’s suspicion was understandable but misplaced.
The girl wasn’t a threat – of that, Patrick was certain.
Whether she might be a blessing remained to be seen, but he’d lived long enough to recognize possibility when it appeared on his doorstep.
As for Jack’s reaction to her – that fierce, immediate intensity that went beyond mere suspicion – Patrick had recognized that too. The lad might insist he distrusted the woman, but his face told a different story.
The way his eyes followed her movements, the heightened color in his face when she challenged him, the tension that crackled between them like static before a storm – Patrick had seen it all before in various guises.
Maybe inviting the woman to the festival might have been a brainwave? God knew Jack needed more in his life besides apples. Patrick worried enough as it was that the lad didn’t seem to live for anything else but the orchard.
Much as he too loved Goldenridge, that really wasn’t a life at all. Something Patrick himself understood all too well.