Dahlia
She looked down at her feet. She'd chosen a pair of mahogany leather boots for her walk into the northern pumpkin fields. They were Italian leather, styled with a flatter heel that was meant for carpeted offices and paved city streets, not the uneven terrain of western Massachusetts. She hadn’t been able to find where the rubber farm boots were kept, as they weren’t in the usual place and her sisters were still asleep.
Across the cedar fence that separated the Marchetti farm from the neighboring land, a man was standing near a tractor.
It was Beckett Shaw. He was wearing his usual denim jacket and a faded cap, his broad shoulders squared as he leaned against the fence post. He was watching her.
He didn't wave, and he didn't call out, but his eyes were locked on her as she struggled to maintain her balance in her ruined boots.
Beckett adjusted his cap, his weathered face showing a dry amusement that made her jaw tighten.
He walked slowly toward the fence line, his sturdy work boots moving with a quiet familiarity over the damp earth.
He looked at her notebook, then down at her mud-clogged boots, and finally up at her face.
"They're city boots," Beckett corrected, leaning his forearms against the top rail of the fence. "They aren't made for wet clay. You'll ruin the leather, and you'll probably twist your ankle before you reach the boundary wall."
Dahlia took a step closer to the fence, her heels sinking another inch into the mud. "I'm conducting a professional assessment of the farm's assets. I need to document the state of the northern irrigation lines for our operating plan."
"An operating plan," Beckett repeated, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her polished appearance. "I suppose that means you’re planning to package this place up and run back to Chicago the moment the harvest's over."
"The will requires us to keep the farm operational," Dahlia replied, holding his gaze and refusing to let her defensiveness show in her tone. "My goal's to stabilize the business so we can hire a professional manager. That's the most logical way to protect our family's interest."
"A manager," Beckett said, his voice dropping as he looked out over the mist-covered fields. "Your mother didn't build this farm with logical operating plans, Dahlia. She built it with her own hands, and she did it for the people here, not for some corporate spreadsheet."
Dahlia felt the heavy guilt tighten in her chest, but she pushed it down, hiding it behind her professional tone. "A spreadsheet's what'll keep this farm from going into foreclosure, Beckett. If we don't manage the debt, there won't be any fields left for anyone to build anything on."
She looked away from him, her eyes tracing the line of the fence where the cedar posts met the morning mist. She could feel his stubborn presence just feet away, a reminder of the life she'd left behind thirty-two years ago, and she knew that keeping her distance was going to be much harder than she'd promised herself.
A metallic clang echoed from the tree line, followed by a loud, wet hiss. The sound cut through the quiet morning mist, causing Dahlia to freeze. She looked toward the low stone wall that separated the Marchetti fields from the Shaw property.
"The northern pump is acting up again," Beckett said, his voice dropping as he stepped over the mossy stones onto her side of the property line.
"You shouldn't be on this side of the wall, Beckett," Dahlia replied, holding her leather portfolio tightly against her chest as her boot sank another inch into the cold clay.
"I wouldn't be here if your pipes weren't leaking all over my alfalfa field," Beckett answered, his boots leaving deep tracks in the mud as he walked toward a cluster of overgrown blackberry bushes.
Dahlia followed him, her breath coming in quick puffs in the chilly air as she struggled to keep her balance on the slippery ground.
"The irrigation system is our responsibility, and I'm going to hire a professional plumber to handle the maintenance next week," Dahlia explained, her voice tight with defensiveness.
"Next week will be too late for the late-harvest pumpkins," Beckett countered, kneeling down in the wet grass near the base of a rusted iron pipe.
A high-pitched squeal rose from the pipe, and a sudden spray of cold water erupted from a hairline crack in the black plastic coupling.
The mist soaked Dahlia's face and splattered across the cover of her neat portfolio.
She gasped and took a hasty step backward, her heel catching on a thick maple root nearly sending her toppling over.
She managed to catch her balance without embarrassingly crashing to the ground.
"Hold this," Beckett ordered, thrusting a heavy iron wrench toward her.
Dahlia grabbed the cold metal tool, her fingers slipping against the wet handle.
"I am perfectly capable of calling a repair service from my phone," Dahlia retorted, her chin rising as she blinked the spray from her eyelashes.
"The water is flooding the lower ditch right now," Beckett pointed out, his hands already deep in the dark mud as he searched for the shut-off valve. "If we don't close this valve immediately, the pressure will split the main line."
"Where is the valve?" Dahlia asked, glancing around.
"It is under that rusted iron cover near your left foot." Beckett's fingers strained against a stubborn brass bolt.
Dahlia knelt in the wet grass, ignoring the cold moisture that instantly soaked through the knees of her pants. She reached for the heavy metal cover, her fingers slipping on the wet rust.
"This cover is completely jammed," Dahlia complained, her fingers turning red from the cold metal.
"Use the handle of the wrench to pry it open," Beckett suggested, his forehead beaded with sweat despite the chilly fall morning.
Dahlia slid the flat end of the iron wrench beneath the lip of the rusted cover. She pressed down with all her weight, her jaw clenching as she strained against the stubborn metal. With a loud grunt, the lid popped loose, revealing a dark concrete chamber filled with murky water.
"I see the brass wheel," Dahlia announced, her heart pounding with a strange rush of adrenaline.
"Turn it clockwise," Beckett commanded, his voice tight as he tried to hold the split coupling together with his bare hands.
"It is stuck," Dahlia gasped, her fingers struggling to find a grip on the slimy metal.
"Use both hands," Beckett urged, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding the high-pressure leak. "You have to force it."
Dahlia placed both hands on the wheel, digging her fingers into the metal ridges.
She took a deep breath and threw her entire weight into the turn.
The valve gave a sudden, scraping screech and turned.
The rushing sound of water inside the pipe faded to a gentle trickle, and the spray died down to a slow drip.
Dahlia sat back on her heels, her hands covered in black rust and her sleeve dripping with muddy water. She looked up at Beckett, who was sitting in the mud across from her. A smear of dark grease ran across his jaw, and his shirt was soaked through.
"You're a mess, " Beckett remarked, a small smile appearing at the corners of his mouth.
"You aren't exactly ready for a catalog shoot yourself," Dahlia countered, wiping her wet cheek with the back of her clean wrist.
"At least the water is off, and the main line is saved," Beckett added, shaking the mud from his fingers.
"Thank you," Dahlia said, her voice softening as she accepted his outstretched hand to pull her up.
His hand was warm and rough, his grip firm as he lifted her easily from the wet ground. For a brief second, Dahlia felt the warmth of his fingers on her damp skin, a sudden contrast to the chilly morning air. She quickly pulled her hand back and smoothed her coat.
"Your mother always kept a spare set of brass couplings in the green tool chest in the cider barn," Beckett mentioned, looking down at the split pipe.
"I’ll add that to my operating list," Dahlia replied, her fingers searching her damp pockets for her pen.
"You don't need a list for this," Beckett told her, his tone turning serious as he looked at her portfolio. "You just need to go to the barn and get the brass parts."
"A list is how I ensure tasks are completed efficiently," Dahlia asserted, holding her ground despite the mud on her trousers.
"Some things on a farm can’t be managed with spreadsheets," Beckett said, turning his back to her as he began to examine the damaged threads on the iron riser. "Your mother knew that. She knew that some problems require a wrench, not a corporate meeting."
"My mother is gone," Dahlia reminded him, her voice carrying a clear edge of grief that she hadn't intended to show. “And perhaps, if she did use a spreadsheet or two, the farm wouldn’t be in the mess it currently is.”
Beckett stopped working. He stood perfectly still for a moment, his broad shoulders tense under his wet shirt. He turned slowly to face her, his blue-gray eyes dark.
"I know she's gone. I'm the one who was here when it happened," Beckett said softly, the words hanging heavy in the chilly morning air. “Your mother managed things as best she could with the resources she had.”
The silence between them was thick, broken only by the steady dripping of water from the repaired coupling. Dahlia stared at him, her throat tightening as she tried to find a response that didn't sound defensive.
The muddy water pooled around the cuffs of Dahlia's gray pants, but she barely felt the dampness soaking into her skin.
She watched as Beckett tightened the rusted brass coupling with one forceful turn of his wrench.
The hiss of escaping air died down, replaced by the steady gurgle of water rushing through the PVC pipe.