6. Dahlia
DAHLIA
Dahlia stood on the porch of the farmhouse, her fingers curled tightly around the brass zipper of her fleece vest. The morning air was cool and damp, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke from the valley.
Behind her, the kitchen was completely silent.
Junie had spent the last two days operating in a state of frosty efficiency, communicating only when a chore required immediate coordination.
Dahlia had tried to find a way to apologize, to breach the wall that had risen between them on the kitchen floor, but she hadn't found the words.
Dahlia sighed, thinking about Beckett’s expression at the meeting after seeing her take the card from the developer.
She closed her eyes and breathed. This was not going as well or as smoothly as she thought it would, and the realization that she may have to stay here a bit longer than she initially thought struck her.
While the thought of staying longer should’ve annoyed her, she felt a flicker of excitement instead. Dahlia gave herself a mental shake. Get a grip, Dahlia. Don’t get trapped in this small town charm, she admonished herself.
She needed to get out of the house. More than that, she needed to assess the property's physical assets to complete her restructuring proposal.
That was the professional explanation she'd prepared.
It was much easier to focus on fence lines and barn rafters than the hollow ache in her chest or the memory of Beckett's face in the church fellowship hall.
Dahlia crossed the gravel driveway and made her way toward the northern boundary, her eyes fixed on the cedar fence line that separated their properties.
Across the field, the low rumble of a tractor engine cut through the autumn quiet.
Beckett's machine sat idling near his equipment shed, its dark exhaust pipe puffing thin rings into the gray sky.
Beckett himself was bent over the engine compartment, his broad shoulders visible beneath his faded canvas jacket.
Dahlia stopped on her side of the fence, her hand resting on the weathered wood of the top rail.
The cedar was rough, the grain damp and cold against her palm.
She unzipped her portfolio, her fingers cold as she slid out the rolled-up county parcel map.
She didn't call out. She simply waited, her heart hammering against her ribs as she watched him work.
Beckett
Beckett walked around and switched off the tractor before going back to the hood and reaching for a grease-stained iron wrench from his metal toolbox.
He tightened a bolt on the manifold, his jaw set in a straight line.
He'd wiped some grease onto his thigh, leaving a dark streak across his jeans.
He didn't look up, though he'd heard her approach.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick, punctuated only by the rhythmic chug of the tractor engine.
After a long moment, Beckett set the wrench down with a hollow clank against the metal frame of the machine.
He didn't turn around immediately. He wiped his palms on a rag, his movements deliberate, before he finally faced her.
His eyes were dark and unreadable, his posture rigid as he stood on the other side of the cedar barrier.
"I didn't expect to see you at the fence," he said, his voice low and dry, carrying no warmth.
"I need to walk the boundary," Dahlia replied, her voice smooth and professional as she forced her shoulders to remain square.
She unrolled the parcel map, holding the edges flat against the cold cedar rail with both hands.
"The restructuring plan requires a physical audit of the shared fence lines and the older outbuildings near the woods.
Since you've handled the repairs over the last few years, I would like to ask for your help to locate the main reference markers. "
Beckett looked down at the map, then back up at her face, his gaze lingering on the dark circles beneath her eyes.
His heart betrayed him with a jolt as their eyes collided.
He ignored it and forced himself to remain calm and aloof.
His mind snapped to the sight of Dahlia reaching for the developer's card. He’d seen that flash in her eyes—she’d been tempted by the offer.
Beckett knew that the developer had been sniffing around properties in the area, with a particular interest in the Marchetti farm.
A farm that bordered his closely, which would mean that if they got the Marchetti parcel of land, it would only be a matter of time before they came after his birthright.
The familiar jolt of excitement that rushed through him whenever he saw Dahlia changed to anger.
An emotion he could deal with and let simmer.
"I’m sorry, I can’t help you at the moment," Beckett told her, his hand resting on the fence post. "I'm busy with the late-season orchard harvest."
"Beckett, please. This is important and needs to be dealt with urgently," Dahlia insisted.
"The bank requires a physical verification of the property assets before they'll discuss extending the secondary mortgage.
If there're discrepancies in the old deeds, we've got to find them now. I can't do this alone."
Beckett's eyes dropped to the map in her hands. The tension in his shoulders seemed to shift, his jaw relaxing just a fraction. He looked out over the quiet fields, where the green vines of the pumpkin patch lay twisted and frosty in the morning light.
"There're things about these boundaries that aren't on your map," Beckett murmured, his voice softening slightly as he looked back at her.
He drew in a breath, knowing that Rosalind's secrets were about to unfold and he’d been left as the gatekeeper to them.
Well, some of them. Beckett had long suspected that she’d kept a lot more than she’d ever revealed to him.
He’d also known that she’d designed her will to ensure that he and Dahlia would be thrown into each other’s paths again as they embarked on a scavenger hunt of those secrets.
"That's why I'm here," Dahlia answered, keeping her tone quiet and steady. "I want to see what's actually out there."
Beckett stared at her for another long second, then tossed his grease rag into his toolbox. He shut the lid, then moved toward the gate. His hand reached out to slide the wooden latch back and pushed it open, letting it swing wide to clear a path between their properties.
"Fine, I’ll help you,” Becket told her. “We'll start at the northern corner." He gestured for her to lead the way across the boundary line. "But we'll have to keep a steady pace if we're going to clear the woods before the afternoon chill sets in."
Dahlia tucked the map back into her portfolio, the brass clasp closing with a snap. "I can keep up," she replied, moving through the open gate onto the damp earth of his field.
Beckett didn't answer, but he closed the gate behind her, the wooden latch sliding back into place with an echoing thud that closed the distance between them.
The damp breeze of the northern valley carried the scent of rotting leaves as they passed the collapsed cedar shed. To their left, the pumpkin patch stretched toward the dark line of the woods, the orange globes looking pale under the overcast sky.
Beckett moved a few yards ahead, his broad shoulders easily pushing past the tall weeds that choked the old tractor path, while Dahlia followed closely.
It didn't take long for the silence between them to lose its sharp edge.
For the first two days of her return, the valley had felt like hostile territory, but here in the open, the familiar boundaries of the land seemed to soften the friction.
Beckett stopped near the corner of the field, his gaze scanning the rows.
He didn't look back at her, but he slowed his pace, allowing her to catch up until they were moving side by side, and he ignored the quickening of his pulse as her familiar scent reached him.
"The late frost didn't touch this section," Dahlia observed, her voice dropping into the quiet rhythm of the afternoon. "The natural slope of the ridge must've shielded the vines."
Beckett nodded once, his eyes locked on the horizon.
"Your mother always planted the early varieties here," he pointed out, his low drawl carrying easily over the rustle of the wind. "She knew the hill would catch the morning sun first."
He reached down as they crossed the border of the patch, his hand wrapping around a dry vine that trailed over the path.
With a quick twist of his wrist, he snapped the dead fiber from a late-season pumpkin, tossing the withered stem into the weeds.
It was a movement he'd made a thousand times before, but with Dahlia watching him, he felt a sudden squeeze in his chest. The silent link between them of their teenage years was still there, buried beneath three decades of absence, operating like a language they'd forgotten they spoke.
He glanced at Dahlia as she once again unrolled the parcel map she'd been carrying, holding the corners tight against the breeze.
The paper fluttered, the white sheet contrasting with the dark soil of the field.
"The town registry shows this entire sector as parcel twelve," she said, her eyes tracking the faded lines.
"But the layout doesn't match the physical boundary lines we've crossed so far. "
Beckett glanced at the paper, his jaw tightening. He didn't offer to hold the map, keeping his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his canvas jacket.
"The town registry hasn't been updated since the eighties," he muttered. "The county clerks didn't care about the physical markers as long as the tax bills were paid."