Chapter 9
Wren
The cursor blinking on my mom’s old computer mocks me.
An inbox full of unopened emails stares back—seventy-two unread.
Even with the news of my mom’s passing, the emails haven’t slowed down.
A week ago, the idea of tackling this mountain made me physically sick.
Now, it still does, but the twisting in my stomach is more subtle.
I take a deep breath, ready to dive in, and pause as the scent of the Drummond Farm office I'm sitting in hits me.
It's unique, the smell of lemon-scented wood polish mixed with the heavy scent of diesel fuel.
Which makes sense, given the office sits above a bunch of farm equipment in one of the half dozen pole barns on the property.
But even with the lemon and the fuel, there's a deeper scent covering the space: roses.
A scent that's so my mom it hurts just as much as it comforts.
A small smile tugs at my lips, even as I rub a hand over my chest where it hurts, because I know my mom has half a dozen mesh bags filled with dried rose petals scattered all over this room, her way of combatting that diesel smell.
With a sigh, I move my gaze away from the dust motes dancing in the sunlight, my smile slowly fading, and push play on my playlist so that the music blaring from the speakers can help drown out the mechanics tuning tractors right below me.
I press my fingertips to my temples, rubbing gently against the dull ache thrumming behind my eyes as I focus back on the computer, mentally coming up with a plan for how to tackle everything.
Running was supposed to clear my head. And it did…
for a minute. How was I supposed to know Jett still frequented the riverbank?
Honestly, it was the last place I planned on going when I laced up my running shoes to hit the trails.
In fact, I never intended to cross the property line.
Running into Audrey and seeing what a beautiful young woman she’s becoming caused an ache deep in my chest. I missed so much of her life.
Sure, I’d see her photos as she grew and made memories with her dad.
But it didn’t prepare me for seeing her up close.
I can still feel the scorch of his gaze on my skin, like I’d been peeled open. No matter how much I try to push him out, Jett Riggsby keeps slipping through the cracks. He’s trying to read me like a book, and I can only hope my game face holds.
Shaking off those thoughts, I click open the first email.
Subject: Field Trip Reservation Request for Fall 2025.
Scanning through, it’s from a third-grade teacher at Silo Bay Elementary.
She’s reaching out, hoping to book a day in October—pumpkin picking, hayrides, the petting zoo, and conversation on how the farm runs.
I type a quick reply, thanking her for her inquiry and approving the request as I update my desktop calendar, the farm's digital calendar, and my personal calendar with the reservation.
The next email is from a seed company—Welles Feed and Farm—confirming a shipment of sunflower and pumpkin seeds, with suggested planting dates circled around early May.
I’m grateful Mrs. Welles included tips in the email, no doubt for my benefit.
There’s another from a local artisan in a nearby town, asking if we would still be able to carry her jams in the shop, and a bride inquiring if she could book the orchard for bridal photos in September.
Each message adds weight to my shoulders.
How did Mom juggle all of this? The planting schedules, the farming, the storefront, the constant emails; not to mention, keeping the household afloat and all the volunteering she did in town.
I feel like I’m drowning, and I’ve barely scratched the surface.
Maybe I should take Dad up on his offer, tell him I can’t handle this.
But I can’t let Mom down. I did enough of that over the years.
This is my chance to make amends in the only way I can.
My heart pounds as anxiety bubbles beneath my ribs. I scroll through invoices, contracts, and reminders, making notes as I go.
The phone on the desk rings, causing me to jump in my seat. The caller ID flashes Silo Bay Athletic Dept.
I hesitate, letting my nerves settle before picking it up. “He—” I clear my throat. “Hello?”
“Hey, Wren?” a man’s voice asks. “This is Jacob Pierce. I’m not sure if you remember me from school. I’m Heath’s cousin.”
“Of course, I remember you, Jacob. Congratulations, I hear you're the head football coach now.”
He chuckles. “Thanks, Wren. It’s hard to believe, but here we are. Listen, I’ll keep it quick. I’m sure you’ve got a lot going on.”
He has no idea.
“I wanted to ask a favor, but please feel free to say no. We’ve got a casino night coming up—the annual fundraiser for the athletic boosters.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me.
His voice softens as he continues. “Your mom usually helped with organizing, decorating, and setup—she loved the decorating part,” he says with a humorous huff. “No one’s volunteered to take over her tasks, and with your background, I, uh, I wasn’t sure if you’d lend a hand.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Event planning. Decorating. Setup logistics. Those are all things I’ve done a thousand times in LA whenever the firm planned a party. “When is it?”
“End of May. We don’t need anything crazy. Everyone knows it’s a weird year.” His voice lowers on that last part. “Table setup, centerpieces, signage. Mostly making the place look good and casino-like.”
A part of me wants to say no. My plate is already overflowing. But something in his voice, the way he’s asking like he’s desperate and making this call was painful, has me agreeing.
“I can help. No problem, Jacob.”
The relieved sigh is unmistakable. “Thanks, Wren. Seriously. I appreciate it.”
We catch up for a few minutes, and he promises to email the details right away, then we hang up, and I add another thing to the calendars.
My mom would’ve handled all of this without breaking a sweat.
Hell, I bet if I comb through her computer or notebooks, I’d find a detailed list of what she’s done over the years.
Mom always kept notebooks scattered around where she detailed everything.
Each menu for holiday dinners. What flowers she planted and where.
I’m no sooner back to combing through emails when my phone buzzes on the wooden desk.
Glancing at the screen, my stomach tightens as a wave of fear crawls down my spine at the Unknown Number text notification.
It’s been a few days since I’ve received any messages from Elias, but that doesn’t mean he won’t resort to messages from unknown numbers to keep me on edge.
Unknown number
Hey, girly! It’s Saylor! Hope you don’t mind, I grabbed your number from the salon. But girl, you’ve got to get off the farm. Pilates & brunch tomorrow at 9. Don’t tell me no!!
Blinking at the screen, I read over her words as the fear vanishes. I tap on the number and quickly add Saylor Riggsby to my contacts.
Wow, I see the bossiness runs in the family!