Chapter 22
Ethan
By the time Walt called us in for lunch, the sun had climbed high, and the air smelled like cut hay and warm earth. After washing up, we gathered around the long wooden table in the Durbin kitchen.
Mrs. Durbin set down a pitcher of lemonade sweating onto the wood, followed by a platter of sandwiches stacked thick with ham, cheese, and garden tomatoes.
Walt eased into his seat with the careful weight of a man who’d earned every creak in his joints. His grin stretched warm as he nodded toward his wife. “Lily, this here’s my better half, Ruth. Been keeping me fed and in line for near fifty years.”
Mrs. Durbin rolled her eyes affectionately and slid a plate toward Lily. “He’s not wrong. My brownies are my secret weapon.”
Walt chuckled, tapping the plate in the middle of the table piled high with fudgy squares. “Best you’ll ever taste, I guarantee it.”
Lily’s eyes went wide. “Brownies? You people are going to spoil me.”
“Trust me,” I said, reaching for a sandwich, “once Ruth decides you’re family, you don’t leave hungry.”
That earned me a pleased smile from Mrs. Durbin and a sideways glance from Lily, like she was trying to decide if I was teasing her or not.
We dug in. Conversation turned to the boys still out hauling bales, the weather, and how the beans were coming in this year.
Walt leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands on a napkin before pointing his fork toward the window.
“Most of those kids’ll be in 4-H this summer, getting ready for the livestock shows at the fair.
Calves, lambs, rabbits—you name it. Teaches ’em more discipline than school ever did.
You want grit? Hand a twelve-year-old a goat and tell him to get it to walk straight. ”
Lily blinked. “Okay, I’ve heard of 4-H, but I could not tell you what the H’s stand for if my life depended on it.”
Ruth smiled, pouring her more lemonade. “It’s a youth program. Stands for Head, Heart, Hands, and Health. Teaches kids responsibility—raising animals, growing gardens, even baking or crafts. Around here, almost every kid has a project they work on all year to show at the fair.”
Lily’s pen was already scratching across her napkin like she’d struck gold. “So it’s like… school, but with animals and vegetables?”
Walt chuckled. “Pretty much.”
“Speaking of,” Ruth cut in, eyes twinkling at Ethan, “remember the year you tried to show that calf? Spent all summer brushing and feeding it, swore it was going to take first place.”
I groaned, rubbing my temple. “Why does everyone think they need to tell Lily every embarrassing story from my childhood?”
“Oh, I remember,” Walt said, grinning widely. “That calf dragged you straight across the ring in front of the judges. Nearly knocked the ribbons out of their hands.”
Lily slapped her hand on the table. “That is incredible. Please tell me that calf at least got a ribbon for ‘Most Dramatic Exit.’”
Walt’s shoulders shook. “If they’d had one, it would’ve won.”
Ruth smiled fondly. “Stubborn as it was, Ethan never gave up on it. That calf had the shiniest coat at the fair.”
Lily’s grin softened, eyes darting toward me. “Sounds like loyalty’s been your thing for a while.”
I found myself just watching for a beat too long, then cleared my throat. “After lunch I’ll take you out back to see some of the 4-H kids.”
“I’d love that,” she said, looking up at me with a grin that was almost too bright. “As long as none of those calves plan on dragging me across the ring.”
I shook my head, but even I couldn’t hold back a smile. Lily’s laughter filled the kitchen, warm and bright, like she belonged right there at that table.
We shared more stories over brownies until Walt pushed back from the table with a satisfied sigh. “Alright, you two better go see what those kids are up to before they wear out my pasture.”
Ruth swatted his shoulder. “They’re fine. But yes—go on. Thank you for the help this morning.”
“Thank you,” Lily said quickly, gathering her tote and brushing crumbs from her shorts. “That was the best sandwich I’ve had in… maybe ever.”
“And the best brownies,” I added, with a pointed nod at Ruth.
She preened, waving us toward the door. “You’re welcome back anytime.”
We thanked the Durbins for lunch, and I followed Lily out into the bright afternoon, the screen door banging shut behind us. She waved at Ruth, then fell into step beside me as I led her around the barn.
The space behind the barn buzzed with life, a dozen different projects happening all at once.
It was noise and motion everywhere. Kids crouched beside rabbit hutches, brushing sleek fur; a girl proudly holding up a rooster with tail feathers fanned like a parade; two younger boys hunched over rows of cucumbers, arguing whether the vines needed more watering.
“4-H practice,” I said, resting my arms on the fence rail. “Livestock, produce, even crafts—it all ends up in the show barn.”
Lily propped her elbows beside mine, eyes wide. “Training camp with cows and cucumbers. I did not see this coming.”
Right on cue, a rope slipped through a boy’s hands, and his calf bolted a few yards, dragging him across the grass before he tumbled loose. His friends howled, and even the kid laughed as he got back up, grass stains down his knees.
Lily clapped a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking. “Oh no, is he okay?”
“Better than okay,” I said. “Happens every weekend. Builds grit.”
But she was already leaning forward, calling encouragement to the boy.
Something about the way she did it—loud, playful, but kind—made all the kids turn her way.
In no time, they were showing off for her, brushing harder, leading straighter, talking over each other to explain feed logs and halter training.
A freckled girl, with calf in tow, shoved a brush into Lily’s hand. “Here—do the ears. He likes that.”
Lily crouched, clearly hesitant, but when the calf leaned into the strokes, she lit up. “Oh my gosh, he’s basically a giant dog.”
That earned her a chorus of giggles, and the kids started clamoring for her attention. One boy tugged her over to admire his rabbit.
“His name’s Thunderbolt,” he announced proudly.
Lily bent low to peek into the hutch. “Thunderbolt? He looks more like a Marshmallow to me.”
The boy’s grin split ear to ear. “That’s his middle name!”
After a few more minutes of giggles and calf-brushing lessons, I clapped my hands and sent the animal crew back to their work.
I touched Lily’s elbow lightly, steering her toward the far side of the yard.
The warmth of her skin lingered on my fingers as I let go, and I caught her gaze for just a second longer than necessary, the sweet smell of strawberries floating on the breeze, mixing with the intoxicating scent of her.
Beyond the pens, a long table had been set up in the shade, baskets of beans and tomatoes waiting to be sorted. A pair of girls leaned over simmering pots on camp stoves.
“Livestock’s only half the story,” I said. “The rest of the kids spend just as much time here—produce, baking, preserves. It’ll be washed, measured, and judged down to the smallest detail.”
A little girl in pigtails ran up, dragging Lily toward a table lined with jars. “Smell mine! I made strawberry jam!”
Lily bent low, popped the lid, and took a dramatic inhale.
Her eyes fluttered shut, like she was at a perfume counter instead of a farm table.
“Oh my gosh. This smells better than that designer perfume they handed out at a Beverly Hills gala I covered once. This?” She tapped the jar with a grin.
“This is five stars. I’d give it a blue ribbon already. ”
The girl squealed, bouncing on her toes. “Really?”
“Really,” Lily said solemnly, then winked. “If you bottled this up in a crystal vial and slapped a French name on it, you’d have women in LA paying a hundred bucks a spritz.”
The girl gasped and ran back to her mother, practically bouncing.
I stayed where I was, leaning on the rail, just watching.
The kids orbited her like she’d dropped down out of the sky, but instead of brushing them off, she poured it right back—loud, curious, asking questions she didn’t have to.
Somehow, she made every answer sound like the most important thing she’d ever heard.
When she finally wandered back, cheeks flushed and hair coming loose around her face, I shook my head. “Told you. They love to show off.”
“And the fair’s where they prove it?” she asked, breathless but still smiling.
“Yep. Summerfest doesn’t just happen at the fairgrounds. It starts here, with these kids and their projects.”
She looked back at the lot—Thunderbolt the rabbit twitching his nose, the rooster strutting like he owned the place, the calf managing three perfect steps.
And now the jam table too, jars lined up like trophies, kids clamoring for her approval.
Her grin wasn’t for me. It was for them. Still, it landed square in my chest.
I cleared my throat and tipped my head toward the farmhouse. “Come on. We’ve got one more thing to do here.”
She brushed her hands on her shorts, still smiling as she fell into step beside me. Together, we cut back across the yard toward the front porch, the sound of kids and animals fading behind us.
By the time we got to the front of the house, the yard had transformed.
Mrs. Durbin was already in the shade of the big oak, lining up jars of jam on a folding table.
A couple of neighbors unloaded baskets of tomatoes and cucumbers from the back of a truck.
Kids darted between legs, one trailing a puppy on a too-long leash.
And sure enough, just like I knew they would be, Mom and Carol were right in the thick of it. Mom had her sleeves rolled and her hair pinned back, sorting bunches of radishes. Carol stood at the cash box, already handing out change with that no-nonsense efficiency of hers.
“Does this happen every week?” Lily asked beside me, eyes wide as she took in the commotion.