by Melissa Tagg
Raegan handed her the larger of the two cups. “Well, I can’t take credit for this. It’s from Beckett, and I have a feeling it’s lukewarm at best by now. He meant to bring it himself, but he got tied up with Colton.”
She took a drink anyway. Americano, black and perfect even if no longer hot. He’d remembered. “Colton?”
“Kate’s boyfriend. Moved here last fall. Former NFL quarterback, old college friend of Logan’s.”
Ah, she’d seen him at the wedding. Suddenly the size and the vague feeling of recognition made sense. “So let me guess, in addition to delivering Beckett’s bribe, you’re also supposed to ferret out whether or not I’ve made any decision on his community service.”
Raegan laughed as she fell in step beside Kit. “You know my brother way too well.”
The uneven boards of the wraparound porch extending from the main building wobbled under Kit’s sandals as she approached the front door. Grandpa had added this porch decades ago, along with the storefront façade running along the front of the long building, disguising its origins as a dairy barn. In the busyness of helping Willa in the fields, she hadn’t taken time yet to so much as step foot inside.
“So, have you?” Raegan stopped beside her on the porch as Kit fumbled with a heavy key ring. “Made up your mind about Beck, I mean?”
“Don’t know.” Beckett expected a quick decision because he was a quick decision guy. Not so, Kit. She could belabor a choice until mentally paralyzed. Free labor was a good thing, of course. But could she handle working side-by-side with Beckett every day, knowing he still resented her?
Kit tried the first key with no luck. At least there were only a few on the ring she’d found in Grandpa’s office. Wouldn’t take more than a minute to pinpoint the right one.
“I still can’t get over the fact that he’s even home.”
She stopped, turned to Rae. Beckett’s younger sister wore a black tank top over a jean skirt and a collection of bracelets on both wrists. From what she’d picked up, his family had been as surprised to see him at Seth’s wedding as she’d been. “He really hasn’t come home even one time since . . . ?”
Raegan lifted one pierced brow. “Since your wedding? Nope.” Her fingers tapped on her coffee cup. “Nor has he ever told us exactly what happened that night. I mean, other than the running a car into a tree part. We all knew about that. What we didn’t know is that the arrest warrant was still outstanding. Or what happened with you and Beck.” She paused when Kit turned back to the door. “And now I get the sense you’re not any more eager to talk about it than he is.”
No. She’d been such a mess that night. Said such awful things. No wonder Beck had ditched town without looking back. But to stay away for six years? Surely there was more going on there than a grudge against her. Something else he was carrying around with him, enough to—
Her thoughts cut off when the second key she tried slid into place. A click, a twist, and the door nudged opened. The musty, mingling scents of apples and wood, spice and dust engulfed her. An uncanny flood of emotion accompanied her first step into the store . . . and Grandpa’s voice, like a contented sigh.
“You wouldn’t know this building used to hold four dozen smelly cows back before World War II. To hear my dad tell it—your great-grandpa—he milked so many Jerseys as a kid that by the time he was an adult and inherited this land, he’d had enough. That’s when he decided to make his living off the small grove of apple trees out back.”
As a kid, Grandpa had helped bring the orchard to life. Father and son had cleared additional fields, planted more trees, converted the barn into a two-floor store. Grandpa had carried on the business, raising his family in the same farmhouse he’d grown up in—including the mom Kit only remembered in shadowy snatches.
Kit blinked to adjust to the dim of the store now and let her gaze roam the space. The counters that traced the rustic walls, the shelves made of old pallets and recycled barn wood, all of it was covered in layers of dust. None of the inventory had arrived yet, and light bulbs needed to be replaced in at least half of the old-fashioned frosted glass lamps suspended overhead.
This space alone would take days to clean and organize. Then there was the equipment out in the machine shed to look over, repairs to order. Thirty-five employees to hire and schedule. Payroll to set up, a pre-Labor Day opening to plan, and . . .
She dropped the ring of keys. Oh my goodness. Ohhh my goodness. She bent over, hands on her knees.
“Kit?” Worry lit Raegan’s voice.
“I don’t know what I’m doing or where to start. Why did I think this was a good idea? I haven’t even had a chance to get groceries. I’ve been eating the donuts Beckett bribed me with yesterday for the past three meals and . . .” She gulped for air. “What does a panic attack feel like? I think I’m having one.”
Raegan’s hands on her shoulders guided her to the stool behind the antique cash register sitting on a glass display case. “Sit. Breathe.”
“Did I tell you my dad wants weekly reports from me? No, why would I have told you? Years and years of ignoring me and now he wants to hear from me each Friday, and tomorrow’s Friday and the only thing I’ll have to tell him is that I panicked and—”
“Shush, Kit. Take a deep breath.”
There was nothing to do but obey. Her lungs quivered with each breath and her hands shook. How had she ever thought she could pull this off? And if this was the weight Lucas had felt for two years and counting, no wonder he’d fled.
Oh yes, add that to the to-do list, too: a wayward brother to find.
At a scraping sound, Kit looked up to see Raegan pulling an old barrel over. She tipped it on end and then hopped up to sit on it, directly facing Kit.
“I don’t think I can do this, Rae.”
Raegan reached forward to press one palm to Kit’s knee. She squeezed, then straightened. “I think I said almost those exact words for days after my mom died. I know it’s not the same situation, but it’s different shades of the same panicky feeling. I’d get up in the morning and a flood of mundane tasks would hit my brain and next thing I knew, I was curled up in bed.”
Kit lifted her eyes to Raegan’s. She’d been around the Walker house for some of those days, but she’d been so consumed with consoling Beckett, she’d hardly talked to the others.
She’d sometimes wondered which was worse: Losing a mother to cancer so young you missed out on memories—as she had. Or, like Beckett and his siblings, losing her as a young adult—having the memories, but also the pain.
“Oh, Rae.”
Tears pooled in Raegan’s sky blue eyes—so different from Beckett’s. “It’s okay, this isn’t about me right now. I just wanted to tell you what my dad told me on one of those horrible mornings. He said, ‘Today, Rae, let’s just do one thing. And then if that one thing goes okay, we’ll do the next.’ So we made breakfast. And then we washed the dishes. And then we watched The Price is Right.”
“You do have the most remarkable dad, Rae.”
Raegan blinked, the emotion in her eyes and voice gone as rapidly as they’d arrived, replaced with an encouraging nod. “So, let’s just figure out what your one thing is.”
If Kit didn’t come to her window soon, Beckett would fall to his death. Or at least, wind up with his second injury of the day. His cheek still stung from the punch he’d taken this morning.
Though not nearly as much as his pride. He might’ve been growing restless at the law firm, but to get so unceremoniously fired? For something as irresponsible as missing an important meeting?
And now, the branch outside Kit’s bedroom barely holding his weight threatened to snap beneath him.
“Kit,” he hissed for the third time. But why was he whispering? The closest neighbor other than Dad was at least a few miles away.
He rapped on the old glass window and said her name again, louder this time. The branch wobbled as a cool gust riffled through the leaves around him.
Finally, the windo
w opened. Kit practically flung the thing off its hinges. “What?” Her hair flopped in an off-center messy knot, and the thin strap of her pajama top slipped down her shoulder. She shoved it up.
He couldn’t help a grin at the pure irritation in her eyes. “Gonna let me in?”
“Now?”
“It’s ten fifteen. Don’t tell me you were actually sleeping. Not Kit the night owl.”
“I’m not a teenager anymore. I need more sleep. I’m old and responsible.”
“No, you’re not. You’re upset. You only go to bed early when you’re upset. Raegan said you had a hard morning.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line before she spoke again. “Your sister talks too much.
“Whatever. I need you to let me in before this branch breaks. It’s not nearly as sturdy as it was when I was a skinny thirteen-year-old.”
Exasperation riddled her sigh, but she moved back anyway, giving him space to grasp the windowsill and heft himself through. His left foot landed on a throw pillow that slid over the hardwood floor the second he shifted his weight inside. He ended up falling the rest of the way into the room, landing with a thud at Kit’s bare feet.
“Such a graceful entrance.”
“Such kind assistance.” He stood, taking in her striped shorts and matching sleeveless top. Apparently the cursory review was enough to make her self-conscious, because she immediately yanked the sheet off her bed and wrapped it around herself kimono-style.
He rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen you in your pajamas a hundred times.”
“When we were kids, Beck. It’s not exactly the same now.”
Moonlight slanted through the still-open window, highlighting the curves the sheet did nothing to hide. And suddenly she wasn’t just Kit Danby the childhood best friend or even Kit Danby the college girl who’d broken his twenty-three-year-old heart once upon a time.
But Kit Danby the woman. And if he’d thought she was pretty back then . . .
“What do you want, Beckett? And why didn’t you just ring the doorbell?”
“We used to climb in each other’s windows all the time. It was our thing.” He repeated her words from Saturday. “I thought it’d be endearing.”
The corner of her mouth quirked. “Try intrusive.”
Every encounter with her since he’d been home had been fraught with a frayed tension. But there’d been slim moments—like right now—when the tautness eased just enough to make room for a hint of their old effortless connection. The sun had freckled her shoulders and deepened the streaks of gold in her hair. He had to tear his eyes away to keep from staring longer than he should.
Because he absolutely wasn’t going there again.
So his scrutiny traveled around the room instead. The rumpled shape of the blanket on her bed said she still slept in a tight little ball. The white antique desk where she used to do her homework sat in its usual place against one wall. Her Pride & Prejudice movie poster was beginning to curl at its edges, and he could still name all three stuffed bears that sat on the lavender chair in the corner.
“Hawkeye, Hunnicut, and Winchester.” Named after the characters on M*A*S*H.
“Huh?” She followed his gaze. “Oh.”
“You’re still the only person I’ve ever met who preferred the later seasons of M*A*S*H to the early years.”
“And you’re still the only person I’ve ever met who feels the need to argue with me about it.”
She and her grandpa had gotten into the habit of watching reruns of the classic show on summer evenings just before supper. Beckett had frequently joined in, gangly limbs outstretched on the shag carpet beside Kit, staying for the meal afterward more often than not.
“Anyway, I don’t watch M*A*S*H anymore. Not super into anything Army-related this days.”
He swallowed. Right. Because of her father’s absence and her brother’s court martial. What would she say if he told her about his own plans to trade in civilian life for a military gig?
Kit lifted the sheet over her shoulders now as a breathy wind whooshed through the window. “Seriously, Beck, what’s up? I really was sleeping.”
“Brought you something. It’s out in the yard. Grab a sweatshirt. It got cool all of a sudden.” Which she’d probably seen coming. She always could read the sky and predict the weather. Regular Farmer’s Almanac.
She pulled a sweatshirt over her head, and it mussed her already sleep-tousled hair. “Don’t know about you, but I’m taking the easy way out.” She started for her bedroom door.
He followed her through the house he could’ve navigated blindfolded. Weird to think of her now living here all alone. So much space for one person.
Not that he’d been disappointed to hear the Brit had gone back to jolly old England. He’d asked about Nigel the other night when he came begging for a job. Kit had offered only a sparse, “It didn’t work out.”
Good enough for Beckett. Not that he had a right to any kind of say in who Kit dated. But come on, the man had applied sunscreen to his bald scalp how many times on Saturday? Why didn’t he just find a hat?
Kit’s steps stammered to a stop just outside the back door when she saw what he’d brought along—the tiny animal tied with a rope to the side mirror of Dad’s old truck.
The baby goat mewed at the sight of them, stamping one hoof.
Kit stared at the animal, then at him. “W-why?”
He shrugged. “It’s cute?” It really was—tufts of white hair and a circle of brown around its nose, stumpy little legs, and wobbled movements. He walked over, knelt down beside the animal, scratched under its chin. “I figured you’re out here all alone, you could use some company.”
“So you brought me a goat?”
He’d expected some girly oohs and ahhs, not this flummoxed reaction. Kit had her hands on her waist, long, bare legs planted in the gravel. Okay, so maybe it hadn’t been his best idea. But when he’d overheard a local farmer at the coffee shop talking about the runt of an animal, the idea had hatched itself on the spot.
Next thing he knew impulse had taken over—because didn’t it always with him?—and he was following the man out to his farm. He’d gotten instructions on bottle-feeding and had meant to bring it straight to Kit. But then he’d remembered his niece, Charlie. After a full week at home, Logan and his family were heading back to Chicago tomorrow. So he’d stopped at Dad’s to let Charlie see the animal and hadn’t been able to tear her away until Logan insisted it was bedtime.
Now here he was—suddenly rethinking the whole thing. Because if Kit was anywhere near as charmed by the goat as everyone back at Dad’s, she wasn’t showing it.
“You used to talk about how unfair it was you didn’t have a pet.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a dog.”
He sat on the ground, legs crossed. The goat balanced two hooves on his knee. “Anyone can have a dog, Kit. You can have an adorable baby goat.”
“That will eventually grow into an adult goat who wanders off and eats all my grass and bites the paint off buildings and—”
“You don’t know that. This might end up being a well-behaved goat.”
She knelt beside him, eyeing the animal with something more than bewilderment now. “You don’t have to bribe me, Beck. Not with coffee. Not with a cute goat.”
“So you admit it’s cute?”
“You admit it’s a bribe?”
He didn’t answer, just nudged the animal toward where she crouched and watched as she petted its head, then its back. “My grandparents used to want to add a petting zoo to the orchard.” Her trace of a grin finally spread into the full thing. “And a pumpkin patch and hay bale maze and the barn, of course. They just couldn’t ever get financially ahead enough to do it all. Between double mortgages and insurance and regular operation costs . . .”
Responsibilities she’d now inherited thanks to an indifferent father and missing brother.
But couldn’t she see the answer was right in front of her? He’
d spent so many summers and falls working here as a teenager. He knew how important it was to mulch around the tree trunks in order to trap moisture. He knew what it took to stay ahead of weeds and how critical it was to fix the broken-down fencing at the field borders to keep out deer. He knew how to check soil moisture at a tree’s drip line.
“Okay,” Kit blurted as if on cue, as if she’d heard his thoughts. “You can volunteer here. As many hours as you need to. I’ll sign whatever community service paperwork is needed.”
“Really?”
“On one condition.”
She stood, and he followed suit. “Anything. I could bring you coffee each day, if you want. Or another animal.”
She didn’t tease back. Instead, pausing, she played her next words over in her mind—he could see it. She was like Logan in that way, her tendency to work and rework her words before letting them free, sometimes pilfering through them at such length they never made it out.
Whereas his tended to scatter like dandelion seeds at the merest breeze of thought.
“You have to let me apologize,” she finally said. There was a surprise firmness to her tone. “You have to just stand there and hear me out. Because I can’t work with you every day wondering if you still hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“But did you?”
“Do you want the blunt answer or the nice answer?”
“I want the honest answer.”
This was not what he’d come here to do. Yes, seeing her at the wedding last week had thrown him. Yes, helping her on Saturday had messed with the lockbox of stored-away, crushing memories of her wedding night. Yes, the thought of working with her every weekday for at least the next month planted worry in his brain.