The Cider Shop Rules

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  “Of course.” I set my hand over hers on my cheek. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “No,” Colton blurted. “She will do no such thing, and I will inform Mrs. Potter of this situation myself. Meanwhile, you all need to take a big step back because you’re presently skirting obstruction.”

  The other ladies ducked under the tape, putting themselves on the right side of the law.

  Birdie glared up at him.

  Dot and I exchanged a glance. What would happen next was anyone’s guess. Birdie always got her way, but Colton had only been around a year. He probably didn’t know that. Yet.

  Blake coughed to cover a snort of laughter. He rubbed a big tan hand over twitching lips, failing to hide the grin that had bloomed there. “I love small towns. Don’t you, brother?”

  Colton stared at Blake, jaw locked and eyes hard.

  Blake’s twinkling blue gaze flicked to me. “You’re going to look into the murder?”

  “No,” Colton said. “She definitely is not.”

  I bit my tongue.

  “Of course, she is,” Birdie insisted. “She always finds the killer.”

  “No,” Colton repeated. “Winnie doesn’t always find the killer. Winnie is usually abducted by the killer and nearly killed by the killer. Is that what you want, Mrs. Wilks? To put her in danger?”

  Birdie’s jaw dropped. “Of course not!”

  “Hey.” I bristled. “I’ve only looked for two killers,” I said. “It’s not as if I’ve been abducted dozens of times. And I’m getting better at it.”

  Colton rubbed his forehead.

  Birdie patted my back. “He’s right. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have put that burden on you. You should only look into this if you feel comfortable,” she said. “Don’t do anything to put yourself in danger.”

  Colton stepped in close and scowled down at Birdie and me. He curved his palms in front of him, as if he were grasping an invisible basketball. “Have you considered that announcing Winnie’s plans to investigate a murder in front of a hundred onlookers might be a great way to put her in danger already? That maybe the killer is one of these eager-faced spectators, hanging on your every word? Because whoever did this won’t want anyone looking into it. The sheriff or otherwise.”

  Birdie scanned the crowd. “I know most of these people. They aren’t killers.”

  “Yet a man is dead,” Colton said. “Someone is a killer, or do you presume it was a random crime? A tourist or stranger murdered the local pumpkin farmer for no solid reason? Happenchance?”

  Birdie lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I’m going to see Hellen.” She turned on her heels and led the other women back across the street.

  Colton flashed hot, angry eyes at me. “I have to beat her to the pumpkin patch. Meanwhile you will not, under any circumstances, investigate this.” He raised his eyes to Blake. “Take her home. Make sure she stays there.”

  Blake shrugged. “I can get her home safely, if that’s what she wants.” He turned a charming smile on Dot and me. “Offer stands, ladies. My truck’s just over there.”

  “Thanks,” Dot said, moving to his side.

  Colton groaned. “I’ll call you later, Winnie.”

  Blake tossed his keys in the air and caught them with a grin. “See you, bro.”

  Chapter Three

  The gravel lot outside our orchard gates was full, and my chest expanded with gratitude that the extra folks in town had found our place too.

  Blake had dropped Dot at the local vet’s office after she’d received a call about a goose that had been hit by a car. Dot was training with Doc Austin, learning veterinary triage firsthand so she could better stabilize injured animals found in the national park and elsewhere.

  I directed Blake under the arching Smythe Orchard sign and along a winding dirt lane to the historic Mail Pouch barn. The barn was about a quarter mile from my home and Granny’s, with rows of apple trees and all the Fall Harvest Festival fun in between.

  Harper and some of Granny’s needle-pointing friends were running the show in her absence, and I’d called ahead to ask one of them to open the cider shop. It was afternoon when I finally stepped inside. Despite my solid, horrific reasoning for being late, I still felt awful. The business was my baby, my dream job and responsibility.

  “Wow,” Blake said, moving slowly into the barn behind me. “Impressive.”

  My spirits lifted by a fraction. “Thanks.”

  I’d poured my heart and soul into the interior design and recent renovation. I’d spent months plotting and planning, then pillaging local flea markets and estate sales for the perfect combination of items to tell the story of Blossom Valley’s history. Now, the café space was strategically filled with memorabilia from the town’s past. Mismatched dinette sets from former restaurants and homes polka-dotted the floor. Faded and framed black-and-white images hung with care on every wall, showcasing families, farmers, coal miners, and local sports teams. Even the former milkman who’d made deliveries from a flatbed pulled by his mule had a place on my wall. Each table’s centerpiece was made of china or milk glass from generations before and filled with seasonal flowers from Granny’s garden. Beyond that, I’d dressed the space in shades of crimson, eggplant, orange, and gold for fall.

  I’d arranged hay bales with gourds and pumpkins under windows and near the open doors. Festive signs marked the bathrooms, and I’d added apples everywhere I could. The barn made the perfect location for my shop. There weren’t many barns like it still standing, and none were in as great of condition as mine. I could thank Grampy for that. He’d taken an active interest in the barn’s preservation from the moment he and Granny had purchased the land. He’d done his personal share to see it maintained, plus he’d pursued all state-offered resources for the same purpose. The barn being historic and specifically significant to our region, there were grants available to keep it painted and structurally sound. Today, the building stood as majestic and steadfast as it had the day it was raised.

  The renovations I’d had commissioned last winter did a great job upholding the integrity of the structure while shifting its purpose. Granny and I didn’t need a massive two-story barn, but I’d needed a home for my cider shop. We’d removed the remaining stables and most of the second floor, save a small area at the back for potential expansion and a walkway around the perimeter, leaving a glorious view of the high, arching historic rafters. I’d added bathrooms and storage to the first floor, as well as a full kitchen and service bar.

  Granny’s friend Sue Ellen stood behind the counter, wiping a wet rag in big circles over the heavily lacquered surface. Her eyes widened at the sight of me. She made a throaty, poor you sound and hurried in my direction. “Sweet baby girl.” She wrapped me in strong arms and rocked me back and forth. Hanks of her sleek brown bob stuck to the corners of her glasses when she pulled away. “I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through today. Are you sure you want to be here? Maybe you should go home and rest, process what’s happened. I can handle the shop.”

  As the pastor’s wife in a small congregation, Sue Ellen was sugar to the core, never without her pearls and an arsenal of encouraging words. She was also a force of nature, and I had no doubt she’d run my shop successfully and for as long as I wanted. But this was my job, regardless of my mood or energy level. Plus, it was Mr. and Mrs. Potter who’d suffered today. I was shocked and sad, but I could work, and I’d been raised to do exactly that.

  “Thank you,” I said, squeezing her hands briefly, “but I’ll be all right. I think the busyness will help take my mind off things.”

  Her thin brows knitted together. “Off of things? Birdie told me you’d be looking into this for the Potters.”

  “Actually,” I interrupted, rudely, but with an apologetic smile, “this is Blake. Sheriff Wise’s brother.” I pointed over my shoulder to the man standing a few feet behind me, still surveying the room. “Blake and his folks are in town for the reenactment.”

  Sue Ell
en gave Blake a startled look, as if he’d just appeared. “Dear.”

  He strode forward, hand extended. “Nice to meet you. Sue Ellen, is it?”

  “Yes.” She took his fingers daintily in hers and tipped her head back to get a good look at him. “There certainly is a family resemblance now that you mention it.”

  “Don’t tell Colton,” Blake said. “Our younger siblings and I like to tell him he was the milkman’s kid. We think it’s funnier than he does. Actually, Dad doesn’t love that joke either.”

  I smiled, enjoying the tenderness in his voice as he spoke of his family. I’d always dreamed of siblings, wondered what life would’ve been like with two parents who loved and wanted me, but that wasn’t in the cards for my life. Instead, I’d been given two overattentive grandparents determined to do a better job with me than they had with my mother. Honestly, I think my mother was just a bad apple, getting pregnant in high school, then marrying and running off with the guy when he joined the military, only to divorce him within a year and leave me behind. I couldn’t imagine Granny and Grampy not being enough reason to live right. They’d been my everything.

  Sue Ellen straightened her glasses. “Welcome to Blossom Valley,” she said, hustling back behind the bar. “And to Winona Mae’s new cider shop. What can I get you?”

  “What do you recommend?” he asked.

  “It’s all amazing. You can’t go wrong with Smythe Orchard apples and Winona Mae’s recipes.”

  Blake took a seat at the bar, his gaze moving over the massive antique mirror on the wall opposite him. I’d doodled swirling leaves and piles of apples around the mirror’s edges and in the corners with a dry-erase marker. Then I’d neatly scripted the menu in the center. Drinks in red. Snacks in orange. I’d learned in my marketing courses that theme and presentation were everything.

  Ciders to Whet Your Whistle

  Green Apple Cider

  Caramel Apple Cider

  Spicy Cinnamon Stick Cider

  Fireside Cider with Toasted Marshmallows

  Snacks to Quench Your Cravings

  Cinnamon Apple Chips

  Granny’s Homemade Apple Pie à la mode

  Apple Pie Fries

  Granny’s Sweet Cream Pumpkin Roll

  Fried Bologna

  Blake smiled as he read a few of the items aloud. “Well, I wasn’t hungry before I saw this. Now I guess I’m going to need to try that fireside cider and some apple pie fries.”

  “Good choices,” Sue Ellen said, turning to get the order started.

  “Fireside cider is something new I’m trying out,” I said, leaning my elbows on the counter across from him. “I smoked the apples to give them a little kick, then I went heavy-handed on the brown sugar, but the marshmallows are what really makes it fun.”

  “Ta-da!” Sue Ellen set the steaming mug before him, piled high with mini marshmallows. She lit my newly purchased butane torch and browned the marshmallows into one big lump of melty goo.

  “See?” I said, hoping he’d like the cider’s taste as much as its presentation.

  Blake laughed. “You’re right. That was fun.”

  Sue Ellen disappeared, then returned a minute later with a basket of apple pie fries.

  Granny had generously stuffed narrow logs of dough with apple pie filling, fried them, then rolled them in cinnamon sugar. The effect was something like ecstasy.

  Blake’s expression went from pure awe to reverence as he chewed and swallowed the first bite. “How is this place not packed 24/7?”

  “Sometimes it is,” I said. “Be sure to spread the word to all those reenactment soldiers, would ya?”

  Blake nodded, his mouth full of apple fries.

  Sue Ellen leaned a hip against the counter and stroked her pearls. “How is it that you hadn’t heard about this place? Surely your brother has mentioned it.” Her gaze shifted to me, and an infuriating blush burned my cheeks.

  “No,” Blake said, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Colton’s always been a tight-lipped, solitary guy.” He squinted, as if searching for the right words, then nodded, apparently satisfied he’d already found them. “I bring him out of his shell as much as I can, but he’ll probably die with state secrets.”

  The corners of my mouth tugged into a sad half-smile. That description sounded exactly like the Colton I was getting to know.

  Sue Ellen patted my arm, then buzzed away to tend to guests.

  “How are you really doing?” Blake asked, sipping the cider and sounding infinitely more serious. “There was a dead guy in your truck today. A guy you knew.”

  “Yeah.” I swallowed a lump of emotion and told my stinging eyes to stow it. There would be plenty of time for a proper breakdown later. “It’s hard to believe that it’s true. Mr. Potter was a really nice guy. I’ve known him most of my life. Everyone liked him.”

  “Someone didn’t like him,” Blake said, returning to his fries.

  “It just doesn’t make any sense.” I felt the weight and truth of the words in my core.

  “So, you’ll look into it?” He feigned nonchalance, but I could see the deep interest in his clear blue eyes.

  I responded with a noncommittal smirk. I hoped the look said something like, oh, please, or be serious. If Colton hadn’t told him about the cider shop, maybe he also hadn’t mentioned its meddling owner.

  He tipped his head and grinned. “I know you are going to. You don’t have to say it. The ladies around here all seem to think you will. They know you better than me.”

  I pressed my lips together, refusing to bite. I hadn’t decided whether or not I’d get involved in what had happened to Mr. Potter. Much as I’d like to help him get justice and please Birdie in the process, I hated to peeve off Colton again. He seemed stressed enough for ten men when I’d seen him.

  Blake narrowed his eyes, and they crinkled with humor at the sides. “So, you’re definitely not getting involved?” he asked, shoving the next fry into his mouth. “You’re not going to ask any questions about why a man whom you say was beloved by the community, a man you’ve known for years and who is apparently your friend Birdie’s best friend’s husband, was murdered and hidden in your pickup?”

  My jaw sank open. He clearly hadn’t missed a thing while listening to Colton and me outside the ice cream parlor. I chastised myself for letting Blake’s guy-next-door appearance trick me into forgetting he was one hundred percent a sheriff, just like his brother. Blake might seem perpetually ready to play ball or grab a drink, but that made him even more dangerous to me than Colton. Blake made me let my guard down. “You’re good,” I said, returning his intent stare. “I’ll bet you always play the good cop in a good-cop, bad-cop scenario.”

  His smile widened. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  I crossed my arms. “I will likely visit Mrs. Potter tonight with a casserole or pie, as custom dictates. It’s appropriate to pay my respects at a time like this and let her know I’m available for whatever she needs.”

  He chewed smugly, eyes twinkling, lips curled slightly at the edges.

  “Don’t get cocky,” I told him. “It’s basic Southern manners and Blossom Valley protocol. What kind of neighbor would I be if I didn’t?”

  “I haven’t said anything,” Blake said, lifting his mug for another slug of cider.

  I bristled. It suddenly felt as if we were playing a game, and I was losing.

  He wiped bits of marshmallow from his neatly trimmed mustache and leveled me with a suddenly serious stare. “So, what’s up with you and my brother?”

  I blinked. “What? Nothing. What do you mean?” I crossed my arms, then uncrossed them when his gaze lowered to take note of the action. I recrossed them a moment later to stop him from thinking he’d been the reason I’d uncrossed them to begin with. “Colton and I are friends, I think.” I shifted. What do I normally do with my arms? Did they just hang there? Like fallen limbs? “We’re friendly,” I amended, unsure friends was the right choice of word.
“It’s complicated. We’ve got this pattern where I make him crazy, then he saves my life. Is that friendship?”

  “That sounds unhealthy.”

  My hands landed on my hips. “Well, it’s our thing.”

  He dusted cinnamon sugar from his fingertips, still evaluating me. “Are you sure the two of you aren’t dating?”

  “I would know if I was dating someone,” I said. “Now you’re just miffing me off.”

  He smiled. “Want to have coffee later?”

  I gaped, and it took extreme mental effort to force my mouth shut.

  “Winona,” Sue Ellen whispered sharply and cleared her throat loudly, as if she’d swallowed a frog.

  I started. When had she returned from waiting tables?

  The white noise of my busy shop hummed back to my ears.

  Sue Ellen tipped her head over one shoulder and flicked her gaze toward the open barn doors, where Colton’s silhouette was backed by the blinding sun.

  Blake turned to look too. “Brother,” he said, rising to greet him.

  “I thought I’d find you here.” Colton dragged his attention from Blake to me, then back. “Mom’s looking for you. Dad’s at the fort, talking to the militia, and she wants to go to dinner. I said you’d take her.”

  Blake smiled. “I guess that’s what favorite sons are for.” He clapped Colton on the back, then extended a hand to me across the bar.

  I accepted the offering, and he held on.

  “What do I owe you?” he asked, still holding my hand in his broad, warm fingers.