The Cider Shop Rules

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  “Good grief.” My stomach coiled at the thought. “Who would rescue a rehabilitated pig just to take him to market?”

  “You’d be surprised, especially since our adoptions are so affordable, and hogs bring good money at the county fair.”

  “I wouldn’t mind making a donation specifically for him,” I said, a related thought pressing immediately into mind. “Haven’t you been able to reach his owners? Those mushroom hunters were looking for him before they went home last summer. Someone ought to let them know he’s been recovered, and he’s badly hurt.”

  “How?” she asked, eyebrows high. “He doesn’t have a collar and tags like a lost dog or cat might, and it’s not like his people left any contact information. And honestly,” she continued, “since I took up training with Doc Austin after my shifts at the park, I’ve barely had time to sleep, let alone pursue the band of New England mushroom hunters who abandoned their pig.”

  “Sorry,” I said, realizing too late that I’d overstepped and hit a nerve. No one loved animals like Dot did, and I’d practically accused her of neglect. “What I meant to say was, maybe I can reach out to the mushroom hunters and let them know what’s happened to him. I’ll ask around and see if someone remembers the name of their group, then I’ll look them up online.”

  Dot nodded, her expression warm with emotion. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. I know Kenny Rogers will too.”

  I laughed. “I’m glad to help.”

  I could use the distraction from my other problems, and it would be nice to dig up a lost pet’s parents. The task might even be enough to keep me from digging into Mrs. Potter’s boyfriend.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  I swung by the Sip N Sup on my way home and asked Reese if she remembered the name of the mushroom hunters’ group that had come through this summer. She did, so I found them online while I drank a cup of coffee at the counter. I called and left a message with my name and phone number before leaving a big tip for Reese.

  I loved the idea of reuniting a lost and traumatized pig with his owners, but my progress was stalled until someone returned my call. By the time I got home, my thoughts had returned to Mrs. Potter. I climbed onto my couch with my laptop and scrolled through the people on her friends list until I found the man I’d run into.

  According to her social media account, the guy’s name was Rex Stover. Rex was a marathon runner who spent a lot of his time sharing about it on his page. He was divorced. Once. Seven years ago. He had two grown kids and worked at a steel mill in the next county. His local criminal justice website confirmed Rex didn’t have any prior arrests. That could either mean he was an upright, law-abiding citizen or that he was a really good criminal. And even perfect citizens broke bad sometimes. Had he?

  I tapped my fingers against the edge of my laptop, willing myself to leave it alone.

  A creak on my porch set my muscles to spring. I calculated the amount of time I needed to reach Louisa, my baseball bat, in the corner near my door before an intruder had time to break in.

  I relaxed by a fraction when someone knocked.

  I set my laptop aside and tiptoed to the window for a peek. Killers probably didn’t knock, but I couldn’t be sure.

  Blake waved, already looking in my direction when I pulled the curtain back an inch. “Hi, Winnie,” he called through the glass. “How y’all doing?”

  I opened the door and motioned him inside. “How’d you know to catch me peeking?”

  “Please, you aren’t fooling nobody.” His smile was mischievous. “What were you doing when I got here?”

  “Nothing.” I moved in front of my laptop and pushed the lid shut.

  “Then why are you looking so guilty?”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I smoothed my hair and shirt. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said with a wink. “But look here. I brought us some desserts to share.” Blake fell onto my couch and rested a white bag on his lap. “How are you feeling? You look rough,” he said. “Did you sleep?”

  “Yes. Twice. But thanks for your brutal honesty.” I took a seat beside him and pulled my socked feet onto the cushions with me. “Why are you here with desserts instead of at the fort? What are you up to?”

  “My part was done. I die early every time.” He exaggerated a sad face. “I didn’t have to stick around because we aren’t doing another show tonight. So, I caught a shower and a change of clothes, then hit up the Belgian waffles food truck on my way over here.”

  “I didn’t see a Belgian waffle truck when I was there,” I said, leaning closer and inhaling the sweet scents of powdered sugar and fresh-baked cinnamon-vanilla batter as he opened the bag.

  “Dessert trucks don’t come until dinner. You missed them the other day when you left early too.” He handed me a paper boat with a taco-shaped waffle, a rich, sandy-colored cream clinging to its pockets and ridges. “It’s a vanilla waffle with a cinnamon and ginger spread. Try it while it’s still hot. You’re going to love it.”

  I lifted the warm waffle to my nose and inhaled deeply. “Oh my goodness.”

  “Right? Bite it,” he said, taunting, as if the request was a dare.

  Sweet and savory flavors burst in my mouth as the creamy spread melted across my tongue. I chewed the soft shell slowly, reverently. My eyes closed unintentionally, caught in the moment.

  “Uh-huh,” Blake said. “That’s what I thought. Now that you’re all blissed out and sugared up, why don’t you tell me what you were looking up on your laptop when I arrived? It wasn’t the weather, or you wouldn’t have closed the computer so fast. Plus, you had guilt written all over your face.”

  I opened my eyes and set my paper boat aside, moment ruined. “Buzzkill.”

  He grinned. “But I’m not wrong.”

  “Did Colton send you to keep an eye on me?” I asked. “Or are you just here to finish your evaluation?” I hiked one brow in challenge.

  “He told you about my evaluation?” Blake asked, a small smile tugging his lips. “Well, what do you know?” He rubbed his chin as he considered it. “Did he tell you I approve?”

  “I think so,” I said, trying to recall Colton’s exact words. “He said you thought I was fun and interesting.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He said you weren’t hitting on me. You were just looking out for him.” I fought the blush that wanted to rise. The last thing I wanted to discuss with Blake was the fact I’d thought he was hitting on me.

  “I’m hitting on you a little bit,” he said. “You just aren’t biting.”

  I shook my head in exasperation. “Goof.”

  “What? It’s true. And while I’m a little disappointed that you don’t flirt back, I think I know why.”

  “Really?” I asked, wishing I hadn’t started this conversation. “Do you think it’s your inflated ego or your inability to take anything seriously?”

  He lifted his waffle and took another bite. “It’s Colton,” he said as he chewed.

  I looked away, knowing he’d see through me if we made eye contact, probably even if we didn’t. I collected the laptop and opened it again, then set it on his knees. “I ran into this guy at Mrs. Potter’s house.”

  I told him the entire awkward tale, then about the talk I’d had with Dot and our suspicions over what Mrs. Potter’s affair could mean to the case.

  “You could be on to something,” he said. “Divorce is expensive. I don’t know what half of their farm is worth, but there would be a lot less to split after they paid two lawyers for a few months of their time.”

  “Mr. Potter thought she was skimming,” I said. “Maybe he was right. Maybe she was stocking up to run away with Rex.”

  Blake set the laptop aside and turned his full attention to me. “Maybe. I’d rather talk about how you’re really doing. You say you’re fine, but you were in a near-deadly crash last night and you were threatened by a killer. You can’t be well. Keeping yourself so distracted that you don’t thi
nk about what scares you most isn’t going to help you. All the bad memories and feelings are going to resurface one way or another. The thing about not dealing with your damage now is that you won’t get to choose when you deal with it later. Sometimes all it takes is a song on the radio or a certain scent to bring it all down on top of you, probably at the most inopportune time.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you know about it?” I asked, hoping he was only trying to scare me into letting it out now.

  “I was a POW briefly,” he said.

  My jaw sank open. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “It was nothing like a lot of soldiers have gone through, but it was enough to steal my sleep, my wife, and darn near my sanity.”

  Divorce is expensive. He’d said the words in regard to the Potters, and it hadn’t occurred to me that Blake might’ve had personal experience with the statement. I pressed my lips together, unsure what else to say.

  “I think you should consider sleeping at your granny’s house or letting Colton in at night. I could crash on your couch, if you want, but you need to do something. You shouldn’t be alone. Safety in numbers and all that.”

  I didn’t have the heart to point out that Colton had been with me when we were run off the road and nearly killed. Not being alone hadn’t stopped that from happening. So, there was no way I was staying with Granny and putting her in the lunatic’s path. “Maybe I should get a room somewhere for a while,” I said. “Samuel Keller knows where I live, and he could use Granny to get at me, even if I’m not sleeping at her place. Maybe a temporary relocation is the answer. At least until the marshals can get Keller.”

  “Have you thought of staying with Colton? He’s got plenty of room.”

  I pursed my lips, hoping my cheeks wouldn’t turn scarlet at the idea of sleeping over at Colton’s. “I can’t,” I said. “He’s new here, and most folks don’t know him yet. If people knew I was staying there, they’d talk. I don’t want him getting a bad reputation before people have had a chance to get to know him.”

  Blake screwed his face up, then burst into laughter.

  A pair of headlights flashed across my front window, then blinked out. I froze, mouth open and ready to tell Blake what I thought of being laughed at.

  Blake pushed onto his feet before I could reach the window for a peek. “That’s my relief pitcher,” he said, going to open my front door.

  Colton moseyed inside. “Thanks. Everything okay?”

  “Yep.” Blake extended a fist to his older brother, and they touched their knuckles together.

  “This was a babysitting mission?” I asked.

  Blake smiled. “Yeah, but I brought desserts. You can’t be mad at that.”

  I crossed my arms. “Yes, I can. I asked you if Colton sent you, and you said no.”

  “No,” he said, head shaking. “You asked, but I didn’t answer.”

  Colton pushed past his little brother. “You’d better take off before you get either of us in more trouble.”

  Blake laughed, waved, and made his way out the door, bouncing jauntily down my steps.

  I locked up behind him, then sank back onto the couch. “I appreciate your intentions here, but I don’t like being treated like a child.”

  “I’m not treating you like a child,” Colton said. He took a seat in the chair across from me, his feet planted wide and forearms resting against his thighs. “I’m treating you like you’re important to me.”

  My heart stopped momentarily, then kicked into a sprint. “Oh.” I tried to look cool. “Okay, well, did you or the marshals get a bead on Keller today?”

  “Not yet. They’re canvassing with his picture. They hit about half the town today. They’ll finish up tomorrow. Now folks will know who he really is when they see him. He won’t be able to blend in anymore, can’t eat at local restaurants or shop at local businesses without being recognized. The marshals left his photo with as many folks as would accept it. Hopefully they hang them on their refrigerators and behind their business counters until his face is committed to the whole town’s memories.”

  “Did anyone recognize him from the picture?” I asked.

  “A few. He’s going by the name Stephen now, and he’s been here long enough to shed the black leather and sports car he was so fond of. Folks say he drives an old Ford and regularly wears jeans with a ball cap and barn coat. Unfortunately, no one knew where he’s staying. We’re also looking for a truck matching the description of the one that hit us. He couldn’t have gone far with that much front end damage, not without being noticed.” Colton patted his knees, clearly ready to change the subject. “What’s in the package?”

  I followed his gaze to the little stack of mail Delilah had delivered to me this morning. “I don’t know.” I moved toward it slowly. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”

  “Check the return address before you touch it.”

  I leaned over the large bubble mailer, suddenly worried it was a bomb, a dead rat, or someone’s finger. “It’s from Cider Wars,” I whispered. The cider magazine where I’d mailed samples of my products last summer. “What if it’s about the contest?”

  “Open it,” Colton said, moving to stand beside me. “Here.” He pulled a pocketknife from his jeans and passed it my way. “Grand prize winner gets a national ad campaign, right? Placement in stores across the country?”

  I nodded, unable to speak as I worked the knife beneath the envelope’s flap. I didn’t need to win to be thrilled. I just needed to know I was up to par. Good enough. Up to snuff.

  I needed an attagirl. Bad.

  Inside the box was a stack of magazines and a letter. “Congratulations, Winona Mae Montgomery,” I read slowly, “your Sweet Cinnamon cider is Cider Wars magazine’s third place winner.”

  I covered my mouth with one hand and felt the rush of tears and legitimization flood through me. I’m good enough. My cider is good enough.

  Colton tugged the letter and magazines from my hands, then pulled me to him as he continued reading the letter. “We’re thrilled to offer your cider temporary placement in one hundred and twenty participating stores throughout your region. Additionally, a full-page ad featuring your product has been created and placed in next month’s issue of Cider Wars magazine. A check for one thousand dollars will be sent separately in the coming weeks. Meanwhile, please accept these early copies as our gift to you. Congratulations, and thank you again for entering the Cider Wars Challenge.”

  “I did it,” I whispered.

  Colton tossed the magazines onto the coffee table and folded me into his embrace. “Yes, you did. When all the craziness dies down around here, I’d like to help you celebrate.”

  I pulled back for a look into his blank cop face. “I’d like that,” I said. “Very much.”

  Then Colton lit up the room with a magnificent smile.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I opened the cider shop early the next day and offered free samples of my Sweet Cinnamon cider to everyone I saw. I’d carefully removed the one-page ad from Cider Wars magazine with a craft knife and adhered it to a board and mat beside the also neatly removed cover before framing the pair. I stood the frame on the counter near the register where everyone would see it, then arranged samples on a tray marked AWARD-WINNING CIDER. PLEASE HELP YOURSELF.

  The Cider Wars win had buoyed my spirits in the extreme. It felt like foreshadowing. A preview of good things yet to come, and I needed more good things. Being stalked simultaneously by two killers had become a real bummer.

  I rolled my shoulders and pressed my fingertips against the bunching muscles along the back of my neck. I’d taken the mammoth ibuprofen with breakfast as prescribed, but I was sorer today than I had been yesterday, and the pain was slowing me down.

  Harper arrived at eleven sharp, my usual opening time, and sidled up to the counter with a smile. “This place looks amazing. It’s like Christmas threw up in here.”

  I laughed. Not
the exact look I’d been going for, but I knew what she meant. “Thanks. Our second annual Christmas at the Orchard is right around the corner.” I handed her a stack of half-sheet flyers. “Help spread the word?”

  She accepted the papers with her usual pep and vigor. “Will do. I just finished up the mailing, bill paying, and stock inventory at the orchard. Anything I can help you with while I’m here?”

  “Not really, unless you’d like to sample my finally finished anniversary cider, or”—I paused for dramatic effect—“my award-winning Sweet Cinnamon cider, which just took third place in the national Cider Wars magazine competition.”

  “Shut. Up,” she said with appropriate awe and enthusiasm. “Come here!” She leaned across the bar and threw her arms around my neck. “Congratulations! That’s fantastic!”

  “Thanks,” I said, slipping free of her hug to pass her a sample. “I needed something positive to happen, so I’m really holding tight to this.”

  She took the sample cup, but her smile fell. “I heard about what’s been going on with you. The crash. The truck. The fugitive.” Her eyes widened. “What on earth?”

  “I know.” I took a few minutes to fill her in on the details she’d missed and to correct the ones she’d heard but were incorrect.

  “I guess we’re never really safe,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “It’s hard to hide today, especially if someone’s determined to find you.” Her far-off gaze made me wonder if she, like Blake and his divorce comment, was speaking from experience. She slid off her stool and offered a warm smile as she patted the counter. “I guess I’ll get going and leave you to it. Give me a call if you think of anything you need. I can be back here in a jiff.”

  “Okay. Drive safe,” I called, but Harper was already gone.

  * * *

  Business was steady through lunch, though nothing like it had been on the day the pocketknife had been jammed into my table. I was thankful for the extra time to talk to folks about their families, the weather, and whatever was on their minds.