by Melissa Tagg
“Of course.” He pushed past her toward the door.
“Of course what?” A coil of tightly packed clouds overhead threatened to break open any minute.
“Of course it’s Beckett’s brainchild.”
“He’s trying to help me, Luke. He knows how important the orchard is to me.”
Lucas leaned one arm on the doorframe, his heel kicking the swaying screened door behind him. “He knows he can barrel in and play hero and you’ll worship the ground he walks on like you always have.”
“I don’t—”
“But he’ll let you down eventually. He’ll get restless and leave. And you’ll be stuck with only a bunch of trees and a failing business. Have fun with that.”
“It’s not a failing business.”
“I have eyes, Kit. The past two weekends’ numbers weren’t nearly as good as opening weekend. You were gone four days this week—none of them saw more than a handful of visitors. Go ahead and build your barn and plan your event, but it’s not going to stop the inevitable. Dad and I are going to sell, and there’s nothing you or Beckett Walker can do about it.”
He disappeared inside, the door slapping closed.
She just stood there, dismay needling through her. Only when her phone buzzed, did a thread of hope curl in. But no, it wasn’t Beckett. Just Willa asking her why she hadn’t yet arrived at the meeting.
She pushed the speed limit on the way into town. Green tinted the landscape, the bullying wind forcing what crops remained in half-harvested fields into a full bow. Scattered drops of rain dotted her windshield.
Luke’s wrong. Beckett will be at the meeting. We’ll convince the council. Drew will finish the barn. Dad will come home. Everything will work out.
The city hall meeting room was packed. The townspeople never failed to make a good showing at these meetings—which probably had more to do with the free coffee and social time afterward than the agenda itself.
Yet the one person Kit needed was nowhere to be seen. She slipped into the empty chair Willa had saved her. Beckett had to show up. He knew how much she hated public speaking. He’d promised.
But forty minutes later, when they reached the line on the agenda that read “Valley Orchard Proposal,” there was still no sign of Beckett. Mayor Milt looked at her expectantly.
Willa patted her knee. “Go on, Kit. You’ve got this.”
“But Beckett—”
“Isn’t here. And it isn’t his orchard, anyhow.”
Except it wasn’t hers, either, as Lucas had been quick to remind her. But she had to fight for it, public speaking fear and all. She thought of Paul and Bessemer and the others. She thought of Grandpa and Grandma.
She rose on wobbly legs and made her way to the front. She’d deal with Beckett later.
Beckett knew who stood behind him without turning around to look. So he didn’t look. Only gave a half-hearted effort to cast a flat stone skipping across the creek’s shallow ripples.
“You’ve never been patient enough to master that.”
Kit was right. He heaved the next rock and stood.
The weathered boards of the makeshift bridge—more of a walkway, really—tremored under his feet. Untamed brush, tall grass and weeds, climbed the brushy inclines on either side of the ravine that separated Dad’s land from the orchard property. Stray raindrops pattered in the twisting creek.
“I’m sorry, Kit.” A gust of stalwart wind sent crinkled leaves spiraling down.
“That’s it? You don’t show up at the orchard all day and then you don’t show up at the meeting tonight. And all you have to say is you’re sorry?”
She’d dressed up for the meeting. No flannel and jeans tonight. Instead some kind of wraparound dress thing that accentuated her figure and tights and heels. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her in heels. How had she walked down the ravine in them? A flash of lightning glinted through tree branches.
She looked beautiful.
She looked angry.
She looked hurt. And that was the worst.
“Where have you been? Not just tonight. I’ve hardly seen you all week. And when I do see you, you’re skittish and awkward. If this is about Boston, if you’re worried I have some kind of overblown expectation . . . well, don’t.”
It was full-on raining now. The only thing keeping them from getting soaked was the canopy of leaves providing a flimsy cover. But with the lightning, the grumbling of clouds, the piercing wind, it didn’t make sense to stay out here stalling, fumbling for an explanation he didn’t know how to give.
He truly didn’t know why he’d missed the meeting. Didn’t know why he’d felt the near-frantic need to spend the afternoon finally completing his JAG Corps application, making phone call after phone call in an attempt to set up a new FSO interview. Didn’t know why he hadn’t been able to think of anything else after talking to Sylvia, running into Sam.
All he knew was, those words, “free to go” and “don’t hurt her,” had collided into each other on a loop until he’d lost track of time and missed being there for Kit.
Just like he’d missed that Stanley Oil meeting. Just like he’d missing his first FSO interview.
Just like he’d missed Mom.
“Is it Webster?” Kit wrapped her arms around her torso. “Has he still not heard from his friend?”
“I don’t know.” He’d told Webster about the encounter with the Illinois social worker last week the day after returning. He’d been grateful, but not as relieved as Beckett had hoped. He was beginning to wonder if what he’d told the social worker was true—that Webster simply wanted to know Amanda was okay. Was there more to that story?
“Is it your dad?”
“Kit—”
“How’s he feeling? I know he’s got Depot Days next weekend. Were you helping him and time got away from you?”
Her forced optimism was enough to tempt him to lie. But he’d never lied to Kit, not about something that mattered. Don’t hurt her. “You should have a coat, Kit. Let’s go—”
“No. You owe me an explanation, Beckett. You left me to make a presentation on my own and—”
“And did you?”
“Did I—?”
“Did you make the presentation?”
Her arms wound tighter as she shivered. “Yes.”
He pulled off his jacket and slipped it around her shoulders. “Did it go over well? Are they going to let you host the tourism board?” Another flash of lightning.
“Yes.”
“Then there’s nothing to be upset about.”
“Except that you said you’d come out to the orchard today and you never did. Except that you weren’t there tonight. I had to stand behind a podium with my knees knocking and my voice shaking and stammer out a speech I wasn’t prepared to give, one that was your idea in the first place.”
The rain was falling harder now, breaking through the cover of the trees and landing in splotches. He couldn’t hold back anymore. “What do you want from me, Kit? I’ve worked four-hundred-plus hours at the orchard. I have fixed fences and fought tree disease, repaired equipment and picked enough apples to feed a small country. I came up with a plan for you, and I’m sorry I missed presenting that plan, but you don’t need me fighting all your battles.”
She dropped her arms. “All my battles? Really, Beck?”
He closed the space between them. “I have goals, too. I have things I need to be working toward, too. And my dad needs a major brain surgery and might have cancer and I can’t figure out why in the world he’s insisting on waiting. Some guy broke Raegan’s heart and Webster’s still worried about Amanda and—”
A crash of thunder cut off the rant he’d never meant to give. Kit didn’t deserve this. The storm wreaking havoc inside him wasn’t her fault. Her face was only inches from his, hair matted to her forehead and cheeks, tears filling her eyes. Why was he doing this to her?
And how, rain-soaked and shivering, swallowed up in his jacket, could
she still look so exquisite?
“Beckett.” She whispered, she trembled.
And he couldn’t help it. Breath heaving, his hands found her waist and his lips found her forehead, her cheeks, her nose. The rain grew louder. Her skin was cold, her lips waiting . . .
And then she jerked, stumbling backward, gaze dropping to the ground, lifting to the trees. That was when he heard what she heard, felt it hitting against him. Hail.
“I have to go.” She spun and started up the hill, heels digging into the grass.
“Kit, I’ll take you—”
She ignored him and kept running.
13
Kit awoke to the sound of Lucas’s terror.
His yells thrashed through the house, a sound even more eerie than last night’s storm. She slipped from her bed and crossed the hall to Lucas’s room. Cold hardwood chilled her feet as she lifted her hand to knock lightly on his door. “Luke?”
Nothing.
Not even the soft moans that sometimes followed his nighttime bellows, which meant he might be awake in there.
“I’m here, Luke. If you want to talk.”
No response. Just like every other time she’d tried. But today the silence pricked even sharper. Last night’s hailstorm had brought all her worries about the orchard to a jagged peak. After leaving Beckett, refusing to let him accompany her home, the only thing she’d been able to do was sit at the kitchen table fretting, until finally dragging herself to bed for a night of tossing and turning.
But the storm had done something worse to Lucas. When she’d arrived home, she’d found him sitting in the dark in the living room. She’d asked if he was okay, received only the barest nod in reply before he shambled upstairs. She’d listened to his pacing—louder, more rapid than ever before. And then the nightmares . . .
She didn’t know how to reach him. Hadn’t a clue where to start.
Kit returned to her own room and dressed quickly—the faded overalls that’d become everyday wear and a long-sleeved gray tee made of long-john material. She grabbed an oversized flannel shirt as a jacket and then padded down the hallway and through the house.
The sun was pale, as if it, too, had been worn down and burnt out by last night’s storm. It nearly blended in with flaxen clouds that brushed through the sky. Even here, the hail and wind damage was obvious. Broken tree branches strewn across the yard. Autumn mums limp and lifeless in their paint-stripped flower boxes.
She started for the fields, ground slippery and soft under her tennis shoes. The air was cool and still, like it held its breath, waiting and worried.
“Morning, Kit.” Willa emerged from the nearest field, the hems of her own coveralls muddy. “Didn’t think I’d see you so early.”
They reached each other at the field’s border. “Same here.” Although, she should’ve known. Willa’s care for this land nearly rivaled her own. She’d worked even longer hours than Beckett these past two months, giving far more than she was getting—at least as far as a paycheck was concerned.
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
Willa draped one arm around Kit’s shoulder and turned her away from the field. “There’s no need to go looking and making yourself feel worse than I reckon you already do.”
“It’s that bad?”
Willa squeezed her shoulder. “I’d say seventy-five, eighty percent of the remaining crop is on the ground.”
No. The air whooshed from her lungs.
“And from what I can tell, a lot of what’s left is cut into.”
She’d known. Somehow she’d known as the wind hurled itself against the house last night, as hail struck the roof and windows and smattered to the ground, she’d known. She’d seen it happen before.
The crop could often survive a hailstorm if it happened early enough in the season because the fruit was still hard enough to withstand the hit. This far along, though, when the apples were soft and when the wind added its battering force, the loss was unavoidable.
But eighty percent?
“What are we going to do?”
Willa squeezed her shoulder again before dropping her arm. “We’ll get a crew out here today to clean up the mess and salvage what we can. We’ll likely need to find a vendor to help stock the store for the remainder of the season.”
Buy apples from another orchard. With what money? Everything they’d made so far had gone into paying employees and building the barn and making repairs to buildings and machinery. At least they hadn’t let their insurance lapse, but it’d take weeks, maybe months, to see a claim fulfilled.
Perhaps she could ask the bank for a loan. But even that would take time.
“This isn’t a death knell for the orchard. Your grandparents made it through seasons like this. There are probably farmers all over the county waking up to similar shock this morning.” Willa fidgeted with the clasp of her overalls before touching Kit’s elbow and steering her the way she’d come. “This is a part of agricultural life.”
“I know that. It’s just . . .” Her footsteps shuffled in wet grass. “I was so sure God was telling me to stay, to run the orchard, make it a success again. Something like this happens, and I have to wonder, what’s the deal? It’s not just the storm. It’s Lucas and Dad and Beckett . . .”
“What about Beckett?” Willa’s tone had gone gruff, protective around the question.
Yes, what about Beckett? He’d gone from distant and sullen to exploding and then to looking at her with enough desperate desire to summon her own. This wasn’t a man playing hot and cold with her affections. This was Beckett. This was a man hurting.
And she felt as helpless to reach him as she did Lucas.
“I don’t know what to say about Beck.” She stopped as they reached the house. “I only know I can’t help wondering if I got it all wrong. When I first came home, I honestly thought maybe God led me here. But if this is where he wants me, why is he making it so hard?” Chilled, gluey air gathered around her.
“Kit, when God calls us to something, it doesn’t mean we’re never going to have setbacks. And if we go doubting his direction every time we face a challenge, we’ll end up stagnant and frustrated, tied up in knots.”
“Maybe it’s not his direction I’m doubting so much as my ability to hear it, to recognize it.” She swiped her fingers along the porch railing, sending rivulets of lingering rainwater to the ground.
Willa’s pause stretched. “You know, I always loved how your granddad called you his little meteorologist. Not many a kid can earn a term of endearment like that.”
“Yes, well, not many a kid gets a kick out of reading books about air pressure and movement.”
Willa chuckled, but her gaze held steady and serious. “The thing is, for all we know about weather and its patterns, some of it is still a mystery. Fronts shift out of nowhere. Temperatures defy seasons and predictions. Patterns change.” Her gentle voice beckoned. “Sometimes God whispers. Sometimes he shouts. He doesn’t always communicate the same way twice, and frankly, sometimes we’re going to get it wrong. But part of faith is embracing the mystery—all the while knowing that even when we’re confused, God is faithful. He’s trustworthy.”
Willa’s words sunk into her bones, filling a hungry, empty space she hadn’t even fully realized was there. If it could just last, if she could truly grasp the assurance in Willa’s words . . .
If only she could believe hope wouldn’t let her down with the next catastrophe, that her own heart wouldn’t drift . . .
“He doesn’t ask for perfect hearing or a life free of missteps, Kit. Just your trust.”
“What if I don’t have that kind of trust? What if my faith isn’t as strong as yours?” What if I lose the orchard?
What if Dad never came home and Lucas never healed? What if Beckett left for good? What if Case had cancer?
Could she still call God trustworthy and faithful if life and people and circumstances let her down?
“Hold unswervingly to the hope . . .”
>
Willa tucked Kit’s hand through her arm and climbed the porch steps. “That’s the beauty of God, my girl. Even when we’re tempted to let go, he keeps holding on.”
Beckett knew exactly where to find his father.
Soggy leaves and storm-tossed branches littered the spacious grounds in front of the Maple Valley railroad museum, but other than an eave spout hanging askew, the depot didn’t seem any worse for wear. But with the annual Depot Days event set to kick off tonight—Friday night fireworks followed by a Saturday of train runs and other activities—Dad had probably risen with the sun.
Beckett crossed the yard, stepping over the train tracks ribboning from the depot station. They disappeared into rolling hills veiled in misty gray, wrapped in quiet.
He ached to know how Kit was doing this morning, how the orchard had fared. But she’d insisted on going home alone last night. He’d tried calling her once, after eleven p.m., while the storm still raged. She hadn’t answered.
“Dad?”
He found his father Windexing the glass display cases that lined two walls of the museum. Wan sunlight from a bank of windows did little to brighten the room, not on such a cloudy, pale morning.
“Beck.” Dad straightened. “I didn’t expect to see you here, not this early.”
“Whereas I fully expected to see you.” At least Dad had been better about not working such long hours lately. He’d begun to recognize signs of headaches and dizziness before they hit full force. Thankfully there’d been no more collapses in the weeks since the orchard opening.
Still, he had to squelch the urge to scold his father for working so hard, insisting on going forward with Depot Days. Couldn’t he have at least put someone else in charge?
“There’s coffee back in the office, if you want. Extra cups, too.”
It was all the invitation Beckett needed. He wandered back to Dad’s cubbyhole of an office, his attention hooking on a framed photo of Mom sitting on his father’s desk. Whoever had taken the photo had caught Mom mid-laugh, the blond hair and blue eyes she shared with Raegan glinting under a halo of light that also highlighted the slight bump on her nose. It was one of Beckett’s favorite family stories—how Logan had tried peewee baseball one year and during a practice game of catch with Mom had ended up breaking her nose.
