Two
Jen Evans loaded the last of the corn onto her Fair grange display and stepped back, hiding her smile.
She had to admit, if only to herself, that the display looked pretty damn good. Her autumn produce filled the stand to overflowing, nestled among homemade wreaths of wildflowers. True, some of the sweet gem berries were slightly blemished and the yams were shriveled, but the beets were gorgeous—and it had all started with a seed and a bit of dirt and somehow she had grown them into something tangible, edible. Something she could sell and make a living on, even.
Something that might honor grandfather's memory and make the tattered remnants of her family proud.
Next to her, Pierre polished every cranberry and eggplant he set out on display. On her other side, Marnie lined up wheels of cheese and bundles of wool yarn next to casks of milk and eggs. The rancher brushed her graying brown hair from her eyes, caught Jen staring, and smiled.
"Your display is looking good, Jen."
Jen arched her eyebrows, glancing wordlessly at Pierre as he measured each eggplant, ensuring they were arranged precisely from smallest to largest.
"Nobody tops Pierre's grange display," Marnie said, rolling her eyes and raising her voice so the shopkeep would be sure to hear her. "But you've got a lot of variety there for your first year."
Pierre smiled absently, still leaning over his produce with the ruler. "This is the best free advertising I get all year. Everything has to be perfect. Hmm. Have either of you seen Morris?"
"Morris?"
Marnie drew Jen away with a matronly pat on the arm and whispered, "The owner of the local JojaMart Franchise. They don't get on well."
"Well," Jen said with an exaggerated wince. "I can understand why. Joja is his main competition, right?"
"Lewis—that is, the Mayor—told me you used to work for JojaMart before you moved here."
"Ah, yes." Oh, the joys of small-town gossip. Surely no one wanted to hear about the hours she'd spent trapped behind a desk in a windowless room, ensconced in her cubicle—one among many of the labyrinth—its dark walls plastered with corporate notices. Or how she'd only taken the position because it paid the bills, and with the legal and hospital fees piling up, she'd been desperate. Or how somehow, once the bills were paid, she'd been sucked into the comfort of routine and stayed on five more tedious years. So she only said, "I worked at corporate headquarters for a few years. But I like the fresh air out here better."
Marnie nodded, eyes sparkling with repressed emotion as though she could sense that Jen wasn't telling the whole truth. "Well. If you ever need anything, anything, just come down to my ranch." She touched a finger to one of the speckled, almost blue-tinged eggs rowed up beside the ears of corn. "I see the chickens have been laying—have you ever thought about raising sheep, making your own wool? There's quite a market for it."
"I haven't. That sounds…" Impossible. It sounded impossible. But so was the fact that Jen had inherited her grandfather's run-down farm and was now actually growing crops on it. And that she'd actually been considering getting into canning, to sell those goods with the fresh. The chickens were supposed to be a way to supplement her own diet, yet the idea of having her own supply of milk, cheese, and wool—and possibly selling the extra—needed exploring.
She pressed her hands to her cheeks, still half-way unbelieving as she said, "I'm going to need a full blown barn, aren't I?"
Marnie laughed. "Have Robin build you a barn, and I'll get you started with whatever livestock you want. Hard work, but worth it."
"Contestants, contestants, gather round!"
Mayor Lewis, brandishing a clipboard, stepped out of the Fair's makeshift headquarters in the clinic. "Time for myself—and several anonymous townsfolk—to begin judging your displays. Please scatter for the next little bit. Enjoy yourselves, enjoy the Fair. And no peeking to see who the judges are!"
Jen resisted the urge to tweak her display one last time, and instead wandered through the pinstriped carnival tents. The breeze smelled of last night's rain shower and the musk of old leaves, biting enough for Jen to shrug on a jacket over her sweater as she peered across the crowded town square.
To her delight, the Fair hadn't changed since she'd visited her grandfather as a little girl. Back then, the Fair had been a magical surprise, and it hadn't lost its appeal twenty years later. Children laughed and screamed, running between the tent poles from game to game. Tourists perched on bales of hay, drinking pumpkin ale and eating pumpkin pie. The townsfolk—mostly familiar faces, now—operated concessions and display booths, all grinning at the turnout.
On instinct, she turned toward the field between the saloon and the river—and found the petting zoo right where she'd expected it to be.
A young boy and little girl crouched before the wire fence of the zoo, poking their fingers through the gaps, giggling, as a goat did its best to lick the packets of sweet feed from their grip. Until a chicken flew over, and ripped the packet from the girl's hands.
"Uncle Shane!" she wailed, and Jen wasn't quite sure if the girl was laughing or crying. "A chicken pecked my fingers!"
"Because your fingers look like tasty worms, Jas," Shane said with a laugh, and Jen's breath caught as she spotted the man leaning against the petting zoo fence.
He was dressed as casually as he'd been when he delivered the chickens to her farm, in jeans and a dark hoodie. Jen blushed, recalling the way his blue eyes had brightened, shyness obliterated by his surprising enthusiasm of inspecting the coop. There'd been something quite appealing about the way he'd talked to her dog and the chickens, offering them love without really thinking about it. Something easy about him, for once, something quiet and endearing despite his normal gruff exterior—an indefinablesomething that was so attractive it made her palms sweat and banished her good sense long enough to invite a near-stranger into her house.
And he couldn't have run away from it fast enough.
Better with animals than with people, he'd said about Jas, but it was obvious that applied to himself as well. He might not be good with adults, but her stomach fluttered as he plucked the little girl from the ground and swung her to his shoulders. It was clear they liked being around one another; if she'd had a kid, if she'd had a spouse, she'd want them to share that sort of bond. But she didn't have either.
At least, not anymore.
"Look over here, Jas." Shane crouched so that Jas was at eye level with a rabbit hutch, and pointed at the pair of rabbits huddled within. "Would you want ears like that?"
"No. Rabbits are smelly," Jas said, crinkling her nose. "But—look! The rats came up to see me!" She hopped down his shoulders, and she and the little boy leaned close to the habitat containing a host of plump domesticated rats. All six of them pressed up against the bars, inviting the children's' attention.
The teenager minding the petting zoo stepped over, and asked the boy, "Do you want to pet them? Sir, can they—"
"Go ahead," Shane said, as the little boy reached into the cage. The rats sniffed his hand, and he scratched their ears for about two seconds before he burst into tears. Most of the rats scampered to the back of the cage, but one ran up his arm to settle on his shoulder.
Stunned, the little boy stroked the rat's long tail. And miraculously, he stopped crying.
"Jodi is going to freak if she sees that," a petite, copper-haired woman said, approaching from the mobile home near the river.
"Kid needs to live a little. Look at him. Besides, you can't stop a love like that."
"He's crying," she said, wincing. "And… it's a rat, of all things, Shane."
"Penny!" The boy cupped his hand over the rat's sleek body as he turned to the young woman. "Shane let me pet a rat and now I want one! It's so soft."
Shane slanted a look down at Penny that clearly said, I told you so as she forced a smile.
"I can see that!" Penny scooped the rat from the boy's shoulder before passing it back to the waiting teen. "Let's get your hands washed, Vincent, and then we'll meet your mom for dinner and games. You too, Jas!"
"I like the chickens better," Jas informed her uncle with solemnity before prancing off after her friend.
Shane rubbed a hand through his dark hair as he watched them go. He held a finger up to the rat cage, letting their tiny paws inspect him as he sagged on a breath. He looked so relieved to be on his own, Jen almost turned around on the spot.
But in her moment of hesitation, he glanced up. And saw her. He tried to pretend he hadn't, but Jen knew had because he immediately looked down at his feet. She was quite certain that he would have fled into the saloon to avoid her if she hadn't been standing between him and its door.
Right. There was that nausea roiling, that same sickly anxiety that had plagued her after he'd informed her that it would be a bad idea to get to know one another. She shouldn't have taken it personally, she knew that. And yet, damned people pleaser that she was, here she was, drawn inexplicably back to him.
She shoved her hands in her jacket pockets as she approached, dusk drawing close around them. He met her halfway up the path, waiting in the edge of light cast down from one of the saloon's streetlamps. The shadows accentuated the curve of his jaw, the slant of his eyelashes across his cheeks as he looked down at her, face unreadable. Before he could shrug her off, she pulled one small egg from her pocket and held it out to him.
"I've found a dozen of these because of your help. I thought I'd give you the honor of having the latest Pixie-egg."
He glanced at the speckled egg, and damn her, when his lips curved in a smile, her racing heartbeat roared in her ears. "Keep it. For your omelet."
Jen grinned back, her nausea fading. He'd remembered. But he was looking down at his feet again, so Jen drew him out of his shell with, "Jas is your niece?"
"Oh. No." He started walking, winding his way through the tents toward the wood- and metal-working booths. Jen followed, intrigued, as he said, "She's my goddaughter. When Steph—her mom—got sick, and asked me to look after Jas if she didn't get better, I couldn't say no." He hesitated, then added, "Jas's been with me for a few years now."
"I'm sorry." Sickness. Hospitals. White-clad technicians coming to explain how the worst had happened. And it was unbelievable, so unbelievable that part of Jen still couldn't accept… what had happened. It took far too long for Jen to work enough moisture back in her mouth. In an attempt to lighten the mood she said, "Jas seems like a handful."
Shane snorted a laugh. "Yeah. Marnie is a lifesaver, she loves spoiling her. Jas spends a lot of time with Penny and Vincent, too. I'm glad she has friends."
"It's brave, to take on responsibility of a child like that. How old is she?"
"Turned six this past summer."
Memory punched Jen in the gut, stealing her breath. Six. Just a little older than—
"You alright?"
Jen blinked, realizing she'd stopped dead on the path. It took conscious effort to relax the muscles of her neck and shoulders, to clench her fists to keep from touching the scar running along her abdomen. She had to remind herself to unclench her jaw. "I'm—fine."
He studied her for a long moment, eyes narrowed, then shrugged. They drifted away from the crowds, winding up on the bridge leading down to the beach. Jen pulled herself up onto the wide stone railing, hugging her knees. The water rushed beneath them, drowning out the chatter of the Fair. Far off on the other side of the square, the Mayor still inspected the grange displays. And while the families with young children had retired inside, the teens and adults emerged to drink and revel under the bright starlight of a clear autumn night.
She drank in the experience like it was a vintage wine, simply happy to be part of the peace of it, even if on only on the periphery. A strange feeling, almost like belonging, crept over her. The Fair could be a part of her life. An annual event. Something to plan for and look forward to. She hadn't had something to look forward to in years.
She drew in a breath as it dawned on her that she and Shane hadn't spoken for some time. He could have asked her prying questions in exchange for what he'd revealed to her—people usually did, wanting to find out what had driven her from her life in the city or inspired her to reboot the farm. The past was a weight around her shoulders she didn't know if she could ever rid herself of, and no one seemed to care that, perhaps, she didn't want to be reminded of it. That, perhaps, it was painful.
When she glanced over at Shane, she found he was studying her. Yet when he eventually spoke, his question caught her totally off guard.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing down at the rushing water before straightening his shoulders and forcing himself to meet her eyes. "So. Want to get that drink? Gus sells a pumpkin ale just for the Fair. It's so popular it usually sells out. And, uh, you wouldn't want to miss it."
"Really?" Jen hopped down from her perch, grateful for the movement to kick warmth back into her limbs. Thankfully, he didn't know her well enough to hear the strain in her voice as she dragged herself back to the present. "I love pumpkin-flavored stuff. It's one of the best parts about the fall. I'm going to try baking pumpkin bread this weekend, I think."
He didn't smile, but he nodded once, clearly pleased as they meandered back through the crowd. They reached Gus' cart, where Shane ordered them each a bottle of the pumpkin ale. Jen rummaged in her jacket for gold, but Shane merely shrugged and put the drinks on his tab.
"I'll get the next round," she promised, nodding thanks to Gus as he cracked the top off her bottle and slid it over to her.
They sipped their ales in silence for a few moments before Shane cleared his throat and said, "If you have any extra pumpkins, I might have to buy one for Jas to carve for Spirit's Eve."
Jen's heart swelled. "Bring her by the farm whenever. She can pick out the one she wants."
"She'll like that. She's been wanting to visit Pixie and Mama Girl, but I didn't want to bother you."
She'd told him once that his presence wouldn't be a bother; apparently, he still didn't believe her. So she only shrugged and said, "It's nice to have company sometimes."
"It's just… people talk so much, you know? And most of it is so useless."
She knew. That gossip, that expectation and judgement… Jen had damned them all when she'd moved out here. She tapped the rim of her bottle to his in silent solidarity, and bought each of them a second ale, with a burger to help take the edge off the alcohol. Afterward, as they moved through the Fair together, peering into the carnival tents, they rarely spoke.
And Jen didn't mind at all.
Harvest bore down on her over the next few weeks until each day passed by in a haze of work and exhaustion. She rose early, pulled crops or cleared her overgrown fields, barely remembered to eat, and got too-little sleep, with such focused repetition that she lost track of the days of the week.
When she stumbled into the saloon at autumn's end, she found it bursting with people. The jukebox blared, and Jen had to wind around dancing couples to reach the bar. Pool balls snapped against one another in the gaming room as she ordered a plate of spaghetti with a glass of red wine. The noise buffeted her, keeping her planted firmly in the present even though all she wanted to do was eat something hot, take a steaming shower, then crash in bed to sleep for a week straight.
Emily, one of the bartenders, shook her head as she brought over Jen's meal. "You look done in!"
"Harvest. Grounds keeping. I'll rest in winter," Jen said with a wry smile, picking up her fork. The food was gone in five minutes, the wine following shortly after. In a blur of weariness, she paid for her meal and stumbled toward the door. She barely noticed Shane following her out into the icy drizzle.
"Hey, Jen," he said, catching up to her on the street. Whatever he'd been drinking had brightened his eyes and flushed his cheeks—and evidently given him the confidence to meet her gaze as he asked, "Would this be a bad time to swing by for that pumpkin?"
Though it was barely 9 pm, the last thing she wanted to do was delay crawling into bed. She hadn't even changed out of her work clothes before the need for dinner forced her off the farm; she barely had the energy to lift one booted foot before the other. She nodded down the path toward the farm as she kept walking, inviting him to come with her. "Doesn't she want to pick it out herself?"
He shrugged. "Yeah, but she's been down with the flu. Spirit's Eve is in a few days, and she needs a chance to get it carved."
"Spirit's Eve, already? Autumn has absolutely flown by."
He frowned, thoughtful. "Time never flies, for me."
He settled into silence as they followed the path to Briarly Farm, and Jen was too tired to draw him out of it. The icy drizzle had strengthened to the shadow of sleet before they reached the pumpkin patch. Nugget woofed at their approach, streaking down from her perch on the porch, just another dark blur among the shadows as she sniffed around their feet.
"This is the largest of them," Jen said, gesturing toward the most impressive pumpkin on the vine.
"It's pitch dark out here. Can't see a thing," Shane mumbled, bending to inspect it. Nugget charged him happily, tail wagging as she licked his neck and ear before he playfully fended her off.
"Nugget! Sorry," Jen said, handing him a pair of clippers. "Yeah, better lighting is on my winter to-do list. Better fencing, too. And a barn..."
He trimmed the pumpkin from its vine then stood, arms crossed, to survey the farm. "Doesn't it make you nervous living out here alone like this? Hell, I can't even see Marnie's ranch or the town lights from here."
Jen shrugged, and reached toward Nugget. Instantly the dog was there, inspecting Jen's hand, her warm muzzle and soft coat reassuring. "I've got the dog and good locks on the doors. Besides, it's not like this is the city."
"True. Barely anyone knows this town exists." He hefted the pumpkin to his shoulder, shifting his feet to stabilize its weight. "How much for this one?"
Jen waved away the thought of payment. "No charge. Hopefully it'll make Jas feel better. Are you really planning on walking with that all the way back? I have a wagon."
He glanced at the rusted Red Flyer lying on its side by the porch, and arched a dubious eyebrow. "I think I can manage without it."
"Your call." Jen sighed, mind heavy from the wine and the warm food. "Look—I hate to be rude, but I'm practically asleep on my feet and—"
His eyes widened, a blush tinging his cheeks. "Sure. No problem. Thanks for letting me swing by so late."
It must have been the delirium, or the confounded urge to soothe his obvious embarrassment and make up for her lack of hospitality, that made Jen reach out to take his hand. Squeezing it, she said, "Coffee next time you come by, alright?" And, standing on tiptoe, she pressed a kiss to his cheek—that, when he turned slightly, landed on the corner of his mouth.
His skin was warm on her lips, the stubble of his cheek rough. A faint whiff of beer clung to him. Still standing entirely too close to his warm body, she forgot about the sleet entirely as want warmed her core and sent fire into her veins. But Shane only stared at her, as stunned as she, as she slipped her hand from his.
For a brief moment, as she retreated to the porch, she let herself fantasize about him following her up the steps, taking her hand to lead her inside and then—
Of course, he didn't. He might not have even if she asked him to—it was entirely too soon, too forward. Yet as she fumbled with the door lock, heart pounding, he called after her. "See you on Spirit's Eve?"
She got the door open. Muzzy warmth enveloped her as she crossed the threshold, and she smiled over her shoulder at him. "Yeah, see you then."
Dizzy, she shut the door and locked it. And was certain she hadn't imagined him smiling slightly as he turned to walk across the dark fields.