And this time, I’m not the stranger with a suitcase full of worry. I’m part of something.
Music drifts from the main stage. Chief Patrick’s brother tunes his guitar while kids chase each other between the booths.Ro sells sugar cookies shaped like acorns and leaves, cheeks flushed, grin wide and proud.
Eldon’s booth has a line a mile long for pies, their buttery, sugary fragrance wafting across the ranch. Laura stands dutifully beside him, dishing out housemade vanilla bean ice cream, face beaming as she greets locals.
Anson’s hand finds mine as we weave through the crowd. Warm, rough, grounding. He’s traded his Carhartt jacket for an orange and black flannel that matches mine—his idea of a joke, though he’s the one who picked it out.
“Matching shirts,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath warms the shell of my ear. “People are gonna start talking.”
“They already are,” I tease. “Small town, remember?”
He grins, presses a kiss to my temple. “Good. Means they know you’re mine.”
It still surprises me, the ease of it … this peace, this belonging.
The fear that used to hum beneath my skin has quieted. Nights are restful now, wrapped in his steel-strong arms, lulled by his warm breath, spice, and sandalwood. My dreams are full of laughter and lazy mornings, not shadows and running.
Patrick and his wife stop by our booth—Anson’s booth, technically, but he insists we share it. The table’s loaded with jars of homemade pickled peppers, mustard, and our new and improved apple butter.
Patrick lifts a jar, squints at the label. “‘Made with Extra Love,’ huh?”
“Our secret ingredient,” I say.
Patrick scrutinizes me before breaking into a smile. “You two sure that’s FDA approved?”
We chuckle.
“New branding, too?” The chief raises a thick eyebrow.
Anson slides his arm around my waist. “Partnership,” he says proudly. “She’s got the eye for it.”
I nudge him. “And the burnt fingertips to prove it.”
He chuckles, deep and low, and something in my chest goes soft and molten.
When the lull hits after lunch, we sneak away to the orchard. The same one where everything began.
The air is sweet with overripe fruit and the faint hum of bees. Rows of trees bow heavy with apples, the light slanting warm and honey-gold.
I pause under a familiar branch, touch the rough bark scarred by years of storms. “Feels different now,” I say quietly.
Anson steps up behind me, wraps his arms around me. “It is different.”
“How so?”
“Storm’s over.” He brushes his lips along my neck, voice thick with meaning. “Now it’s about the harvest.”
I smile, turn in his arms, and kiss him slowly.
Somewhere in the distance, children giggle, a guitar strums, and the scent of cinnamon and vanilla drift from the festival tents.
When we finally wander back toward the ranch booths, Ro spots us first. “You’re late for judging!” she scolds, pointing a frosting-covered spoon at us.
Anson chuckles. “Fashionably late.”
Willow snorts from behind her hot cocoa and coffee stand. “About time, you two. They’re announcing winners for best homemade product.”
A few minutes later, Patrick’s onstage, reading names from a card.
