For a second, all I can think is:When did he start looking like that?
He spots me and slows. “Taegen.”
“Hey, stranger.” My voice comes out lighter than I mean it to.
Quinn claps a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“She’s writing an article about us. Needs the full tour—the works. Show her the new forest trail, yeah?”
Dylan’s jaw flexes once, the universal Carver sign forfine.
“Sure thing.”
Tricia grins. “You’re in good hands. He built half of what you’ll see.”
“Lucky me,” I say, even as my pulse misbehaves.
He offers his hand to help me climb into the trailer bed. It’s a small gesture, and polite. But when our fingers touch, a spark jumps like static.
I look up, and he’s already looking away, giving orders to Pumpkin—the golden retriever wagging at his heels.
The engine rumbles to life. Hay bales creak under me. I clutch my notebook, pretending to check settings on my camera.
“Ready?” he calls out without looking back.
“Absolutely,” I lie.
The truck jolts forward, bumping down the lane past rows of pumpkins glowing in the light. I try to focus on composition, on framing, on anything except the way his shoulder moves when he shifts gears.
This was supposed to be easy.
Get quotes. Get pictures. Get out.
But as the farm opens up around us—golden fields, the scent of cider, laughter drifting from somewhere unseen—I have a sinking, fluttering feeling that Patti’s going to get her skeletons after all.
Only this time, they might be mine.
THREE
DYLAN
The tractor always sounds better than people.
That’s a lousy truth for a man who works with the public six days a week during the season. But the diesel hum has a rhythm I understand—air, fuel, fire, work. No guesswork. No old scars lighting up because somebody said my name like they used to.
Taegen sits on the hay bale behind me in the wagon, knees angled toward the side rail, camera strap wrapped twice around her hand like a promise. The wind lifts a piece of hair across her mouth and she tucks it behind her ear without thinking.
It’s the same move as when we were fourteen and she’d work on her homework in the barn loft. Tongue pressed to her teeth, deep in concentration.
She’s… more. That’s the best I’ve got. She’s somehow grown sharper and softer at the same time. Less girl, more woman.
And I don’t want to think about that. So I check the mirrors, roll past the mums, and let the engine talk for me.
She leans forward, raising her voice over the drone. “What am I seeing here, tour guide? Sell me the magic.”
I gesture with a gloved hand.
“Pumpkins on your left. More pumpkins on your right.” I tilt my chin toward the hill. “Forty-some varieties. Whites, blues, warty ones for kids who think bumps are fun.”
