She snorts. “We agree on that, at least.”
“Tiny gourds for people who like to pretend they decorate. Giant ones for people who like to prove their strength by carrying it out without a wagon.”
“Which one are you?”
I keep my eyes on the lane as we bounce over a rut.
“The one who likes to prove the tractor won’t bog down even when it should.”
She laughs, and the sound reaches under my ribs where I’d wrapped everything tight and gives it a shake. I ease us past the catapult—silent on weekdays—and swing toward the far edge where the property shrugs up into firs and spruce. The mountains crouch beyond like old gods who don’t care for small talk.
“And over there,” she says, camera up, voice a little breathless despite the blasé tone, “is that the maze?”
“Haybales. Straw this year, mostly. We farm some crops over there in the north field. We rotate it to keep the ground from quitting on us.”
I point out the cannon range, the jumping pillow sagging empty as a sad cloud, the photo cutouts that need repainting.
“Weekends, it’s people everywhere. Weekdays, we fix.”
She shifts closer to the side rail to frame a shot. The wagon bumps and she steadies herself with a palm to the plank.
“Did you always want this?”
“This?” I ask.
“This,” she says, and her hand makes a circle that means all of it—the amber fields, the smell of diesel and cider, themountain air that steals heat from your lungs and makes you want to earn it back. “The farm. The building. The… staying.”
The word sticks like a burr. I downshift as we take the gentle knoll.
“We all wanted something we could make with our hands.” I tip my head at the new fencing, the fresh cedar posts on the viewing deck, the clean span of truss that keeps the cider barn roof from sagging. “Turns out wood is easier to work with\ than people.”
“Depends on the people,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, because I don’t trust myself with more.
We ride the last stretch to the far fence line in a quiet that isn’t comfortable yet. I cut the engine and the sudden lack of noise rings.
The world rushes back in. Wind blows high in the trees, the click and ping of hot metal cooling, Pumpkin’s distant bark from somewhere he shouldn’t be.
Taegen rewraps her strap, looks at me like she’s taking a picture she won’t print.
“Okay,” she says, voice normal-volume now that the tractor’s shut up. “Off the record?”
I don’t move. “Depends.”
“You look good, Dylan.” She says it like a simple fact and then rushes on before I can react. “Older, obviously—same as me. But you look… settled.”
I huff. “That’s the first time anyone’s accused me of that.”
“Okay, back on the record. Did you build all of this?”
“With my brothers and sister. Plus a few guys who show up when we give them enough beer and steaks.”
She smiles, then sobers, notebook coming out of her bag because old habits don’t die, they hibernate.
“What was the inspiration for the patch?”
“Quinn,” I say. “He can read a ledger faster than I can read a tape measure. And a few years back, he saw we were losing money, and he wanted to find a way to build some new revenue.” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “That’s off the record.”
