“I know you have.” Quinn sobers. “Huck’s dad?—”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Okay.” He holds up his hand in surrender. “But I’ll just say?—”
“Let me guess. You were going to say, ‘Huck’s dad was a real jerk. Not all guys are like that. So I should really give them a chance.” I give him a pointed look. “Did I forget anything?”
“No, that was pretty much it.” His lip twitches. “But?—”
“No buts.” I shake my head. “Like I said, I’m not interested. And even if I was, now isn’t the time.”
My brothers have all done their part to increase attendance, and profits, for the patch this season. And with just two more weeks to go, the Great Pumpkin Festival is my last chance to make a difference.
I’m not about to let anything—and especially anyone—get in the way of that.
This farm means too much to my family. It means too much to my son. It’s his birthright and his future, if he wants it.
It’s my job to protect it for him.
TWO
VAN
By the time I turn into the Carver Family Pumpkin Patch lot, I’ve been up since five and I’m already on my third cup of coffee.
TJ’s chattering from the backseat, alternating between sound effects for his toy dump truck and questions about how many pumpkins we’ll see today.
“Hundreds,” I tell him. “Maybe thousands.”
“Do you think they have the kind that’s white? Like ghosts?”
“Only one way to find out, kiddo.”
“Yeah.” He grins. “Best inspection ever.”
I pull the truck into a space near the barn. The place is alive with activity—tents half up, cords running across the gravel, and people everywhere, moving with that mix of chaos and purpose that always shows up right before an event.
A woman steps out of the small office near the front, clipboard in hand, pencil behind her ear. The kind of person who’s clearly been up as long as I have, but still looks like she’s got the whole operation running on caffeine and grit.
She’s not what I expected.
She’s… better.
“Sorry we’re late,” I say, rounding the hood. “Babysitter bailed last minute, and I didn’t want to reschedule. Hope that’s okay.”
She waves it off easily, though I can tell she’s surprised. “It’s fine. You must be Chief…”
“Van McKenna.” I extend a hand. “And this is TJ.”
My kid grins up at her and gives a little wave with the dump truck clutched in his fist. “Hi!”
“Hi, TJ.” She crouches so she’s on his level. “I’m Lanie.”
“You run the pumpkin patch,” he says with all the solemnity a six-year-old can muster.
“That’s right.”
He nods, satisfied, and bolts toward a big wooden box near the picnic tables, where another boy’s already half-buried in corn kernels.
