“You didn’t know anything,” I laugh, grabbing my tote. “You guessed and harassed me into it.”
He winks. “Same result.”
The town square is already stirring by the time we pull into place. Not bustling yet, not full, but waking up in that uniquely small-town way. The actual market isn’t until tomorrow morning, but vendors always set up early, staking out spots, gossiping, swapping goods, catching up on the town grapevine.
Tents are half raised. Tables are spread out like patchwork. The smell of cut grass and coffee is drifting from somewhere nearby. A couple of kids dart between crates as excited little spies. Someone’s playing a guitar lazily from the gazebo, tuning rather than performing.
It feels alive in a way that hits a tender place in my chest.
Boone backs the ranch truck into its usual space with that effortless precision he seems to have been born with. Caleb stands nearby, giving hand signals, and the two of them move in a simple rhythm, years and years of shared work in every gesture. Silas hops out before the truck even stops, stretching his arms overhead, greeting his kingdom.
“Okay,” he declares. “Sunridge Ranch, Phase One: Charm the living hell out of the town.”
“You don’t need help with charm,” I mutter.
Silas flashes a grin. “Sunshine, I always appreciate your support.”
We unload crates. Carrots, kale, potatoes, early tomatoes, Caleb’s babies apparently, jars of pickles and jams, cartons of eggs, and the sweetest-smelling corn I’ve ever been near.
Sadie tugs Caleb’s sleeve. “Can I carry something?”
He hands her a basket of mini pumpkins. “Pumpkin commander. High responsibility.”
Sadie salutes so seriously, my heart cracks a little.
I grab a crate of greens that, of course, is heavier than my body thought it was. I wobble.
A large hand appears out of nowhere, steadying the other side.
“Careful,” Boone murmurs.
Of course it’s him.
“I’ve got it,” I say too quickly.
A soft grunt. Not quite believing me, but not arguing either. He just walks with me, silently bracing the crate until I set it down.
When he steps back, the space between us feels suddenly colder.
Before I can dwell on it, a voice sails across the square:
“Well! If it isn’t my favorite troublemakers!”
“Oh,” Silas calls out. “Joanne and Terry Claymore. It’s good to see you both. And Maggie… nice combat boots.”
“Grandma bought them for me,” she declares, smiling at Joanne. “They go with the floral dress, right?”
Silas leans close, stage whispering. “I’m their favorite, just so you know.”
Joanne swats him instantly. “Don’t sass me, boy. I changed your diapers.”
“Why does everyone know this?” Silas mutters.
Terry looks me over. “Boone finally hired someone who knows what they’re doing?”
“Delaney,” Boone corrects. “Our chef.”
Maggie steps forward, eyes intent. “Your hands smell of lemon.”
