“Okay,” I say quietly. “Maybe we can do this.”
I crouch and drag my fingers through the soil the way Troy did. It’s darker beneath the surface. Richer. Alive, somehow.
I sit back on my heels, looking out over the space.
What do I even plant?
Vegetables, obviously. But which ones? Something easy. Something that won’t immediately die under my care. Carrots? Potatoes? Tomatoes feel ambitious. Very emotionally vulnerable, tomatoes. I huff out a quiet laugh.
“Okay, no emotional vegetables.”
I brush my hands off and stand, scanning the yard like I can already see it finished. Ordered rows of greenthriving. Something growing. Something with roots. Something permanent. The thought catches me off guard, how much I suddenly want that.
I fold my arms loosely, staring out at the ridge beyond the trees. That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet. Not the soil. Not the cabin. Not even the money.
Me.
Whether I stay. Whether I can. Whether I want to.
My phone buzzes inside. I glance back toward the house, then down at the dirt again. And then, because apparently I’ve lost all sense of self-preservation, my brain supplies one very specific image: Troy standing right here. Watching me. Teaching me. That calm voice telling me I’m doing it wrong. Again. I exhale slowly.
“Yep. My infatuation with Troy is going to be a problem.”
But for the first time since I bought this place… It doesn’t feel like the kind I need to run from. Just stay and see how all this unfolds.
Chapter 8
Troy
The ridge is quiet this morning, just the way it’s supposed to be. Wind through the trees. Distant movement in the brush. This is where things make sense. Up here, you put in the effort, and the land gives something back. Not always easy or fast — but honest.
I walk to the back edge of my property and look down toward the lower ridge where the Carter place sits, partially hidden through the trees. It’s Rainey’s spot now. I shouldn’t be thinking about it … about her.
I drag a hand over the back of my neck and head back toward the row of early beds I’ve already started turning for the season. The soil here is ready. It always is. I know where it needs breaking, where it needs time, where it needs to be left alone. Without hesitation, I drive a shovel into the ground and work it cleanly, efficiently. The way it should be.
It doesn’t take long before my mind drifts back to red hair catching sunlight. Back to fast-talking explanations that didn’t need to be finished to be understood. Back to the way she stood there, stubborn as hell, fighting dirt like it owed her something.
I push the shovel deeper than necessary. This is why I don’t get involved. It starts small. A favor or advice. And then suddenly you’re invested in something that was never meant to last. I’ve done that before. It doesn’t end well.
I pull the shovel free and move to the next section, forcing my focus back into the work. But the image doesn’t leave. Her hands. Already red from the handle. Still reaching for the shovel again anyway. That’s what stuck me ... the fact that she didn’t walk away from it.
I rest the shovel against my shoulder and look down the slope again. She’ll be sore today and probably frustrated. Maybe rethinking the whole thing. That would make sense. Most people would have that reaction. They hit resistance and decide it’s not worth it. I should let her. That would be the smart move. I don’t need another situation where I put time into something that doesn’t stick around. I don’t need … I take a deep breath. She didn’t look like someone ready to quit. Not yet. That’s the problem.
I walk to the greenhouse and grab a crate of seedlings. Setting it near the edge of the bed, my hands move automatically, checking soil depth, spacing, moisture.
Rainey is completely unfiltered. You can hear it in the way she laughs. She doesn’t hide behind anything. Very ‘out there’ in a funny, and sometimes concerning, way. I remember how she looked at the ground after the tiller went through it, like something inside her shifted at the same time. She didn’t realize I was watching her.
I shouldn’t notice her so much. But I did and I do. This is exactly how it starts. You tell yourself you’re just helping —showing someone where to start. And then, you’re standing on your own land thinking about someone else’s. The Carter place is still there and so is she, at least for now. I know that land. I know what it can be if someone puts the work in. And I know what happens if they don’t.
I rub my jaw, thinking. She asked what to plant. She doesn’t know where to start. And if she guesses wrong, she’ll get discouraged fast. That’s how people quit. Bad start. Wrong timing. Too much all at once.
I don’t need to go back. I’ve already done enough. Told her what she needed to know. Showed her how to start. That should be it. But I did tell her I would come by this morning.
I stand still a moment longer, then grab a small tray of starter plants without thinking about it too much. Hardy ones that won’t fail easily. Something that gives quick results. Something that might keep her going long enough to figure the rest out.
I carry them toward the truck, then set them in the passenger seat. I’ll just drop them off. That’s all. Nothing more.
I close the door and stand there for a moment. This is a bad idea. I know that. I’ve known it since the moment she walked into that lumber center like trouble wrapped in confused fury. But I also know something else. If she gets this right — if she stays long enough to see it through … That land will give her something real.
