“I’ve seen the way Emma leans into your side without even thinking. The way Melly’s hand always finds yours the second she enters a room. And the way Brooke tosses you sass like she knows you’ll catch it and throw it right back.”
He let out a breath, a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Some days I just feel like I’m guessing,” he said. “Like everything I do is a shot in the dark, and I’m just hoping I don’t mess it all up.”
He’d said it before he had a chance to second guess it. With Honey looking at him like she wasn’t fazed by the noise and mess of it all, the words just slipped out.
“I’ve never wanted this kind of life,” she mused. “The chaos, the mud, the things with teeth that chew through your garden hose.”
That pulled a real smile from him.
“But…” she added, tone softer now. “It’s nicer than I thought. You’ve built something good here, Mr. Hale, even if it doesn’t always feel easy.”
There was a pause, and Ethan was suddenly aware of how close they were standing. Close enough that if he shifted his hand just slightly, his fingers might brush hers.
He looked out across the orchard, where the wind rustled the leaves of an apple tree and the fencing leaned a little to one side. The place had flaws, sure. More than he had time or money to fix. But it was home.
Honey took a breath. “What I’m saying is you’ve got something here people want. They just don’t know about it yet.”
He lifted a brow.
“At the risk of overstepping…”
“What is it, Ms. Baxter?”
“I think people are lonelier than they let on,” Honey said. “And this place...it feels like the kind of spot that could fix that. Even if just for an afternoon.”
Ethan was quiet for a long moment as he considered. Then he looked at her, a new interest in his eyes. Another beat passed between them, the kind that could tilt one way or another if someone just reached.
“What are you saying?” he asked.
“Do you ever think about turning the farm into an experience?” she asked. “Petting zoo, pumpkin patch, hayrides. Even city families are desperate for places that let their kids get dirty and touch something real. You’ve already got the charm. You just need a little structure.”
She braced herself, probably waiting for him to tell her she had gone too far, that she’d overstepped again.
And honestly, she had. He didn’t need more animals to feed. He wasn’t in the market for livestock or miracles. The farm was a sinking ship, and no farm-experience gimmick was going to change that.
But then he looked at her.
She’d told him just yesterday that she never got to be a kid. That life had handed her mess and responsibility before it ever gave her safety.
When she came here, only a week ago, she flinched at every noise and mumbled to herself often. These last few days, he’d watched her soften. It didn’t make sense how a woman like her, sharp-edged and full of spreadsheets, could go soft over a bleating little creature like Pickles, but it did something to him, watching her settle down in the dirt, smiling softly as Pickles chewed on the hem of her cardigan.
He thought about what she’d said, about never wanting a life like this.
He wondered if maybe she would have wanted it once, in that part of childhood she never got to keep. If maybe she’d wanted animals and bedtime stories and something steady to come home to. Life hadn’t worked that way for her, and now here she was, pitching ideas and drawing up plans and trying to save a farm she didn’t owe anything to.
Trying to save him, if he was being honest.
And damn it…he wanted to let her.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
She blinked. “Go where?”
“We have a couple hours before the Showdown. There’s a guy we can probably catch before it starts. Trent Westbrook. He’s got a new litter of goats that are about to wean.”
“Goats,” she echoed. “I have work to do.” She gestured to the piles of coins around her still waiting to be sorted.
“This was your idea.”
