He blinked again.
“I am,” she insisted.
She tucked the file folder tighter under her arm, straightened her spine, and marched toward the orchard. She’d let him run, but she wasn’t backing down for good. The orchard was worth saving. The plan was worth hearing.And if she had to chase him down between rows of apple trees like a clipboard-wielding menace, she would.
She spotted Brody Fitch, who was probably puttering around waiting to walk Emma to school. “Which way did he go?”
He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Third row.”
Honey muttered a quick thanks and took off in that direction, pants swishing around her calves. Sure enough, there was Ethan, halfway down the row, a ladder tucked under one arm.
“Hey!” she called.
He didn’t break stride. In fact, he pivoted and ducked into the next row, disappearing behind the trees.
She followed after him. “Mr. Hale!” she called out again.
By the time she caught up, he was halfway up the ladder, head obscured by a thick cluster of branches.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Baxter,” he said quickly, without looking down. “Can’t talk right now. Need to check the sugar levels before school drop-off.”
“This will only take a moment.”
“The girls really can’t be late. You understand.”
She crossed her arms. “We both know those girls haven’t been on time to school a single day since I’ve arrived.”
Silence from the tree. A leaf fluttered to the ground.
“Well,” he finally said, voice muffled, “like I said, I’m busy. If you’ve got something to say, say it from down there.”
Honey narrowed her eyes, lifted her chin, and took a bold step forward. “Fine.” She sat on the ground, opened the folder on her lap, and launched into her pitch.
“We turn the orchard into an experience destination,”she said, her voice crisp and confident despite the man literally hiding in a tree. “Pick-your-own apples in the fall, peaches and berries in the summer are the obvious first steps along with the petting zoo. You’ve got the goats coming. Maybe Marlene could spare a couple alpacas each weekend. Maybe a miniature cow if you're feeling brave. For whatever reason, people seem to love a tiny cow. Next, weekend hayrides. Lantern-lit ones in the fall, romantic couple’s rides in October, and a Santa Sleigh Ride version in December. All of this will require permits, of course.”
She glanced up at the tree. A foot shifted. He was listening.
“You could build out a small stand. Apple cider, donuts, maybe branded merchandise. I have pricing breakdowns. Profit margins. Estimated foot traffic based on similar regional draws. I even have a tentative schedule with low-season offerings—storytime at the orchard on weekday mornings, private proposal packages. I know Brim’s Hollow is not some big tourist town, but you’ve got something really special here. People will feel that. They just need a reason to come.”
She took a breath, flipping the page to the budget projection spreadsheet she’d color-coded by feasibility tier.
By the time she reached the end of her business plan, she was practically buzzing with energy and pink in the cheeks. “I know it’s a lot. But it could work. I really think it could work.”
Ethan stayed up on the ladder for a moment, not moving or saying anything. The leaves rustled distantly. Her pulse ticked louder in her ears with each second he didn’t answer. Honey stayed where she was, the rising sunlight between the orchard rows spilling over her knees,her business plan still clutched in both hands. She’d laid it all out, he’d listened, but she couldn’t tell if he’dheardyet.
When he finally climbed down the ladder, she braced herself for a polite thanks-but-no thanks. Instead, he said, “Let me show you something.”
Honey hesitated just a second, then followed. He led her through the orchard, past the now familiar rows of trees and into the barn. Inside, the air cooled instantly, smelling of straw and old wood.
“Up here,” he said. He climbed a narrow set of stairs tucked behind a stack of crates and led her into the loft. It was dusty and dim, and the slanted ceiling was low enough to make her duck. Boxes were stacked neatly to one side, and in the corner sat a cedar chest.
“Here it is.” He lifted the lid carefully.
Inside lay neatly folded keepsakes, photo albums, frames, and on top, a stack of neatly folded t-shirts. He lifted one gently. A child’s handprint was stamped in green across the front, and the words Thorn & Petal Orchard curled above it in orange script.
“My grandmother and her sister named the orchard,” he said, thumb brushing the handprint. “They used to joke that Marg had the petals and Lois had the thorns. But together…” He trailed off, touching the edge of a folded shirt. “Together they made everything grow.”
Honey swallowed, the image of two women running this place, raising their families and their grandchildren here made her chest ache in the best way.
