Feed the chickensfirst, then raid their nests while they were too busy eating to notice. Scatter the goats' evening hay in three piles instead of one, which somehow turned dinner into a peaceful activity instead of the territorial battle that ended with Snickers escaping.
Little things. Simple things Walt had probably done without thinking for forty years.
But I'd needed time. Time to try, to fail, to figure out the rhythm that made everything flow instead of crash. Time to learn that Buddy preferred his grain slightly moistened, that Sugar would follow me anywhere if I talked while I walked, that the chickens laid better when I let them out during the day.
The farm had stopped fighting me.
Or maybe I'd stopped fighting it.
I hung the grain bucket on its hook and leaned against the barn door, watching the sun paint the mountains in shades of amber. The evening light caught the creek, turning it to liquid gold as it wound through the property. Wildflowers dotted the pasture like confetti someone had scattered just for me.
This.Thiswas what I'd imagined when I said yes to Walt's offer.
Not the panic of those first weeks, when every sound felt like impending disaster. Not the exhaustion of learning everything at once, or the fear that I'd ruin something precious Walt had spent forty years building.
This.The kind of peace that sank into your chest and made you breathe deeper. The satisfaction of watching things grow because you'd tended them. The simple joy of animals who trusted you enough to eat from your hand.
The chaos hadn't disappeared entirely. Snickers would probably figure out a new escape route by next week. Something would break. The weather wouldn't cooperate.
But now I knew what to do when things went sideways. I had people to call—Cal for animal emergencies, Emily and Abby for moral support, even Walt, who I'd been terrified to bother during those first panicked weeks.
I didn't need to pretend everything was fine anymore. Didn't need to hide the broken irrigation timer or the property tax panic or the fact that I'd nearly poisoned myself making soap.
Waltwantedto know. Wanted to hear about the farm even while he was falling in love halfway across the country. And the weirdness? I wanted to tell him.
Not because I needed rescuing. Not because I'd failed.
Because I wasdoing it. I was running this place, making it work, figuring out solutions instead of drowning in problems. It felt good to share the wins, knowing I'd earned them. Knowing Walt could enjoy his retirement without worrying I'd burn the place down.
I was halfway back to the farmhouse when movement caught my eye in the distance. Emily's blue truck, unmistakable even from here, parked near the construction site where her new house was taking shape, just over the property line. My future neighbor.
I'd been meaning to stop by. To thank Emily properly for everything—the brewery rescue, the friendship, the way she'd made me feel like I belonged in Alder Creek again instead of just being “Walt's niece who came every summer.”
Now looked like perfect timing.
Inside the farmhouse, I loaded a basket with eggs, a jar of goat cheese, two bottles of lotion, tomatoes, zucchini, and a handful of the prettiest dahlias. I stepped back, admiring my work.
The basket looked like something you'd see on Pinterest. Rustic and charming and exactly the kind of gift a grateful neighbor would bring.
I grinned, grabbed the basket, and headed for my truck.
The short drive to the construction site took me past a small field, over the creek that marked the property line, and up a gentle slope where Emily's future house sat. The structure was coming together nicely, rising against the mountain backdrop.
Emily's truck was parked near a pile of lumber, and I spotted her blonde hair near what would become a porch. I parked, grabbed the basket, and climbed out, suddenly buzzing with excitement.
Emily spotted me and straightened, brushing sawdust off her jeans.
“Well, look who finally decided to wander over.”
“Brought you something.” I held up the basket. “Overdue thank you for the brewery rescue.”
Emily crossed her arms, eyebrow raised. “You mean that time you had a full meltdown in your truck?”
“That's the one.”
She walked over and peered into the basket. Her expression shifted from playful skepticism to genuine surprise.
“Wait, is that your goat cheese?” She grabbed one of the lotion bottles, turning it over. “And youmadethese labels? Rosie, these are gorgeous.”
