Page 15 of The Pumpkin Patch Promise

They found an unoccupied table beneath a canvas awning and settled with two plates of food between them. Over lunch, their conversation wandered from the fall foliage to the antiques they'd seen, with Sam insisting that Prue had developed an alarming attachment to some reclaimed doors.

“They have character,” she protested.

“They have hinges and a very steep price tag.”

“Exactly. Character.”

Sam laughed, and Prue found herself smiling across the table. She couldn't remember the last time lunch had felt quite so effortless, and so, without really thinking about it, she started opening up to him just a little bit about what her marriage had been like. Sam, as usual, listened to her intently, and by the end of lunch, she felt lighter for it.

When they were finished, they wandered down the final row of exhibitors, pausing at stalls that caught their interest and occasionally doubling back when one of them spotted something they'd missed. Prue was beginning to understand why people could spend an entire day at a market like this. There was always another carved doorway, weathered mantel, or piece of ironwork worth examining. More than that, she liked discovering what Sam noticed first. His tastes were surprisingly similar to hers, although he had a habit of spotting the practical details she overlooked.

The afternoon sun slanted through the canopy of sugar maples, casting long amber shadows across the fairground parking area as they made their way to Prue’s car. Sam set the canvas tote containing the hand-forged iron hinges into the trunk, securing the sturdy cotton strap so the heavy metal would not shift during the drive back toward Harvest Hollow.

"Thank you for inviting me along today," Sam said, his voice low against the rustle of autumn leaves. "I enjoyed examining those old timber beams with you."

"I’m glad you came," Prue replied, meeting his gaze directly. "I must say, your knowledge about historical joinery was very useful. It helped me evaluate what we might be able to salvage for the cottage."

Something shifted between them. Prue became suddenly aware of how close Sam was, of the way his eyes lingered on hers and how difficult it was to look anywhere else. The easy conversation they'd shared all afternoon seemed to fall away, leaving her far too conscious of the attraction humming between them.

Sam paused, looking at her softly. He didn’t lean in unannounced or assume automatic access to her space.

"May I kiss you?" Sam asked, his tone open and free of demand.

The direct question hung in the air. Prue paused deliberately, taking a full breath of cool mountain air to check her own internal gauge. She felt no fear, only a clear desire to honor her own timing. She felt the unmistakable pull. Her heart was steady, and although she knew she was wildly attracted to this man, she knew she wanted to move at her own pace through the six dates she had established. As much as she wanted to kiss him, she knew going slowly was the right thing.

"Not yet," Prue said softly.

She watched his face carefully, preparing herself for the familiar shift in posture, the tightened jaw, the turned shoulder, or the sudden cooling of tone that she had been conditioned to expect.

Instead, Sam smiled, a genuine, easy expression that reached his eyes.

"That is completely fine," Sam said without a hint of hesitation or disappointment. “But just so you know, I’m open to being kissed by you any time.”

A sudden, overwhelming sense of relief washed through Prue. His light-hearted response, and the fact that he didn’t pull away emotionally, made her heart soar. He was as kind and warm as he always was. He simply accepted her decision as a valid, complete answer that required no justification or apology.

"Thank you," Prue said, trying to control the tears of gratitude that were suddenly threatening to spill over.

"You never have to thank me for that," Sam replied gently. "Your pace is the only pace that matters."

“Would you like to drive?” Prue asked, offering him her keys.

“You trust me with your car?” Sam teased.

“I trust you,” Prue said.

The words came easily, without hesitation. She watched him take the keys and realized that it wasn't really the car she was trusting him with. She had let him into parts of her life she guarded carefully, told him things she rarely shared, and allowed herself to relax in his company without constantly wondering if she was going to say something to upset him.

Maybe that was what surprised her most.

She trusted Sam. Not because he had promised her anything, or because he had given her some grand reason to believe in him. She simply did.

And somehow, that felt like a much bigger step than handing him the keys.

PRUE

Prue had reached the point where she could identify her mother's handwriting at a glance, even when it appeared in the margins of a bank statement or beside a figure she couldn't immediately explain. She turned another page of a heavy green binder and frowned. The autumn harvest schedule was running smoothly, but the work of cataloging her late mother's hidden records was proving considerably less straightforward. Three neat stacks covered the desk in the office: yellowed bank statements, expense slips, and ledger vouchers dating back to the late 1990s and early 2000s. Each one seemed to raise another question.

Prue picked up a fountain pen and opened the secondary bank ledger that Rosalind had maintained under a discreet holding account. The entries were written in her mother's precise, slanted blue cursive, recording monthly disbursements for emergency housing, utility deposits, and regional transit vouchers. Rosalind had organized the entries using a system of coded reference numbers, masking the identities of the women who had sought refuge through the sanctuary network.