“Rosie—”
“I'm thinking we start with the farmers market this Saturday.” She tapped her chin, already planning. “You can bring a couple of dogs. I'll introduce you to people. It'll be great.”
“I don't need?—”
“Yes, you do.” She pointed at me. “Don't argue. I'm helping you, and you can't say no because you just fixed my irrigation system and I'mgrateful.”
I stared at her. “That's not how gratitude works.”
“It is now.” She was already backing toward the barn, that ridiculous smile still plastered across her face. “Saturday. Nine a.m. Bring your least scary dog.”
“Rosie—”
“Can't hear you!” She spun around, jogging toward the goat pen. “Thank you again!”
I stood there in the garden, soaking wet, toolbox in hand, watching her disappear around the barn.
I should have said no. Should have told her I'm too busy, that I don't have time for farmers markets and socializing and whatever scheme she was cooking up in that chaotic brain of hers.
But I hadn't.
Because somewhere between the irrigation chaos and that smile, I'd stopped wanting to push her away.
ChapterSeven
Rosalie
If someone had toldme three months ago that I'd find inner peace while sitting in dirt, holding scissors, I would've laughed in their face.
Yet here I was. Sitting cross-legged between rows of lavender and rosemary, cutting herbs into bundles while the evening sun painted everything gold.
The heat had finally broken. All day, I'd been melting—shirt sticking to my back, hair plastered to my forehead, even the chickens looking miserable in the shade. But now, with the sun sinking behind the mountains, the air felt almost cool. Perfect.
I held up a bundle of lavender, checking the stems. Even? Check. Tied tight enough to survive Saturday's market? Double check.
Look at me. Practically a homesteading goddess.
I moved on to rosemary, the woody stems harder to cut through. My hands smelled amazing, like I'd raided a fancy spa's essential oil collection.
Tomorrow was the farmers’ market. My first solo market. Without Walt's steady presence at the booth, without his easy charm with customers, without his encyclopedic knowledge of which tomatoes were best for sauce versus salad.
I should be panicking. Racing around like a caffeinated squirrel, triple-checking my egg inventory, obsessing over whether I had enough bouquets, practicing my sales pitch in the mirror.
Instead, I was sitting here. Cutting herbs. Watching the sunset.
Maybe it was the lavender. Or the rosemary. Or the way the mountains turned purple and pink in the fading light, like someone had gone wild with watercolors.
Whatever it was, I felt... good.
I snipped another rosemary bundle and added it to my growing pile. The market booth setup was already loaded in the truck—folding table, cute vintage tablecloths I'd found in Walt's linen closet, a handpainted sign I'd stayed up late last night finishing. The eggs were collected. The flowers were in buckets of water in the barn, staying cool.
I wasready. Ish. Ready-adjacent.
A bee drifted past my nose, landing on a lavender sprig. I watched it work, methodical and unbothered, moving from flower to flower with absolute purpose.
My phone rang, jolting me out of my peaceful daze. I grabbed it, grinning when I saw the name.
“Uncle Walt!” I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear, gathering rosemary bundles as I talked. “How's North Carolina?”