Page 13 of Apple of My Eye

His gaze stayed on my face. “Daisy?”

“I’m simply tired, Knox. As usual.”

“I can see that. But I asked if something happened.”

There was too much in his voice. Concern. Patience. That infuriating steadiness that made me feel one honest answer away from falling apart.

So I did what I always did. I shrugged it off. “Horse threw a fit. Long drive. End of story.”

He studied me for another beat, and I could practically feel him deciding whether to call bullshit.

“Does that mean another bath is in order tonight?”

I sputtered and laughed out loud. “No. I think it’s straight to bed for me.”

“That’s a shame.”

The guys climbed back into the trucks. My sisters headed inside the house. Everyone moved on while the whole orchard had that end-of-day haze to it, the trees mostly empty now. Except we still stood here, dancing around each other.

Knox hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “For the record, I’m very good at friendship.”

Despite everything, my mouth twitched. “Are you?”

“Outstanding at it.” His eyes held mine. “If you need to talk, or… need a helping hand, call me.”

I choked on another laugh. He said it lightly, but there was nothing light in the smoldering way he looked at me. A friendly smolder?

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I managed, a sly smile growing on my face when I didn’t mean to.

Then he tipped his hat and turned away, leaving me there with my heart knocking hard against my ribs.

I watched him get into his truck, the line of his shoulders, the solid strength of him, the way he looked like a man of his word who would show up every single time a woman shouted his name.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

He would. For me.

Somewhere between the orchard and the county line and the run-in with Trevor and his veiled threats, I’d started wishing I was the kind of woman who knew how to lean on Knox when he offered.

But I wasn’t. Not when I had sisters to look after and this orchard and the past pulling me into back into a twisted knot.

After a quick dinnerof macaroni and cheese, I showered and then tried to sleep. But an hour later, with too many things stacked up in my head, I gave up, sighed, and turned on the bedside lamp. I reached for one of Dad’s journals.

I’d been working through them slowly, reading several pages at a time most nights. Dad’s handwriting was so familiar it hurt. I often traced his cramped, careful print, with my finger, every letter deliberate, nothing wasted. Reading it felt like sitting in the same room with him. Some of his entries made me laugh out loud at the memories, others had me in tears. Hard to decide if that made it easier or worse to get through them all.

Tonight I was in the final journal of the year before the accident. He noted fence repairs, and ordering feed for the livestock before the price went up. Even a whole paragraph debating whether to try a new Honeycrisp strain from a grower up in Canada.

I used small yellow sticky tabs to flag things. Not sure why. The ordinary entries outnumbered the flagged ones by a long stretch, but sometimes I couldn’t understand what Dad was about.

It seemed he kept an eye on things happening around our property. Like trucks and unfamiliar vehicles coming and going at the neighboring Amos operation. He included descriptions of them and times arriving and leaving. Plus henoted several visits from Sheriff Patrick—the elder, father of the current sheriff.

Some other entries mentioned Congressman Brewster and delays on county license renewals, along with other things he noted the congressman had been voting on, bills he supported or not. Almost like he was searching for a connection between things that may not be there.

Tonight I’d barely turned three pages before I gasped at an entry.

Patrick stopped by again. Seemed urgent this time. Asked specifically about the back road vehicles and whether I’d seen anything connected to the Brewster name. I told him about the conversations with the congressman’s office over the property line survey last spring, the pressure to sell to him coming at us almost daily now, the strange insistence on the back acreage specifically. Sheriff went quiet. He said not to discuss this with anyone, and he’d be in touch.

I sifted through the next several pages containing mentions of the mounting debt. Everything Dad tried to do to manage it, ultimately pinning his hopes on the upcoming apple harvest to save them. The stress of it was clear, trying to raise four daughters, keeping his wife happy—in the middle of it all he’d joked about selling a kidney if he thought the money would help things improve.