Page 46 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Their eyes met across the barrel top and something in the air shifted – an electric awareness that had nothing to do with the distant thunder, and everything to do with the narrowing space between their separate worlds.

Jack’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then back to her eyes, a question forming in his expression. ‘Molly …’ he began, his voice hoarse, then leaned forward slightly, the movement so subtle she might have imagined it had her body not responded with sudden, heightened awareness.

The barrel between them felt both obstacle and protection, the few inches of weathered oak holding back a tide of possibilities both were afraid to acknowledge.

Until the barn door creaked open with a sudden gust of wet air, breaking the charged silence.

Patrick entered, hunched slightly against the rain, carrying a tray with three steaming mugs. His silver hair was darkened by moisture, his weathered face brightened by exertion and mischief.

‘Thought you two might welcome something hot,’ he called, kicking the door shut behind him with surprising vigor for a man his age. ‘Weather’s turned proper nasty.’

Molly straightened, suddenly conscious of her posture, the heat in her cheeks, the lingering electricity of the interrupted moment. Beside her, Jack cleared his throat and stepped back from the barrel, creating distance with deliberate movements.

‘Perfect timing,’ she said, her voice overly bright to her own ears. ‘We were just discussing a business plan.’

Patrick’s eyes, sharp, moved between them with knowing assessment. The steam from the mugs rose in fragrant curls, carrying the scent of tea and something else. His gnarled hands steadied the tray with ease as he approached, the skin spotted with age but the movements sure.

‘Were you now?’ he asked mildly, setting the tray on a nearby crate.

Jack took a mug with unnecessary focus, avoiding his great-uncle’s gaze. ‘Just bringing Molly up to speed on some of the challenges we’re facing.’

‘Challenges, is it?’ Patrick handed Molly a steaming mug, his eyes twinkling with mischief that belied his innocent tone. ‘And here I thought you two might be finding solutions.’

The double meaning wasn’t lost on either of them.

Molly accepted the tea gratefully, wrapping her fingers around the warm ceramic. The rich scent of the blend rose with the steam, mingled with what she now identified as whiskey. The simple comfort of the drink grounded her, drawing her back from the edge of whatever precipice she and Jack had been approaching.

‘We were just about to taste the Russet batch,’ Jack said, changing the subject with transparent haste. ‘Want to join us, Patrick? Get a second opinion?’

The older man settled onto a crate, his movements measured but not frail. ‘Don’t mind if I do. Though I suspect you’ve already had a valuable second opinion.’ His gaze shifted meaningfully to Molly. ‘Sometimes fresh eyes see what we’ve been looking at for far too long to notice.’

Chapter 23

Friday morning, Molly headed into the village square, where the Harvest Festival market – the unofficial start of the festival weekend – had transformed the cobblestones into a colorful maze of canvas stalls. The older buildings stood sentinel around the temporary stalls, their weathered stone providing a perfect backdrop to the bustling commerce.

Something about the rhythm of this place settled her in a way that truly surprised her. For the first time in forever her shoulders no longer felt knotted with tension.

‘Mornin’!’ called an elderly woman arranging jars of honey on a wooden table nearby. The amber liquid caught the morning light, glowing like trapped sunshine.

Molly approached, drawn by the golden display. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, picking up a small jar. The glass was cool against her palm.

‘Taste?’ The woman offered a tiny wooden stick drizzled with honey. Molly accepted, touching it to her tongue. The flavor bloomed; sweet certainly, but complex with floral notes and something deeper, almost smoky.

‘That’s incredible,’ she murmured, genuinely impressed.

The woman beamed. ‘My bees spend the summer up in the hills where the heather blooms purple. Makes all the difference.’ She tilted her head, studying Molly with curious eyes. ‘You’re the American staying at the Glen Arms, aren’t you? The one helping the Flynns with their marketing?’

Word sure traveled fast in Golden Valley. ‘That’s me.’

‘Well, work your charms on meself if you like; I could always do with the extra business.’

Molly chuckled. ‘With stuff this good, I don’t think you need any help from me.’

She purchased the honey jar, tucking it carefully into a canvas bag, before moving deeper into the market’s heart.

The stalls formed uneven rows that created winding pathways between them. Molly wandered without hurry, pausing to admire hand-thrown pottery glazed in blues and greens that mimicked the lake’s changing colors, then lingering over a display of wooden carvings – small animals and Celtic knots polished to a warm glow. A street busker played a tin whistle from a bench at the square’s edge, the plaintive melody weaving through the market’s ambient sounds.

Farmers arranged their produce in colorful displays – purple and green cabbage heads nestled beside orange carrots and ruby-red beet. Apples too, of course – though few with the character of Goldenridge’s heritage varieties. She’d spent enough time with Jack over the last few days to recognize the commercial types, their uniform shape and color pretty but predictable.