Page 72 of The Apple Cider Orchard

‘I’ve tried,’ Molly admitted. ‘But without permission …’ She let the sentence hang unfinished between them.

‘Permission?’ Patrick straightened, sudden determination replacing his emotional vulnerability. ‘Pet, you need no permission. That oak has stood on Flynn land for centuries, bearing witness to generations of love stories, including mine and Aoife’s.’ His hand closed gently around hers. ‘Of course you must fulfill her wish. And I—’ his voice caught briefly before he continued ‘—I would be honored to help you if you’d let me.’

The simple statement, offered with such dignity and grace, broke something inside Molly that had been held taut since her confrontation with Jack that morning. Tears spilled over, tracking silently down her cheeks as relief and gratitude washed through her.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I would love that.’

Patrick reached toward her with trembling fingers, his weathered hand gently brushing away a tear from her cheek – a grandfather’s tender gesture toward a granddaughter he hadn’t known existed until minutes before. The touch was tentative, almost reverent, as if Molly was something precious and fragile.

‘No,’ he said, his voice steady despite the emotion evident in his eyes. ‘It is I who should be thanking you. For bringing her home. And for bringing yourself back to me as well.’

Chapter 41

The oak tree.

Still in the shadows, understanding crashed through Jack with the force of a winter storm. This was why she’d been so interested in the tree. Why Molly had been there this very morning, talking about the ‘best spot’.

Not for developers or sales brochures – but to fulfill a final wish for her grandmother.

For Patrick’s lost love.

Shame burned through him now, hot and caustic. He’d accused her of the worst possible motives, had practically thrown her off the property. Had refused to listen when she tried to explain. When all the while she’d been carrying out a mission of profound personal importance, a promise made to a dying relative.

‘That was why I was so interested in getting to it,’ Molly continued. ‘I didn’t know how to ask Jack for permission without telling the whole story, to say nothing of the fact that I didn’t know …’

Jack’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, his nails digging half-moons into his palms.

Everything Molly had done since arriving in Golden Valley shifted in his perception, reframing itself from suspicious, to poignant. She hadn’t been using or manipulating them. She’d been trying to connect – to her heritage, to her grandmother’s homeland, to the place that had shaped her family history.

And Jack had met her efforts with suspicion and barely concealed hostility.

His gaze fixed on Molly’s profile as she spoke about her grandmother’s regrets, about her fears of bringing shame to both families. The gentle way she explained complex emotions, honoring both her grandmother’s choices and Patrick’s decades of wondering, revealed a compassion that Jack had completely misjudged. He’d viewed that empathy as manipulation, her interest in the orchard as ulterior motive. When in reality, she’d been navigating a delicate situation with a grace he’d refused to recognize.

‘And now you’ve brought her home,’ Patrick was saying, his voice steadying with resolve. ‘Back to where she belonged.’

‘I’ve tried,’ Molly admitted. ‘But without permission …’

‘Permission?’ The strength in Patrick’s voice carried clearly to Jack’s hiding place.

He watched as his great-uncle reached toward Molly with trembling fingers. The gesture; so tender, so unlike Patrick’s usual reserved manner, struck Jack with unexpected force. This was a lonely bachelor claiming family, claiming connection after decades of solitude. The significance of the moment pressed against Jack’s chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Movement at the garden door to the hotel caught his attention then. Brid appeared, her silhouette unmistakable against the light from the hallway. She would surely spot him if she looked toward the archway.

Jack stepped backward, retreating deeper into the shadows of the path that led around the garden. The flagstones were cool and damp beneath his boots as he moved silently away, his mind still reeling with everything he’d witnessed.

He paused at the far corner, partially concealed by a large holly bush. From this vantage point, he could see Molly helping Patrick to his feet, the older man leaning slightly on his cane while still clutching the velvet pouch in his free hand. Their heads were bent close together, the physical resemblance between them suddenly striking now that Jack knew to look for it – something in the set of their shoulders, their side profile.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration so unexpected that he nearly dropped it in his haste to silence it. The screen glowed brightly in the darkness, forcing him to cup his hand around it to contain the light.

Notifications cascaded across the display:

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