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I don't answer that. Don't have a good answer. The gate's always open because I never close it. Never had a reason to.

Outside, the sun's gone. Mountains black against a sky going violet. Her taillights are somewhere down the road, carrying my flannel to town.

Saturday. She'll be back Saturday.

I scrub the last bowl harder than it needs scrubbing, set it in the rack, dry my hands on a towel, and go check on the north pasture. Work to do. Always work to do.

Doesn't stop me from looking down the road one more time before I head for the barn.

CHAPTER THREE

POPPY

Saturday morning. Jeans this time. Boots, proper ones, bought from Hilda at the general store yesterday while she told me everything about Deck Connors that he clearly would not tell me himself.

Third-generation farm. Parents retired to Arizona. Ex-wife named Beth who lasted three years before she decided the mountain wasn't for her. Runs the entire operation alone. Sells at the farmers market, tolerates the October agritourism crowd, goes home.

"He's a good man," Hilda said, folding my receipt with the precision of a woman who's been folding receipts since before I was born. "Difficult. But good."

Then she looked at the flannel I was carrying and smiled in a way that made me feel like I'd just handed her classified intelligence.

The gate is open. Same as Wednesday. Three cars are parked along the dirt path near the barn, families with kids already wandering through the patch. A couple in matching sweaters is taking a selfie near the squash rows. A little girl is sitting on a pumpkin that's too big for her to lift, laughing while her dad takes photos.

Deck is nowhere.

No. Wait. I see him. He’s near the far fence, replacing one of the crates I destroyed. He's got a hammer in one hand, nails between his lips. White thermal again, sleeves pushed to his elbows. The morning light catches the auburn in his hair.

My stomach does something unnecessary.

The flannel is folded in my bag. Unwashed, per his instructions, which I followed because I'm a guest on his property and also because the flannel still smells like him. Sawdust. Warmth. I slept in it Wednesday night. That's a detail I'll be taking to the grave.

I cross the patch, stepping between vines. He sees me coming. The hammer pauses mid-swing, nails still between his lips, eyes tracking me from boots to camera bag to face.

He pulls the nails from his mouth. "You came."

"You said Saturday."

"Didn't think you'd actually show."

"I'm returning your flannel." Pulling it from my bag, I hold it out.

He takes it. His fingers brush mine, brief, accidental, warm. Tucks the flannel under his arm without looking at it.

"Pumpkins are over there," he says, pointing behind me. "Stay on the paths. Don't climb anything."

"Hilarious."

"Wasn't joking." But his mouth twitches. That same almost-smile from Wednesday. A ghost of something he won't let arrive.

My camera comes out of the bag. The morning light is doing exactly what I need. Golden, low, cutting across the rows in long stripes. The mountains behind the patch are still holding their first dusting of snow at the peaks. Cottonwoods along the property line have gone full amber.

"Would you mind if I shot some of the farm?" I ask. "For my series. I've been covering the Harvest Festival, the market, a few other properties. Your place is the most photogenic I've found."

"That a line?"

"It's a professional assessment. Your rows are clean, your pumpkins are gorgeous, the light is perfect. Mountain Fork Magazine would feature this in a second."

He studies me. Hammer resting against his thigh, forearm flexed. "You gonna put it on the internet?"