Page 60 of The Mountain Echoes
“Knock yourself out.”
“You can’t save this place. We owe so much in taxes and?—”
“You need money? Sell the Aspen apartment. It’s all yours. Or some of Mama’s jewelry.”
Something that feels a lot like guilt shifts in her eyes, but she reels it in.
I pick up my coffee again, lukewarm now. Bitter. But I drink it anyway.
The kitchen door opens, and Nadine comes in with a basket of vegetables, which she probably picked in the back garden. She looks from me to Celine and then to me again, as if checking to make sure no one is physically injured.
“Vera is home today. Benji’s running a fever. So, I’m cookin’, and we’re having pancakes,” she announces, and because Celine snorts, she adds, “Not for you, Celine. I’ll make you an egg-white omelet when you’re ready. Hudson is on his own, not that he eats much for breakfast.”
Subtext:He starts drinking early.
Celine glares at me for a long moment, then turns onher heel and storms out of the kitchen, the hem of her robe flaring like a warning flag.
“Was it somethin’ I said?” Nadine murmurs, watching Celine’s retreating form.
“No, something I did.”
It’s been less than an hour since I woke up, and it’s already been a day!
After a breakfast of half-decent pancakes—Nadine is an okay cook—I go outside.
The wind bites through my jacket, the one I used to wear through the winter before I left Wildflower Canyon.
I walk the perimeter of the south field, boots sinking half an inch into the thawing mud. I pause near the edge of the alfalfa stand, crouch down, and run a hand over the soil.
Cold. Damp. Promising.
We won’t be cutting until May at the earliest, but prep starts now.
Weed control. Soil feeds. Fencing. Water lines. All the invisible things that make or break a harvest.
I stand, stretch my back, eyeing the cracked irrigation pipe lying like a broken limb in the ditch.
Add that to the list of things to do, Aria.
Five of us. That’s all we’ve got.
Five people to run what used to take twelve, maybe more in peak season. And one of those five is Vera, who keeps the house running like a tight ship but isn’t meant to haul feed, corral cattle, or mend fences.
That leaves Earl, Tomas, Nadine, and me.
Earl’s nearly seventy, though he’d likely kick my ass for saying that out loud. He knows this land like he knows the lines on his hands. Still, his knees aren’t what they used to be.
Tomas is strong and eager, and most importantly, he listens. But he’s inexperienced.
Nadine is the glue holding the emotional wreckage of this place together, but her focus is the farm and orchard.
Which means…most of it lands on me.
My insecurities flare.
Sure, I’ve been running a high-end vineyard with the latest technology and all the resources one could imagine—buthere, it’s not going to be like that. This isn’t high-end. This is a mid-sized ranch that has been battered over the years, becoming less than it used to be.
I cross through the orchard gate and pause at the base of the slope.
