Page 2 of Matthew
Annie’s lips curled into something far too pleased. “Sweetheart, I could organize a battle with a clipboard and a church bulletin. You really think I can’t get someone else to plant my tomatoes?”
Bennett grunted again.
Matthew straightened and exhaled. “Alright, General. What’s next?”
He couldn’t resist mocking her, and judging by the smirk on her lips, she didn’t mind one bit.
“We’re short two trays of Thai basil,” Annie said. “I called over to Morgan Creek Nursery when I realized I didn’t grab enough—Callie Morgan runs the place. I already paid for them. Tell her it’s for me. She’ll know what you’re there for.”
He squinted at her over the tray of herbs. “Can’t Bennett go? He has the intimidation thing down. People probably hand him stuff just to get him to leave.”
“Nope. Bennett’s staying here to carry my tea when I decide I’m bored.”
“She’s not joking,” Bennett muttered, already returning to the zucchini trench.
Matthew groaned, and after receiving vague directions, headed for his truck, brushing dirt off his shirt. “Civilian life,” he muttered under his breath. “They said it’d be peaceful. Nobody mentioned I’d be bossed around by a demure woman with a basil obsession and a Napoleon complex.”
The truck’s AC blasted the moment he turned the key, and after a few seconds, cool air hit like salvation as he dropped into the driver’s seat. Matthew let his head fall back against the headrest with a sigh.
So much for a quiet day off.
It was turning into a blank page of surprises, some of it interesting, some of it not so much.
With a shrug, he snagged his sunglasses off the passenger seat and slid them on before shifting into gear.
The roads through Harland were wide, sun-warmed, and strangely calming. The kind of calm that given the chance, could reach all the way in.
He liked it here, though he hadn’t been in town long. Harland had its quirks, like a diner owner who could weaponizecharm and casseroles, but it also had good people. Steady work. Quiet evenings.
And ghosts he hadn’t expected.
His fingers tightened on the wheel.
It wasn’t the work he missed from his old life, it was the clarity. The structure. The way danger had a shape and rules and a chain of command. When that chain snapped—when trust broke down and no one owned the fallout—it stuck with you.
He shook off the thought.
A hand-painted sign for Morgan Creek Nursery came into view at the edge of town, claiming it was four miles north. It was large, tidy, and easy to read, as per Annie’s words.
Matthew turned left off Main, easing onto a two-lane road that connected an unofficial line between town and country. The kind of road that made you check your gas gauge and wonder if GPS would lose interest halfway through.
The first stretch still had life—an engine repair shop with two lifted trucks out front, a row of tidy homes with porch swings and geraniums, and a Tractor Supply store doing brisk business, judging by the loaded flatbeds.
A few blocks in, the pace shifted. The houses grew farther apart. A weathered antiques shop sat empty, its OPEN sign dangling sideways as if it’d finally given up. A barn leaned into a field behind aWood for Salesign, and a produce stand was manned by a teenager in a straw hat who gave him a lazy wave beneath a hand-painted banner:Fisher Farm Fresh – Tomatoes Today!
By the time Matthew spotted the larger, clearer Morgan Creek Nursery sign up ahead, it felt as if he’d driven out of town entirely.
Which, he figured, was probably the point.
White fencing framed the property, with rows of neatly spaced greenhouses, flower beds, and gravel walkways beyond it.
Clean.
Efficient.
Someone cared about this place.
He pulled into the gravel lot, rolled to a stop beside a rusty pickup, and stepped out into a soft wave of heat and floral-scented air.
