Page 18 of Quinn

“Because your brother did the work?” Again, not really a question. The answer could be heard by the fondness in her voice when she spoke about her brother. The entire exchange made Quinn want to smile, pull her into a hug, and tell her what a good sister she was. “So he’s not very handy?”

“Used to be. Before…” She settled back against a nearby workbench. “He was a combat engineer. Built bridges, cleared roads. Could fix anything that broke down in the field.”

That explained a lot. Quinn had seen it before—skilled hands that suddenly couldn’t remember their purpose. Maybe his uncle was right, keeping Danny busy at the ranch could be better for him than letting him hibernate in a quiet room.

“He used to love projects.” Her voice softened, admiring a wooden cigar box he’d refinished for his dad. “Remember that hot chocolate I mentioned? One Christmas, he rigged up this whole elaborate pulley system between our rooms. Said Santa needed help delivering to foster kids.”

Quinn’s heart squeezed. He tried imagining young Eloise and her brother, making the best of whatever situation they landed in. “Sounds like he took good care of you.”

“Still does. When he’s not struggling with his own demons, he checks on me. Calls to make sure I’m eating more than kitchen scraps during prep hours.”

Setting aside his tools, Quinn studied the woman perched on his workbench. Strong enough to run a professional kitchen, gentle enough to understand broken things needed time to heal. “The restaurant’s going to be something special.”

“You think so?” A smile teasing her lips, hope bloomed in her eyes.

“Know so.” He gestured to the chair. “Some things, you can see the potential even when they’re still rough. Just takes the right person to bring it out.”

Her smile in the workshop’s light made his chest tight. “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Seeing the potential in things?”

“Trying to be. I love taking old things and giving them life again.” He picked up his sandpaper again, needing something to do with his hands. Focused on the smooth grain of the wood beneath his fingers, he was careful not to meet her eyes. “Maybe… I can show you how?” The silence that followed made him look up.

Her smile could have lit up all of West Texas. “I’d like that.”

Their locked gazes lingered a moment longer when Eloise finally slid off the workbench. “It’s getting late. I should try to sleep.”

“Sweet dreams.” Watching her move toward the door, he noticed how she paused to run her hand along the chair’s back one more time.

“Quinn?” She turned in the doorway. “Thank you. For listening.”

He nodded, not trusting his voice. After she left, he sat in the quiet workshop, thinking about brothers who protected their sisters, about broken things that could be made whole again, and about the way some people just fit perfectly into your life like the last missing piece of a giant jigsaw puzzle. He couldn’t help but wonder if she felt the same way.

Chapter Nine

The scent of fresh herbs and ripe fruits filled the café parking lot as Eloise made her way through Tuckers Bluff’s Saturday farmers market. The cheerful red and white striped awnings fluttered in the morning breeze, shading tables laden with everything from fresh eggs to homemade jam. Children darted between the stalls, many clutching warm cookies from the church ladies bake sale table. The whole scene felt like something from a vintage postcard—pure small-town America at its finest.

Unlike Chicago’s crowded urban markets where everyone was in a hurry and vendors would bag, pack, and brush their paid customers along; here vendors chatted with customers, sharing recipes, family news, and laughter like the old friends they clearly were. One woman’s tomatoes practically glowed in the morning sun. Once Eloise had a bagful, she not only had ideas for what to do with them, but she knew that these were Abby from the café’s favorite tomato, and Carolyn Brown two rows over had the freshest basil to go with them. Her fingers itched to start cooking.

Balancing bags overflowing with herbs, peaches that smelled so ripe she wanted to sit and eat the whole bag on the spot, tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, and snap peas, she paused at the local honey stall. Coming from hives scattered across three counties, the sample of wildflower honey the old man had insisted she try still lingered sweet on her tongue. One more stop at the sweet corn lady’s booth and she’d be set.

Smiling, thinking over all the conversations she’d had in the last hour, she felt like she’d been part of this town her whole life. So much information to process: who was expecting twins, whose grandson just made Eagle Scout, and which jam won first prize at the county fair. Every vendor had a story, and they seemed genuinely interested in her plans for the restaurant.

Whistling down the sidewalk to the front of the hardware store where she’d parked the ranch pick up she’d been using, she shifted the bags, wishing she’d brought the rolling cart she used to use for groceries in Chicago. Almost spilling the tomatoes, she quickly lifted her knee, propping it against the truck as she balanced a couple of bags on it while fishing for the keys in her purse.

She really should have just left the keys in her pocket. Trying desperately to hunt in her purse while the dumb thing kept sliding down her arm and threatening to fall to the ground, she dropped her leg and shifted the bags, praying the peaches didn’t tumble out and bruise. This was nuts. It shouldn’t be so hard to find the dang keys. Propping the bags on one hip and her other knee against the fender, she plopped her purse on the lifted knee and once again searched for the key ring.

“You sure you don’t need some help with that?” an unfamiliar male voice asked.

Eloise blinked. Was the voice talking to her or someone else? Shifting her weight ever so slightly, she tried to glance over her shoulder. All she could see was the back of a denim jacket under a massive sack of something.

“Thanks, Chase. If I can’t handle a bag of feed, I’m no use to the family.”

She’d recognize the second voice anywhere. Quinn Farraday. Focused on the voice, she’d lost her concentration and the bag of tomatoes began to slip from her hip. “Dang it.”

No sooner had the word tumbled from her mouth when her purse crashed to the ground and the knee pressed against the fender slipped, throwing her off balance. Arms flailing, her feet scrambling to find purchase, bags toppled over, tomatoes rolled across the sidewalk, the peaches smacked against the concrete and the bunch of fresh basil she’d been particularly excited about took flight.

As her feet slipped out from under her, all she could see was the blue sky above. Panic shot through as she realized there was nothing to grab onto to stop her fall. Like it or not, she was about to kiss the concrete.

What the hell? Quinn had barely stepped out of the hardware store with the fifty-pound bag of feed his uncle had asked him to pick up perched on his shoulder when a sprig of green smacked him in the face. Swiping it away, he heard a screech behind him as he stepped on something squishy. Glancing down, he spotted red balls rolling along the sidewalk. Not balls, tomatoes. And that’s when he caught sight of someone flailing around, about to land flat on their back.

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