Page 1 of Under Pink Skies

Chapter 1

Abbie

Runningageneralstorein a remote mountain town had always been a crap shoot.

But today, everything was falling apart.

Literally.

“Crap,” I muttered, rubbing my chin with my thumb and forefinger, trying to figure out what kind of ragtag solution I was going to come up with for the steady drip of water dropping from the ceiling in aisle three. The aisle was mostly stocked with canned goods and boxed camping provisions, and yet another leak was a reminder of everything that was breaking down around me.

Expensive breakdowns that would require extensive repairs to fix, with money we simply didn’t have.

Double crap.

I placed one of the smaller feed buckets beneath the leak, hoping to at least prevent the water from further damaging the wood floors beneath it. We hadn’t had new homesteaders come to Watford, Washington in years, and it’s not like anyone in town was lining up to order their equipment directly from us. If there was anything the last few years had taught me, it’s that “buying local” only goes so far. If people could get it cheaper, they would. I didn’t fault them for that. Times were hard, and money was thin, especially in a small town like Watford, where industry was scarce.

It simply sucked that it affected my family so deeply.

I returned to my work desk, which was long slabs of wood stacked onto several thick planks with wooden shelves carved into the bottom. My father’s family had made beautiful heirloom woodworking, and this counter was a testament to the incredible things my father could create with his hands, a piece of wood, and a sharp tool.

Not that he had touched any of those things in recent years.

Cancer had a way of sneaking up on the most unsuspecting of families. Ours was no different. No family history of breast cancer, and by the time they’d discovered my mom’s, it was advanced. We had several beautiful months together as a family.

And then she was gone.

I squeezed my eyes shut as unbidden memories of her funeral rammed into my mind.

I didn’t have time to dwell on the past. I had to keep moving forward. If I didn’t, I would break down.

“Abbie?”

The delicate cadence of Imogen’s voice immediately calmed my frayed nerves as the door to the store opened.

“Behind the counter.”

I didn’t recognize my voice, and as I schooled my face into a neutral expression, I prayed Imogen wouldn’t ask too many questions. As I glanced back down at the countertop, I noticed that the IRS letters I had been examining last night were still laid out.

As if dealing with my drunken, grieving father and attempting to keep the family business afloat wasn’t enough, the IRS was now breathing down my neck because my father never thought hiring a bookkeeper could serve us well in the long run. I didn’t know how deep the IRS hole went, but it was enough to result in a pile of paper mail on my kitchen table. Add that to the weekly phone calls and a barrage of emails from various debt collectors looking for my father, and I was at my wits end.

“Ah, there you are,” Imogen said, rounding the corner and throwing me a dazzling smile. I’d known Imogen for years, and it still surprised me how genuine of a person she was. She hauled with her a gigantic cardboard box full of dozens of farm-fresh eggs.

“I’m worried that box is going to fall apart on you,” I said, and Imogen immediately waved me off.

“Nonsense. I’ve been using this box to carry eggs from the homestead to your store for over a year now, and it hasn’t failed me yet.”

I couldn’t help but smile at her comforting mountain drawl and the way she naturally fell into rhythm. I grabbed the clipboard from its nail against the main post, handing it to Imogen. She signed it with a quick flick of her wrist and set about putting the eggs into the main fridge.

We only had two industrial fridges, but given the tiny amount of refrigerated goods we kept on hand—eggs, milk and cheese, and fresh produce during the harvest season—we didn’t need to expand. The two fridges pressed right next to each other against the back wall, subtly hiding the staircase that led to the upstairs loft where my father now lived.

“So, have you heard anything from your lawyer?” Imogen didn’t look up from where she was busy examining each carton to ensure the eggs had survived the trip from her farm, but she knew my smile faltered by the waver in my voice.

“I’m sorry?”

“For taking on the IRS. Have you hired a lawyer?”

I huffed out a dry laugh. “I don’t think a lawyer would do me any good. At least, I hope we’re not at that point yet. I’ve reached out to a few accountants in Spokane but haven’t found one willing to work with us. Turns out not filling out a single piece of paperwork, including anything tax related, for several years, is a nightmare for bookkeepers to sort through.”

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