Page 1 of Hayrides with Hank
1
MADDIE
Iwas absolutely going to get arrested for stealing apples.
The thought should have sent me running back to my truck, but instead, I reached for another perfect red specimen dangling just out of reach. There was something deliciously rebellious about tiptoeing through Jackson’s Orchard at dawn, my black cape fluttering behind me like some sort of fruit-obsessed superhero.
The mountains of Tennessee had never looked more beautiful. Or more like the perfect backdrop for my inevitable mugshot. Early morning mist clung to the apple trees, and the air carried the scent of autumn leaves mixed with fresh straw from the hayride preparations. It was the kind of morning that made you believe in magic, which probably explained why I was acting like an idiot.
I didn’t need these apples. I could’ve bought a dozen at the store for five bucks. But there was something about the pre-dawn adventure, the thrill of being where I shouldn’t be during spooky season, that made my heart race in the best possible way.
Chug-chug-chug.
I froze, apple halfway to my basket.
RRRRRAAAAHHHHHH.
The chainsaw’s roar shattered the peaceful morning like a bomb going off. My eyes flew open—when had I closed them?—and suddenly the misty orchard didn’t look magical anymore. It looked like a crime scene, and I was the criminal.
Time to go.
I grabbed the apple I’d been reaching for—the most perfect one yet, naturally—and shoved it into my basket. My hands were shaking now, whether from adrenaline or the realization that normal people were clearly awake and working, ready to discover the cape-wearing apple thief in their midst.
The chainsaw continued its aggressive growl somewhere behind me as I speed-walked through the rows of trees, trying to look casual while my heart hammered against my ribs. My cape billowed dramatically with each step, and I had the hysterical thought that I looked like Little Red Riding Hood having a nervous breakdown.
The dirt path felt like a maze, each row of trees looking identical to the last. Left, right, straight—where the hell had I parked? Adding to my stress, the chainsaw noise was getting closer, or maybe that was just my paranoia talking.
Then I saw them.
A group of men was loading hay bales near a trailer, their voices carrying across the clearing. They hadn’t spotted me yet, but it was only a matter of time. My truck was parked in the opposite direction, fortunately.
Just act natural, I told myself. Walk like you belong here.
Right. Because nothing said “I belong here” like a woman in a cape carrying stolen apples at six in the morning.
I put my head down and started walking with what I hoped looked like confidence rather than barely contained panic. Don’t look back. Don’t run. Definitely don’t trip over your own cape and face-plant in front of the hot mountain men.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
Shit.
The curse word blazed through my mind. I never swore, but desperate times called for desperate vocabulary.
Up ahead, the chainsaw roared to life again, and I took it as my cue to abandon all pretense of dignity. I ran.
My cape streamed behind me, and my basket of contraband apples slapped against my hip with each frantic step. The chainsaw noise wrapped around me like armor, masking my footsteps and giving me the illusion that I might actually escape this ridiculous situation.
Twenty feet.
Ten feet.
There—my truck, exactly where I’d left it, looking like salvation wrapped in faded blue paint.
I fumbled for my keys, hands shaking as I pressed the unlock button.
Click.
In the sudden silence—when had the chainsaw stopped?—that tiny sound might as well have been a gunshot. It echoed through the trees with all the subtlety of a marching band, announcing my presence to anyone within a half-mile radius.
