Page 25 of The Pumpkin Spice Romance
“Hold together,” she uttered, more to herself than the canopy. Another gust ripped across the field, yanking the aluminum frame out of her grasp. She stumbled forward, hitting the ground hard. Mud splattered across her jeans and coat, but she didn’t care. The festival was less than forty-eight hours away, and half the setup already looked like a lost cause.
Her phone buzzed from her pocket, barely audible over the roar of the storm. She ignored it at first, too busy poundinganother stake into the ground with a mallet she’d scavenged from a nearby tool kit. But when the beeping persisted, she yanked the phone out, squinting at the screen through the rain.
The notification blinked on her screen and she paused mid-swipe.
Hayden Hot Flash Update: Robert Oakley’s Emergency Surgery Successful.
There it was—proof of why Graham had left so suddenly. Relief washed over her for a fleeting moment, knowing his father was okay. But it was quickly drowned out—by resentment? No, not quite. Hurt, maybe. The kind that coiled deep inside, leaving her breathless.
“Of course he didn’t tell me,” she muttered, shoving the phone back into her pocket. The memory of Graham’s abrupt departure ten years ago resurfaced with startling clarity. Just like then, she hadn’t gotten an explanation. Just silence and a hollow ache.
The wind picked up again, snapping her attention back to the task at hand. A plastic crate tumbled across the field, its contents scattering in every direction. She ran after it, her boots squelching in the mud. Somewhere in the chaos, Mr. Buttercup had slipped away. She’d seen him dart toward the open gate earlier, but hadn’t had the mind to chase him.
“Great,” she muttered. “Perfect timing, as always.”
By mid-afternoon, the worst of the storm had passed, leaving destruction in its wake. Autumn surveyed the mess with a sinking heart. The tents lay in twisted heaps of canvas and aluminum. Straw from the hay bale displays lay scattered across the field, sodden and darkened by the rain. Even the bunting—draped from post to post, bright and cheerful just yesterday—now clung limply to the ground like discarded ribbons.
Her hands rested on her hips as she breathed deeply, pushing back the wave of exhaustion threatening to overwhelm her. Every muscle in her body ached, her arms burned, sore from wrestling with canopies and her legs were heavy from trudging through mud.
It wasn’t just the physical toll. The festival was supposed to be her triumph, a showcase of everything she had rebuilt on the farm. Now it seemed like she’d barely survive the weekend, let alone host the biggest event of the season.
She knelt to pick up a string of tangled lights. Rain dripped from her hair onto her face, mixing with the sweat and grime already streaking her skin. A part of her wanted to scream, to let out the frustration building inside her. But screaming wouldn’t fix anything.
“Get it together,” she chided, pulling the knots loose. “You’ve done harder things than this.”
Her phone buzzed again. She ignored it this time, too tired to deal with whatever bad news it might bring. Instead, she grabbed a tarp from a nearby pile and dragged it across the ground, using her full weight to cover a set of collapsed crates.
Mud sucked at her boots, nearly pulling one off as she worked. In the back of her mind, she thought about the volunteers who were supposed to be helping her. Most had gone home once the wind picked up yesterday—an understandable choice, but it left her alone to deal with the aftermath today.
The ache deepened.Alone.She’d been alone for most of this. Alone when the storm came. Alone when Graham had left without a word.
She caught herself glancing toward the horizon, almost hoping to see his car pulling up the driveway. When nothing appeared, she shook her head sharply and went back to work.
As dusk approached, the tail end of the storm settled into a misty drizzle. The dark clouds had drifted east, leaving behind a bruised sky streaked with bands of orange and purple. Autumn trudged across the field, her boots caked with mud and her hands raw from hours of work. The smell of wet earth and rain-soaked hay hung thick in the air.
The area looked like a war zone. Scattered debris, broken stakes, and shredded tarps littered the field, and the once-pristine rows of pumpkins now sat in muddy disarray. She’d done everything she could to salvage the setup, but she was exhausted and there was still so much left undone.
“Tomorrow,” she murmured. “I’ll fix it tomorrow.”
Autumn headed past the barn, though she was ready to collapse into bed and pretend for a few hours that her world wasn’t falling apart. A faint glow caught her eye and she spun on her heels. At first, she thought it was her mind playing tricks onher, but as she drew closer, the unmistakable flicker of a lantern became clearer.
Squinting, she spotted a figure crouched near one of the fallen tents. Her heart jumped, recognition striking her like a bolt of lightning.Graham.
She stopped in her tracks, watching as he worked steadily, his movements deliberate and practiced. He was repositioning poles and securing tarps, while the lantern cast long shadows that danced across the field. Nearby, Mr. Buttercup perched like a sentinel, his white patches illuminating in the low light.
“Graham?”
He turned toward her, straightening as he wiped his hands on his jeans. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat, and his shirt clung to him in places, streaked with mud and dampness.
“Your goat found me at the hardware store,” he said as he approached from across the field. “Seemed like he was trying to tell me something.”
Autumn stared at him, momentarily speechless. She glanced at Mr. Buttercup, who let out a contented bleat, looking far too smug for a creature who’d caused nothing but trouble all day.
“Of course he did,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “Your father—”
“Is recovering well. The surgery went better than expected.”
Relief washed over her, but confusion quickly replaced it. “Then why are you here?”
