Chapter 2

[Pear]

My dad .

I love the guy, but I’m still upset with him. I hadn’t seen him in months, and I was looking forward to rest and relaxation on his farm. The orchard is his newest passion.

Also, restoring his flock—and I’m not meaning sheep—has been a long-standing obsession of his.

Not that I really fault him for wanting to change the culture of the fire department by rectifying wrongs done in the past, or cutting off conflict before it burns out of control, but sometimes I just need my dad. Like now.

I’m partially at fault as I wanted to surprise him for the holidays. Unannounced, I’d shown up on Christmas Eve at my dad’s sister’s place which is in the immediate area. Aunt Bertie was thrilled to see me. Dad, too, but he was also in shock.

“ You said you couldn’t make it home.”

“Surprise,” I’d responded weakly, noticing the concern on his weathered face.

Dad had a twelve-day mission booked with ten firefighters and police officers in need of restorative justice from December twenty-sixth through January sixth. He worked hard to get both first responder departments on board with this ancient ritual of going off into nature to find peace and perspective. Not everyone bought into the process. Some even ridiculed it, but Dad had luck at turning people around.

And from the grumpy expression mixed with the chiseled cheeks of the guy in front of me, I’d say he was Dad’s newest recruit, albeit unwillingly.

At first, most participants were skeptical, hesitant, lost even. But if they wanted to keep their jobs, they followed his process for change.

Or they quit.

Or they were fired .

I knew all too well about that last option, but it wasn’t my immediate concern.

Most pressing, I needed this guy to somehow connect with Dad.

The cold air rippled through the thickness of my running leggings, and I shivered. The scent of snow was in the air, which Dad always thought was a strange ability I had. To smell snow coming.

“What does snow smell like?” he’d ask me.

I didn’t know how to explain it. Something fresh. Something clean. Something heavy but cozy, forcing us inside while wishing we could dance beneath it.

Dismissing the romantic thought, I glance back at the guy who works with Dad. They all kind of look the same; their age easily determined by their stature.

However, this man looks rather buff, and a bit formidable, in his heavy canvas jacket and worn construction boots. His hair is still dark on top but flecks of gray, like a dusting of snow, settle in the mix. The whiteness is heaviest near his ears. His jaw is covered in fresh scruff, like he recently shaved, but the facial hair grows back quickly. He has city-guy etched into his stiff cheeks and hard chin. His eyes are dark like coal but also sad, like a scared little boy resided inside him.

Silly, I know. Dad’s woo-woo rubs off on me sometimes.

“Let me just call Dad.” With my mittens in one hand, I unzip the pocket in my heavy running jacket and retrieve my phone. With a quick glance at Brock, as he said his name was, I watch him slip his hands into his pockets and hunch his shoulders upward to ward off the cold.

I wasn’t a fan of standing out here with the temperature dropping and a cold sweat congealing on my skin, but I also wasn’t about to let a stranger enter the house. He might be able to overtake me with his size, but I’d have some speed on him in my runners compared to his boots. Not that I planned to run or him to chase me. Just being cautious in the modern era as a single woman on a secluded farm with a big man before me .

As the call rings, I pray Dad will answer. He couldn’t have gotten far yet. Maybe he could turn around and pick Brock up. Worst case, he sends Brock home.

Brock turns his head and looks off in the distance. Not much to see other than a lane leading away from the house and further into the orchards. I observe his profile. That strong chin. A solid nose. Lush lips pursing.

“Pear?”

“Hey, Dad.” My voice is too high, as if caught doing something I shouldn’t be doing, like ogling one of Dad’s men. Clearing my throat, I tease, “I’ve got a stray here.”

Brock’s attention turns back to me, and our eyes meet for only a second. A zing rips up my center at that momentarily connection. Like the flick of a lighter, that sparks but doesn’t catch. The heat passes.

Quickly, I glance at the ground and toe my right foot through the gravel. “Want to come back and get him?”

“I can’t, honey. If we don’t stay on the road, we’ll miss this window in the weather, and I want to reach camp before snow hits.”

Lifting my head, I gaze up at the sky again. With a squint, I take in the heavy clouds. “Want me to send him home?”

I don’t know why I’m asking. Of course, I’ll send him home. He can’t stay here. I just didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news.

With my question to Dad, I hear the distinct crush of gravel and drop my gaze once more to Brock. He’s taken a few steps closer to me. His dark eyes are wide.

Let me talk to him , he mouths, holding out a thick hand, pink from the heat of his pocket but rugged and chapped looking.

“He wants to talk to you,” I say, preparing to hand the phone to Brock.

But my dad quickly retorts, “No.”

“What?” Keeping my eyes on Brock, I hold my breath. Why am I playing middleman here?

A pause sits heavily between Dad and me before my nickname fills the line again. “Pear. ”

I recognize that tone. That distinguished and stomach-sickening cadence where my dad is about to tell me something I won’t like.

Mommy’s gone, baby .

The particular sound is branded in my brain.

“Dad,” I counter, warning him with my tone that I’m not going to like whatever he suggests.

“Keep him there.”

“What?” My gaze remains on Brock, who stands deer-in-headlights still while his eyes search my face. “Why?”

“He needs this.”

“He needs you, Dad.” Not the farm. And definitely not me. He needs Dad’s retreat.

“I can’t come back for him, but he’s a good guy at heart. He has it in him to change. I know he does.” Dad’s confidence in Brock settles like a weighted chain around my ankle. “He just needs some time and perspective.”

“Dad,” I grit, repeating, “He needs you.”

“You got this,” he encourages.

However, I don’t want to ‘got this’. I had my own issues to contend with. “ I can’t give all the woo-woo advice you give, Dad.”

“It’s not woo-woo.” Dad chuckles. “And you don’t need to give him advice. Give him some tools and tell him to get to work around the place.”

“Dad,” I ground again, my molars clacking.

Brock steps even closer to me, holding out his big hand as if he’s about to commandeer the phone from me.

“He wants to talk to you,” I repeat to my father.

“You tell him he was late. I’m talked out with Brock. It’s time for him to put some muscle where his mouth gets him in trouble.”

I did not like the sound of that. The last thing I wanted was to spend time telling some random guy what to do on my dad’s farm. Especially if he had a bad attitude or chip on his shoulder.

“And where is he supposed to stay?”

Brock is even closer now, hand over mine like he’s ready to rip the phone from my grasp.

My eyes narrow, warning him with the glare. Don’t fucking touch me .

He lifts his hand and holds it upward, palm out. Then he curls his fingers, motioning once more for me to hand him my phone.

“Put him in the barn.”

“Jesus, Dad.” I can’t do that. The barn isn’t heated and as much as I don’t want Brock here, he can’t stay out there.

“I’ll tell him to find a hotel.”

“Good luck with that. I bet most are still booked from the holiday.” Christmas was only yesterday. “And I’d prefer he’s at the house. I don’t like you there alone.”

My breath comes sharp and quick, ready to remind him he left me here. But I’m a grown-ass woman of forty-one and I can take care of myself. In fact, being alone might be exactly what I need for some perspective. Time to build a plan for what’s next in the new year.

And the last thing I need is to be responsible for someone else.

Turning my shoulder to Brock, I whisper into the phone. “Dad, call him, and send him packing.”

“Nope.” Dad’s quiet a second, and I hear the blinker on his miniature school bus. The one he painted dark green and plastered Paradise Farms on the side where it once read School Bus. “Tell him this is his last chance.”

My mouth falls open ready to protest once more.

“Twelve days at Paradise Farms. Keep records of all he does, and I’ll evaluate his progress when I return. Now I need to concentrate on the road. The snow is starting to really fall.”

I glance toward the sky once more as he states, “Love you, Pear.”

A light dusting of flakes tickles my cheeks and sticks to my eyelashes, as I whisper, “Love you, too.”

The line goes dead, and I glance back at Brock, who is watching me. Eyes wide, hesitant yet hopeful.

Dammit.

What am I supposed to do with this guy for twelve days?