Chapter 2

Those apple buttercinnamon rolls had made quite the impression on the townsfolk of Redbud, and though I'd only made them as a desperate attempt to seize every dollar I could at the First of Fall Festival, now they were in demand. As were my artisan loaves. Despite my low and friendly profile, I was now a popular baker, but a reclusive one. To keep people from harassing me in town, or, Green Mother forbid, coming to my farmhouse to knock directly on my door, I'd grown a shelf at the southern gate by the road and kept it stocked twice a week, Sundays and Wednesdays. It was a first come, first served system with a price chart and a lock box for honor-system payment, and they always paid. They knew I was a witch, and you didn't piss witches off, not even the friendly ones.

On baking days, I usually got straight to it upon waking, leaving my other chores for later in the day, but blackberry canes were best harvested at dawn. I'd been in crunch mode afterwards, but the power of the hearth had made it go as fast as ever. I had three Dutch ovens now that I used in rotation for the loaves, the oven reserved for the sweet rolls, two trays at a time. It was the same four dozen apple butter cinnamon rolls—each the size of a softball—and twelve artisan loaves twice a week every week, and each day, they sold out. And with this Wednesday's batch loaded in my little pull-behind wagon, Sawyer and I followed the old ruts down to the road.

Roland, leader of the orchard caretakers, was quick to join us. The brawny hob had a marching step, calloused bare feet pounding against the packed earth of the adjacent rut to such a steady rhythm you could set a metronome to it.

"Morning report?" I prompted.

"It's all in order," he replied quickly, and Sawyer and I shared a glance. Roland never glossed over his morning report, being a stickler for details, unless he needed something. It always made the hobs embarrassed to ask me, not wanting it to insinuate I wasn't taking care of their needs as my duty as the farm owner entailed.

"What do you need, Roland?" Sawyer drawled dramatically.

The hob whipped his long red hat off his head and snapped the tail at the cat. "Hush you! Have you no manners?"

Sawyer skipped out of the way with a chuckle. "I'm a cat."

"It's okay, Roland," I said. "You can get down to brass tacks. I'm glad the farm's doing well, not that I expected anything else." Especially after I'd scared that witch Brandi off. Her abused familiar, a toad named Cletus, had just recently finished recuperating in my vegetable garden and had returned to Grimalkin University in hopes of finding a more suitable match.

Roland sucked in a breath and exhaled his words in a rush. "Ricky and Joe need more honey for their wassail. Mayor Robert wants a hundred gallons to have already passed inspection and be at the bottling facility by Samhain, so… we need more honey."

"Such an extravagant request," Sawyer drawled again.

Roland brandished his hat once more, and the cat skipped out of the way.

"A-and we need more feed for the chickens," the hob added.

I'd wanted to wait until the spring to acquire them—if I was even still here in six months—but the hobs had been so excited that I'd caved. It'd been too late in the year to get chicks, but we had twelve hens and one obnoxious rooster they'd named Rhett.

"It's getting colder and they'll be beginning their molt soon," Roland continued. "Egg production will be down but they'll still need an addition source of protein besides all the bugs to make sure they grow in a good set of feathers before winter."

"I can certainly pick some up the next time I'm in town," I said, opening the southern gate and wheeling the wagon around to the awaiting shelves.

When Roland didn't acknowledge my response with his customary, "That'll do nicely, lass, thanks," I stopped stocking the shelves with boxes of sweet rolls and gave him a direct look.

While he and the other hobs might be a little shy asking for things, they definitely weren't shy about being blunt about everything else. "They can't wait a month for you to go into town."

"Wha— I—" I glanced at Sawyer for some support.

"You've only left the farm one time since the festival, and that was to buy a month's worth of groceries," the cat said. "You're a homebody. A recluse. A hermit. A—"

"I get it!" His description was making me sound like I was an eighty-year-old shut-in who was one choking hazard away from being eaten by all her housecats. "And I have my reasons!"

"You sure you're not avoiding anything? Or someone?" Roland asked.

Of course I was avoiding someone, but I could concentrate better on preparing for my impending spell when my mind wasn't being befuddled by that lumbersnack of a shifter, Arthur Greenwood. Plus the ladies of the Crafting Circle—Flora, Daphne, and Shari—had their way of distracting me too. Of lulling me into a sense of normalcy, like I belonged here in Redbud, instead of focusing on my work and then getting back to my family.

If they ever forgave me.

The fewer ties I made here, the better. It would make it more bearable, for everyone involved, when I finally left.

Thistle thorns, what would the hobs think? And Sawyer? Oh my Green Mother, I was going to throw up.

"Misty?" Sawyer asked, sensing something was wrong.

I ignored both him and Roland's probing questions and masked my nausea with mock-indignity. Hawthornes weren't the indomitable coven of they were today by letting their secrets leak, including what they were feeling on the inside. "As it turns out," I said imperiously, "I'm going into town tomorrow to use the library's computers. I'll pick up the honey and chicken feed then. So there."

My ruse worked, for the hob chuckled. Though it was quickly cut off at the sound of a car coming down the lane. Roland scurried for the nearby apple trees and would undoubtedly use them as cover as he worked his way deeper into the farm. The orchard workers were a bit like brownies that way, preferring to be seen by the owner of the farm and no one else. They'd made an exception for when the Crafting Circle had come to help with the skinks of the cider hex, but it wasn't Daphne Finch's old turquoise Thunderbird rumbling down the road.

It was Arthur Greenwood on his motorcycle.

"Thistle thorns," I grumbled, even as my heart did a little flip-flop in my chest. I hastily shoved the rest of the loaves onto the shelves. "And this is exactly why I make a point to get this all set up before the customers come at nine. Unwanted conversations and feelings and— Hi, Arthur!"

Flora had called him a bad boy, and today, he certainly looked it. Good-bye flannel shirts and suspenders of his Cedar Haven uniform and hello jeans and leather jacket. His helmet tousled his brown hair in the most delightful way as he lifted it clear of his head, and my fingers itched to either smooth it into place or make it even wilder. I linked my hands behind my back, just to be safe.

"Been wondering if I'd ever catch sight of you again," he said in that deep voice that had even my bones humming with delight.

By the Green Mother, there was a reason why I hadn't seen him since the First of Fall Festival—he was trouble with a capital T. That close-cropped beard that gave all the credibility to that lumbersnack nickname, that powerful build was simultaneously intimidating as it was reassuring, hazel eyes that crinkled at the corners whenever that lopsided smile appeared. And as always, that invisible tug I felt whenever he was near was urging me to close the distance between us and plant my lips on his and my hands against those perfectly formed glutes.

But it was more than carnal desire. Arthur Greenwood felt right, felt safe, which was a ludicrous idea since Grandmother had drilled it into every female Hawthorne's head that shifters were a Big No-No. And she didn't drill anything into our heads unless it was of the utmost importance. But how could a Big No-No be supportive, encouraging, even kind?

He'd allowed me to forage on Cedar Haven's lands for spell ingredients, helped my farm survive by providing a keg and souvenir cups at the festival. The hobs were particular fans of his now, having kept the cider keg and repurposing it into a hob grog dispenser. And he'd been there when I'd started to go into anaphylactic shock from my coconut allergy, ready to pound into pulp the next person who harmed me.

Grandmother had to be wrong about him.

By some miracle, I reminded myself to stop staring and get those conflicting emotions to simmer down and reply to whatever he'd said. My mind groped through my short-term memory and conjured a sufficient response. "Y-you come to my bakery stand?"

"Twice a week. Though, I keep thinking I'll see some rosemary-garlic focaccia, but I never do."

"Heh. I haven't perfected that recipe yet." Hadn't even tried it, was more like. My hearth witchery would guarantee my success in the "Catch A Lumberjack" focaccia department, but in reality, I was too scared to try. "S-so are you a sweet roll man or just a bread boy?"

"I thought I was your bear claw."

I fought against the blush that threatened to stain my cheeks. At the First of Fall Festival, he'd accepted his nickname in the same breath he used to assure me I could hug him anytime I wanted to. Press my face into that chest and smell that old-growth forest scent, link my arms around that taut waist and lean into that powerful body? Feel his arms layer heavily over me, not oppressively, but comforting in their weight? Yeah, I'd thought about such a hug more times than I cared to admit.

And I'd never let myself indulge, either.

"And I'm a bread man," he continued. "Do I look like a boy to you?"

While he'd said it teasingly, I couldn't help but let my eyes wander, well, everywhere, and confirm for myself—for the billionth time—that Arthur Greenwood was a man through and through.

He spared me the embarrassment of replying by treating it as a rhetorical question. "After Emmett and Cody got a taste of those cinnamon rolls at the festival, it's all the old men talk about. So now I've upgraded from carpenter's assistant to pastry fetcher."

Mention of the two old men, who were thicker than thieves and argued like children, made me smile. "Ouch. Sure that was an upgrade?"

"It's not so bad," he said, boots exchanging pavement for the soft grass of the farm as he finally closed the distance between us. This close, he could reach out and touch me, nock my chin in the crook of his finger and tilt my head back for a kiss. For a moment he seemed to wrestle with himself, and then his next words came out in a breathy exhale. "There's always the chance I get to see you."

I felt the implications of his words like an insistent, forceful knock on the door that guarded my heart, demanding—pleading—entry. The same eagerness I'd felt listening to Cousin Lilac's stories about all her lovers took hold of me now, my weight shifting forward to the balls of my feet. Just a few inches closer, like a flower straining after the sun. "Arthur, I—"

A screaming ball of tabby-color fur launched itself at Arthur's face.

"What the—" The lumberjack lurched away, boots scraping against the pavement as he smacked the tomcat aside. The cat landed on the ground completely unharmed, back arched and spitting.

"Sawyer!" I exclaimed.

With one more swipe of his paws, the tomcat retreated only as far as the gate, yowling.

"You're not hurt, are you?" I asked Arthur quickly.

Arthur palmed his cheek and neck, but there was no blood. "Seems he got my heart rate up is all." He gave the tomcat a wary look. Sawyer hissed. "Well, guess I'll keep this visit shorter than I expected. Would you mind handing me a box of those rolls? Seems you've got yourself a little guardian."

More like an overprotective chaperone in a fur coat with razor hands.

So long as Arthur's feet remained firmly on the street, Sawyer didn't attack again. He didn't retreat either, fur bristled as if he'd been zapped by an electric fence. After Arthur secured the box on the back of his motorcycle, he returned with some cash and a glossy pamphlet.

"Carnival Cauchemar?" I asked, scanning the pamphlet's header.

The front depicted a black-haired man with a pointy black beard in—you guessed it—a black suit, a red pocket square in his suit jacket, and his hands folded over a ruby-capped cane. Sunglasses shielded his eyes, and the grin that split his lips was as devilish as the twin black horses that reared behind him. Their manes and tails were like flames, matching the color of the circus tent they flanked.

"Let Jakob Tabrass His Frights Delight You This Halloween Season" the tagline read.

Upon opening it, a map was revealed detailing the locations of authentic gypsy wagons upon the fairgrounds west of the town square. There were rides too, a corn maze grown by the farmer whose land abutted the fairgrounds, and three well-advertised competitions: Nightmare Rodeo, where only black horses and steers would be used for bucking and roping, the Corn Maze Race, and the Lumberjack Trials.

I lowered the pamphlet at the same time I raised accusing eyes. "Lemme guess. You're competing in the Lumberjack Trials?"

"Wasn't my idea," Arthur said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Would you like to… come watch?"

The tentativeness of his request made my instinct to decline hesitate. It was like he was expecting me to decline, but hopeful I wouldn't. Cody and I had often teased him about showing off whenever I was around, but now he was planning on doing it deliberately. Which meant my opinion mattered to him. Which led to a slippery slope for someone like me who was desperately trying not to get involved in this town any more than I already had.

I scanned the pamphlet again to make it seem like I was giving his request due consideration before refusing; Arthur's instincts had been right about that. Samhain, or Halloween, was right around the corner, and a witch's magic always got a boost around that time of year. Which meant I had a better chance of success at dispelling the curse binding our family grimoire. Which also meant that the covens hunting me down might have better success at finding me, so it was in my best interest to keep my head down and finally do what I'd come to Redbud to do. If my future was hurtling towards a coven war as I strongly suspected it was, the sooner I freed my family, the sooner I'd be forgiven for running away with the grimoire in the first place, and the sooner we'd have a united front against our secret tormenters. We could reclaim the elders' stolen magic—maybe—and at least learn why it was being sucked away in the first place.

And yet, during my scan of the map, I found the icon of a blue wagon with a white crystal on it. The nearby 5 numeral brought my eyes to the map's legend and the resulting entry: Chalce's Crystal Emporium—the finest quartz, lapis lazuli, tourmaline, moonstone, and more!

My gaze riveted on that trigger word—tourmaline. And with this Carnival Cauchemar being run by true gypsies, who had more than one drop of magical blood in their ancestry, those crystals were guaranteed to be the real deal. Or cheap, low-grade pretties for the common tourist. There was only one way to find out, and there was a chance I could get a handful of tourmaline stones as early as tomorrow instead of waiting a week for them to be delivered to my doorstep from an online vendor.

"Yeah," I finally answered. "Yes, I'd love to come."

"You will?" Arthur, whose face had been lined with preemptive disappointment, brightened, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. "Great!"

As he leaned forward to point at the pamphlet, Sawyer growled warningly, but we both ignored the cat. "There's a major event each day they're here—Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and they're gone like smoke on Sunday. The Lumberjack Trials are on Saturday. But there's plenty to do on all the other days—I mean nights. They're a night carnival."

"I saw that," I said, biting back a smile at his rambling. Now I knew what it was like when a cat ate both the canary and the cream, that feeling of confident self-satisfaction. Arthur was rambling because I made him as excited, and nervous, as he made me.

"Yeah," was all he could think to say, running a hand through his hair. Then his mood dampened, like he was mentally berating himself, clearing his throat and glancing back at his motorcycle.

I was suddenly desperate that he not leave on a sour note, so I blurted, "Can I keep this?" I hefted the pamphlet.

"Of course. I brought it for you, though I was anticipating just sticking it into the lockbox there."

"I-I don't mean to be a shut-in," I said, having the sudden urge to explain myself. My gaze had dropped to my boots. At least I was wearing boots now and not going around barefoot—he would've thought I was not only a recluse but a strange one at that. "I've just been really busy and…"

"I get it." His tone was so gentle, encouraging, and I didn't deserve it. Not when I promising to support him and planning to leave all in the same thought. It felt like I was leading him on, which was ridiculous. "You're responsible for the Redbud wassail and getting your farm ready for winter and everything else life is throwing at you. But, miss—"

My heart constricted a little that he'd used the less familiar "miss" instead of my name, even if it was just an alias.

"—it's okay to have a little fun. To enjoy… people's company."

Your company, you mean. I gave him a small smile. "Thanks, Arthur."

"Anytime." He glanced at Sawyer, who growled again, and clearly thought better of touching me in any fashion, even if it was just a squeeze on the shoulder. "So I'll see you at least on Saturday?" he asked, backing away to his motorcycle.

"Y— No!" I exclaimed, remembering Roland's request. "Can I come by Cedar Haven soon? I need more honey for the wassail, and I'd like to support local businesses if I can."

"I've got some I can sell you now, but I've got more on reserve for the gypsies. They like to deal in trade when they can. I'll sell you whatever they don't take after the carnival?"

"Sounds great."

Leather creaking, he swung his leg over the seat and settled the helmet over his head, shielding his face from view. When the motorcycle roared to life, sending my pulse thrumming all over again, Arthur nodded in farewell and wheeled around to return the way he'd come.

Lost in so many thoughts as I watched him go, I was spurred to pluck up the wagon handle from where it rested in the grass and hightail it into the orchard as more cars rumbled down the lane towards my bakery stand. Sawyer led the way, fur smoothed, tail lifted and proud.

"Want to tell me what all that was about?" I asked crisply.

He glanced over his shoulder. "I did tell you I would scratch him the next time he came sniffing around here. And trust me, he was sniffing."