Page 30 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Her words were interrupted by the sound of the door opening and Molly turned, instinctively knowing who she would see even before the tall foreboding figure filled the doorway.

Chapter 15

Patrick Flynn had seen his great-nephew angry plenty of times before, but rarely with the particular intensity that now darkened Jack’s face as he caught sight of the tourist. The lad’s shoulders went rigid beneath his jacket, jaw clenching tight enough that Patrick could almost hear teeth grinding.

Outside, clouds scudded across the sun, momentarily dimming the golden light that had filled the shop seconds before. The timing wasn’t lost on Patrick – nature itself seeming to acknowledge the sudden shift in atmosphere.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Jack demanded, his voice low and hard as he stepped fully into the shop. Soil clung to his boots, leaving small clumps on the worn wooden floor. His hands – capable hands that could graft a sapling with surgical precision – clenched and unclenched at his sides.

The woman straightened her spine, those green eyes flashing with defiance. ‘I’m shopping,’ she replied coolly, holding up a jar of apple butter. ‘That’s what shops are for, isn’t it?’

Jack took another step forward. ‘I thought I made myself clear before. This is private property.’

‘The sign outside says “Open”, ’ the American girl countered, setting the jar down with deliberate care. ‘And your uncle has been kind enough to answer my questions about your products.’

Patrick watched the exchange with curiosity. Jack’s hostility seemed disproportionate, even accounting for his usual wariness of strangers. The lad practically vibrated with tension, though Patrick couldn’t help noticing how his gaze kept returning to the woman’s face, despite his evident desire to dismiss her.

‘Jack,’ Patrick said mildly, moving from behind the table with unhurried steps, ‘this lady has been expressing interest in our heritage varieties. Good eye for quality, she has.’

Jack’s head snapped toward him, betrayal flashing across his features. ‘She’s been asking about more than apples too, I’d wager.’ He turned back to her. ‘What was it this time? Production volumes? Property boundaries? Or straight to the land valuation?’

Patrick felt his eyebrows rise. He thought she was from one of those corporate outfits, then. That explained the heightened reaction, though not the intensity of it.

The woman set down the jar she’d been examining, her movements controlled but her cheeks flushing. ‘For the last time, I’m not interested in buying your orchard. I’m a tourist visiting my grandmother’s homeland, nothing more.’

‘A tourist who just happens to know about discontinued Sunrise cider? A tourist who just happens to find her way through the lake trail to our boundary? A tourist who conveniently appears right when Crest is making another push to acquire us?’ Jack’s voice rose with each question, filling the small shop.

‘I told you I don’t know who or what Crest is,’ she insisted, matching his intensity. ‘And I’ve already explained how I knew about the oak – Eva told me.’

Patrick cleared his throat, drawing both their attention. ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, his voice cutting through the tension, ‘we might all take a breath.’ He turned to Jack. ‘Whatever you think this young woman’s intentions are, she’s still a customer in our shop. We’ve never turned away anyone wanting to buy our apples, not in four generations.’

Jack’s expression hardened further. ‘Times change. And we’ve never had so many corporate vultures circling.’ He gestured toward her. ‘They send them in looking friendly, asking innocent questions, getting the lay of the land before the men in suits show up with their threats about “market realities”. ’

‘I’m not—’ the woman began, but Jack cut her off.

‘I want you off my land,’ he said flatly. ‘Now.’

Patrick felt a flare of irritation. The lad had good reason to be suspicious after the Crest Beverages business, but this was different. There was something genuine about the woman, something Jack was too blinded by his fears to see.

‘That’s enough, Jack,’ Patrick said, his voice firmer now. His age and the legacy of raising the boy gave weight to his words, stopping Jack short. ‘This lady is a guest, and she’ll leave when she’s ready. If she wants to purchase something before she goes, all the better for our accounts.’

The silence that followed was thick enough to slice. Jack stared at him, disbelief and embarrassment warring in his expression. She looked between them, clearly uncomfortable at being the cause of family friction.

‘I should go,’ she said quietly, heading for the door. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Flynn.’ The formality was clearly meant for Patrick alone.

‘Take this with you,’ he said, reaching for a bottle of their premium reserve cider. ‘Consider it an apology for the … misunderstanding.’ He met Jack’s glare with calm certainty, daring the younger man to contradict him.

She hesitated, then accepted the bottle with a small smile that transformed her face in a way that made Patrick’s heart constrict for some reason.

‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’

‘A poor substitute for proper hospitality,’ Patrick said, walking her toward the door. ‘Perhaps you’ll give us another chance at the festival if you’re still here.’

Jack made a sound that might have been protest, but Patrick silenced him with a look honed over decades of authority. Some battles weren’t worth fighting in front of strangers, and the lad knew it.

The woman paused at the threshold, the bottle cradled against her chest like something precious. ‘I’d like that,’ she said softly, then added with a glance toward Jack, ‘though not everyone seems to share the sentiment.’

‘Don’t mind him,’ Patrick said, lowering his voice though he knew Jack could still hear. ‘Bark’s worse than his bite.’