Page 31 of The Apple Cider Orchard

A smile flickered across her face. ‘So I’ve heard.’ With a final nod of thanks, she stepped outside, the door closing behind her with a soft thud.

Patrick turned to find Jack radiating silent fury, arms crossed tight across his chest. Beyond him, through the shop window, the woman’s figure receded down the path toward the main gate, autumn sunlight catching in her dark hair.

‘What are you playing at?’ Jack demanded once she was out of earshot. ‘Inviting that one to the festival? Giving away our reserve stock?’

Patrick moved back behind the counter, taking his time to gather his thoughts. Age had its privileges, including the right to make others wait for answers. He adjusted a display of honey jars before replying.

‘I don’t share your conviction that the girl’s here with ill intent,’ he said finally. ‘She asked good questions. Showed genuine interest in our methods, our history.’

‘That’s their technique,’ Jack insisted, stalking closer to the counter. ‘They research you, figure out what you’re proud of, then use it to soften you up before the kill. I’ve seen it before.’

The Crest affair had left deeper scars than he’d realized. Patrick studied his great-nephew’s face – the stubborn set of his jaw, the defensive posture, the almost desperate need to protect. All admirable qualities in their way, but sometimes a man’s strengths could blind him to opportunities.

‘She understands modern sales better than you or me,’ Patrick continued. ‘Said some interesting things about how we could better show what makes Goldenridge special without compromising our values.’

‘We don’t need marketing advice from some Yank blow-in who doesn’t know the first thing about apple growing,’ Jack muttered, but with less conviction than before.

Patrick hid a smile. The lad’s defenses were cracking, just a little. ‘Knew enough to appreciate the Pippin at first bite.’ He paused, then added casually, ‘Pretty thing, isn’t she? Even when she’s angry.’

The color that rose to Jack’s cheeks confirmed what Patrick had suspected since the moment his great-nephew had burst through the door – the lad’s intense reaction wasn’t solely about business concerns.

‘That’s got nothing to do with anything,’ Jack said stiffly. He pushed away from the counter, clearly eager to escape the conversation. ‘I need to get back to the irrigation lines in the east section. Those new couplings are leaking again.’

Patrick nodded, recognizing the retreat for what it was. ‘Clean those boots before you track half the orchard through the place. Brid’s coming up with the hotel order later, and you know how she notices dirt.’

With a grunt of acknowledgment, Jack headed for the door. He paused with his hand on the latch, looking back with a frown still creasing his brow. ‘Don’t go inviting her to anything else,’ he said, an attempt at firmness undermined by uncertainty. ‘The American one. I don’t trust her.’

The door banged as he left, leaving Patrick alone in the quiet shop. Outside, the clouds had parted, allowing sunlight to stream once more through the small windows.

He moved back to the table, his old joints protesting the day’s exertions. Jack’s suspicion was understandable but misplaced. The girl wasn’t a threat – of that, Patrick was certain. Whether she might be a blessing remained to be seen, but he’d lived long enough to recognize possibility when it appeared on his doorstep.

As for Jack’s reaction to her – that fierce, immediate intensity that went beyond mere suspicion – Patrick had recognized that too. The lad might insist he distrusted the woman, but his face told a different story.

The way his eyes followed her movements, the heightened color in his face when she challenged him, the tension that crackled between them like static before a storm – Patrick had seen it all before in various guises.

Maybe inviting the woman to the festival might have been a brainwave? God knew Jack needed more in his life besides apples. Patrick worried enough as it was that the lad didn’t seem to live for anything else but the orchard.

Much as he too loved Goldenridge, that really wasn’t a life at all. Something Patrick himself understood all too well.

Chapter 16

Molly strode along the lakeshore, each step punctuated with frustration.

The bottle of premium cider the older man had gifted her swung in its paper bag, the glass clinking against her leg with every determined stride. She hadn’t come halfway across the world for her mission to be thwarted by a stubborn apple farmer who couldn’t see past his own suspicions.

‘Corporate vultures,’ she muttered, mimicking Jack’s accusatory tone. ‘As if I care about his precious apples.’

But even as the words left her lips, she knew they weren’t entirely true. The brief encounter with Patrick had revealed something special – an operation that valued tradition and quality over commercial efficiency, a place where apple varieties with history and character still thrived.

In another context, she might even have admired Jack Flynn’s dedication.

The lake stretched beside her, its surface rippling under a gentle breeze that carried the scent of water and soil. Sunlight danced across the small waves, creating shimmering patterns that shifted with each gust.

Molly paused, her irritation momentarily forgotten as she watched a heron glide low over the water, its reflection a perfect mirror image before it disappeared into the reeds.

The vibration of her phone broke the moment. She pulled it from her pocket to see Cole’s face filling the screen, her brother’s familiar grin distorted slightly by the wide-angle lens of the video-calling app. She swiped to answer.

‘There she is …’ Cole’s voice boomed, slightly tinny through the phone’s speakers. Behind him, a locker room bustled with activity – bare-chested hockey teammates in various stages of dress, equipment bags being unzipped, voices echoing off tiled walls. ‘How’s my favorite sister enjoying the old country?’