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“You’d think as hard as we work, lifting a six-year-old all day would be easy.” Taron’s leaning against the old red Chevy attaching a canvas bag to the end of a twister-picker.

“Dove will give you a workout.” The sun is low and golden in the sky, and I drop baskets in the bed of my truck. “I thought she’d given up Angelina Ballerina.”

“She has.” He leans to the side, stretching his back. “We rented a cabin out on Darby Lake Friday. I spent all day yesterday tossing her in the water.”

My jaw tightens, but I don’t mention Mindy and I were out in the same spot Friday night.

“What did you do Friday night?” He picks up another picker to repeat the process.

“I was around.”

“I didn’t see you here.” Leon walks up, dropping a load of crates against the wall. “You must’ve gotten in late.”

“Late?” Taron’s brows rise and he grins at me. “Sawyer was out late on a Friday night? After getting up at the ass crack of dawn?”

They’re both looking at me, waiting, and I shrug. “Just driving.”

I push the memory of Mindy’s head in my lap out of my mind in case they see it in my eyes.

Crossing his arms, Taron lifts his chin. “Where were you yesterday?”

“You are not my CO.” I take the crates Leon dropped and move them beside the sorting tables.

“I don’t have to be your commanding officer to know you’re up to something.”

“I saw him.” Leon returns with another load of crates, and my stomach tenses. “Out at the pond.”

“The pond? I didn’t see any fish.” Taron carries the assembled pickers and leans them against the truck. “Not like you to go fishing and not catch anything.”

“You don’t have anything better to do than worry how I spend my time?”

He props an arm on the side of the truck bed. “Why’re you getting so riled up?”

“I don’t feel like playing twenty questions.” Dropping the last of the crates, I leave them to finish preparing for work tomorrow.

This morning when I left Mindy in bed, she was curled up as always at my side. Her hand was in mine, and for a minute, I dreamed of a life with her. When I got back to the house, my sister was in the kitchen making breakfast. She didn’t even notice or didn’t comment when I came in the back door. She probably thought I’d been up since sunrise like always.

Dove danced around in her Sunday dress, waiting to go to church to sing with her little children’s choir. I opted out of services this morning, not really wanting to see Mindy or her mother or the people I’ve known all my life.

These people depend on me. Hell, the whole fucking town depends on me, and what happened yesterday nags at my insides. If I’m coming apart, it’s not a broken leg we can wait six weeks to knit. It’s scary, and in view of our family’s history, it could jeopardize everything.

I don’t need people watching me like a time-bomb about to go off—or worse.

Noel’s inside making supper, and I walk the length of our wrap-around porch. When I reach the corner that faces the hill, I stop. It’s a beautiful view, trees stretching up in perfect rows to a pink and blue sunset. I grew up watching that sun go down, listening to my daddy tell me about the crops or the seasons or whether he expected an early frost.

Tracing the perimeter is a narrow dirt road.

It’s the road that leads over the hill where we lost our mamma.

It’s the road our daddy stood on when he took his life.

My stomach clenches, and I rub a hand over my eyes exhaling deeply. I’m not like him. I can’t even understand doing something like that. One bad day isn’t enough to pass judgment. I have to wait.

I just can’t risk hurting anyone.

Our week marches by with the driving force of deadlines, workers on a schedule, and the looming Peach Festival. We’re up before dawn, leading the crews down the rows. Climbing ladders and moving fast, cleaning every limb we can reach.

Cleaning peach trees is backbreaking work. We fill the baskets I loaded in the trucks, then I drive them to the shed for sorting. It’s our last week, and we don’t stop for anything.