Elsbeth wiped the sweat from her forehead as she looked out over the fields which, if all went well, would soon become a sea of blooms.
Her stomach was knotted with what was now a familiar mix of anxiety and excitement. She’d sunk every penny of her savings into buying the Old Larson place. And then some.
Drawn by its sprawling acreage and the rich, dark soil hidden beneath a thick covering of weeds, she’d taken a gamble and bought the place.
The realtor had called it “fixer-upper charm” when showing her the weathered farmhouse with its peeling blue paint and creaking porch steps. Elsbeth called it “barely habitable,” but it was hers. All hers. And that thought alone made the knot in her stomach loosen just a little.
Elsbeth glanced down at the dog-eared sketchpad in her hand. The pages were filled with notes, rough designs, and hopeful ideas that had taken root long before she’d even seen the place. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: Don’t let your dreams slip away.
“I don’t intend to, Mom,” she murmured under her breath.
As the wild grass rustled in the breeze, it was as if her mom was right there with her, her words of encouragement carried on the wind. Elsbeth inhaled deeply, taking in the earthy scent of her land— her land—and closed her eyes for a moment.
If only. Tears pricked her eyes. How many times had she said those two words over the last year?
And what had she learned? That life didn’t care for if onlys . That sometimes, you had to grip opportunity with both hands even when your heart was still healing.
And if onlys didn’t plant seeds or fix roofs or make dreams come true. Action did.
Her gaze drifted away from the field of weeds to where an old barn stood. It was a beautiful building, solid and weathered, and soon to become her new workspace. She’d spent the last few days cleaning out cobwebs, replacing broken panes, and imagining the freshly cut flowers she’d grow in the weed-infested field arranged on the wide plank table she planned to build. She could already picture the bundles of lavender hanging from the rafters, the buckets of dahlias and cosmos lining the walls, the sweet scent of stock and snapdragons filling the air.
The fragrance would be as remarkable as the bright hues of the petals.
As she dreamed her dreams, her phone buzzed in her pocket. Elsbeth pulled it out and tapped the screen to turn off the alarm she’d set. 3:50PM, Finn Thornberg would be here soon to help solidify her plans.
He’d been recommended by the realtor as a friendly and reliable landscape architect. When Elsbeth had done a little background research on him, she’d learned his family owned a very successful local vineyard, so he should have some experience in what she was trying to achieve here.
Hopefully. There was a chance Finn hated plants, and that was why he’d chosen his career path rather than following in the family tradition of winemaking.
However, when she’d spoken to him on the phone to arrange a meeting, he’d seemed enthusiastic and knowledgeable. He’d asked pointed questions about drainage and soil quality that had impressed her.
She checked the time again and headed back toward the house. As she rounded the corner, she spotted a sleek blue pickup truck making its way up her long, rutted driveway. Dust billowed behind it, catching the golden late afternoon light.
Right on time. Always a good sign.
The knot in her stomach tightened again, and Elsbeth hastily tucked her sketchpad under her arm and ran a hand through her wind-tousled hair. First impressions mattered, even if this was just a professional consultation. She straightened her shoulders and walked to meet the vehicle as it pulled to a stop next to the porch.
But as the man stepped out of the truck, the knot in her stomach unraveled, replaced by the flutter of butterflies. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck. He wore work boots, jeans, and a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing sun-bronzed forearms.
He looked…nothing like she’d imagined. Not that she had a clear picture of Finn in her head. It was just that his voice over the phone had sounded a bit more…well, architect than farmer. This man looked like he’d been out wrangling the land, not drafting plans.
Still, he smiled, a little distractedly, and offered a nod as he stood, feet hip-width apart, and studied her.
“Hi,” Elsbeth said, trying to brush off her moment of surprise. “Thanks for coming. I’ve been really looking forward to getting your input on my plans.”
The man blinked, just once, then nodded again. “Sure.”
Although he didn’t exactly sound sure. She chalked it up to unfamiliar surroundings and gestured toward the fields. “I thought I’d walk you through the place and show you what I’m thinking.” She held up her sketchbook. “I know it’s still rough, but I’ve mapped out the beds.”
He followed her as she led him along the outer edge of the future farm. Her future farm.
Excitement bubbled up inside her. As if she had suddenly tapped into a wellspring of enthusiasm that had been buried beneath all her anxieties.
There was something about Finn that made her buzz like a bee on a particularly sweet blossom. Maybe it was the way he studied everything with such intensity, his dark eyes missing nothing as they swept across her property. Although they landed on her more often than she’d expected, sending little shivers of awareness down her spine.
She launched into her vision without hesitation. It was easy to talk about the land, the plans, the future. Easy to fill the silence. “I’m focusing mostly on heirloom varieties, dahlias, cosmos, snapdragons. And roses. Oh, and I’ve got a spot for tulips next year, and a section for drying flowers, too. I’d love to build a seating area under the oak tree, maybe a pergola with climbing roses. But I’m not quite sure about the slope here. I don’t want rainwater pooling in the wrong place.”
She paused beside a rough patch where the earth dipped slightly and turned to him, expecting a professional opinion.
Instead, he crouched down, ran his fingers through the soil, and murmured, almost reverently, “This is good dirt.”
Elsbeth blinked. “Sorry?”
He looked up at her, a bit sheepishly. “The soil. It’s rich…dark, loamy. You’ve got good drainage here. But down there…” He pointed to the slope. “You’re right. That patch will need some terracing, maybe a French drain, to redirect runoff.”
She tilted her head, studying him more closely. “You sound different than I expected.”
His brow furrowed. “Expected?”
She chuckled. “I guess I pictured someone more…architectural.”
That drew the faintest smile from him, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh no, not at all.” She felt a flush creep up her neck. “I mean, you clearly know your stuff. And honestly, this is the kind of advice I need. Practical. Grounded.”
“Right,” he said, still sounding faintly stunned.
She couldn’t blame him, really. The property wasn’t much to look at yet. But he was kind enough not to say so, and instead gently brushed the dirt from his palms as he stood.
There was something endearing about him. A little awkward, maybe. A little…soft-spoken for a man with such broad shoulders.
She smiled, trying to shake off the faint flutter in her chest. “Would you like some lemonade before we go over the rest of the plans? We can sit at the table and I can show you my sketches…”
He opened his mouth like he was about to speak but then he snapped it shut and he turned his gaze toward the driveway.
A second car pulled up, dust trailing in its wake.
Elsbeth frowned. “Were you expecting someone else?”
The man beside her didn’t answer.
The new car door opened, and a man dressed in khakis and a windbreaker stepped out, waving as he jogged up the path.
“Elsbeth! Sorry, I’m late.”
She stared at him. Then at the man beside her. Then back again.
The puzzle pieces clicked together.
“Oh.” Elsbeth’s cheeks burned as realization sank in. She’d just spent the last fifteen minutes talking a mile a minute…to the wrong man.
Finn—the actual Finn—was striding toward them with an easy confidence. “Traffic was a nightmare,” he said, casting a questioning glance at the other guy. Whoever he was.
“That’s okay…” She turned to the man beside her. The one who’d crouched in her dirt, offered thoughtful advice, and listened with a distracted kind of gentleness. “You’re not Finn,” she whispered, almost more to herself than to him.
He cleared his throat. “No. I’m…I’m Philip.”
“Philip?” she repeated, eyes narrowing in confusion. Then she turned to Finn, who had finally reached them.
Finn stopped just short, giving her a slightly sheepish grin. “I, uh…think I might’ve sent you the wrong text, Philip.”
“You think?” Elsbeth echoed, trying not to laugh. Or cry. Her hands flailed lightly in exasperation. “I thought he was you.”
Finn pulled out his phone and scrolled, eyes widening a moment later. “Yep. I was putting the meeting in my calendar, and I sent it to Philip instead.” He winced and looked between the two of them. “Sorry, Elsbeth. Sorry, Philip.” Although the look he shot Philip lacked genuine remorse. In fact, there was something self-satisfied about it.
Philip rubbed the back of his neck, shifting awkwardly beside her. “No harm done.”
“No harm? I didn’t even let you get a word in edge-wise!” she said, flustered now. “I just kept talking like some over-caffeinated event planner.”
“I enjoyed listening.” Philip gave a lopsided smile. That disarmed her more than it should have.
“My brother is not a big talker, believe me,” Finn said.
Brother! She glanced between the two men, the family resemblance clearer now that they stood side by side. Although where Finn was polished and easygoing, Philip had a rougher, steadier air about him.
“Well,” Finn said, sensing the awkwardness stretching between them, “shall we take a look at your plans?”
Elsbeth nodded, eager to move the spotlight off herself. “Right. Yes. Of course.”
She turned back to Philip. “I imagine you have better things to do than be dragged into someone else’s flower farm drama. But thank you again for being so polite.”
Philip hesitated. “Actually…I don’t mind hanging around. And I might be able to help.”
Finn perked up. “Philip’s in charge of the vines over at Thornberg Vineyard. He’s the reason the wines taste as good as they do.”
“Oh.” Elsbeth blinked. That explained the dirt under his nails and the way he spoke about the land like it was an old friend. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Philip said, and she believed him.
“I made lemonade,” she said a little too brightly and nodded toward the porch.
“Wonderful,” Finn said, with that same self-satisfied look at his brother, who rolled his eyes and shook his head.
But whatever was going on between them seemed good-natured enough. Elsbeth kind of enjoyed seeing their interactions. As an only child, family drama was something she had no actual experience with.
If only. Her throat constricted. If only she’d had a sibling, losing her mother might not have seemed so absolute. It might not have left her feeling so completely alone in this world.
The farmhouse porch was cool and shaded, the wood creaking gently beneath their feet. It needed work, but it was her favorite place to sit in the evening and look out across the farm.
“Please, sit.” She indicated the wicker chairs she’d rescued from a thrift store, their faded cushions giving them a worn-in, homey feel.
“I’ll just grab that lemonade,” Elsbeth said, ducking into the house as the two men settled into the chairs.
In the kitchen, she pressed her palms against the cool countertop and took a steadying breath. What a first impression she’d made, mistaking one brother for another and then rambling about her plans like a nervous schoolgirl. She filled three glasses with lemonade. The ice cubes clinked against the glass, and the scent of lemon and mint filled the air, bright and summery. Reminding her of long afternoons helping her mom weed her precious flowerbeds.
Elsbeth took a moment to compose herself as grief threatened to paralyze her. Then she took a deep breath, lifted the tray of drinks, and headed back outside.
On the porch, the brothers were engaged in a quiet conversation that ceased as she approached. Philip straightened in his chair, his eyes finding hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.
“Here we go,” she said, handing them each a glass. “It’s my mother’s recipe.”
“Thank you,” Philip said, his fingers brushing hers as he accepted the drink. A jolt of electricity coursed through her and she nearly spilt her glass. What was it about this man?
Finn took a long sip and made an appreciative sound. “This is wonderful.”
“Thanks,” she said as she took the farthest seat away from Philip. His presence was far too unsettling. In a good way. But a way she did not need.
Elsbeth had come to Bear Creek to fulfill her mother’s dying wish of making her dreams come true. Of owning her own flower farm. Not falling for the first man who showed up at her door. Even if he did make her feel special in a way no other man ever had.
“So,” Finn said, stretching his legs out in front of him, “why don’t you walk us through your plans? Sounds like you’ve already covered a lot of ground. Figuratively and literally.”
Relieved to be getting down to business, Elsbeth nodded, set her glass down on the small table, and flipped open her sketchpad. “I’ve mapped out the entire growing area,” she said, spreading the sheets across the table. “Each bed will be around thirty inches wide, with walking paths in between. I’ve got succession planting schedules set up, zinnias, cosmos, snapdragons, you name it. But the slope here worries me.” She pointed to a corner of the page. “Heavy rain could ruin everything before it even gets started. And then this section needs irrigation. I have the pipework in the shed, I just need advice on laying it.”
Finn leaned in, studying the sketch. “I can draw up some plans for low retaining walls here,” he said, tracing a finger along the edge. “As for this section, Philip is the man you should talk to about irrigation pipes. Philip?”
“Sure.” Philip leaned forward then, setting his glass aside. “If you don’t mind, can I see the soil there again?”
Elsbeth blinked, then nodded. “Of course.” Although it seemed strange that Finn was handing part of the job over to his brother.
They walked a few yards out to the edge of the field, Finn a few paces behind, snapping a few reference photos on his phone. Philip crouched and pressed his fingers to the earth again, sifting it through his hands as if listening to its story.
As she watched him, something warm pooled in her chest. A deep kind of longing.
He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t try to impress her. But when he looked at the land, it was like watching someone listen. Like he respected it.
“You’ve got a lot of clay here,” he said finally. “It’s workable, but you’ll need to add compost. Mushroom mulch. I have a contact I can give you. That’ll improve the texture. You’ll also want to watch for runoff from that ridge and maybe dig a swale over there.” He pointed to a line that matched her own concern. “But you are right, you will need an irrigation system in place. If not, a long dry spell could ruin your plants.”
Elsbeth glanced at Finn. “Did he just out-architect you?”
Finn grinned. “Happens more often than you’d think.”
Philip stood, brushing his hands on his jeans. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“You didn’t,” Elsbeth said quickly. “That was…helpful. Really helpful.”
And it was. In more ways than one.
Finn leaned back against the fence post. “Told you he was good. Philip knows how to read the land better than anyone I know.”
Elsbeth looked at him, really looked, and something about the way he stood, solid and quiet in the sunlight, made her heart give a traitorous little twist.
It had been so long since she’d looked at someone and felt anything .
But no. No. That wasn’t the plan.
“I appreciate the advice,” she said, forcing a lightness into her voice.
She looked out over the empty field, trying to ignore the voice in her head that told her plans could change. And that there should always be room for love.
Philip followed her gaze. “It will be beautiful,” he whispered. “You can already feel it.”
She swallowed hard.
Yes, she thought. I can.