Page 86 of The Mountain Echoes

I can’t afford that.

I step back completely, clearly.

He doesn’t stop me.

“I’ll take you home,” he says softly, probably using the same tone he does when soothing a skittish Tate.

I nod, feeling bereft.

CHAPTER 20

maverick

She looks like sin and salvation in the passenger seat—wisps of hair around her face loose from her braid, pouty kissable lips that she’s been chewing on, flushed cheeks,andtired eyes looking around like she’s a deer who knows there’s a wolf in the woods.

I know she wants to go home, regroup. I should let her. But for reasons I can’t explain, not even to myself, I don’t want to let our time together end just yet.

“I want to show you something.” I take the exit before the one that leads to Longhorn—the earlier turnoff that heads toward Kincaid Farm.

Aria shoots me a look. “What kind of something?”

I grin. “The kind that doesn’t come with strings, darlin’, so relax, yeah?”

She raises a skeptical brow but doesn’t protest.

A few minutes later, I pull the truck around the back of Kincaid Farms and stop beside an old stone path, barely lit by the moon.

The greenhouse is tucked against a slope, wrapped in cedar and steel. Joy calls it my vanity project.

It spans nearly 5,000 square feet—arched glass and steel framed against the hill like a cathedral for the earth.

Inside, it’s warm and bright even in winter, with neat rows of raised beds bursting with life: heirloom tomatoes climbing trellises, sweet peppers ripening in clusters, basil and thyme filling the air with spice, rows of leafy greens, radishes, and winter carrots tucked beneath straw mulch.

For me, it’s peace—working there, being there, growing there.

I push open the door and wait for her to step inside.

The smells hit first—earth, warm and damp, citrus from the lemons, the soft floral sweetness of early-blooming lavender.

Grow lights bathe everything in gold. Rows of beds glow with green herbs, starter vegetables, tomatoes, and trailing vines on string lines. In one corner, a few dwarf Meyer lemon and kumquat trees produce citrus year-round.

At the far end, a swath of tulips—pink, white, golden—nod gently as if it were April in Amsterdam instead of a Colorado March night.

“This is…,” Aria trails off.

“Yeah,” I agree quietly, watching her take it in.

Most people think a ranch is about what’s in the pastures, or in the branding pen, or in the bloodlines of the horses. They’re right.

But for me, this greenhouse is the heart of what I’m doing. Nurturing.

I started this five years ago when a drought hit hard one summer, and the fields dried to nothing but dust. I built this facility to support the restaurants under the Kincaid Farms banner, focusing on backup crops and specialty herbs, furthering our commitment to farm-to-table.

Aria runs her fingers over a row of young tomato leaves, her expression softening. “It must be special to be here when there’s snow outside,” she murmurs.

“I’ll bring you here when it starts snowing in October.”

I know that’s months away but having her here is causing pressure to build in my chest—a feeling I don’t usually let in.