Chapter 1
Brynn MacAlister preferred fall, but summer in the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia ran a close second. Spring wildflowers hung on throughout much of the season and Brynn and her cows enjoyed the honeysuckle, bluebells, and pink lady’s slipper in the fields. Brynn didn’t appreciate the humidity and heat, but she cherished the way the community gathered its resources for one of its biggest events of the year—the Shenandoah Springs annual fair. This year, Buttermilk Creek Farm was sponsoring for the first time a local cheesemakers’ shed and contest.
She had visited the fair last year as an outsider and it was part of the reason she fell in love with the place. Most of the locals were still family farmers and now they were micro-farmers, specializing in products like honey, Christmas trees and pumpkins, and organic vegetables. Shenandoah Springs was a haven for the organic, local farm movement. And the fair provided a perfect place to gather and show off their hard work.
She recalled the stalls of homemade food, such as pies and cakes, and canned goods, gleaming jars of tomato sauce, pickles, deep crimson pickled beets. The craft display building was her favorite, with the many quilts, afghans, and lace items—last year, a stunning intricate red lace tablecloth won best in the show.
But this year, she was a part of it—and couldn’t be happier. She sat at her kitchen table and gazed out the window at her small farm with her three cows and Freckles, the Saint Bernard–collie mix puppy, hanging out together.
“Do we have all the labels we’ll need?” Wes, her assistant, asked as he placed a plate of cucumber sandwiches in front of Brynn.
She slid a small box toward him. “Yes, I ordered more.”
He gazed out the kitchen window at the darkening sky. “It will let loose any moment.” He motioned to the seal-gray sky. The dark clouds had been gathering all day—it was a pattern over the past few weeks. The afternoon storm. Petunia, her most sensitive cow, always ran into the barn at the first crack of thunder.
“As of this morning, we have eight local amateur cheesemakers entering the contest,” he told her.
“That’s plenty for the first year. Don’t you think?”
He nodded. “Try the sandwich. The spread is new. Thoughts?”
Wes was a creative cook, baker, and, as it turned out, cheesemaker. Of all the things Brynn had done in her life, agreeing to allow him to move into the guest house was one of the best decisions she’d ever made. He helped her out, and in return, she taught him how to make cheese and other dairy products.
She bit into the thin sandwich and a light, refreshing flavor exploded in her mouth. “Mmmm.”
“Lemon and dill,” Wes said. “With my Greek-style yogurt as a base.”
Brynn swallowed her first bite. “I love it!”
“I’ve got a few more things to perfect, but we might consider adding this to our offerings.”
“It’s delicious and perfect now,” Brynn said, reaching for another tiny sandwich.
The first boom of thunder sounded and Petunia shot across the backyard field toward the barn. With all of her cow heft, she moved with grace, and her ever-loyal dog companion, Freckles, followed. The other two cows, Marigold and Buttercup, paid no attention to the thunder.
Brynn chuckled watching Petunia head for the barn. She turned her attention to the list in front of her on the table. Buttermilk Creek Farm was the sponsor of the cheesemaking shed and Brynn wanted to ensure this first year was fabulous. She had visions of it growing into a state competition. “Do we have everything?”
Wes glanced over her shoulder. “If by that you mean everything but the kitchen sink, yes, yes, you do.”
Brynn laughed, just as her phone buzzed. She picked up to uneven heavy breathing.
“Oh my God, Brynn, there’s been a terrible accident.” The voice on the other end was a scratchy, tense whisper, but she recognized it.
Brynn’s heart leaped in her chest. “Willow? Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“I’m on my way to the hospital. Accident . . . tractor. . . it’s horrible.”
“Willow? Who? Who was in the accident?”
Wes had been fussing with cucumbers on the counter and spun toward Brynn.
“Josh. Driving the tractor and I’m not sure . . . It was a hired guy. It’s bad.”
“Josh?” His face flashed in her mind. The honey farmer who had been in farming since he was a kid. A tractor accident? “That doesn’t sound right.”
“It’s strange.” Willow sobbed.
“Where are you, Willow? You aren’t driving, are you?”
“On my way to the hospital. My dad’s driving me.”
“Thank God for that. You’re too upset to drive.”
“I was there,” she said. “I saw the whole thing. It was a nightmare!”
A sudden urge to rush to her side prompted Brynn to stand. “I’ll come to the hospital.”
“No,” Willow said. “I need you to pick up the quilts for me today.”
“Quilts?”
“Yes, for the quilt display. There are about twenty. I’m e-mailing you the addresses now.”
“What am I supposed to do with them?”
“Put them in the hall and I’ll take care of the displays.”
Brynn’s first thought was to run to the hospital, but she was eager to help Willow out in any way she could. “I’m happy to do it,” Brynn said. “Please keep me informed and stop by when you can.”
“Will do. Thanks. I gotta go.” She clicked off.
Brynn’s mind raced. Tractor accident? She never liked tractors, but they were a necessary evil if farmers wanted to get things done with efficiency. She didn’t own a tractor but had rented one for the field where she planted special food for the cows.
Poor Willow, having seen the accident. What exact horror had she witnessed? Brynn shivered.
“What’s going on?” Wes sat at the table.
“There’s been a tractor accident. Josh hit someone.”
“What? That sounds weird. If anybody knows his way around a tractor . . .”
“Accidents happen.” Brynn recalled the fire that stole Nancy’s life. She had assumed Nancy’s death was an accident, but it turned out not to be. “Willow’s on the way to the hospital. She’s shaken. She saw everything.”
Willow had been one of the most friendly people to Brynn when she moved to Shenandoah Springs. She was the backbone of the Community Supported Agriculture program and showed Brynn the ropes, filled her in on the best places to eat and the local gossip. When Nancy died, they became even closer.
“Can you hold down the fort? I’ve got to pick up about twenty quilts.”
Wes cocked his eyebrow. “That’s not on your list.”
“It’s for Willow. She won’t be able to get to it today.”
“I can hold the fort down, but you may need help. Quilts are heavy and twenty of them will be very hefty. It will be much faster with two of us. We need to get back to our own list.”
Once again, Brynn remembered what a good move it was to partner up with Wes, Nancy’s grandson, whom she didn’t even know before her death. Their friendship had blossomed through their love of cheese and Nancy, even though Brynn would turn back the clock if she could have just one more nice hot cup of Earl Grey with her friend. Wes was the next best thing.
“Is Josh okay? I mean, what happened? Did he fall off the tractor? Tip it?”
“No, I don’t think so. He hit someone, one of the summer helpers. At least I think that’s what Willow said.”
“How awful!”
Brynn slid her laptop across the table, cracked open the lid, and pressed the switch. The e-mail from Willow was already there. She hit print. “Let’s get these quilts delivered so we can go to the hospital.”