The Bright Spot
Chapter 1
Luna Wright awoke to someone nibbling her toes—troubling since she’d gone to bed alone. Well, except for Sprout, her half-deaf, fifteen-year-old rescue mutt, snoring behind her. Cracking open one eye, she lifted her head, eyed her early morning visitor, then sighed and plopped back down. “Dammit Ziggy, we talked about this. It’s still dark out.” She closed her eyes again, but the bed jiggled impatiently.
DIGITAL:
PRINT:
AUDIO:
With a groan, she sat up. As the manager of Apple Ridge Farm, a small, charming, and let’s face it, struggling tree farm and botanical gardens, it was her job to oversee . . . well, everything.
“Bleeeat.”
Including their rescue animals, like Dammit Ziggy, their two-month-old orphaned “kid,” currently eyeing her with adoration.
“Ugh, you’re too cute for your own good.” Nudging him aside, she got out of bed. “Stay. I’m just going to the bathroom.”
His hooves clicked on the wood floor as he trotted along after her, his expression dialed to: I’d-feel-more-comfortable-if-we-went-together.
A few minutes later they exited the bathroom—still together—freezing in unison as a noise came from her kitchen. Not the still snoring Sprout. A watchdog he was not. She quickly snatched up her phone.
“Bleeeat.”
“Shh!” She got 9–1–1 teed up with one hand, the other over DZ’s mouth. Please don’t be a bear. “Who’s there?” she yelled.
“Shep.”
Her farmhand, and she nearly collapsed in relief.
“Is DZ here?” Shep called out. “He ate through the fence again and got out. You’re usually his first stop.”
Luna eyed Dammit Ziggy, aka DZ, who nuzzled against her calf. She looked up when Shep appeared at the end of her hall. “He ate another post?” she asked.
He nodded. “And then ran straight to you, his mama.”
She had to laugh, but it was true. The baby rescues were her favorite part of this job, and she had a soft spot for DZ, which the kid—both the goat and Shep—knew.
Emergency averted, Shep’s gaze caught on Luna’s pj’s—a soft, thin camisole and short boy shorts—and he immediately slapped his hands over his eyes. “Oh shit. I mean crap. I’m sorry, ma’am.” Taking a step back, he tripped over his own feet and fell on his ass, hands still over his eyes.
He was twenty-one to her almost thirty, so she at least wasn’t corrupting a minor, but his horrified reaction had her turning back to her room to pull the throw blanket from the foot of her bed and wrap it around herself. Shep was a good guy and a great farmhand, able to handle whatever she threw at him, but it’d taken her six months to get him to call her by her given name and not “ma’am.” “Did you hurt yourself?”
“No.” He got to his feet with his hands still over his eyes, his Adam’s apple bouncing as he swallowed hard. “So . . .” He gestured vaguely toward the door. “I’ll just . . .”
“Go? Yes, please, and take DZ with you. DZ!”
The goat was eating one of her favorite sneakers. She snatched it back. “Preferably before he eats anything else.”
Shep, who looked like the snowboarding bum that he was whenever he wasn’t working for her—lanky, lean, rock star hair to his shoulders, long-sleeved T-shirt advertising ski and board wax, high-top work boots unlaced—nodded like a bobblehead.
“I’m pretty sure it’s not that bad,” she said dryly.
He went beet red. “No, it’s definitely not bad. I mean, you’re put together right nice—” He grimaced. Swallowed again. “Uh, I’m not trying to say you’re hot, because that’d imply I—”
“Shep.”
“Yeah?”
“Goodbye.”
“Right!” He had to come toward her to get Dammit Ziggy, one hand still over his eyes, the other reaching out in front of him.
Oh, for the love of— She passed him, heading for the shower. Sometimes she did YouTube Pilates before work, but . . . well, she hated every minute of it and she wasn’t even sure it was working anyway, which made it easy to skip. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Luna,” she called back.
“Right. Luna. Ma’am.”
With a sigh, she shut the bathroom door. She turned on the shower and hopped into the lukewarm water, not waiting for the sixty-second blast of hot, which was all she’d get. Since much of her day was spent outside—that being in the Sierra Mountains in April—she needed that blissful minute. Chilly air or no, spring was in full bloom in Tahoe. It’d been a drought winter, their second in a row, so the snow was mostly gone, the lake already too low, and here at Apple Ridge Farm, they were doing their best to keep the orchards and gardens thriving since their livelihood depended on it.
Twenty minutes later, she was dressed in her usual jeans, boots, and staff sweatshirt. At her side, Sprout wore his usual happy-to-still-be-kickin’ attitude, ready to make their morning rounds to ensure everything was as it should be before they opened to the public.
Even when Luna knew everything was not as it should be.
A week ago, the owner of the farm, her boss Silas Wittman, had suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. He’d lived eight hours south of Tahoe, in Los Angeles—a fact that had suited everyone since he’d been known as the Grinch, but she couldn’t imagine what might happen now.
Five years ago Silas had coaxed her away from a job that had been simply a means to a paycheck. He hadn’t been an easy man to work for, long-distance or not, but she’d never regretted taking the position she’d come to love more than anything she’d ever done. Silas had shown up without fail once a quarter to terrify everyone, and had also called Luna bimonthly. He’d been far softer with her than anyone else, answering questions, letting her know she was on track. It’d been . . . comforting, despite his gruff nature. Having him gone rattled her. She’d honestly believed him too tough to ever die.
Would whomever Silas had left the farm to allow them to continue status quo? Or would there be a big shake-up? She had a meeting with the estate attorney later, where she’d no doubt get answers to all her questions good or bad, but at the moment, she felt like that one time she’d gone rock climbing with friends and had gotten stuck a hundred feet above the ground, twirling in the wind.
At her side, Sprout was already wheezing because of his asthma. Heart melting, she scooped up the fifteen-pound roly-poly sweetheart. “How about a lift?”
He licked her chin and cuddled in for the free ride, the way he had every day since she’d taken him home from the shelter so he wouldn’t die alone. That had been two years ago now and he was thriving.
But now she was the one wheezing as she walked because fifteen pounds was . . . fifteen pounds. She adjusted his weight and kept moving, getting another sweet little lick on the chin for her efforts, ensuring she’d carry him forever if need be. Apple Ridge was one hundred and fifty acres, every last corner of the land in use. The wild Sierras circled them in a continuous chain of mountain ranges forming the western “backbone” of the Americas. It was a mix of thick forests, austere rock faces, and lush valleys, and their small corner of it was no exception. The farthest part of the land butted up against a creek. It was there, within hearing distance of the rushing water, that they had seven small cabins—emphasis on small.
Luna lived in the first cabin, and she loved it ridiculously. Employees were in the others. Well, all but the last, which was allegedly haunted by the ghost of someone Silas had once yelled at. Since that list was long, there was no telling who it could be. But ever since one of the seasonal employees had claimed to see a pale, see-through face pressed to the front window several years back, it’d sat empty.
Luna, who’d never seen a ghost herself but wasn’t opposed, always looked for a face in the glass. Nothing, so she continued on the trail past the Christmas, cherry, and crab apple tree orchards, past the botanical gardens, slowing at their rescue barn. Inside lived, among others, five chickens (divas, all of them), four goats (the adorable heathens), three pigs (sweet and loving but eternally hungry), two cows (sweetie pies), and a curious emu named Estelle . . . but thankfully no partridge in a pear tree.
Through the open doors, she could see Shep hauling out a bucket of feed for Miss Piggy and Hogwarts, their teacup pigs. At least they’d been told they were teacup pigs when they’d first rescued them at three weeks old. They were now three years old and three hundred pounds. Each.
Shep looked up and Luna waved. Even from here she could see the scald hit his cheeks. With a sigh, she kept going, heading to the Square, their central location, which held a small farm-to-table café called the Bright Spot, an old horse barn turned souvenir and gift shop called Stella’s Place, and the sign-up hut for everything they did seasonally, like hayrides, snow sledding down the two-stories-tall piles of hay barrels, etc. There was also a small coffee shop that had gone out of business and sat temporarily empty until they found a new lessee.
It was the café that she walked to now, the one where they used ingredients grown and foraged on the property, along with goods from other local ranches and farms. Wildflowers bloomed in fat clay pots, framing the porch of the converted old farmhouse, giving it a warmth that would in a few hours be matched by the enticing scents of food wafting out the open windows. Inside would be spotless, the old burnished wood floor gleaming, the shiplap walls smelling of lemon oil, fresh flowers in vases placed on the tables, all thanks to the man named Chef, who ran it.
Luna stopped at the front door, blinking in surprise to see a pic of herself pinned to it with the words Don’t come in unless you finally got some! written in red Sharpie across the top. “Seriously?” She ripped the photo down, only to find a second one beneath. And a third. And a fourth. “Oh, come on!” Setting Sprout on the ground, she yanked down the entire stack and stormed into the café, empty because it was 7:00 a.m. and their front gate didn’t open to the public until 10:00 a.m. “Chef, I know you’re in here! Show your cowardly face!”
Chef, a dear friend, although soon to be her ex–dear friend, popped his head out of the kitchen with an innocent expression.
As if the man had ever been innocent a single day in his entire life.
He held a chopping knife in one hand and a tomato in the other. “So,” he said, gesturing to the flyers in her hand. “Did you?”
“This annoying quest of yours to interfere with my love life—”
“You mean lack of love life.”
Okay, true. Unfortunately.
“How did last night go?” he asked.
“He didn’t show.” He being her coffee date. To say she wasn’t having much luck in the dating world was on par with saying the sky was blue, or summer was hot.
Chef’s expression softened. “Honey—”
“No.” She jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.”
“I don’t. You’re smart, resilient, resourceful, beautiful—”
She snorted. “You do know that there’s no money in the budget for a raise.”
“I don’t feel sorry for you,” he repeated, setting down the knife and tomato to pour her a coffee to go. “I feel sorry for the stupid men who are missing out on you. And yes, I realize I’m one of those stupid men . . .”
Ignoring that, she sniffed the air dramatically. “You know how much I love the smell of your freshly brewed coffee.”
“Luna—”
“And you know what else I love? The sound of no one talking to me while I drink it.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m trying to be serious.”
She sighed. It wasn’t his fault that they’d started dating their freshman year in college and he didn’t figure out until his senior year that he preferred men. Love was love, and all that. “I’m fine. It’s whatever. But no more blind dates for me. If someone’s interested, they’re going to need a thousand-word essay on how they will not waste my time.”
His smile was charmingly crooked. “Unless they’re hot, right?”
“No. The hot ones are assholes.”
He put a hand to his chest and pretended to stagger back a step.
“Present company excluded, of course,” she said, and lifted her coffee. “Thanks for this. I gotta go.”
“Wait.” He vanished, then reappeared with a ham bone in a bag. “For Sprout.”
Sprout stopped panting and wheezing so his ears, nearly half his height on their own, could perk up.
“It’s yours when we get to the office,” Luna told the sweetest, steadiest male in her life.
Sprout sighed, but moved under his own steam as they next stopped at Stella’s Place. Luna peered in at the once individual horse stalls turned booths, each of which sold a variety of souvenirs and other tchotchkes. “Stella?”
Stella Montgomery, who ran all the booths for the farm, poked her head up from the second booth, where she was shelving some of their locally sourced jelly. “Good night!” the older woman called to Luna gleefully.
Playing the game, Luna smiled. “It’s morning.”
Sure enough, Stella shook her head. “It’s bedtime.”
Stella would prefer to be nocturnal. It was rumored she was also a vampire, but since Stella had started those rumors herself, no one took them all that seriously. The seventy-four-year-old had led quite the colorful life, having spent her formidable years marrying men before giving up the hobby of marriage—but not men.
She was also Luna’s grandma.
Well, her adoptive grandma. Luna had been adopted at birth. She knew nothing of her biological relatives, so she was deeply emotionally attached to Stella. Stella’s daughter, Luna’s adoptive mom, had washed her hands of the older woman for being “difficult,” but Luna had refused to do the same. For one thing, Stella had never let her down. So when Luna’s mom had had enough of her mom’s antics, and when no retirement home wanted her, Luna had happily taken her in and given her a job.
Stella’s Place was very popular, mostly because she was so colorful, told fortunes, and sold fun stuff, and people madly loved all of it. And Luna madly loved her. Just as she loved her entire crew, and her life here. The problem was, they’d had some good years, but also some bad, possibly more of those than good. But they were a Tahoe local and tourist staple, and beloved. Surely that would mean something to whoever was in charge of their fate now.
Her chest tightened at the reminder that in a few short hours, she’d most likely hear that fate, and the future for both the farm and herself.
Or if any of them even had a future here at all.