Caleb had his sleeves rolled to the elbow, his forearms streaked dark with soil. The pumpkin vines sprawled where they pleased, their broad leaves soaking in what sun they could. He lifted a pumpkin carefully, checking the stem, thumb pressing just enough to feel firmness without bruising. It would be good to harvest in another week, maybe two.

  The field smelled of damp earth and sharp green from the vines. Bees worked the late blossoms with a lazy persistence. Caleb shifted his weight, crouched low, and reached for the next.

  Hoofbeats sounded behind him.

  They weren’t close enough to startle, but they were approaching. Hoofbeats belonged on the roads, not here among the damp fields. Caleb paused, hand still on the vine, listening as the sound drew nearer. Leather creaked. Metal chimed faintly. A horse huffed.

  He straightened and turned.

  The rider had already slowed, guiding her horse with an easy hand. She sat well in the saddle, neither stiff nor showy. The horse moved like it trusted her, ears flicking but calm, stepping where she asked without fuss. Soil squelched around the hooves before they settled again.

  She reined in at the edge of the field and smiled, the kind of smile given without calculation.

  “Owen? What are you doing over here?”

  The name landed between them, light as a tossed coin.

  Caleb blinked. For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. He took her in without meaning to: her dark hair pulled back neatly, riding gloves holding fast on the reins, boots polished but scuffed at the toe. She was young, but not unsure. She had curious eyes that held steady on his face.

  He became suddenly aware of his state. The mud on his turnshoes and pants. The earth under his fingernails. The scruffiness of his hair.

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” he said, and dipped his head. The words came easily enough. He’d said them before, to others. “You’ve mistaken me.”

  Her brows knit, just slightly. She leaned forward in the saddle, looking again, closer now, and then her eyes widened in recognition of the mistake.

  “Oh,” she said before laughing softly, more at herself than him. “I’m sorry. I truly thought you were my brother.”

  “It happens,” Caleb said.

  She colored faintly. “That was rude of me. I shouldn’t call out like that.” She glanced down at his hands, the vines, the basket at his feet. “You’re working.”

  “I am,” Caleb said. “They’ll be ready soon, if the weather holds.”

  She followed his gaze to the pumpkins nestled in the leaves, round and deepening toward orange. “They’re bigger than I thought,” she said. “They don’t look so big from the road, I mean.”

  “They usually the case,” he replied. “Things grow better when no one’s watching them too closely.”

  That earned him a curious look..

  “I suppose I must take your word for it,” she said. “I don’t come out this way often.”

  “I know,” Caleb said, and then winced inwardly at how it sounded.

  She smiled and flushed slightly. “Yes, of course you do.”

  A breeze stirred the leaves. The horse shifted its weight and blew out a breath. Caleb stood there, stained with dirt, while she sat above him in the saddle. The distance between them was not far, but they felt a world apart.

  “I should let you get back to it,” she said at last, gathering the reins. “Again, I’m sorry. For my mistake.”

  He shook his head. “No harm done, my lady.”

  She nodded once, satisfied, and turned her horse gently away from the field. Caleb turned and heard the hoofbeats start again. He knelt back down among the vines, lifted another leaf, and pressed his thumb to the stem. He eased another vine aside when he heard the hoofbeas return. The horse stopped. The quiet stretch that followed was different from before. Less passing. More waiting.

  “What exactly are you doing?” Constance asked.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  He looked up again. She had turned her horse sideways now, one boot hooked over the pommel, leaning forward with her forearms resting on the saddle horn. It was not a proper seat, but it looked comfortable.

  “Making sure the stems aren’t splitting,” Caleb said. “If they do, the pumpkins won’t finish right. They’ll be lost to rot before the first frost.”

  She nodded as if that mattered. “And are they nearly ready?”

  “Some are,” he said. “The bigger ones take longer. They’re dramatic like that.”

  That earned a short laugh. “Are they?”

  “They may look good from the outside; bright color, good shape. But cut into em and they’re still hard as a rock, hollow, and have no flavor. Some grand and good things just take time, I suppose.”

  She considered that, gaze drifting back to the vines. “That seems unfair.”

  “I agree. But nature is rarely fair.”

  She smiled at him then, pleased, and swung her leg over to dismount. The horse shifted but stayed calm, reins loose in her hand. She stepped down lightly, boots thudding in the dirt, and came closer to the edge of the patch.

  “I’ve only ever seen pumpkins once they’re cleaned and stacked,” she said. “I didn’t know they grew like this. So close to the ground.”

  “They don’t trust height. They’d rather stay close to the ground and spread out,” Caleb replied. “Though that’s also where they’re most vulnerable.”

  She crouched beside him, skirts gathered awkwardly, and reached out to touch one of the vines. She did it carefully, fingers brushing the surface rather than grabbing. “The stems are thicker than I thought,” she said. “Like rope.”

  “They have to be,” Caleb said. “All the rain and goodness of the earth runs through the vines. Without them there’d be nothing to harvest.”

  She nodded again, slower this time. “My nurse used to tell a story about a girl who rode to a ball in a pumpkin carriage,” she said. “She never mentioned the vines.”

  Caleb glanced at her, surprised. “That would have made the story shorter,” he said. “The carriage wouldn’t have gone very far.”

  She laughed outright at that, quick and unguarded. “I suppose that’s true. Though it’s meant to be magic.”

  “I don’t think even magic could get off all the pumpkin slime that princess would be covered in,” Caleb said.

  She giggled at that. “I will have to take your word for it. The only time I’ve seen the inside of a pumpkin is when it’s already cooked. Though I can’t say being covered in slime sounds very nice.”

  “Neither do I. And it would ruin the dress, and I don’t think that would make for a very fun ball.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” she admitted. She paused for a moment, watching Caleb as he worked. “Do you like it?”

  “Like what?” he asked.

  She nodded to the patch. “The work. Not just pumpkins, but all of it”

  “I don’t mind it,” he said carefully. “Some days are better than others. It’s honest.”

  She smiled again, softer this time. “Honest. That must be nice.”

  They stood there together among the vines and leaves and soil, the sun warming their backs. The moment felt peaceful on that crisp autumn day. Then, measured and familiar footsteps sounded from the path.

  Constance straightened. Caleb turned. Owen was making his way toward them. His back was straight, his shoulders set, and his attention was divided cleanly between Constance and the work in the field as though both were his responsibility in different measures.

  “There you are,” Owen said. “I wondered where you’d gone. Mother’s looking for you, you know.”

  Constance’s eyes brightened. “I was learning about pumpkins!”

  Owen blinked. Then smiled. “Of course you were.” Owen’s gaze shifted then, settling on Caleb. “Caleb,” he said, and inclined his head slightly. Not quite bowing, but it was respectable enough.

  “M’lord,” Caleb replied. It had been a long time since he was able to get away with just calling the young master by his name.

  Owen smiled faintly. “You’re not in trouble,” he said, as if that needed saying. “Constance has a habit of wandering.”

  “She was truly asking about pumpkins,” Caleb said.

  Owen glanced at his little sister. “A dangerous subject,” he said dryly. “Next thing you know she’ll want to plant a whole patch for her own amusement.”

  “I might,” Constance said, indignant. Then she caught herself, straightened, and smoothed her hands over her skirts. “Well,” she said, turning toward Caleb. “Thank you for answering my questions.”

  “Of course, m’lady. You’re quite welcome,” he said.

  She hesitated, just a breath longer than courtesy required. “Well…I hope the harvest goes well.”

  “It will if the frost can wait.”

  She nodded, satisfied with that, then let Owen take her arm. As they turned away, she glanced back once more.“Goodbye, Caleb.”

  “Goodbye, m’lady,” he answered.

  Owen went to grab her horses reins, but the young Constance thrust her hand out, beating him to the leather straps. “It’s my horse, I can take care of it.” Owen just shook his head. They walked off together toward the manor road, their steps falling into an easy rhythm. From behind, the likeness softened again, broken up by the difference in cut cloth and the way Owen leaned slightly toward his sister as she spoke.

  Caleb watched until they were gone, then went back to work. The field, after all, did not care.

  He knelt again among the vines, pushing a leaf aside, checking a stem for softness. The pumpkin beneath his hand was heavy and solid, still weeks from ready. The dirt pressed cool against his knee. A breeze moved through the patch, carrying the faint smell of turned earth and leaves.

  For a moment, he stood there longer than he needed to, hands resting on the vine, as if waiting for something else to happen.

  Nothing did.

  So he went back to work.

  The leaves parted where he guided them. The vines laid where they liked. The field took him back without hurry, only asking for his attention. He found a smile crossing his lips, and obliged.