Sanna had always appreciated the sanctuary of the orchard, and this revelation bonded Sanna like another root digging into the soil, finding nourishment. She’d never leave.
After a few years of making and selling apple juice, Sanna strolled through the Looms wondering how these older trees still produced apples, even though they couldn’t sell them. They didn’t make for good eating or baking—Einars called them spitters. Over the years, the family had stopped paying attention to the sprawling trees since no one would buy their fruit—customers only wanted attractive, sweet produce. Other than the art above the mantel, they had lost track of what varieties they had, but with a bit of research and a lot of comparing and contrasting to the watercolors and online photos, Sanna discovered they had a treasure trove of cider-making apples—Kingston Black, Ashton Bitter, Medaille d’Or, Foxwhelp, her favorite Rambo tree, and so many more. The first Lunds had brought these trees to make cider, but had to stop during Prohibition, packing away the equipment in the back of their barn for Sanna to find so many years later.
She spent years experimenting with small batches, understanding the colors, using their existing press and carboys to ferment. Then, last year, Einars surprised her with plans to rebuild the barn, complete with huge fermentation tanks and modern mills and presses. Sanna could use her talent and passion to help move their orchard into a new phase . . . or so they both hoped.
Sanna poured a small amount of her purple blend into a beaker, where she could experiment on the tinier amount before risking the entire batch. She’d almost found the exact shade of purple she’d been trying to create when it disappeared in a flood of apple juice and crystalline shards. The cause—a hard, green apple thrown through the closed window and into her cider.
Sanna blinked as the daylight pushed the last tatters of lavender from her vision, replacing it with harsh afternoon yellow and floating dust motes set loose by the interruption. She watched the combination of juices swoosh to the floor until just a few violet drips were left. She sighed and plucked the fruit from the broken and wet equipment, careful not to cut herself. With each crunch of glass underfoot, she got angrier and angrier. Some moron had ruined her beautiful purple cider by chucking an apple—an apple that should have been safely left to grow on the branch—through her window. Sanna gripped the sphere and looked down through the broken pane.
Outside, Einars spoke to a handsome dark-haired man. The breeze pulled at his unruly brown curls. At his side stood a miniature version; the man’s hand gripped the boy’s shoulder with one hand as he gestured toward the window with the other, his apologetic smile matching the one of amusement on her father’s face.
Heat rose up her neck. Breaking her window was no laughing matter. In a few efficient moves, she swept the broken glass off the counter to the floor, careful not to step in it, and mopped up the ruined blend of juice before it made the counter sticky. She squeezed the apple in her fist, its flesh still too immature to give more than a few drops of juice where the skin had broken on impact. In a righteous fury, she left the barn that still smelled of sawdust from the recent remodel.
As she approached the threesome, the man and boy stopped talking. Einars smiled wider when she halted in front of them. He was the only man she ever had to look up to, and right now his pale eyes twinkled. He was planning something. Her own crisp blue eyes squinted in suspicion. His thin and transparent hair lifted off his head in the soft, early-summer breeze. The boy stepped shyly behind his father as she held up the orb of destruction to accuse.
“This apple broke my window,” she said, her lips tightened to clip the words short.
Einars ignored her, instead holding open his arms. “Sanna, come meet Isaac Banks. He’ll be helping at the orchard this season.”
Helping? Sanna was confused. They never took on extra hands until the harvest, which was months from now—and even then it was generally one or two neighbors they’d known for years. Perhaps she had misunderstood her father.
Isaac held out his hand in greeting as his eyes took in all six feet three inches of her. Sanna girded herself for the comments, switched the apple to her other hand, and shook the offered palm out of habit, realizing only when they touched that she hadn’t bothered to wipe off the few drops of apple juice. His big hand encircled hers and was warm and dry, like it had been buried in the sand. His deep brown eyes, fringed in lush lashes, sparkled under strong brows. His olive skin already had a bronze glow, countering the silver flecks in his thick, dark beard. His temples crinkled as his lips curved into a warm, homey smile. Sanna’s mouth went dry. This man sparkled, brightening everything around him, too. If her window hadn’t just been broken, she might have tested her very rusty flirtation skills. Instead, she pulled herself a little taller.
“Hi, Sanna, pleasure to meet you.” He said her name like the sounds were new and he was rolling them over his tongue, learning and liking the way they felt. The warmth of his hand nearly burned on hers, which was still cool from an afternoon in the chilly barn, and sticky from the juice drying on her skin. Even though neither of them had moved, she seemed closer to him, or maybe she wanted to be closer to him. Her focused ire threatened to scatter, and she maintained contact with him for a second longer. She pulled her hand back, their skin briefly sticking together from the apple juice.
Sanna nodded briskly, pulled her eyes away from where they lingered on his smile, turned to her dad, and held the apple in front of her.
“What are we going to do about this?”
Isaac’s lips thinned as Einars plucked the apple from Sanna’s grip and tossed it into the orchard.
“Calm down, Sanna-who.” Sanna cringed. Her dad—who liked to joke they were “Scanda-whovians”—had been calling her Sanna-who ever since she was a barefoot, sun-bleached child running through the orchard. She didn’t mind it when they were alone, but in front of strangers? Too personal. “The boy was just being a boy. It’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”
“That carelessness broke some of my equipment and ruined a batch I was blending.”
With Isaac’s eyes watching her every move, she struggled to maintain her anger, even though she was in the right. She knew she was coming off harsh, but she didn’t dare speak more words than were necessary.
Einars took a moment to look at Sanna, then at the boy. “Then he’ll have to help you until the equipment and window are paid for. He’ll be your assistant,” Einars said.