UNBROKEN PROMISE

~59~ Where do you stand?

The days passed in a blur of hard work and preparation, each sunrise bringing with it the scent of freshly tilled earth and the golden glow of fields heavy with grain. The farm was alive with movement, the air thick with the sound of boots crunching over dry leaves, the rhythmic thud of sacks being loaded, and the occasional shout from Logan or Jacob as they directed the ranch hands.

Oma had barely had a moment to sit still between helping with the threshing, learning how to make preserves with Megan, and dealing with Matthew’s constant teasing. Every time she turned around, there he was—grinning like he hadn’t a care in the world, quick with a playful remark that made her cheeks flush despite herself.

“Miss Oma, you got a talent for this,” he’d said one afternoon, watching as she carefully sealed a jar of peach preserves. “Never seen a woman look so pretty stirrin’ sugar and fruit together.”

Oma had scoffed, rolling her eyes, but she couldn’t deny the warmth that crept up her neck. Logan, on the other hand, had barely concealed his irritation, his jaw tightening whenever Matthew sauntered too close or made her laugh a little too easily. But if anyone noticed, they were wise enough not to mention it.

Now, after weeks of backbreaking labor, the harvest was done, the butchering handled, and the time for celebration had finally come. The Harvest Festival—a day that marked the end of the season, bringing the town together, neighbors, and ranch hands for a night of feasting, music, and dancing. This year, it was the family’s turn to host, and the ranch had been transformed.

The scent of freshly baked bread and roasting meats filling the air as the final preparations were made. It was the busiest morning the ranch had seen all year, with folks bustling about, setting up tables, hanging lanterns, and hauling barrels of cider to the barn.

Inside the main house, the kitchen was a flurry of movement. Mama Becca was at the stove, stirring a large pot of stew, while Megan, despite her heavily pregnant belly, was rolling out dough for pies. Oma, her sleeves rolled up and flour dusting her apron, was working on a tray of biscuits, shaping them carefully before placing them on the baking sheet.

“You sure you ain't workin' too hard, Megan?” Oma asked as she brushed melted butter over the biscuits.

Megan let out a huff, wiping sweat from her brow. “If one more person tells me to sit down, I swear I’m gonna start throwin’ things,” she muttered. “I got hands, don’t I? This baby ain’t comin’ for a while yet.”

Mama Becca chuckled as she sprinkled a pinch of salt into the stew. “Ain’t nobody tellin’ ya to stop workin’, child. Just don’t go birthin’ that baby in my kitchen.”

Oma smiled, but her mind was elsewhere. Every so often, her thoughts drifted to the barn, to where she knew Logan and Jacob were getting things ready. She hadn’t seen Logan much that morning, and when she did, he’d been scowling more than usual, his shoulders tense as he worked.

Outside, the barn was alive with activity. Ranch hands moved in and out, setting up benches and clearing the dance floor. A group of men were hauling in hay bales to line the walls, and Caleb was running around excitedly with Cookie at his heels, begging to be allowed to help.

Jacob, leaning against a wooden beam, watched Logan as he worked. His younger brother was quiet, his jaw set tight as he secured a row of lanterns above the barn doors.

“You gonna tell me what’s been gnawin’ at you, or you gonna keep stompin’ around like a bear with a sore paw?” Jacob finally asked.

Logan didn’t answer right away. He tightened the last knot and climbed down from the ladder, wiping his hands on his jeans before picking up a crate of cider. “Ain’t nothin’ to talk about,” he muttered.

Jacob let out a slow sigh, shaking his head. “Right. Nothin’ at all. Just been watchin’ you scowl your way through this whole harvest.” He pushed off the beam and walked alongside Logan as he carried the crate toward the drinks table. “This wouldn’t have somethin’ to do with Matthew, would it?”

Logan’s grip on the crate tightened just slightly, but he kept walking. “Don’t start, Jacob.”

Jacob smirked, knowing full well he’d hit the mark. “Thought so.”

Logan set the crate down a little harder than necessary, the glass bottles inside clinking together. He straightened, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the conversation. “He’s just a ranch hand.”

Jacob crossed his arms. “Maybe. But he sure as hell seems set on makin’ Oma laugh every chance he gets.”

Logan exhaled sharply, his gaze flickering toward the house, where he knew Oma was busy helping with the food. “She laughs easy,” he muttered.

Jacob huffed out a laugh. “Nah. She laughs easy when she's comfortable with somebody.”

Logan shot him a glare, but Jacob wasn’t done. “Look, I ain’t sayin’ the boy’s got a chance. We both know that ain’t happenin’. But you keep actin’ like this, you’re gonna let him do somethin’ you won’t.”

Logan frowned. “And what’s that?”

Jacob tilted his head slightly. “Tell her the things you don’t know how to say.”

Logan stiffened, his jaw clenching as the words settled over him like a heavy weight. Jacob had always been the one who saw things clear as day, and Logan hated when his older brother called him out on things he wasn’t ready to face.

“She knows where she stands,” Logan muttered, but even as he said it, the words felt hollow.

Jacob sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe she does. But does she know where you stand?”

Logan didn’t answer, and Jacob clapped a hand on his shoulder before walking away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

------
Across the yard, Matthew had just sauntered up to the kitchen window, offering Megan and Oma a bright grin as he tipped his hat. “Smells downright heavenly in there,” he drawled. “Reckon a man could faint from hunger just standin’ here.”

Megan smirked. “You’ll get your supper soon enough, Matthew. But if you keep talkin’ instead of workin’, you might not have the strength to dance tonight.”

Matthew chuckled. “Oh, I’ll have strength, Miss Megan. Especially if I got a good partner.” His gaze slid to Oma, who was focused on dusting sugar over a pie. “What about you, Miss Oma? Think you’ll save me a dance?”

Oma glanced up, caught off guard by the question. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “I ain’t much of a dancer.”

Matthew grinned. “That’s alright. I’m good enough for the both of us.”

Before she could reply, a shadow passed over the window, and she turned to see Logan striding toward the barn, his shoulders tense, his steps quicker than usual. Something about his posture made her stomach twist.

Matthew, oblivious, leaned in slightly, dropping his voice just enough so only she could hear. “Ain’t nobody like you, miss Oma, I've said it before and I'll say it again”

Oma blinked, heat creeping into her cheeks. “I—”

Before she could respond, the lunch bell rang, signaling a break for the workers. The barn doors swung open as the ranch hands made their way toward the long outdoor tables where the meal was being set up.

Logan didn’t even stop to eat. As soon as he reached the food, he grabbed a plate, muttered something about needing to check on the field, and walked off, his jaw tight.

Megan nudged Oma, whispering, “I’d say you got a storm brewin’, darlin’.”

Oma swallowed hard, watching Logan disappear toward the fields. She wasn’t sure what was going through his mind, but she hoped they'd figure it out.