They had an order for field-run peaches that wouldn’t wait. Zach was at the market with their plums; rain meant nighttime spray duty, and their picking crew would have been delighted to walk out right now-except that no respectable Spanish-speaking gentleman would consider leaving the orchard as long as a woman was still willing to work her heart out in the pouring rain.

Bett brushed a wet hand through her sopping hair and crouched down again on the flatbed truck. Three field crates to go, and the order would be completed. Lupe’s eyes were shooting daggers at her. An hour before, Zach had told her to go home and dry off, that Lupe would handle the picking crew. But Bett hadn’t left, and Lupe clearly didn’t know quite what to do. Zach’s orders were usually more than reasonable; Zach’s wife wasn’t.

Bett acknowledged that she had a tiny stubborn streak, but quality control was the issue. “Field run” meant their buyer was prepared to take their fruit direct from the orchard. They received less money for their peaches that way, but they also didn’t have to go through the expense of sorting and packing and packaging. Which was fine, only Bett didn’t like anything leaving the farm with the Monroe label on it that was less than perfect if she could help it. These peaches were close, all forty-seven crates of them behind her.

The last three crates were finally heaved up to the truck bed, and Bett glanced up from her sorting task. “We done,” Lupe told her, and stabbed a forefinger in her direction. “You go tell Senor Monroe you been home awhile.”

“Yes, Lupe.” She silently and fervently thanked God for male chauvinists.