And on a blistering day like this one, Bett felt instant relief in the cool shadows. She paused, her bright eyes surveying the splendid view. Their pond stretched out in a long lazy S, its spring-fed waters glittering in the sun. Wildflowers crept up to the shore, mingling with cattails. Beyond the pond stretched a twenty-acre slope of peach trees. She could see the glint of coral even from here, and the sweet smell of ripening fruit drifted toward her. Her dad would have loved the farm so much, Bett thought idly, and unconsciously bit her lip in remembered loss.

The town of Silver Oaks was a fifteen-minute drive from Lake Michigan. The lake was a little less than a lady, Zach often said. A storm would start in Washington, build up power in Idaho, gain fury in Montana and the Dakotas, be a raging tempest by the time it reached Wisconsin-and immediately settle down for Her Highness, the Lake. Michigan’s western coast suffered only the gentler breezes, and the promise of regular, nurturing rains and temperate winters. This was orchard land, a sandy loam with a mild roll and contour to the landscape.

Bett and Zach had first seen the area in springtime. Zach’s uncle John had willed him the farm, for no known reason since Zach had only met the man once. Neither Zach nor Bett had the least idea what to do with his inheritance, particularly once they understood that three-quarters of the 250 acres of orchard land had been given over to grain. This was due not to mismanagement but to Uncle John’s age and failing health. Grain was easier to take care of. In the meantime, though, it would have taken a fortune to turn the property back to the profitable orchard ground it was meant to be. A fortune Bett and Zach didn’t have. So, obviously, their only choice was to sell it.