“Angelo called last night,” she said.

Oh, hell. Now I knew where this was going. Angelo was a lovely man who attended our Catholic church a couple towns away in Colebury. He was also a parole officer.

“He’s dropping off a young man today. Just released. He spent three years in jail for manslaughter. It was a car accident, Griff. He crashed his car into a tree.”

The familiar flash of stress that came from running a struggling business bolted through my chest. That second cup of coffee might have been a mistake. “Crashing into a tree isn’t illegal, Ma. There must be more to it.”

“Well.” Her face went soft. “He killed the sheriff’s son, who was a passenger in his car. And he was high on opiates at the time.”

“Ah.” The truth comes out. “So you hired a drug addict?”

She frowned at me. “A recovering addict. He got out of jail a month ago, and he’s been in rehab since then. Angelo said this kid can make it, but he just really needs a job. He’ll stay in the bunkhouse. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me, our property is a drug-free zone.”

Zachariah, our farmhand, gave a snort of laughter. “Coffee is our drug, Mrs. Shipley. But we’re in pretty deep.”

She reached over and gave Zach’s wrist an affectionate squeeze. My mother was good at taking in strays, and Zachariah was her most successful acquisition. But they couldn’t all be Zachariahs. I felt my blood pressure notch higher at the idea of adding a drug addiction to our long list of difficulties. Like I needed one more complication.

Since my father passed away three years ago, my mother and I ran the farm together. I made all the farming decisions—what to produce and where to sell it. But make no mistake—Mom kept the place running. She did the books. She fed me and our farmhand Zach, my three younger siblings, my grandfather and whichever seasonal employees were around. And when apple-picking season began five weeks from now, she’d run our busy pick-your-own business while somehow feeding an army as our workforce quadrupled.

So my very capable mother had every right to make a quick hiring decision, and we both knew it. Still, her choice of hires made me nervous.

“He’s twenty-two, Griff.” She crossed her arms, waiting me out. “The young man is clean, as they say. He’s off drugs. But nobody else is going to take a chance on him. And we’d only take him on for the growing season and through the harvest. Sixteen weeks, tops.”

Right. The sixteen most crucial weeks of my year.

A smart man knows when to back down to his mother. She’d obviously made up her mind already, and the day was getting on. “Okay,” I capitulated. “We’ll set him up in the bunkhouse when he shows up. Call me and I’ll give him a tour. Let’s go, Zach.” I stood, grabbing my baseball cap, and Zach did the same.