Chapter 32 #2
The next stop was a large paddock where a massive Highland cow stood knee-deep in what appeared to be a kiddie pool filled with water. Her long, shaggy coat was a rich russet, and her impressive horns curved elegantly from her broad face.
"That's Maisie," Jonah said with obvious affection. "She's the ranch matriarch. Been here longer than most of us."
Maisie swished her tail lazily, utterly unbothered by their presence. She looked, Naomi thought, like something that had stepped out of a Scottish fairy tale, ancient and dignified.
"She's beautiful.”
"Yeah, and she knows it." Jonah leaned against the fence. "Maisie has a habit of standing exactly where you need to go. She's blocked more ranch work than bad weather."
As they moved on, Naomi caught sight of a strange, woolly creature with a long neck and an expression of supreme disdain. It stood alone in its pen, regarding them with suspicious eyes.
"And that's Spitfire," Jonah said. "Newest addition to the ranch. X found him at an auction last month. Previous owner couldn't handle his... personality."
The alpaca's ears flattened against his head, and he made a sound like a squeaky door hinge.
"He's not a fan of strangers," Jonah explained unnecessarily. "Or friends. Or life in general, as far as I can tell."
"He and Owen should get along great then," Naomi said before she could stop herself.
Jonah laughed—a warm, rich sound that seemed to brighten the air around them. "You might be right about that. Though Spitfire's a bit more expressive with his opinions."
As if on cue, Spitfire reared his head back, nostrils flaring. Before Naomi could react, the alpaca launched a projectile of green slime directly at them. The warm, foul-smelling substance splattered across the front of Jonah's jacket.
"Oh!" She jumped back, just missing the splatter. The smell hit her a second later—grassy, acidic, and deeply unpleasant. "What the—”
"It's spit," Jonah explained.
“Oh my God, it’s foul!”
“Yeah.” He sighed and peeled off his jacket, wadding it up and throwing it into a nearby wheelbarrow. Underneath, he wore an olive-green Henley that stretched tight over well-used muscles. "Second jacket he’s ruined. Alpacas have excellent aim and terrible manners.”
His tone was so matter-of-fact that Naomi couldn't help but laugh again.
"So that’s why you called him Spitfire?"
“You got it.”
They continued walking, passing more paddocks and pens, each home to animals who seemed to have found their place here among the broken men who cared for them.
There was a peace to this place that Naomi hadn't noticed before, a quiet rhythm of life continuing despite everything.
The animals didn't care about anyone's past mistakes or future fears.
They lived entirely in the present, demanding nothing but basic care and occasional affirmation that they were not, in fact, destined to become bacon.
"Does it help?" she asked suddenly. "The animals, I mean. Do they help the men... heal?"
Jonah's steady gaze met hers. "It's hard to hold onto your demons when you're mucking out a stall or brushing down a horse. The animals don't judge. Don't ask questions. They just need you to show up." He paused. "Sometimes that's enough to keep a man going until he remembers how to live again."
Naomi's hand rose unconsciously to the fox pendant at her throat. She wondered if caring for Cinder had been what kept Owen going when nothing else could. If the dog had been his first step back toward the world of the living.
"So," she said, letting her hand fall away from the necklace. "Where did you say Owen might be?"
"Most likely up at the north paddock by now," Jonah said, adjusting his pace to match Naomi's slightly slower steps. "The paranoid bastard likes to check all his cameras before lunch."
Naomi nodded and looked in the direction he’d indicated. She tugged at Owen's flannel again, the too-long sleeves falling over her hands. "Is it far?"
"Not too bad. Ten minutes at a normal pace." Jonah glanced at her, his gaze briefly taking in the careful way she moved. "Your ribs still giving you trouble?"
"Less than they were." Last night hadn’t helped, but she wasn’t about to get into that with Jonah. "The doctor said another week and I should be back to normal."
"Normal's overrated," Jonah said with a half-smile. "But feeling better is good."
They crossed the main yard, where the morning's activities were in full swing.
Anson worked on the hooves of a young bay mare, his movements methodical as he spoke quietly to the animal.
Beyond him, Jax and Echo jogged through the agility yard, the dog well out-pacing her handler as she zoomed through the obstacles.
The ranch operated like a well-oiled machine, each person and animal knowing their role.
"It's peaceful here," Naomi observed, surprised to find she meant it. Despite everything—the nightmares, the lingering fear, the investigation that still loomed—Valor Ridge felt like solid ground.
Jonah nodded. "Walker built it that way. Said troubled men need space to breathe, but structure to hold them together." He pointed toward a path that wound up a gentle slope. "We can cut through behind the bunkhouse. It's faster."
They were halfway across the yard when the bunkhouse door exploded open. River Beckett burst out, barefoot and wearing only jeans that hung low on his hips, his hair wild as if he'd just rolled out of bed. In his hands, he brandished a broom like a medieval weapon.
"Where is that satanic feathered bastard?!" he bellowed, scanning the yard like a man who expected an ambush.
Naomi froze, startled by the sudden chaos. Beside her, Jonah didn't even flinch.
A rustle answered from the direction of the chicken coop—a soft, ominous sound like feathers being ruffled in anticipation. Naomi turned toward it just as River's head swiveled in the same direction, his eyes widening in horror.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
A massive black rooster exploded from behind the feed barrels, wings spread to their full impressive span, eyes blazing with what could only be described as murderous intent.
"Kuk-kuk-kuk-KAAAAW!"
General Mayhem—and Naomi suddenly understood exactly why the bird had earned that name—launched himself into the air like a feathered missile, beak aimed directly for River's head.
"Shit!" River abandoned all pretense of bravery and sprinted across the yard, the broom flailing wildly above his head. His bare feet kicked up dust as he zigzagged between water troughs and feed buckets, the rooster in hot pursuit.
"Should… we help him?" Naomi asked, watching in disbelief as the grown man fled from a bird that couldn't weigh more than fifteen pounds.
“Nah.” Jonah didn't even break stride. "He's behind you," he called mildly to River.
"I know!" River shrieked, ducking behind a feed trough. "The demon knows my schedule! He waits until I'm half-asleep after night duty and then attacks! This is psychological warfare!"
General Mayhem landed on the edge of the trough, wings still extended, and let out another ear-splitting crow that somehow managed to sound both victorious and threatening. The rooster paced the edge of the trough, head bobbing, clearly planning his next offensive.
River popped up just long enough to swipe at the bird with the broom, missed entirely, and ducked back down with a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush.
The absurdity of it—this tough ex-Marine cowering from a rooster while the calm, unflappable Jonah simply observed like it was the most normal thing in the world—hit Naomi all at once.
A snort escaped her, followed by a giggle, and then suddenly she was doubled over, laughter pouring out of her in waves she couldn't control.
It hurt her ribs, but she couldn't stop. Tears streamed down her face as each new round of giggles shook her body. The laughter felt foreign, almost shocking after days of tension and fear, but God, it felt good.
"It's not funny!" River protested from behind the trough, which only made her laugh harder.
"It's a little funny," Jonah observed, the corner of his mouth twitching.
General Mayhem chose that moment to launch another aerial assault. He sailed over the trough in a magnificent arc, talons extended, aiming for River's unprotected head.
"Motherfucking bird!" River rolled away at the last second, scrambling on all fours toward the water pump. "I’m gonna KFC your ass. Someone get me a shotgun!"
"No one's giving you a shotgun," Jonah called back, still maddeningly calm.
Naomi wiped tears from her eyes, her sides aching from laughter rather than injury for the first time in what felt like forever.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed like this—completely uninhibited, without the shadow of her work or her responsibilities hanging over her.
It felt like breaking the surface after being underwater too long, that first desperate gasp of air flooding her lungs.
The realization sobered her slightly. When had she stopped laughing? When had everything become so serious, so heavy, that she'd forgotten what it felt like to just... let go?
Jonah glanced at her, his gaze knowing. "It's always chaos before breakfast here. You either learn to laugh at it or you lose your mind."
River made a break for the barn, the rooster hot on his heels. "A little help here?!"
Jonah sighed, the sound more fond than exasperated. "North paddock is just up that trail," he told Naomi, pointing toward a narrow path that disappeared into a stand of pines. "Can't miss it. Ghost should be checking the far fence by now."
She nodded, reluctant to leave the impromptu comedy show but eager to find Owen. "Thanks for the tour. And the... entertainment."
Jonah's mouth quirked in a half-smile. "Any time." He started toward the ongoing battle, calling over his shoulder, "By the way, that pendant looks good on you."
Naomi's hand flew to the fox at her throat, surprised. She hadn't realized he'd noticed it. But of course he had—Jonah seemed to notice everything, filing it away behind that calm exterior.
As she turned toward the path, she caught one last glimpse of the chaotic scene: River now wielding a trash can lid as a shield, General Mayhem circling like a feathered shark, and Jonah approaching with the casual confidence of a man who'd refereed this particular fight many times before.
Somewhere on the periphery, Goose the golden retriever watched with apparent delight, his tail wagging enthusiastically.
Naomi shook her head, a lingering smile on her lips as she headed up the trail. Maybe Jonah was right. Maybe there was healing to be found in chaos, in the simple absurdity of life continuing despite everything. And maybe, just maybe, she was ready to find it.