Chapter 6
SIX
RAE
The rooster starts screaming before the sun is even fully up. Not crowing. Screaming.
“Sheriff,” I mumble into my pillow, “I swear to God if you wake me up one more time before sunrise, I’m putting you on Craigslist.”
Sheriff screams again. Because of course he does.
I groan and drag the blanket over my head, but the farm is already waking up around me.
The goats start bleating from the barn, one of the dogs thumps into the bedroom door like a wrecking ball, and somewhere outside Pickle the donkey lets out a long, dramatic bray that sounds like he’s personally offended by the concept of morning.
That’s my cue. “Alright, alright,” I mutter, throwing the blanket off and sitting up. “Everybody calm down. I’m coming.”
Three dogs immediately shove the bedroom door open like they’ve been waiting for permission. Daisy barrels in first, tail wagging so hard her whole body wobbles. Moose follows behind her like a tank on legs, and little Cricket darts between them both like a tiny caffeinated squirrel.
“Good morning to you too,” I say, scratching Daisy behind the ears as she tries to climb into my lap. Moose drops a slobbery tennis ball directly onto my foot. Cricket spins in a tight circle like she’s trying to summon a tornado.
I rub my face with both hands and glance toward the window where pale morning light is starting to creep across the fields outside. “Okay,” I sigh. “Let’s go see what kind of chaos everyone’s planning today.”
The dogs race me to the door like it’s a competition.
My farmhouse isn’t fancy. It’s old and a little crooked in places, and the floorboards creak when you walk across them, but it’s mine. I bought it cheap because the roof leaks and the barn was half falling over when I moved in, but I’ve been patching things up slowly ever since.
The kitchen smells faintly like coffee and hay, which is probably not a scent combination most people would enjoy.
I shuffle toward the coffee maker while Moose sits beside the counter staring at me like a disappointed supervisor.
“I know,” I tell him. “Breakfast. You’re very brave for reminding me.”
The dogs get their food first because they are loud and dramatic if I don’t feed them immediately. Three bowls hit the floor and the room fills with the sound of enthusiastic crunching.
Then I grab my boots by the door and step outside.
Morning air rolls over the pasture in cool waves, and the sky is streaked pink and gold above the tree line. It’s quiet out here in a way that makes the whole world feel slower.
Then the goats see me.
Three of them rush the fence like I’m a celebrity.
“Calm down,” I tell them, walking toward the barn. “You guys act like I don’t feed you every single day.”
One of the goats headbutts the gate impatiently.
“Hey,” I say, pointing at him. “Watch the attitude, Kevin.”
Kevin does not watch the attitude.
The second I open the gate they swarm me like fuzzy little freeloaders while I haul a bag of feed toward the trough. Grain rattles against the metal and the goats immediately forget I exist in favor of breakfast.
“Typical,” I mutter.
I move to the next stall where the cats are waiting on the fence rail. Menace drops down first, weaving around my legs while Psycho watches from above like he’s judging all my life decisions.
“You two are the reason I can’t have nice things,” I inform them while I scoop food into their bowl.
Menace headbutts my knee affectionately.
Psycho blinks slowly like he agrees with me but doesn’t feel responsible.
Then I hear it.
The loud, dramatic bray of a donkey who believes he has been personally wronged.
“Pickle,” I call.
The barn door creaks open and the world’s most pathetic looking donkey stares at me with his one good eye.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say. “You ate an entire watermelon yesterday.”
Pickle brays again.
“I’m not apologizing.”
I grab a bucket of feed and carry it toward him anyway because he’s impossible to resist and he knows it.
“Here,” I say, setting it down. “But if you get fat I’m blaming you.”
Pickle immediately sticks his face in the bucket.
Sheriff the rooster struts across the yard like he owns the entire county, flapping his wings once just to remind everyone he’s still in charge.
“Oh relax,” I tell him. “You’ve been yelling for an hour.”
He crows again.
“Yeah, yeah. I hear you.”
I lean against the fence for a minute watching the animals settle down while the sun climbs a little higher over the fields.
This place isn’t perfect.
The barn needs work. The fence needs fixing. And sometimes I question my life choices when a donkey screams at me before coffee. But it’s quiet and it’s mine.
I scratch Daisy behind the ears when she comes over and sits beside me. “Well,” I say, glancing across the pasture.
“Let’s see what kind of trouble today brings.”
For some reason my brain flashes back to a tall biker sitting at the end of The Rust Nail bar with dark eyes and a calm voice. Cole.
I shake my head slightly. “Not thinking about that,” I tell the goats firmly.
Kevin looks up from the trough like he doesn’t believe me.
The feed store parking lot is already half full when I pull in.
Which is impressive considering it’s barely ten in the morning and most of the people in this town don’t fully wake up until their third cup of coffee.
The gravel crunches under my tires as I park the truck next to a rusty farm trailer that looks like it survived at least two wars and possibly a tornado.
I shut off the engine and sit there for a second, mentally running through the list in my head.
Goat feed.
Chicken feed.
Cat food.
Dog food.
Fence wire.
Nails.
Probably duct tape.
Honestly duct tape fixes eighty percent of my life.
I climb out of the truck and slam the door behind me, tugging my hoodie down over the top of my head as a cold breeze rolls across the lot. My outfit today is what I like to call aggressively practical, which is a polite way of saying I look like a raccoon lost a fight with a thrift store.
Oversized faded hoodie. Flannel tied around my waist. Leggings with a hole in one knee. Mud-stained work boots. Hair piled into a messy bun that has absolutely no respect for gravity. What can I say, I’m a fashion icon.
Daisy pokes her head up from the passenger seat and woofs softly.
“Stay,” I tell her through the open window. She stares at me like she’s deeply skeptical of that instruction. “Guard the truck.” That seems to satisfy her.
The bell over the feed store door jingles when I step inside.
The place smells like grain, hay, leather, and the faint dusty sweetness of molasses blocks stacked near the counter. Tall shelves stretch toward the ceiling filled with everything from horse tack to tractor oil to suspiciously expensive dog treats.
“Morning, Rae,” calls Mr. Hollis from behind the counter.
Mr. Hollis is seventy if he’s a day and built like someone carved him out of a barn beam. He’s owned this store since before I was born and he has the kind of voice that sounds permanently disappointed in humanity.
“Morning!” I say, already heading for the feed aisle.
I grab a fifty-pound bag of goat feed and haul it over my shoulder like I’ve done it a thousand times. Which I have. The goats eat like they’re training for the Olympics.
Kevin alone probably accounts for half my grocery bill.
Next is chicken feed. Sheriff might be a tyrant, but he and his little flock still need breakfast. Then dog food, cat food, and a sack of grain for Pickle the donkey who acts like he’s personally funding the entire farm economy.
By the time I reach the counter I look like a walking agricultural supply delivery.
Mr. Hollis scans the bags one at a time while eyeing my pile.
“Are you planning to feed the entire county again?”
“Just my freeloaders.”
He nods toward the door. “Donkey still yelling every morning?”
“Like a foghorn with emotional problems.”
“That animal’s gonna outlive us all.”
“Don’t say that where he can hear you,” I whisper. “He’ll get ideas.”
Mr. Hollis snorts quietly.
I pay for the feed, then grab a coil of fence wire from the rack near the door.
“Oh,” I add suddenly. “And duct tape.”
He reaches under the counter without even asking what kind.
“Camouflage pattern today?” he asks.
“Yes please.”
He slides it across the counter.
“Fixing something?” he asks.
“Everything.”
That earns another grunt.
I haul the bags outside and start loading them into the truck bed. Daisy supervises through the passenger window like a very judgmental security guard.
“You’re not helping,” I inform her.
She wags her tail.
Once everything’s loaded, I climb back into the driver’s seat and start the engine.
Next stop is the hardware store down the road.
Because the barn door hinge decided yesterday that it no longer believes in structural integrity.
And also because the goats discovered they can open the latch if they work together, which frankly feels like a betrayal.
The hardware store bell jingles when I walk in.
“Rae!” calls Linda from behind the register.
Linda is the unofficial mayor of this town despite technically running a hardware store.
“Hey!” I say, wandering toward the aisle with tools.
“You look like you fought a scarecrow.”
“That scarecrow started it.”
She laughs.
I grab hinges, nails, and a small bag of bolts I’m ninety percent sure I’ll need later.
“Farm doing okay?” Linda asks.
“Pickle tried to eat a watermelon rind the size of his head yesterday and got offended when it wouldn’t cooperate.”
“Sounds about right.”
I toss the bolts on the counter.
“Oh,” Linda adds, leaning forward slightly. “Wayne said you had some trouble at The Rust Nail last night.”
Word travels fast in small towns. “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” I say lightly.
Her eyebrow lifts. “And the biker?”
Ah, there it is. I pretend to inspect the label on the bolts while she watches me. “What biker?” I say.
Linda just stares, then she smiles slowly. “Oh honey,” she says. “That’s the worst poker face I’ve seen since my cousin tried to lie about stealing a goat.”
“Fine,” I admit. “Yes. A biker handled the idiots bothering Wayne.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What did he look like?”
I shrug. “Tall. Dark. Murdery.”
Linda laughs. “That sounds like half the Iron Reapers.”
“Yeah well,” I say, grabbing my bag. “This one had a name.”
“Oh?”
I head for the door. “Cole,” I say over my shoulder.
Linda’s grin grows wider. “Mm-hmm.”
I pause in the doorway. “What does that mean?”
“Oh nothing,” she says sweetly.
That definitely means something.
I step back out into the sunlight and climb into the truck again, shaking my head. Small towns are ridiculous. Everyone knows everything before you do.
Daisy thumps her tail when I start the engine. “Don’t look at me like that,” I tell her. She tilts her head. “Nothing happened.” She clearly doesn’t believe me. Neither do I.
Because while I drive back toward the farm with a truck full of supplies and a donkey waiting to scream at me again…
My brain keeps replaying the same thing. Dark eyes.
Calm voice. Sit, Cole. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “Not thinking about the biker,” I tell Daisy firmly. She looks out the window like she knows I’m lying. And honestly? So do I.