Chapter 25
twenty-five
K ristie crouched beside the nesting boxes, brushing aside a tuft of straw as a disgruntled Rhode Island Red puffed herself up like a feathered balloon.
The morning sun filtered through the slats of the coop, highlighting the fine layer of dust already clinging to her jeans.
She pulled off a glove to gently lift one of the hens and gave her a slow, practiced once-over.
“No signs of mites,” she murmured to herself. “Feathers look good, no discharge, comb’s healthy.”
From behind her, a woman in her fifties hovered nervously at the edge of the coop. “They’ve just all stopped laying,” Alice said, wringing her hands. “And poor Beatrice there, she’s been waddling like she’s got a bowling ball stuck somewhere it shouldn’t be.”
Kristie bit back a smile. “Honestly? That might not be far off.”
She cradled the hen in question—Beatrice, apparently—and gave her a gentle abdominal palpation. The bird clucked softly, clearly uncomfortable.
“I think she’s egg-bound,” Kristie said. “It happens sometimes, especially with diet or stress changes. We can help her pass it.”
The woman looked horrified. “Pass…it?”
“It’s not too hard,” Kristie said with a reassuring grin. “We’ll try a warm soak, some calcium, and gentle massage. Worst case, I can come back tonight and intervene more directly if she’s still straining.”
As she walked the hen toward the chicken coop, she continued her assessment. “And the laying issue? Most likely some nutritional imbalance. What are you feeding them?”
“Well…mostly scraps,” Alice admitted. “Old pasta, some rice, the ends of salad mix.”
Kristie nodded, already pulling a laminated page from her clipboard.
“Here’s a little cheat sheet I give to all my new chicken owners.
Hens need balanced layer feed. Scraps are okay in moderation, but you want them getting the right protein and calcium levels consistently.
Like us, they lay better when they’re not living off takeout. ”
She offered a smile, trying not to let the ticking clock in her head show. She still had to shop for her dessert ingredients tonight, and at this rate, Mission would be at her house before her. Worse, she’d miss the window to drop off her apple crumble tart if she didn’t get started soon.
Her friends would surely be halfway done with their prep by now. But she couldn’t leave until Beatrice was comfortable and Alice had a handle on things here. Kristie’s conscience wouldn’t allow it.
They got the hen soaking in a warm Epsom salt bath—Kristie holding her with steady hands while Alice cooed words of encouragement and wiped away a few tears with the sleeve of her flannel.
Finally Beatrice passed her egg, and Kristie managed to smile her way into her SUV.
Then, it was all business as she drove to the grocery store to get fresh apples for her tart. She had to have it in the Creative Arts Building by two o’clock.
As she waited for the woman to scan her grocery items, she texted Mission. Can you start preheating my oven? Three-fifty, please.
You got stuck at the Kyler’s, didn’t you?
New chicken owners are clucking needy.
Twenty minutes later, she pulled into her driveway. Thankfully, Mission’s truck took up the other half of the driveway, and he came down her front steps to help her with her groceries.
“You got everything?” he asked.
She nodded, suddenly so nervous.
“Hey, kitten.” Mission swept a kiss along her cheek. “Don’t be nervous. You’ve got this. Let me help, okay?”
Kristie blinked at him. “You bake now?”
“Nope. But I can carry in groceries and stand around very supportively.” He took all the bags into the house, leaving Kristie with the only job of following him. He started unbagging them, and she joined him, taking a deep breath and then another.
She dropped her keys on the counter and gave him a grateful look. “Thank you, Mish.” She glanced over to his freakishly long hair. “While the crumble bakes, I can cut your hair.”
Mission didn’t respond right away. He watched as she pulled out her stand mixer, the carefully labeled jars of spice, and the handwritten recipe.
“Whenever is fine with me, kitten.”
Kristie had told him multiple times she’d cut it…
and he’d been waiting for her to do it. Her emotions wavered, but she strengthened them.
She needed all her focus on the crumble for right now.
She could catalog all the ways Mission showed how much he cared about her after she’d dropped off the dessert.
As she creamed the butter, sugar, and salt together, she asked, “We’re still going to lunch after I drop off the tart, right?”
“Mm hm.” Mission sat at her bar, his focus on his phone. He didn’t have to talk to keep her company, and he seemed to sense that she didn’t want the distraction of his voice.
She kneaded and refrigerated. She blind baked and sliced apples. She spiced and stirred and squeezed a bit of lemon into her filling.
She measured and tasted and adjusted. Finally, the tart was assembled, and she slid it into the oven. “I have about twenty-five minutes before I need to make the glaze.”
Kristie stepped over to the sink and washed her hands while Mission finally looked up from his phone.
“It’s fine, kitten. Just come sit down.”
“No, I want to do it,” she said even as he joined her at the sink and took her into his arms. She sank into his strength, his warmth, stealing it for her own.
“Smells really good,” he murmured.
“I want you to have a fresh haircut for our lunch date.” She stepped out of his arms and smiled. “I’m going to go get the scissors, so you just have a seat back on the barstool, okay?”
“Kris.”
“It’s fine,” she insisted. “I want to.” When she returned, she carried a drape and her hair cutting kit, as well as a bottle each of shampoo and conditioner. The kitchen remained quiet, save for the occasional ticking from the oven and the low hum of her air conditioner.
Mission’s eyes held hers for a beat too long. Then he set his phone aside, and Kristie wetted her lips. “When I used to cut my brother’s hair, he’d take off his shirt.”
Mission reached up and pulled his tee over his head, and wow, Kristie wasn’t prepared for the definition in his muscles. She quickly swept the drape around his neck and snapped it into place. She settled slightly as she combed her fingers through his too-long hair.
He shivered, which caused a slow smile to curve Kristie’s lips in a secret smile he couldn’t see.
“Come over to the sink,” she murmured, and Mission dutifully got to his feet and looked at her like he’d follow her anywhere. She dragged one of her dining room chairs over to the sink and indicated it.
He sat, his dark eyes devouring her openly.
“You’ll have to lean back a little,” she said as she turned on the water and moved it to warm. “Tell me if it’s too hot.” She pushed a button that turned the regular stream into a spray, and Mission leaned back.
She pulled the faucet out, using the hose to get closer to Mission’s head. She combed her fingers through his hair as it got wet, and then filled her palm with shampoo and started massaging it into his hair.
Her heart pounded at this intimate moment, at the way he said nothing but also wouldn’t close his eyes.
One of her favorite parts of getting her hair done was the scalp massage during the hair-washing, and she took her time as she slowly and rhythmically stroked her fingers and thumb along his head.
He finally rewarded her with a moan and a murmured, “Feels good, kitten.”
That sound and those words did something to her. He moved her.
The intimacy of it, the vulnerability of this cowboy—usually so steady, so unreadable—sitting at her mercy, while she cradled his head in her hands. She felt his breath deepen, his body relax under her touch, and the kitchen, warm and fragrant and golden, shrank down to just the two of them.
She rinsed the suds away, running her hand once more over his scalp, and continued with the conditioner. With his hair clean, she gently dried it with a hand towel, and then said, “Let’s go back to the barstool, please.”
Mission went back to the chair and he sat with the towel still draped around his shoulders. Kristie combed through his damp hair, parting it with gentle care, and then lifted her scissors. The first snip echoed softly in the quiet room.
She worked slowly, methodically—her hand steady, her body so close to his. The back of her knuckles brushed the nape of his neck as she trimmed the ends. She felt the warmth of his skin even through the drape that kept the tiny hairs from sliding down his back
He didn’t move. Just let her sculpt and shape and work in silence.
She moved in front of him, and for a second, their eyes met. She was close now, between his knees, angled toward his face as she trimmed the front of his hair. Her breath hitched as her fingers brushed his temple, and he didn’t look away.
Neither did she.
She finished the last snip, set the scissors down, and stepped back just a bit—but not far. Not far at all.
“There,” she whispered. “Done.”
Mission didn’t move. His eyes were still on her, unreadable, but very aware.
Kristie swallowed. Her hands were still half-lifted, like she didn’t know whether to step away or cup his face.
“You smell like apples and maple sugar,” he said softly.
“You smell like peaches and cream shampoo,” she teased, but her voice had gone breathless.
His smile undid her completely as he encircled her in his arms and brought her to sit in his lap. “You are my favorite person.”
“I thought you tried not to tell lies.” She swept her fingers through his shorter, still-sexy hair. “Because we both know your grandfather is your favorite person.”
“Both can be true,” he whispered as he cupped her face and guided her mouth to his.