Chapter 2 #2
Birdie: Barely. It’s a miracle I didn’t come out with a tattoo and a nickname that Charlie would never let me live down.
Wren: Did she get a copy of your mugshot yet? I have to see it immediately.
I let out a theatrical sigh.
Birdie: Ugh, not you too! You’re supposed to be on my side.
Wren: One of my best friends ends up in a holding cell, and you expect me not to want to see the proof? Please.
Birdie: Sorry. There was no mugshot.
This time, I feel zero guilt lying about it.
Wren: Such a tragedy.
“It’s absolutely not,” I mutter quietly.
Charlie throws a glance at me through the rearview mirror as she drives down Main Street. “What are you mumbling about back there? You should be celebrating now that you’re a free woman, not sulking like someone stole your muffin.”
I look up from my phone. “Just checking in with Wren.”
The four of us have been friends since kindergarten and were inseparable through high school.
I used to think we’d all stay in Bluebell forever until Wren dropped the bombshell that she was moving to Florida with Cole, her boyfriend.
We’ve never been a fan of his, but after they had Lottie, we knew she wasn’t coming back.
At least our group chat keeps her in the loop on all the town gossip.
Charlie lets out an exaggerated gasp. “She’s texting you outside the group chat. The audacity.”
There’s no way I’m telling her what Wren is pestering me for, or she’d probably flip a U-turn and march into the sheriff’s office herself.
“Wren probably figured staying off the chat would keep you from being distracted and avoid getting pulled over again for texting while driving,” Briar says from the passenger seat, smirking.
Charlie got lucky when Walker pulled her over and let her off with a warning since it was her first offense this year. I’m not the only one with a knack for bending the rules—me for my unauthorized animal rescues, her for breaking traffic laws.
“Birdie was texting me while being chased by that angry goose she found on the roadside. How could I not reply and tell her to record it?” Charlie asks innocently.
It was terrifying in the moment, but I caved and got her the video.
I nearly died tripping over a rock while trying to capture the raging goose that looked ready to eat me for an afternoon snack, but against all odds, I managed to walk away with only a scraped knee while still somehow rescuing the ungrateful bird in the process.
I open my mouth to reply, but my tongue refuses to form words as I struggle to stay awake, the rhythm of the car lulling me closer to sleep. As Charlie and Briar carry on about her questionable driving habits, my eyelids grow heavy and my phone slides from my hand onto my lap as I nod off.
“Birdie. It’s time to wake up, babe. You’re home.”
I slowly blink my eyes open at Briar’s soft voice, and I smile when I look out the window to see we’re idling in front of my farmhouse.
I take it in like I’ve been gone much longer than twenty four hours.
Its pitched roof with twin gables and black shutters that match the railing along the wraparound porch.
The fading white paint and the wood siding show years of weathering that only give it more character.
Overall, the place is modest and a little run-down, but it’s mine, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
The breeze rustles the large oak out front and reminds me I need to pick up more sunflower seeds on my next shift. It houses a family of squirrels I’ve grown quite fond of, and they seem to like the kind we stock at Prairie Pines.
I shake my head and stretch my arms over my head, letting out a long yawn. “Thanks for bailing me out,” I say to my friends.
“Technically, Walker did that. We just came by with coffee and a getaway car,” Briar jokes, flashing me a cheeky grin from the front seat.
I chuckle. “You’re right. Next time, you’d better bring a full marching band and confetti.”
“Sorry, our budget only covers a kazoo player, but maybe we can squeeze in a few party poppers if we all pitch in,” Briar says with a wink.
Charlie turns in her seat to face me. “Don’t forget the oversized sunglasses to offset the visual trauma of you in a green jumpsuit.”
“Glad that you’ve decided my future jail stint is inevitable. How considerate.”
“What?” She shrugs, holding her hands up. “I’m just being realistic.”
I can’t argue with that. As long as there are animals out there being abandoned or mistreated, I’ll keep saving them, legal consequences aside.
“Guess I’d better enjoy my freedom while it lasts, starting with a long nap after everyone gets their breakfast.” I open the car door. “Seriously, though. Thanks for coming to get me.”
“Always,” Briar replies.
“Of course. We’re your ride-or-dies, and you’ll never find anyone better,” Charlie adds with a cheeky grin.
“Love you both. I’ll see you later.”
I climb out of the SUV and wave goodbye as Charlie swings the car around and heads back down the long driveway.
Once they’re out of sight, my shoulders slump, the weight of the night pressing down on me. As much as I want to go inside and crawl into bed, dozens of hungry mouths are waiting for breakfast. At least it’s my day off. I’m not sure I’d survive dragging myself into work on so little sleep.
After retrieving a bucket of food scraps from the house, I swing by the shed out back.
I’d planned to fix it up someday, but I’m not exactly handy, and with everything else on my plate, it got put on the back burner indefinitely.
The roof is sagging, and several slats are missing on one side which is patched with plywood, but it’s done the job so far.
However, with its current occupants, I’ll eventually have to come up with a better long-term solution.
Someday, I’d like to buy the fifty acres behind mine.
It’s been on the market for years because of the rough road access and its remote location—neither of which fazes me.
There’s even a big red barn on the property that’s in functional condition and would be ideal for housing more rescues.
The problem is, Mr. Grady refuses to sell it in pieces, and there’s no way I could afford the current price, even if I worked at the feed store until I was old and gray.
I’ve accepted that it’s a pipe dream, but that’s okay.
I’ll make do with what I have—I always find a way.
I leave the food scraps outside before slowly opening the shed door, the hinges groaning in protest, and poke my head around the corner to make sure no tails or hooves are in the danger zone as I fully open it.
Daisy is curled up in the far corner with her head resting on a pile of hay.
She’s a one-year-old Hereford cow with a shy demeanor, preferring to observe before she interacts with anyone.
Her tiny, knobby horns are just starting to peek out from her fuzzy ears, and the patch of white on her forehead contrasts with her deep brown eyes.
“Good morning, sweet girl,” I coo.
On the other side of the shed, Peaches the donkey has her eyes fixed on me like she’s about to file a formal complaint with PETA.
She’s dappled in shades of gray and tan as if the sun faded her coat unevenly, and her mane juts up along her neck in a stubborn ridge no matter how often I brush her.
She was skin and bones when I brought her home but has filled out nicely in the months since.
“Sorry I’m late,” I murmur, resting my palm against her warm neck. “I was caught up in town, but don’t worry, I’m here now, and no one is taking you away from me.”
Her unimpressed gaze doesn’t waver. Whatever happened to Peaches before I rescued her left her with trust issues and zero interest in reassurances that aren’t backed up with food.
Once I’ve laid out fresh hay, water, and some homemade oat treats, I retrieve a bucket of scratch grain from the corner and head out to check on the other animals.
I’ve just closed the door when I hear a shrill voice coming from my driveway.
I glance up to find my neighbor Mrs. Bixby, striding across my lawn toward me. She’s a spry woman in her seventies, with silver hair pulled into a loose bun, oversized glasses sliding down her nose, and a floral apron over her faded denim dress.
“Whoo-hoo,” she calls out, waving.
I give the shed door an extra tug, making sure it’s shut tight.
The woman has a bad habit of dropping by unannounced and using her visits as an excuse to snoop around my property.
She’s been very vocal about her disapproval of my unofficial animal sanctuary within city limits.
She won’t rest until she has enough evidence to get it shut down, which would force me to remove the animals from my property.
I plaster on a faux smile, returning her wave. “Hi, Mrs. Bixby.” I lift the bucket of food scraps with my free hand and start toward the pond, glancing back to make sure she’s following, putting as much distance between us and the shed.
The ducks and geese come waddling toward me, eagerly honking and quacking as I toss them handfuls of scratch grain.
Most of them are from rescues in surrounding towns that didn’t have the capacity, and I couldn’t deny giving them a better home.
They live in a wooden coop I got on clearance at the feed store that’s near the pond.
“You’re not an easy woman to track down,” Mrs. Bixby pants, pushing her glasses up her nose.
I toss another handful of grain before turning to her. “What can I do for you?”
“Came by to drop this off.” She lifts a casserole dish. “I made you another one of my famous veggie lasagnas.”
“That was very thoughtful of you.”
“It’s no trouble,” she says, her eyes darting around my yard, clearly looking for something. “I know how much you like them.”