Chapter 4
Good Luck, Babe
After a long day at work and a visit with my mama, I’m looking forward to a hot shower and curling up on the couch in my sweats.
“You’re pretty quiet back there, Miss Birdie,” Earl remarks from the front seat. “I reckon the past forty-eight hours have been a real doozy—going from a night in lockup to an eight-hour shift would leave anyone wiped.”
It’s no surprise the news has already spread like wildfire. Several customers were in the feed store parking lot when Mason hauled me off, and I have no doubt he’s told anyone who’d listen about taking in the sheriff’s daughter, bragging as if it were something to be proud of.
I straighten my seat. “Are you speaking from experience?”
“Let’s just call it an educated guess, on account of some stories best being left in the past.” Earl winks at me through the rearview mirror, the car veering off the road when he does.
My fingers instinctively curl around the door handle. “Come on. Don’t leave me hanging.”
“Not a chance, sunshine. I’ve seen how fast news travels to those chatty friends of yours. One slipup and the whole town’ll be talking. Case in point: you.”
I chuckle. “Touché.”
If Bluebell’s residents love one thing, it’s juicy gossip, and the sheriff’s daughter being brought in will have everyone buzzing over coffee and pie at the Prickly Pear for at least a month.
I suppose I should be flattered that my rumored rescue missions are front-page news.
Maybe folks will think twice before treating their animals inhumanely if they know I’m liable to intervene, no matter what the law says.
Earl jerks the wheel sharply around the next corner, and I lean into the turn, clutching my seat belt with my free hand.
As sweet as Earl is, driving isn’t exactly his forte.
He’s been Bluebell’s taxi driver for the past forty years, driving locals around town and shuttling visitors to and from Silver Saddle Ranch—the only tourist destination in town.
They’ve got several cabins booked far in advance, keeping Earl busy year-round.
The trouble is that he drives like he’s racing a tornado and has advanced cataracts in his left eye.
Last year, the town council decided to look the other way when he ran over the mayor’s prized rosebushes. Despite his tendency to confuse the gas pedal with the brake, he’s a fixture in Bluebell, and there’s no replacing him—for better or worse.
“You talk to your pops about Mason haulin’ you in yet? I reckon he ain’t too pleased with him,” Earl remarks, switching the radio over to his favorite country station.
“Pretty sure he’s more upset with me,” I mutter.
He swivels to face me. “Can you say that again, Miss Birdie. My hearing ain’t as good as it used to be.”
“Oh, I said not yet.” No reason to pull him into my family drama.
My dad’s called several times since yesterday morning, but I’ve let them all go to voicemail.
I’m certain someone at the sheriff’s office has already filled him in, and I’m not ready to hear another lecture about how I prioritize my silly hobbies that only get me into trouble over Mama’s care.
Funny how he’s the one always running off, while I’m left in Bluebell, juggling Mama’s declining health and my animal sanctuary on my own.
Sure, he’s helping other towns that lack the resources to handle serious cases, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
My attention snaps back to the road when Earl swerves sharply, almost taking out a mailbox. I tighten my grip on the door handle, but otherwise, I’m unfazed—his close calls are so frequent that it’s routine at this point.
“By golly, I swear them mailboxes keep gettin’ closer to the road.” He laughs, shaking his head.
“All those decades of dodging potholes and raccoons have paid off,” I reply, playing along.
I’ll be the last person to ever tell him the truth about his driving. If that makes me an enabler, so be it.
He’s been a lifesaver this past year, driving me around since a family of rabbits set up camp under my truck.
Mama rabbit gave birth to her sixth litter of kits a month ago, and I’m pretty sure she’s pregnant again.
I figured they’d eventually move on, but I feed them diced carrots and fresh lettuce, keep their water bowls topped off, and add fresh hay to their nests.
Why would they trade their corner of paradise for the outside world, where no one will look out for them?
It might be inconvenient, but no way am I making them leave, which means I’ll continue to rely on Earl to get me around for the foreseeable future.
I breathe a sigh of relief when we finally pull down the lane to my house. I may give the illusion that I’m a people person, but I’m an introvert at heart, and there’s no place I’d rather be than home.
When the taxi comes to a stop, I dig out some cash and my punch card out of my bag and hand both to Earl. After my first few rides, he set up a system where every tenth ride is free. He calls it his token of appreciation.
He lets out a low whistle as he punches the card before handing it back to me. “Looks like your next ride is on the house.”
“I am your favorite regular,” I state proudly like it’s a badge of honor, choosing to ignore Earl’s track record of turning flowerbeds into mulch.
True to form, he gets out to open my door.
I’ve told him it’s not necessary, but he says it’s the gentlemanly thing to do and to never settle for a man who doesn’t do the same.
Joke’s on him, I’ll probably be single forever if that awkward encounter with the cute guy at the feed store earlier is any indication.
I turn and give him a little wave when I reach my porch. “Thanks, Earl. Have a good night.”
He tips his hat. “You’re welcome, Miss Birdie. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I watch him hop into the driver’s seat, his car rattling when he turns it on. As he peels away, he lives up to his reputation, running over my daisies on his way down the lane.
Once I’ve had a long, hot shower, I finally feel human again. I head to the kitchen to reheat a serving of Mrs. Bixby’s veggie lasagna. I can’t pass up the chance for a delicious meal I don’t have to cook myself—even if it comes from a nosy neighbor who I wish would mind her own business.
When I reach the kitchen, Nugget is in the corner perched on one of my boots, somehow looking totally relaxed. She cracks one eye open when I take the container of leftovers from the fridge, clearly unamused by the disruption.
I plant my free hand on my hip. “There’s a perfectly cozy chicken coop outside if these conditions aren’t up to your standards.” She shoots me a disdainful stare before fluffing her feathers and burying her head under her wing.
I let out a heavy sigh as I pop the dish into the microwave. “Suit yourself. Don’t come complaining to me when your sleep is disrupted again when I walk around like I own the place… because I do.” Although we both know that’s up for debate.
Ever since I rescued Nugget and brought her home, she’s ruled the roost, basking in being treated like a queen.
Exhibit A: the doggie door. Exhibit B: her gourmet breakfast of scrambled eggs sprinkled with cheese.
And no, it’s not cannibalism when she doesn’t know where eggs come from, plus they’re packed with protein, vitamins, and healthy fats to keep her energized while bossing us all around.
Once my lasagna is reheated, I grab a fork from the drawer and turn off the kitchen light, tiptoeing to the living room so I don’t disturb her again.
Just as I settle into the couch, placing my lasagna on the coffee table in front of me, my phone chimes with a new message.
Dad: You’re ignoring my calls.
Birdie: I just got home from visiting Mama.
Dad: How is she doing?
Birdie: She misses you.
I instantly feel bad for trying to guilt-trip him and quickly send another message.
Birdie: We watched Gilmore Girls and she smiled every time Logan was on screen.
Dad: She’s always in good spirits when she watches the seasons he’s in. Her favorite is the episode where he gives Rory a Birkin bag.
Birdie: I mean, can you blame a girl?
Dad hearted your message
Dad: I’ll have to take your word for it. Tell Tess I’ll be back on Tuesday.
Birdie: I will. Love you, Dad.
Dad: Love you too, kiddo.
I’ve never questioned his devotion to Mama.
It must be agonizing to watch the love of his life go from a vibrant school librarian to someone requiring round-the-clock care within a few years.
I only wish he’d pull himself out of his grief long enough to remember that she’s still here with us and that avoiding reality will only make the eventual loss harder.
Mama was diagnosed with young-onset Parkinson’s on her fortieth birthday.
What started as a small tremor in her hand gradually turned into a persistent stiffness that made even daily tasks like brushing her hair or putting on makeup a struggle.
Her doctor ordered a series of tests when her symptoms didn’t improve, which ultimately led to her diagnosis.
I was only fifteen at the time, and my parents made me promise not to tell anyone—not even my friends.
It’s common knowledge that my mama’s declining health forced her to stop teaching, but only her doctor and the nurses my dad hired are aware of her specific diagnosis and understand it will eventually take her life.
It’s a heavy burden to carry alone, and I often wish I had someone I could lean on to make it easier.
Dad: Sorry I wasn’t there on Friday.
Dad: Mason should never have kept you in that cell overnight.
Birdie: It’s fine.