29. Toren
Toren
The crunch of gravel was my first warning that someone was coming up my driveway.
I lifted my head from working on the fishing net in my lap to stare at the trees.
The engine wasn’t loud, so I doubted it was Walker.
My heart flipped at the knowledge of who it could very well be.
Lana.
She’d been by a couple of times this week, ostensibly to check on me. Each time, we’d spent about half an hour chatting. No pressure. Just a friendly visit.
It was basically what I asked of her, but each time, the cordiality drove me crazy. I didn’t want her to beg me to kiss her or to get over myself. But at the same time, I did. I missed the firebrand I walked into the bush with. This affable, polite woman was going to send me to the loony bin.
Her car pulled into view. My heart did another flip as I caught sight of her through the windshield. She had her hair pulled back, highlighting her long, kissable neck.
Pulling up beside my truck, she parked and shut off the engine, getting out.
“Hi.” She waved, then opened the back doors, reaching inside to come up with two reusable grocery bags.
My gaze strayed to her jean-clad hips. I itched to run my hands over her curves—while they were naked and she was sitting on me again.
I bit back a groan. Why couldn’t she show up in oversize sweats or something?
“You don’t have to keep bringing me food,” I said as she climbed the porch stairs.
“Hello to you too.” She stopped in front of me, setting the bags at my feet. “And yes, I do. You’ve got one working hand. I’ve seen you try to chop an onion. It was tragic.”
“I wasn’t trying to chop it. I was?—”
“Mangling it. The frozen stuff I brought you last time worked out a lot better for you, didn’t it?” She raised an eyebrow, surety in her gaze.
Instead of answering, I leaned forward to peek in the bags she brought. There was no way I’d admit that, even if she was right.
“So, how’s the foot? And your hand?”
“Fine.” I picked up the bags and stood to take them inside.
“It doesn’t hurt to walk today. But my hand itches like the devil.
” From my fingertips, across my palm, and down the back of my hand to my wrist, I had an itch I couldn’t scratch, thanks to the cast. I’d resorted to holding the plaster and twisting my hand against it as much as I could.
It was unfathomable that I had to wear the thing for another three weeks, at least.
I set the bags on the counter, and Lana pushed me aside to unload them. Eggs, bread, some frozen meals—she set it out, and I put it away.
Shutting the pantry door after putting the last can of soup away, I turned to see her folding the reusable bags.
“Thank you for bringing this stuff. I know I sound like a grumpy old codger, but I appreciate the thought.”
Her expression warmed, and she smiled. “You’re welcome.”
A squawk and a flurry of flapping wings erupted outside. We both turned to look through the kitchen window.
“What was that?” she asked.
“The chickens. There’s probably something in the woods that’s got them worked up.”
“Should we go check?”
I shrugged. “If you want to. They’re only out in their run, which is pretty tight. I don’t want predators eating my chickens any more than the chickens want to be eaten. They should probably be shut in for the night, though.”
“Let’s do that, then. So they feel safer. Besides, that sounds like a fruitless exercise one-handed and in a boot.” She gestured to my injuries. “Do you do it every night?”
I nodded, staying where I was. “It takes a little longer, but I manage. You don’t need to help. I’ll be fine to do it later.”
“Toren.” She crossed her arms and gave me that look I was starting to know well.
The one that said she’d made up her mind, and I was wasting my breath.
“You clomp along like a pirate with a peg leg, and you’ve got one usable hand.
I’ve closed up a chicken coop exactly never, but I can follow directions.
” She tipped her head toward the door. “Let’s do this. ”
I should have argued harder. Made a little small talk, then sent her on her way.
Instead, I sighed and limped toward the door.
She followed me outside, and we made our way across the yard.
“The coop’s the small door on the side of the barn,” I said, pointing.
“The hens usually go in on their own once it’s dark enough, but this time of year they get confused.
We’ll have to herd the slow ones, which is most of them.
They’re not the brightest crayons in the box.
” I stepped toward the gate to open it, but she batted my hands away.
“You stay out there and supervise. I can handle this.”
I chuckled. Her confidence was admirable, but she’d clearly never tried to herd a chicken through a doorway not much bigger than itself. “You take the far side. I’ll stand over here and make sure they go that way.” I pointed to the barn.
She opened the gate and stepped in. “Are you sure? If you can do it one-handed, I can probably handle it. You should take it easy.”
“I’m sure. It’ll go faster with both of us.” Though I could probably get a good laugh if I let her do it alone. Chickens have opinions. Strong ones. If they don’t want to do something, they won’t.
True to form, they didn’t want to cooperate.
The first group of hens scattered. Then the second. Lana said something I couldn’t quite hear and changed tactics, trying to come at them from the side, and that worked right up until she got between the big red hen, Eloise, and the coop door.
Eloise did not care for that. Squawking with each step, she strutted toward Lana, her wings out.
“Okay,” Lana said, backing up a step. “Okay, you’re a big girl, aren’t you? I’m a friend. I’m just trying to put you up so—hey. Hey!”
Eloise decided enough was enough of this new human trying to force her anywhere and came at Lana’s ankles in a flurry of feathers and spite. With a yelp, Lana jumped back as the chicken made contact.
Having made her point, Eloise strutted up the short ramp and into the coop like it had been her plan all along.
I bit down on a laugh, but a soft chuckle escaped anyway.
Lana spun around, eyes wide with indignation.
“Are you laughing at me? Did you see what she did? That bird is a menace.” Glancing down, she lifted the edge of her pant leg and winced.
“Look! She drew blood.” Frowning fiercely, she looked up at me.
“She actually drew blood. I was backing off when she pecked me—surrendering to her ire. Your chicken is a war criminal.”
“Her name’s Eloise.” I rolled my lips in to hold back another laugh as her brows slammed together.
“You named the war criminal?”
“She’s the best layer I’ve got.” I wandered closer, still grinning, and made my way to the corner, where the last two hens clucked and pecked at the ground. “Here. They go in easier if you don’t chase them. Just walk behind them slow. Let them think it’s their idea.”
She huffed. “You could have mentioned that before.”
It took another few minutes, but between the two of us we got the last two hens shut in. I showed her the latch, and she worked it home.
“There.” She dusted her hands. “Coop secured. No thanks to Eloise. If you ever decide to eat her, I want to come over for dinner.”
She had a smudge of dirt on her jaw and a piece of straw caught in her ponytail, and she was standing close enough that I could smell whatever strawberry thing she used in her hair.
I reached up and plucked the straw from her blonde locks.
Those stormy gray eyes met mine. My amusement at the chickens faded away as need grabbed hold. I had the sudden, sharp urge to kiss her.
I didn’t. If I did, I wouldn’t want to stop, and sleeping with her again would only muddle the waters.
So, I stepped back and cleared my throat. “Thank you.” My voice came out rough, so I cleared my throat once more and tried again. “For helping with the chickens. And for the food.”
Something flickered across her face. She’d felt the need too.
“Anytime.” She stepped back, and the moment let go of us both. “Come on. It’s getting chilly out here, and you’ve probably been on that foot long enough.”
We went back inside. She made coffee, and we sat down for that small talk we always had when she brought me groceries.
There were no awkward or charged moments this time.
Lana was good at filling silence, so I sat and listened to her update me on Tina and Dustin’s wedding as well as the progress on the inn.
When my phone buzzed on the table, I almost didn’t answer it.
But a quick glance at the screen showed Jesse Wakefield’s name.
“I should take this,” I said. I’d called him yesterday asking for an update on the case but got his voicemail.
Lana waved a hand and got up to rinse the mugs.
“McCrae,” I answered.
“Hey, Toren. I got your message.”
“Oh, great. So, is there anything new happening?”
“Not really. Toby’s still cooperating. Singing for his supper. We’re building a hell of a case.” Papers shuffled in the background. “So far, we know they operated for the last three seasons, and they were running the illegal animals through a contact in Ketchikan. That person’s been detained.”
My mouth flattened. Three seasons. Damn. That was a lot of animals harvested. “Good. What about Deke? And Vic?”
Across the kitchen, Lana went still. I pulled the phone away from my ear and put it on speaker. She wandered closer.
“Nothing,” Jesse said. “No sign of either of them. We swept the camp and the country around it both by land and by air. We found enough to bury the operation ten times over, but the men are gone. Toby doesn’t know where they’d run. He says Deke never told him or Vic more than they needed to know.”
I gave a quick huff of breath. “That’s not surprising. They didn’t seem like best buddies.”
“My gut says they’re both long gone,” Jesse continued. “With their operation blown and one of their own talking, there’s no reason to stick around. A man like Deke cuts his losses and disappears. Starts over under a new name.”
“Maybe.” I wanted to believe it, but that last look he gave me before he ran into the trees didn’t sit right. It had promised it wouldn’t be the last time I saw him. “You’ll let me know if that changes.” It wasn’t a question. I wanted information on any news of either man.
“You bet. Watch yourself, Toren. You’re remote out there. If I’m wrong about him running?—”
“I’ve got a rifle and I know how to use it.”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean I want you to need it.”
I didn’t want to need it, either. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Sounds good. Stay safe.” He hung up.
I glanced at Lana, who stared off into space through the window, wiping her already dry hands on a dish towel.
Finally, she spoke. “Ozzie thinks they ran too.” Her gaze dropped to mine, and I watched her chew the inside of her cheek as she thought. “Do you believe it?” she asked.
I pushed my tongue into my cheek, glancing away as I considered that. “I don’t know,” I said honestly.
My eyes landed on my rifle leaning by the door.
I really didn’t want to think I’d need it, but something told me I would.