Chapter Five #2
His mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. “Yeah. My grandparents kept a whole flock when I was a kid. I used to help collect eggs. Feed them. Even cleaned the coop.” His words tumbled over each other, the energy so bright I could feel it radiate off him.
“Pick out twelve and the supplies,” I said. “We’ll take them today.”
He lit up so hard it made my chest ache. “Are you sure?”
“Long as you’ll keep ’em alive,” I said, trying for a gruffness I didn’t feel.
“I can! I really can. And we’ll need a brooder box. And shavings. And feed, of course, and grit—”
I caught the attention of the owner, who grinned wider and started assembling a take-home kit from behind the counter.
Jojo was all business now, scanning the chicks for healthy ones, giving each a careful once-over before selecting it. He lined them up in the carrier, careful to match sizes, then draped the cardboard lid with a reverence I’d only ever seen him use for the sourdough starter.
Back at the register, I squared the whole order. The total was high, but not obscene. The owner loaded us up with extra feed and a bonus mineral block for the horses.
Jojo held the carrier in both hands like it was full of gold, beaming so hard the old lady at the end of the counter asked if we were running a day care for birds.
I shook my head, but felt a laugh catch in my throat. “First livestock for the new operation.”
The woman peered at Jojo, then back at me. “He looks like he’ll spoil them.”
“Count on it,” I said.
We hustled the chicks out to the truck, and Jojo set the carrier on his lap for the drive home. He didn’t stop watching them, not even when I cranked the radio or took the long way around the feed elevator to avoid Main Street.
At a stoplight, he caught me watching him in the rearview.
“Thank you,” he said, voice soft.
“Nothing to thank me for,” I said, but I knew it was a lie.
He stroked the top of the box, humming something under his breath. For the first time since he’d walked into my kitchen, I saw him fully alive, the fear burned off by hope.
It felt damn good.
I started the truck, and we headed for the general store, the sound of peeping chicks filling the cab and Jojo’s smile shining so bright I barely needed headlights.
The Black Butte General Store was a time capsule from a decade no one could agree on. The air inside was warm, heavy with the twin scents of wood polish and pickled herring, and the shelves were a fever dream of regional brands and forgotten promotions.
The owner—a thin man with a handlebar mustache and a lopsided gimp—navigated the labyrinth with a four-legged cane that doubled as a pointer for customers.
Jojo took one look at the narrow aisles and immediately started sweating. He fished my handwritten list from his back pocket, then stared at the first item like it was a pop quiz in front of a thousand people. “You want Yukon Gold or russet?” he whispered.
I smirked. “Surprise me.”
He started scanning the produce, careful to touch only the bags he intended to take. For a second, I saw the methodical, almost obsessive way he checked each apple for bruises, lined the cans up by expiration date, and weighed two identical loaves of bread like a tiny, anxious scientist.
The list wasn’t complicated—just coffee, flour, eggs, canned tomatoes, rice, and whatever else Jojo wanted for the kitchen. But every item became a small ordeal: he’d find it, cradle it, then look back at me as if seeking approval.
I trailed behind, arms folded, enjoying the way he kept glancing over his shoulder. It felt domestic, in a weird way. Like shopping together was a thing we’d always done.
When he reached for the coffee, his hand hovered. “You like dark roast?”
“Only way I drink it.”
He brightened, selected the darkest bag, and turned to show me. “This one’s good. Ethiopian. It’s got… uh, notes of blueberry and chocolate.”
I nodded, more out of respect for his passion than the coffee itself. “Get two. You drink more than you think you will.”
He blushed, then grabbed another bag. The cart started to fill, flour and sugar and the little luxuries he’d never have bought for himself. When we hit the baking aisle, I saw him eye the high-end vanilla and a pack of cinnamon sticks.
“Get those, too,” I said.
He hesitated. “They’re expensive.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He took them, a little stunned. I reached over and plucked a bottle of local honey from the top shelf, set it in the cart. “Gotta keep you sweet,” I said, not even thinking about it.
He flushed deeper, ducked his head, and mumbled something I didn’t catch.
We finished fast after that. I watched him at the counter, loading the conveyor with quick, neat hands. The owner—who everyone called “Harmon” even though the sign said “Gunnarson”—peered at us with open interest.
“You’re the new owner out at the Steele place,” he said, ringing up the coffee. “Saw your granddad’s truck in town last year.”
“Truck’s mine now,” I said.
He nodded. “You got livestock yet?”
“Soon,” I said. “Just setting up for now.”
He eyed the box Jojo set on the counter. “Feed store do you right?”
“More than right,” I said.
Harmon nodded at Jojo. “Saw you at the bakery last winter. They miss you there.”
Jojo shifted his feet. “Didn’t work out.”
“Still, you made good sourdough. I remember.”
The owner tallied the total and bagged everything with the efficiency of someone who’d done it a million times. I paid in cash, pocketed the change, and loaded up the cart again.
Outside, the wind was sharp enough to make your teeth hurt. Jojo’s arms were full, cradling the eggs and coffee like contraband. He stopped at the truck, then startled as a shadow crossed the sidewalk behind us.
A man in a tan uniform, broad-shouldered and soft-bellied, leaned against the post outside the store. The badge caught the light, the gold star as bright as a warning flare.
He was taller than I expected, with hands too big for his own wrists and the kind of mustache that only small-town sheriffs wore without irony.
He gave me a slow once-over. “You the new hand at the old Steele place?”
I locked eyes with him, matching his stillness. “I’m the owner. Rawley Steele.”
He looked me up and down. “Sheriff Calloway. Welcome to Black Butte.”
Jojo edged behind me, his arms tightening on the bags.
“You getting settled okay?” the sheriff asked, voice casual, but a shade too careful.
“We’re getting there,” I said. “Just fixing fences, getting the power on.”
His gaze flicked from me to Jojo. “You got all you need, Joseph?”
Jojo swallowed, voice barely audible. “I’m good, sir.”
“Glad to hear it.” The sheriff’s eyes never left me. “You run cattle or are you planning something else?”
“Cattle, eventually. Mustangs, too. Whatever the land will support.”
He nodded, slow. “We don’t get a lot of new faces this time of year. The old families like to keep track of who comes and goes.”
“Duly noted.”
He let the silence linger. “You ever have trouble out there, you call me. Or anything… unusual.”
I gave him a tight smile. “Noted.”
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card, held it between two fingers like a dealer on the last hand of the night. “Just in case. You never know.”
I took it, tucked it into my wallet without looking. “Thanks.”
He stepped back, still watching. “You boys take care. Coyotes been thick on the east side lately. And the mountain lions are hungry.”
“We’ll be careful.”
He tipped his hat, then walked off with a rolling, heavy stride, boots loud on the wooden planks.
Jojo let out a breath I didn’t know he’d been holding. “He scares the shit out of me.”
“He’s harmless,” I said. “But he’s watching, so let’s keep our heads down.”
We loaded the bags in the bed of the truck, then climbed in, the heat from the cab instantly clouding the windows.
I looked at Jojo. He stared straight ahead, knuckles white on the seat belt. “You okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Just… not used to people noticing me.”
“Get used to it,” I said, starting the engine. “You’re with me now. People will notice.”
He looked at me, eyes wide. “That a threat or a promise?”
I smiled, the old SEAL edge in my voice. “Take your pick.”
We drove off, the mountain’s shadow falling long across the road, and I realized I hadn’t felt this alive in years.
The cab was already steamy with animal scent—grain, hay, the sharp tang of chick bedding, and underneath it all, the unmistakable edge of omega pheromone, sweet and bright as clover honey.
Jojo fussed over the box, counting each chick, then looked over at me, a question in his eyes.
“They’ll be fine,” I said. “You did good.”
He smiled, teeth showing this time, and I felt something shift in my chest.
The road out of Black Butte wound through low hills, the land gold and violet in the sunset. The shadows ran long, painting the world in stripes of light and dark.
Jojo kept an eye on the chicks, but every so often I caught him looking at the sky, or at the way my hands fit the steering wheel, or at my face reflected in the windshield.
At the edge of town, we hit a pothole the size of a coyote den. The truck bounced hard, and the chick box slid toward the floor. We both reached for it—his hand fast, mine faster. Our fingers overlapped on the cardboard, knuckles brushing, and neither of us moved for a long second.
He pulled away first, biting his lip.
“Sorry,” he said.
“No need,” I said. My voice was lower than I meant it, rough with something I didn’t want to name.
We drove the rest of the way in silence. The road was familiar now, each bend and dip etched into my memory. I felt a tightness in my chest, a kind of fierce satisfaction. The land was mine, the truck was mine, the future was mine, and the man next to me—maybe he was mine, too.
When we turned up the gravel drive, Jojo finally relaxed. He looked at the fields, the barn, the distant house, and I saw hope settle on his shoulders like a jacket finally tailored to fit.
I parked by the porch. He hopped out, cradled the chick box, and walked ahead of me, his gait lighter than it had been all day.
I watched him go, sunlight catching in his hair, the scent of him lingering in the air like a promise. For a moment, I just sat there, hands loose on the wheel, and let myself feel it: the rightness of the place, the rightness of him here with me, the hunger to protect what was mine.
Tomorrow, there would be work. Repairs, feedings, a dozen chores that couldn’t wait. But tonight, I let myself believe in the future.
I got out, stretched, and started carrying stuff inside. The last light faded behind us, and the ranch—my ranch, our ranch—waited, quiet and alive, for whatever came next.