23. Ozzy
Ozzy
“ I t’s going to kill me,” I mutter through gritted teeth, staring down my enemy.
Henrietta, a plump hen with soulless eyes and murder in her heart, hisses like she’s guarding the Ark of the Covenant instead of three warm eggs nestled beneath her feathered ass.
Her beady gaze is locked on me with lethal precision, her chest puffed out like a prizefighter daring me to throw the first punch.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Carter replies, utterly unbothered, casually tossing feed as if he isn’t bearing witness to my impending death. “If Henrietta tries to kill you, not only will I not save you, but I’m going to laugh as you die.”
“Wow, thanks.” I glare at him, crouching slowly and extending one hand under the chicken like she’s a live grenade I’m trying to defuse. “That’s really comforting.”
Henrietta lets out an unholy screech and lashes out, pecking my hand so hard it feels like she drew blood. I gasp, stumble back—and then she launches herself off her nest and comes for me.
“Oh fuck me—Carter!” I shriek, spinning on my heel, bolting toward the coop gate just as her wings start flapping like a demonic wind turbine.
The rational side of my brain tells me the small bird can’t do much of anything now, but my much louder side is screaming that a fucking pterodactyl is about to kill me.
I trip over a goddamn toy truck of Wyatt’s and hit the dirt like a sack of flour. All the while, Henrietta sprints toward me, wings spread, feet clawing the earth like she’s been waiting for this moment her whole poultry life.
I swear to God, I see my life flash before my eyes. “CARTER!” I scream again, flailing my arms like I’m drowning. “Get her!”
Carter, the unhelpful bastard, is doubled over by the feed bin, wheezing so hard I think he might actually pass out. “Oh my god,” he chokes, stumbling over and finally waving Henrietta off with a broom. “I damn near pissed my pants.”
I glare up at him from the dirt, covered in god-knows-what, panting like I just ran a marathon. “I swear to god, “I’m taking your ass out, Henrietta! You’ll be a chicken nugget by lunch tomorrow, bitch!”
A small gasp pulls my attention. “Zeze!”
I glance over at Wyatt, who’s watching the chaos from the fence line, his little face scrunched in toddler horror. He points at me with his tiny chubby finger and shouts, “Zeze poopy hand!”
I look down. Oh no. No, no, no.
“Oh god,” I groan, staring at the smear of chicken shit on my palm and forearm, the exact one I used to brace my fall. “Fucking fantastic.”
Carter is laughing again, clutching his stomach.
“Don’t you have something better to do?” I snap, stomping toward the hose while trying not to gag. The smell is starting to really settle in now.
“Fuck no,” he grins through his laughter, just as Wyatt gasps.
“No-no word, Daddy!”
Carter rolls his eyes at his son’s scolding. “Why Mama told him that, I don’t know. Like I have control over what this mouth does.”
I rinse off my hand under the freezing hose water, trying to forget the warm squish between my fingers from earlier. Picking up the egg basket—miraculously unharmed in the scuffle—I head toward the house, muttering under my breath.
It’s quiet inside. Too quiet. I expected noise, chaos.
I thought maybe Jackson would be in the kitchen, maybe even trying to talk to me.
But he’s not here. He’s not anywhere. Nobody is.
They must’ve left to take Derek to the airport.
Dorothy is in town and Morris is sleeping. So it’s just me, and the silence.
I drop the eggs on the counter and toe off my boots by the door.
The familiar creak of the floorboards greets me as I make my way down the hall, peeking into the living room where I see Morris.
He’s asleep—mouth open, snoring softly. His chest rises and falls in a rhythm that’s slower than it used to be, but it’s still steady. Still here.
I step inside and check his vitals, brushing a lock of wispy hair from his forehead. His skin is cool, not cold, and I swear he smiles in his sleep when I touch his hand.
“Better wake up for movie night, old man,” I whisper, squeezing his fingers before slipping back out into the hallway.
My room smells like the farm—manure, hay, sun, sweat. It clings to my clothes, my skin, my hair. Once, not that long ago, that smell would’ve sent me into a spiral. But now?
Now it’s different.
Now it means Wyatt laughing at Carter cussing. Theo threatening to beat up the guys. Jackson— God, Jackson —watching me with that hungry, worshipful look like I’m the most sacred thing he’s ever seen.
I peel off my clothes and wince. They smell like something died in them. I drop them into the hamper and step into the shower, the warm spray hitting my skin and rinsing away the stink, the fear, the shame—well, most of it.
Henrietta may be a demon, but the rest of this life… it’s becoming something soft, something survivable. Something mine.
I still don’t know what to do about Jackson. About what he saw. About what he knows. But as I stand under the water, head tipped back, letting the steam soak into my pores, I realize something.
This ranch doesn’t just smell like work anymore.
It smells like healing.
Even if it’s messy. Even if it bites.
Steam curls around my shoulders as I step out of the bathroom, skin flushed, my hair hanging damp and heavy down my back.
The scent of my vanilla body wash clings to me as I move through the haze of steam and warmth, reaching for the moisturizer I keep in the cabinet.
My limbs ache from the morning chaos—chicken attacks, toddler poop, emotional exhaustion—but the shower helped. I feel clean. Calmer.
I rub lotion along my thighs, over the old burn scar on my hip, around the healed cigarette mark on my lower ribs.
It’s a ritual now—one of the ways I take my body back.
One swipe at a time. After everything, this small act feels sacred.
Like painting over graffiti, reclaiming my walls. I exhale deeply, grounding myself.
I walk back into my bedroom to grab clothes, toweling the water from behind my knees, and freeze.
“Holy shit.”
I flinch, startled by his voice. My heart punches against my ribs, and I jerk toward the sound.
Jackson.
Standing dead center in my bedroom like some confused, broad-shouldered statue—one whose eyes are very much not on my face.
“Jackson,” I whisper, every muscle in my body going rigid.
His eyes are wide, unblinking, locked on my breasts. “Uh huh?” he manages, voice cracking like someone wringing gravel through their throat.
“I’m naked,” I say slowly, as if that will somehow remind him of basic human etiquette.
“I’m… yeah. I’m aware.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. I swear to god he’s forgotten how to breathe.
“Stop looking!” I shriek.
It breaks whatever spell he’s under. He turns so fast I hear something in his neck crack.
His tan skin flushes all the way up to his ears, turning an impressive shade of crimson.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts. “Jesus, I’m sorry.
I thought I could slip in and out before you got out of the shower—I wasn’t trying to…
” He gestures wildly toward the wall and murmurs, “...see your tits.”
I roll my eyes, my pulse still fluttering at my throat as I storm to the dresser and tug on the first pair of sweatpants I find, followed by an old green henley. The moment I’m decently covered, I walk up behind him, arms crossed.
“What the fuck, Rowe? Ever heard of knocking?”
He turns slowly, sheepishly. “I know. I know. I just… I came in to drop something off. You came out just as I was leaving. I swear to God, I wasn’t trying to see anything.” He drags his hand down his face, avoiding my gaze.
I follow his glance to the nightstand.
A single red rose sits there. Next to it, a small black box.
My brows pull together. “What’s this?” I ask, stepping toward it cautiously.
He doesn’t answer right away. “The rose is… because I’m sorry. About everything. I’m such a dumbass. I wanted to do something, I don’t know, human? Something not fucking stupid. I know you probably don’t want anything to do with me anymore. I wouldn’t blame you.”
I stare at the rose, then at the box. Slowly, I open it.
Nestled inside is a delicate silver necklace, the charm shaped like a wax seal. In its center sits a finely etched poppy in full bloom.
“Oh my god,” I breathe. The poppy glimmers under the soft lamplight. It's not flashy. It’s not expensive looking. It’s simple. Meaningful.
“It’s beautiful but?—”
“I know,” he cuts in, nervous now; like he knows he might’ve crossed a line. “I know you don’t like anything near your neck, and I get that, really. I just saw it, and it made me think of you. The poppy. You—” He hesitates. “You kind of remind me of one.”
My fingers ghost over the pendant as my throat tightens.
“I thought maybe it could be made into a bracelet or something,” he continues, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shit, maybe I should’ve asked. I should’ve asked. That was dumb, I’m sorry.”
“What? No,” I say quickly, almost too quickly, snatching the box from his hand like he’s about to take it back. “No,” I repeat, softer now, clutching it to my chest. “Jackson, I… nobody has ever gotten me something before.”
He looks confused. “You mean jewelry?”
I meet his eyes—and whatever hint of humor was playing around his mouth disappears the moment he sees my expression.
“Anything,” I reveal, my voice barely more than a whisper. “No one’s ever bought me anything just because they thought of me.”
His face drops. “Tink…”
I shake my head, forcing a small smile even though my eyes are stinging. “I love it. It’s perfect. Thank you.”
He takes a step forward, hesitant. “Can I…?” He nods toward the box in my hands.
I nod, my heart fluttering as I lift my chin slightly.