Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lane
I get into my pickup at the airport. In twenty minutes, I’ll be at the house. I like traveling, and I enjoy going to the Denver site. Each time I marvel over the turns my life has taken, but there’s a draw to being home that I can’t deny.
My phone pings. I start the engine and crack a window to let the stifling heat disperse. Then I look at the message.
Cruz: That’s some shed you moved in. Didn’t tell me you were getting chickens.
I have chickens?
Did Emerson get chickens?
My hopes dust themselves off. She wouldn’t do that if she wasn’t planning to stay for a while. The girl I heard about, who grew up loving animals, wouldn’t just ditch them when her brother got full possession of the house.
Or she could give them to her brother and niece when she leaves. She could abandon them with me knowing damn well the chickens would get the care they needed, especially if they gave me eggs in return.
I don’t answer Cruz. He’ll see through a fake acknowledgment and know I don’t know what’s going on at my place. Then he’ll want a front-row seat to whatever Emerson has planned.
The closer I get to home, the more anticipation coils inside me. What has that woman got in store? What’s she up to?
More importantly, I have a question for her, and I’m not sure how it’ll land. It’s weighed on me all week, but it didn’t feel right talking to her before I left. Something about that morning was off.
Finally, I’m turning into my driveway. There’s a beat-up shed planted next to the shop that wasn’t there before.
It has some areas of badly peeling paint, and there’s a shutter missing around one of the small windows, like it’s been there decades longer than the newer buildings around it.
Fluffy white chickens dart around the grass in front of it.
A laugh waits in my chest, but I have to find out just what Emerson is up to. She’s not the type to just roll over and announce married life is where it’s at, so let’s have sex and build a life together.
I park outside the garage and get out. Instead of going into the house, I take a look at my new acquisitions. The hose from the shop is stretched out and drips on the drive. There are waterers and feed stations where the chickens roam.
When I approach, Emerson steps out of the shed and I stop breathing. She’s in denim overalls, a tight little shirt that shows off her tanned arms and the muscle in them. The most startling thing is the double ponytails hanging over her shoulder.
She’s like a Farmer Barbie wet dream.
“Damn.” How can overalls show off so much and nothing at the same time?
Her smile is brighter than the sun above our heads. “Howdy!”
What the hell? What point is she trying to make? “What’s going on, Em?”
“I got chickens. You know how I love them.”
There it is. “Is this about what happened in the shop?”
“What happened in the shop?” she asks with false innocence. There’s a smudge of dirt on her chin.
“Want to go reenact it?”
A flush highlights her cheeks. “Have you been in the house yet?”
“No.”
A devious smile plays over her lips, but I’m biting back mine. Does she know what she said? The house. She didn’t refer to it as just mine.
I choose my wording on purpose. “Care to show me our chickens?”
“Sure you don’t want to change first? You’ll get dirty.”
I’m still in slacks and a dress shirt, and I don’t care if I get manure on them. But she seems to want me to see the house. Still, I linger, enjoying the view too damn much. “Where’d you get the shed? It’s a little dingy.”
She grimaces, and it’s as fake as the rest of her actions.
“It’s a little used, isn’t it? I got it from a gal in Columbus.
” She stuffs her hands in her back pockets, and it only pushes her breasts out farther.
I have a love-hate relationship now with those overalls. “I can’t afford new. So used it is.”
“Used is just fine.”
Her eyes narrow. “I also wanted to tell you—I need the pickup.”
“Go ahead. There’s a spare set of keys by the door.”
“No. Dad’s pickup.”
So Hutch is Dad for this charade? “Why?”
“It’s mine.”
It is. “I replaced the carburetor, manifold, distributor, and water pump. It’s got fresh oil, but I want to tackle the rust around the fenders before it eats away more of the body.”
“I’ll park my car in the garage then. The pickup will suit these roads better.”
“I’ll get it out of the shop as soon as I get changed.”
She tips her head and there’s that sweet, syrupy smile. “I’ll be waiting.”
When I turn, I catch the beat of alarm passing through her eyes, then her smile is back in place. Whatever’s in the house scares her while also delighting her. Time to find out what it is.
I take my time. I’m not playing a game, but I can toy with her, just a little. I get to the door and look back. She’s bending over, petting Lady, but she’s peeking under her armpit.
I cock a brow and walk in. Nothing smells or sounds different, but my gaze lands on a painting of a giant cock. A painted bantam rooster stares into my soul from above the entry that leads into the hallway between the kitchen and living room.
All right then.
I toe off my shoes and carry them with me through the house. Oil paintings of hens are strung across the top of my wall, above the art from my family. Honestly, those are quite tasteful.
A peek into the kitchen reveals salt and pepper shakers—a hen and a rooster.
Hot pads and trivets—all chicken themed.
The whole house is chicken decor. My muted grays and log browns are covered with more artwork, throw pillows, hell, a blanket, and figurines that are all various shades and colors of chickens.
Treading all the way through my house, I don’t bother to find out how far the cluck invasion goes.
I head to my room, and right there, dead center of my neatly made bed with a pewter-gray duvet, is a giant pillow.
In the middle is a needlepoint red rooster, and around it is the phrase Give Your Cock A Rest.
A choking sound leaves me. The saying is crude and the rest of the place is garish. Then a low rumble leaves me, growing louder, until my laughter echoes off the few walls that aren’t covered with chicken images.
Emerson
The man is as immutable as a wall. He’s outside dressed in worn jeans that are still nicer than the pairs of thrifted overalls I bought.
I finish topping off the chickens’ water and cleaning out the coop.
I’m dusty, and I’m not sure what I got on my face when I scratched it while prepping the used and abused shed.
“You thrifted the chickens?” Lane asks, squatting down, letting the hens run around him.
Lady’s used to chickens, likely from having ventured next door when Hutch was around, but she’s still curious.
She doesn’t like being locked on the other side of the fence Brooks helped me set up.
Her whines send a ripple of clucking through my new but used little flock. The lone rooster runs past Lane.
“That’s Phillip,” I explain. “He’s infertile.”
Lane cants his head to look at me. “How do you know?”
Seriously, what does he think of the changes I made in the house decor?
“The previous owner said there’s never been a fertilized egg when he’s around, and she didn’t get more roosters.
She’s moving into town and was hoping to give everything away at once.
I found her post. The flock came as a full package. ”
Lane nods, then he snaps his arms out and catches a hen, clamping her wings down and drawing her into his chest. All of it is so smooth, the hen barely flinches.
He runs a hand down her back. “They’re used to being handled.”
“She said she gave them lots of love. I was worried she wouldn’t sell. I got grilled on what I planned to do with them.”
He glances up at me, his big hand continuing to stroke the bird. Lucky gal. “What’d you tell her?”
“That I’m a newlywed, and my dear husband has such a big place that it’s empty without a yard full of chickens. I haven’t gotten to enjoy their little buk-buk-bawks in ages.”
The corner of his mouth curls up. “Are they layers?”
But what does he think about the house! “I hope so, once they get over the stress of moving.”
“You build all this?”
“Brooks and Hillary helped me.” I catch the if that’s okay with you on my tongue. We’re married. Half of this is mine.
What’s he thinking? That he should’ve gotten a prenup? That he should be asking me for a postnup?
“I didn’t realize you missed poultry so much,” he says.
I give him an oh, so you don’t know me that well look.
It’s a tiny win. “I won’t be showing up with any turkeys, in case you’re worried.
” I do have my limits, and researching and learning about all things chickens this past week has taxed them.
I used to play with them, but being solely in charge is different than being a kid doing what her dad tells her.
He gently puts the hen down and she darts away, clucking to another hen as she does. He straightens and dusts his hands off. “If you wanted to get turkeys, that’d be fine.”
I can’t tell if that’s a challenge or not. Does any of this bother him? What about the damn house! “Chickens are fun. Turkeys are just more.”
Maybe I should get some turkeys. But there’s no relief in his eyes. The jackass would probably welcome them himself.
Fine. I won’t get turkeys.
“Let me get the pickup pulled out for you.”
He walks away. If the chickens laid an egg, I’d lob it at him. What the hell? Nothing?
I don’t regret getting the chickens or recruiting my brother to help set up everything. I’ve had more fun with those damn birds than I’ve had in years.
Lane’s in the shop for twenty minutes before the big door opens and he maneuvers the pickup out.
Memories bubble to the surface, only it’s at odds with the surroundings. When I was growing up, this was nothing but pastures with one dirt trail through them. We’d bump along and check cattle in this or an old four-wheeler that Brooks dragged out the other day.
The purr of the engine is the same as before too. How did Lane get this thing working so well? It had to have been sitting there for years. Unless . . .
When Lane gets out, I cross my arms. “Did you keep this going for Dad?”
He pushes a hand through his hair, his biceps flexing. If he had his cowboy hat, I’d probably be a puddle right now, nothing but lust and wet panties. “You know those new ones don’t last as long, and the electronics can be a bitch to repair. This was easier.”
“It gets what, five miles a gallon?”
His smile is real and the way my body lights up is a betrayal. “Wanna go for a spin?”
Hell yes, but it’s a bad idea. I’m already having a hard time not gawking or calculating when I can get him between my legs again. I shouldn’t mix that with the nostalgia this ride will cause. But . . . I used to dream of when it’d be my turn to handle the damn thing. “I’m driving.”
His grin spreads wide. He glances inside, then back at me like he’s going to say something, thinks better of it, and trots around the bed to the passenger side.
What’s that about?
My strides eat up the distance, and then I’m at the opening of the driver’s door. Lane’s on the other side, his arms braced on the frame, peering in. What’s his hesitation?
My gaze lands on the gearshift. A manual.
He doesn’t think I can drive it, but he’s too afraid to say something.
Or he thinks he knows whether I can or can’t.
What did Hutch tell him? That I was on his lap, shifting gears before my feet could touch the floorboard?
Or that I drove long before I could get my permit?
I slide behind the wheel, and Lane adopts that sexy smirk I’m starting to crave and crawls in with me. Being enclosed in a cab together puts all my senses on high alert, but I have to concentrate. All those memories pestering me. The ones for driving a manual vehicle need to be at the forefront.
I rely on muscle memory and wiggle the gearshift. “Buckle up, buttercup.”
His deep laughter fills the truck, and I put the truck in first gear. I almost kill the engine, but we lurch forward.
“It’s been a while,” I say as I push the shifter into second gear. Another small lurch and my confidence returns.
He rolls the window down, and I giggle at the old hand-crank window. I do the same thing and the wind whips around us. I’m glad I put my hair in ponytails. I hit the highway to see how well Lane has the engine running.
It drives like a dream. The man is too good with his hands. “How’s the radio?”
“Full of static.” He turns it on and white noise is all that comes from it, with a random voice that he can never really home in on. “My priority was the engine and the brakes.”
I take the back roads to get around town. Some are rougher than others, but Lane doesn’t comment. He props his arm in the window opening with his fingers dancing along the top. His long legs are stretched out, and a pleased expression is on his face. How often does he get to just enjoy his work?
I drape my hand over the wheel and let the wind and engine lull me.
How often does he sit and have a drink, or is his brain always working on what to do next?
His meals are functional. Doesn’t he go out and have a good burger?
At that street fair he mentioned, does he wander and try some free samples from other booths?
He made me come, and then went right back to work.
The reminder darkens my mood. We’re on the outskirts of the Hawthorne Ranch.
“As nice as ever,” I mutter.
“What were they like?” He taps his fingers. “The Hennessys all used to all work for the ranch, but they talk like they didn’t know each other. I assume it’s because the guys lived with their mom for a while after their dad died, and then came back years later.”
Look at all of us returning home. Not me. My stay is temporary. A little bit of yearning opens in my belly, and I ignore it. “Can’t believe the Hawthornes’ dad let them date the cowboys.”
“He didn’t. Iverson and Jamison put an end to that rule. The distillery was going before Durban and Campbell finally got together.”
“Finally?”
“They were with other people and annoyed each other.”
“Oh, that kind of chemistry. Sounds sort of romantic. Do you find your dates at work?”
“I technically married a girl from work.”
“Dating someone you work with isn’t usually recommended.” The thought of him and other women fills me with a sweltering rage I don’t like. I’m not the jealous type. I’ve never had a reason to be, unless it’s couples with healthy relationships, and I haven’t been surrounded by a lot of those.
“I work too much to meet anyone else, and it’s not something I felt like should be forced.”
“Not like a trust or anything telling you what to do?”
He stretches an arm across the front seat. His fingers are probably in my ponytail and . . . that’s okay with me. “I don’t know. Seems to be going okay so far.”
I roll my eyes to play it off, but the truth is, it’s more than okay. It’s also sad. Because our forced marriage has been the best relationship I’ve ever had.