Chapter 2
Faith
Last night I slept.
There wasn’t a single time a nightmare startled me awake.
With the new windows in place, the house stayed a consistent, perfect temperature and I’m pretty sure I woke up in the same position that I fell asleep in. I can’t remember ever willingly getting out of bed at dawn before, but today seemed different, almost full of promise.
I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and wandered outside to survey the previous day’s progress and try to find some peace in the land around me.
I figured I was due some, but not two steps out my back door showed me otherwise. There was a clear path of destruction from the woods on the far-side straight through the fence that had been placed around the vegetable plots that had continued to flourish even after the previous owners had left.
While the constant stream of construction workers tore through the house, making it livable again, I worked in the garden. Pulling out what I hoped were the weeds, I used an app to take stock of what was left, then I had one of the crew members build the fencing around the border of the garden.
Still not completely sure what half of the sprouting plants would become, I figured it would be like its own kind of Secret Santa as they continued to grow.
Waking to find my hard work destroyed pissed me off to no end and since I don’t know anyone here, I couldn’t figure out what to do other than call 911.
A man immediately answered, very patiently listening to my complaint before putting me on hold. When a woman picked up my call a moment later, she asked me to repeat everything, and I tried to keep the annoyance from my tone.
When she put me on hold, I shook my phone in frustration. Eventually, someone came on and told me that my neighbor’s animals had probably gotten loose, and there was no mistaking the amusement in that person’s voice.
When I drove down the road to the closest neighbor, I will fully admit that I went in hot, but then I saw their dog. Growing up in a building, I was never allowed to have a dog—my mom’s rule, not the building’s. One neighbor, who only stayed for a few months, had a Bouvier and they’re the kind of sweet, wonderful beasts that leave an impression.
It took a lot of effort not to snicker when Logan referred to Bruno as his guard dog—not that I didn’t know he was annoyed from the moment he laid eyes on me.
When Logan followed me home, I was relieved. At least until the second he mentioned ‘wild hogs’.
“Come again?” Feeling like I’ve done nothing but ask him questions since we met.
“Wild hogs. They’re like the big zombie version of cute little piggies.”
“I need coffee.” Turning on my heel, I want to scream bloody murder, but I have no one to blame but myself. Suddenly, the number that I wrote on the check yesterday flashes before my eyes and my resolve hardens.
This is my home now. Wild zombie pigs be damned.
For me, a fresh start meant throwing a dart at a map and landing here. Once upon a time, it was insane to think I could even afford moving, but fate intervened, and I aim to make the most of it.
“Well, what are we going to do about them?” I ask him. He hasn't pulled open the screen door, so I know he's still standing on the top of the makeshift stairs. His blue eyes are undoubtedly boring into my back as he continues to eye-fuck me.
Men have been doing that since way before I was legal, and while he's lucky he got off with just me biting his tongue, that kiss he laid on me gave me something to think about. After the initial shock, my first instinct was to melt into his body.
“We?” he scoffs.
“The river’s that way, isn't it?” I confirm, tilting in my head in the direction of my destroyed garden. “That means that the hogs crossed my land and continued toward yours or went for a swim. Now, which scenario is more likely? I'm guessing that you know the terrain between our properties better than me.”
“Fuck.”
“Do you want a cup of coffee, or do you need to run back home?” I ask, turning to him with a deceptively innocent look in my eyes.
“Do you have any animals here?” He questions me in return. “Or a shotgun? I don't suppose you have a shotgun?”
“I do not.” I use the same reply for both questions.
“It looks like you're doing construction around here. What time do you expect the workers?” Taking mercy on him, I pour him a cup, deciding that he looks like the kind of man who drinks black coffee. “Thank you. Once they get here and start making noise, you won't have to worry about the hogs, but before then, it's best you stay inside.”
“And how about after the men leave?”
He's taking a long, deep sip of his coffee when I ask that question. Handing the mug back to me, he smirks, “Well, my earlier offer still stands if you wanna come on over.”
With that, he turns and saunters back to his bike.
Cocky asshole.
“Hey!” he yells out, looking back to catch me studying him. “How’d you know my name?”
“I keep getting your mail,” I answer, shrugging my shoulders and trying not to look guilty. It’s all flyers, so I’ve just been tossing it.
Looking at my phone, I see there's over an hour before I can expect anyone out here, so I decide to go get changed and grab some breakfast at the local diner that always seems busy when I pass by.
After throwing on some clothes, I get back in my Jeep for the drive into town. From where I live it's a good twenty minutes, which can be a bit frustrating since the realtor had told me that if I owned a boat, it'd be about a five-minute ride.
That's an expense for another day. Sometime after I get my house fixed up, I tell myself.
Seeing the police station, I almost consider going in and explaining to them about the wild hogs, but considering the three people that I had talked to earlier and Logan’s reaction, I can just imagine that I would just be adding on to their hilarity.
I park across from the diner and wait for the sole car on the street to pass before crossing and nervously smile when seemingly every patron looks up at me. Seeing a free stool at the counter, I hurriedly slide into it—safe from the curious gazes behind me.
“You look like you're in need of a coffee, young lady,” The man who places the cup in front of me is as grizzled as his voice, but his warm brown eyes are filled with humor. “I hope you don't mind me guessing that you're the outsider who bought the old Drapper place.”
“As long as you don't mind me guessing that you're Walt,” I reply, recalling the name on the outside of this nondescript diner.
“See now, assumptions don't always make asses out of people.” His grin widens at his own joke as he slides the menu in front of me, winks, and walks away.
Not seeing any sweetener, I reach over for the sugar and add a little to my coffee before looking at the laminated sheet in front of me. My best guess is that Walt has a grandchild who convinced him to let them create a logo and put together the most useless menu in the history of diners.
There are six choices for breakfast and another six choices for both lunch and dinner. I subtly peek at the backside to make sure I’m not missing anything.
“Have you made up your mind?” Walt asks me when he returns.
“Yes, I'd like two pieces of French toast, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and hash browns,” I tell him, ignoring the carefully laid out options on the menu in front of me.
“French toast is item number three, and it comes with four pieces. Eggs, breakfast meat, and hash browns is item number one, and it comes with regular toast or pancakes,” he replies, the glint in his eyes daring me to continue.
“Walt, I’ve had a morning. Can you please just substitute two pieces of French toast for the toast or pancakes? Throw in a little upcharge if you think that’s fair,” I ask him, setting my shoulders so he knows I'm serious.
As if in slow motion, he stretches out his arm and his slightly crooked index finger indicates two words at the bottom of the menu that he kindly reads out loud for me, “No substitutions.”
“Walt,” a man's voice rings out from behind me, and I turned to see my contractor, Hans, standing just inside the door. “Why don't you cut the nonsense and get Ms. Murphy what she asked for?”
“City folk, Hans,” Walt replies, his frown deepening. “If you let them change one thing, they’ll want to make more changes. Next thing you know, she’ll be asking for avocado toast.”
“Walt,” I say, purposefully interrupting as I place my right hand over my heart. “I promise you; I will never ask for avocado toast.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” Walt mutters after pinning me with his gaze for longer than is necessary. He’s turning away when he elaborately waves his hand around. “I’ve got witnesses.”
“Thank you, Hans,” I whisper when he comes to stand next to me.
“Well, lucky for you, I saw your Jeep when I was driving by and figured we could go over some of the punch list items,” he responds with an easy grin, motioning to the seat next to me for permission before sitting.
“Of course.”
He waits until Walt comes back out with a coffee for him until he opens the folder he has with him and we start discussing final items.
“One other thing,” I hesitantly bring up the topic that has me in town so early this morning. “Could someone redo the fence around the garden? Something got into it last night, so we’re going to need a stronger fence than the old planks from the original porch.”
“Something?”
“Wild hogs, according to my neighbor.”
“Damn, you’re lucky you didn’t try to scare them off,” he tells me, shaking his head and letting out a low whistle.
“He’s right, young lady,” Walt interjects, giving up his pretense of not listening to our conversation. “I’ve seen men’s legs torn to hell by just one of those beasts.”
“I didn’t actually see them,” I tell them, and they exchange a look.
“Didn’t the security light cover that area?” Hans asks me, looking back down at his list as if to make sure that item was checked off.
“Maybe? I didn’t hear them, and it wasn’t until this morning that I saw the damage they had done,” I confess, and the men’s eyes meet again before Walt walks away whistling.
“Are you sure the garden is worth the expense?” Hans asks me and I can’t fault his question. I’ve never done any gardening before, so it’s just as likely that I’ll be bored with it in a month or so.
“Not entirely, no,” I breathe out the words in resignation.
His face doesn’t give anything away and I’m not sure what his nod means, but he stays silent as Walt delivers my food.
Separating out a piece of the French toast, I top it with a little syrup before filling it with eggs, bacon, and hash browns. Next I add salt, hot sauce, and ketchup before I gently fold it into a breakfast taco and take a bite out of it.
I’ve closed my eyes in appreciation of all the flavors dancing over my tongue, but they pop open at the sound of retching as someone else lets out a whistle.
Hans and Walt are staring at me with identical expressions of distaste and past them, at the end of the counter is a large man in a motorcycle cut with a shit-eating grin that he turns toward a fourth man who’s got his hand over his mouth as he runs for the door.
“Damn,” the large guy says, letting out a bark of laughter. “I can’t tell if you’re more hungover than we are or if you’ve got an iron stomach.”
“Walt, I really don’t think Faith is an avocado toast type-of-gal,” Hans contributes, letting out a soft chuckle as Walt turns his head to follow the departure of the retching man.
I continue chewing as I wonder what’s wrong with these guys. It’s all going to the same place anyway.
“Faith?” the biker at the end of the counter looks at me again, his smirk widening. “You Cowboy’s new neighbor?”
“If you mean Logan? Then, yes,” I ask in return before taking another bite. It’s been a while since I treated myself to a big breakfast and I’m not going to let it get cold.
“He mentioned your hog situation,” he responds, no longer concerned with the man vomiting just past the curb outside.
“Oh, you the lady that called about the garden situation this morning?” another voice calls out, and I turn to see a man in uniform. “Yeah, should have figured it was hogs. They’re rutting this time of year.”
“They’re always rutting,” Walt bites back, casting his annoyed expression over my shoulder. “You could have warned her. What if she had come across them?”
“You don’t call 911 to complain that your garden’s tore up,” a woman seated against the back wall snickers.
“Welcome to Small Town USA,” Hans says to me, keeping his voice low. “Where all your problems are aired out and debated at the local diner, then mocked over beers at the bar later that day.”
The biker had moved closer to us and lets out another chuckle when he hears that. “Don’t worry too much. My brothers and me have been itching for a hunt. You should come to the pig roast.”
“Are zombie piggies safe to eat?” I ask him, trying to keep the grin off my face even as multiple eavesdroppers let out a laugh of some form.
Studying his face, I casually dart my eyes down to the name on his cut. Demolition, right above the word President. His gaze catches mine and I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes so dark. I imagine he’s got a decade or two on me but considering the fact that his clean-cut looks seem more military than motorcycle club, I pause remembering some of the junk mail that was filling my mailbox.
All but a few were addressed to Logan, and many of them were flyers from a military credit union or other related services, so I briefly wonder if they served together.
“Of course, we don’t have to wait that long to see each other again,” he says with a grin, and Hans shifts uncomfortably on the stool between us. “Happy to stop out at your place tonight, make sure you get all tucked in.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks, but I quickly shake my head, and Demolition throws me a wink as he shrugs his wide shoulders. “Never hurts to ask, does it?”
The man who had been tossing his cookies outside, returns, looking ashen and rattles off a takeout order to Walt. Thankfully, he uses Demolition’s frame to block the view of my plate, so I quickly create a second French toast taco; barely paying attention to the townspeople’s continuing chatter about where the hogs might be hiding.
“I’d better get out to your place,” Hans says to me after he finishes off his coffee. “The roofers should be there by now and we have that four-hour window for your new appliances to be delivered.”
“So, you got a rich ex-husband somewhere, or did you rob a bank?” Demolition asks, sliding into Hans’ seat the moment he leaves.
I cough, pretending I swallowed wrong in the hopes he didn’t notice me almost flying out of my seat. He slides my untouched glass of water closer to me as I keep my eyes on the counter, unable to meet his face as I feel him studying me with something more intense than checking out the angle of my cheekbones and my cleavage.
That I can deal with, but not a man looking into my soul.
And possibly seeing me for what I am.
“Demo, I’m gonna wait outside,” the other guy says, pulling the large biker’s attention away from me for a moment.
“You want anything else?” Walt asks me, holding the coffee pot at the ready in case I indicate my mug.
“No, thank you. Just the check.”
“Add it to mine, Walt,” Demolition says, and now I have no problem facing him to give him a piece of my mind, but he cuts me off when I open my mouth. “No strings, just a welcome to town . Besides, me and the boys might be on your land a bit as we take care of the hogs.”
Taking a twenty out of my pocket, I lay it on the counter between us as I stand up and lean close enough so the other diners won’t hear me.
“Gifts without strings tend to cost the most,” I tell him, trying to keep years of anger out of my voice. Failing miserably at that, I straighten my shoulders and walk out without another word.