5. Oliver #2
Not that I was looking at her chest, exactly. It just stood out. It’s shiny and strange, almost mystical.
Must’ve fallen off during her little goat rodeo.
I turn back toward the cabin, ready to return it, but freeze with my hand on the doorknob when I hear raised voices inside.
“You never listen!” Lucien’s voice booms, rough and furious. I’ve never heard him like that.
“I was helping, Dad! It’s not like I broke into his mansion and made myself coffee—I was helping him catch—”
“I don’t care!” he shouts. “Do you want him to throw us out? I told you not to bother him on the weekends, Cala!”
“I didn’t bother him! I just—”
“I don’t want to hear it! I’m too damn mad right now!”
“Lucien, please, calm down,” his wife pleads.
“I can’t calm down! Our lives depend on a girl who can’t follow simple orders!”
Ouch. That hits low.
Unfair, too.
She had sacrificed everything—her entire life—so they could have a roof over their heads and food on the table.
Hearing Lucien speak to her with such harshness felt deeply unjust. After all she had given up for their well-being, his words cut all the more sharply, and it didn’t feel right to witness her being treated that way.
Footsteps move quick toward the door, and before I can back away, the knob turns.
Miss Saint-Clair bursts out of the cabin, slamming the door behind her like it’s on a hinge made for drama—and stops dead in front of me.
Face to face.
I’m stiff as a fence post, standing there beside Joan the Mad.
“You heard all of it, didn’t you?”
Her black eyes shine wet in the dim light, anger and frustration fighting for space on her face. And something else—something I can’t read. Never seen her like this before, and I don’t blame her. Lucien went too far. Hell, even I’m not that mad anymore.
I nod, uncomfortable admitting it.
“I’m sorry,” I say, holding out the thing that brought me here. “Found this in the grass. Thought you’d want it back.”
Her hand goes to her chest instinctively, searching the spot where the necklace should be.
“Thank you.” She extends her palm, and I drop it into her hand instead of placing it there. For some reason, touching her feels… too personal. Even something as small as her hand.
“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost it,” she says softly. “That necklace means a lot to me.”
She wipes her tears away with the back of her hand and forces a smile—masking whatever’s still breaking underneath.
Questions crowd my head: Why’s it important? What does it mean? Where’d she get it?
But my mouth—traitor that it is—chooses something else entirely.
“Lucien’s overreacting,” I mutter. “I’d never throw you out. Any of you.”
Her gaze softens instantly, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and for one damn second, I feel… good. Too good. Which is probably why my next words come out sharp enough to ruin it.
“Doesn’t mean I won’t call you out when it comes to work, though. What you did earlier could’ve gone bad fast. You don’t need me to remind you what happened to your father.”
The words are barely out before I want to punch myself in the balls with a rock. Nice going, Walker. Real smooth. Give her proof you’re a patronizing ass. Mansplainer of the year.
She just nods, taking it like she always does—absorbing my rough edges without complaint.
I clear my throat a few times, grab Joan by the rope, and start walking her back toward the shed.
Halfway there, the guilt’s already crushing me.
“You wanna see how it’s done?” I call over my shoulder. “Figured you might not wanna be in that house right now.”
That smile again—bright and stubborn, the kind that sneaks up on you before you can stop it.
“Sure,” she says, limping a little but keeping pace beside me.
“It’s not easy having an argument in a house with no doors,” she says softly, half laughing. “I miss being able to slam one when I want to stop talking.”
“I’m not sure your front door would agree,” I mutter.
She laughs again. That sound does something strange to me. Kill always says I couldn’t make a pack of hyenas laugh if I tried—and up to this point, I’d say he’s right.
“Fair point,” she says, opening the gate to the pen so I can lead Joan in.
The second I let the goat go, she lowers her head and rams into me.
“Looks like she’s not just mean to me,” Cala remarks.
“No, that’s why I don’t keep goats. Too damn moody.” I shove the animal back just enough to make my point, and thankfully she gets it, trotting off to pick on the other one instead.
I refill the trough and scatter some feed. Cala watches quietly, her gaze following every move, but she doesn’t interfere.
“So… why keep them at all?” she asks eventually.
I glance over. She’s leaning comfortably against the fence, fingers idly brushing the necklace she nearly lost earlier, the gold and turquoise flashing faintly in the fading light.
Her hair looks heavy, straight, soft—those black strands catching what’s left of the sun.
Her eyes are still a bit swollen, red around the edges, but her features look calm now.
“There’s a rescue group in Dallas,” I explain. “They save abused or abandoned animals. The woman who runs it knows Lucien. When they’ve got nowhere else to go, they end up here. Technically, they’re supposed to stay short-term.” I pause. “That was a year ago.”
That’s the longest I’ve spoken to this woman since she arrived.
Before she can reply, Astro shows up, tongue out, tail wagging like the traitor he is.
“Well hey there, filthy boy!” she coos, lighting up like someone flipped a switch. She crouches to pet him, laughing as he licks her face.
My dog. Licking her face. Like—like—
Hell, I don’t even know like what, but I don’t like it.
“Excuse me? You two know each other?”
“Oh, yeah,” she says, smiling. “Astro’s with me most of the day. I probably talk to him more than to—”
She stops. Looks up at me. Whatever she sees in my face makes her words die mid-sentence.
“Is that… bad?” she asks carefully.
Yes.
No.
I don’t know.
I shake my head and cross my arms, jaw tight. She notices the motion, goes still, and pulls her hand away from my dog.
“No, I just didn’t know he wandered off the property when I wasn’t around,” I say flatly. Astro whines like a kid denied dessert the second her hands leave him.
And yeah, her hands. Long, slender fingers. Nails short and clean. No polish. No rings.
I don’t know why the hell I notice that.
“Come on, Astro.” I whistle twice. He doesn’t move.
Traitor.
“Go!” Cala orders, snapping her fingers, and the damn dog gets up instantly, trotting obediently back to me.
I can’t believe it.
“Good night, Miss Saint-Clair,” I mutter over my shoulder, walking away from that woman—girl—before I do something stupid, like stay.