Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
"That chicken's possessed, I tell you!" Nettie's voice cut through the morning air before Wyatt even got out of the Tahoe. "Look at those eyes!"
Wyatt forced himself to focus on the scene in front of him. Nettie stood on her porch, hands planted on her hips, while Rita leaned against the fence. Between them, Henrietta the chicken scratched at the dirt, looking about as threatening as a dandelion.
His phone felt heavy in his pocket.
Lucy pressed against his shoulder from the backseat, her warm breath tickling his ear. She hadn't left his side since he'd gotten in the car, and the usual playful energy in her tail had been replaced by something more watchful.
"You're telling me," Sam said from the driver's seat, "that Bitsy - a full-grown goat - is afraid of a chicken?"
"That bird's got plans," Nettie insisted. "Evil plans."
Wyatt's fingers twitched toward his phone. He needed to check... something. The thought slipped away before he could grab it.
"She's not evil," Rita cut in. "She's just French."
"Same difference!"
The absurdity of the situation should have made him laugh. Instead, his chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a wire around his ribs and was slowly twisting.
Lucy whined softly.
"You gonna get out?" Sam asked.
Wyatt blinked. Right. He was here for a reason. Do the job. Act normal.
The spring air hit his face as he stepped out. Bitsy the goat stood near the old oak tree, chewing grass with the air of someone trying very hard to look unbothered. Henrietta strutted past, and Bitsy's ears twitched.
"Finally," Nettie huffed. "Been waiting all morning while that demon bird terrorizes my baby."
His phone buzzed.
The world narrowed to that single vibration against his leg. His fingers moved without conscious thought, pulling out the device.
Unknown Number: Did you like my gift?
The words blurred. Sharpened. Blurred again.
"You okay there, son?" Nettie's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Looking a mite pale."
"Fine," he managed. "Just tired."
Lucy pressed against his leg, her usual morning greeting replaced by something more urgent. More protective.
"Look," Nettie continued, "I need something done about that bird. She's plotting something, I can tell."
"She's a chicken," Rita sighed. "Not a criminal mastermind."
Wyatt needed to leave. Now.
"Hey Sam," he kept his voice carefully steady. "Mind dropping me at the rental place after this?"
Sam turned to study him, and Wyatt felt the weight of his chief's scrutiny. After everything they'd been through, Sam had developed an uncanny ability to read his officers. "Your mom ok?"
He shrugged, the movement feeling mechanical. "Yeah. She just needs me to pick up some medicine."
The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. Sam hade been a good boss. Wyatt looked up to him and he trusted Wyatt. The guilt of lying to him now felt like a physical weight.
Henrietta chose that moment to hop onto the lower rail and puff out her feathers like she owned the neighborhood.
Nettie pointed. “See? Posture of a tyrant.”
“She’s not a tyrant.” Rita folded her arms. “She’s a rescue. She was bred for show. She struts.”
“Bitsy is a lady,” Nettie shot back. “And that bird keeps dive-bombing her dignity.”
Bitsy took two delicate steps away from the fence. Henrietta followed, head bobbing. Bitsy froze.
Lucy let out a soft huff beside Wyatt, like she agreed this was ridiculous and also unacceptable.
Wyatt forced his mind into work mode. “Alright. Let’s handle this like grown adults supervising farm animals.”
“That’s why we called you,” Nettie said. “Animal diplomacy.”
Rita rolled her eyes but the edge had dulled.
Wyatt crouched by the fence line, scanning the yard. The smell of damp earth and feed sat heavy in the air. “Okay. Options.”
“Option one,” Nettie said, “you arrest her.”
“Wyatt,” Rita warned.
He held up a hand. “Option one is we create space. Chickens chase what they think they can boss. Goats don’t like surprises. We set up a visual barrier along this stretch—hay bales, a tarp, even an old sheet.”
“I have an old Patriots sheet,” Nettie said instantly.
“Of course you do.”
“Hey, it was a good season.”
Rita’s mouth twitched despite herself.
“Option two,” Wyatt went on, “we give Henrietta a new job. Scratch box on your side of the yard with treats. Keep her busy. Make Bitsy boring.”
“Bribery,” Nettie said, impressed.
“Enrichment,” Rita corrected.
Lucy nudged Wyatt’s knee. He scratched her ears, quick and automatic.
Rita shifted closer to the gate. “I can move Henrietta’s feeder away from the oak. That’s where Bitsy likes to nap.”
“And I can stop yelling ‘demon’ at breakfast,” Nettie said, grudging.
“That would help.”
Henrietta fluttered down and pecked the ground near a dandelion. Bitsy watched her like she was a ticking clock.
Wyatt straightened. “We’ll start with the easy fix. Move the feeder. Toss a handful of scratch over there.” He pointed to the far corner, away from the path Bitsy used.
Rita nodded and went to fetch a tin.
Nettie leaned in, lowering her voice like she was about to confess a felony. “Rita thinks I’m dramatic.”
“I think you’re both stubborn.”
She cackled. “Fair.”
Rita returned and scattered feed. Henrietta hustled after it, single-minded and suddenly unthreatening.
Bitsy took a tentative step, then another.
“Well I’ll be,” Nettie said.
Rita lifted her chin, victorious. “French or not, she’s food-motivated.”
Nettie sighed, then gave Rita a quick side hug that looked like it surprised them both. “Alright. I’ll try the sheet and the scratch box.”
“And I’ll stop calling her a tiny Napoleon.”
“Progress all around,” Sam said from behind Wyatt.
Wyatt hadn’t heard him walk up. The clack of gravel under boots had been swallowed by his buzzing nerves.
Sam surveyed the yard, then Wyatt. “So we solved the Great Chicken War of Stillwater?”
“Diplomacy,” Wyatt said.
Nettie planted a hand on Wyatt’s arm. “Thank you, young man, for saving my goat from poultry terrorism—”
“I didn’t—”
“—I am baking you a fruitcake.”
Wyatt blinked. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
Nettie ignored her. “Extra cherries. The good ones. You can’t stop me.”
Sam laughed once, short and surprised.
Wyatt managed a thin smile, then headed back to the Tahoe with Lucy at his heel.
He shut the door and the world narrowed again.
His hand went to his phone.
Another check. Another breath held.
Unknown Number: Did you like my gift?
No new messages. Still those words. Still the trunk waiting like a bad dream.
Sam watched him over the steering wheel. “Your mom doing alright?”
Wyatt swallowed. “She’s… she needs her meds. Can we stop by the pharmacy and then maybe you could drop me back at my place? I have some parts to fix my car with.”
“You should take the rest of the day,” Sam said. “Be with her.”
Wyatt opened his mouth to argue.
Sam cut him off. “That’s me being a decent boss. And that’s me not wanting you half-distracted out there.”
Sam glanced at Lucy. “She agrees.”
Lucy sat tall and alert, as if she’d been deputized.
Wyatt nodded once. “Okay.”
“Good. We’ll handle the rest.”