Chapter 8
Mystery with a Side of Muffins
Austin
When dawn arrived, it was a stark contrast to the city.
It was a rhythm I was starting to love. The rooster crowed, the birds sang, and there were no cars honking or neighbors yelling and slamming doors as they rushed out late for work or school.
It was a soft light that slowly flattened the shadows.
I was up before dawn had a chance to really settle in.
It was more of a habit than a choice. Boots by the door, notebook in my pocket, route fixed in my head: porch, side gate, barn, sheds, fence line, back gate, return.
The porch hinges whispered quietly when I eased the door shut, just as they should.
The gravel crunched under my boots as I made my rounds.
I took a moment to notice the dew on the ground.
It made lace patterns across the grass. Sherlock watched from the fence rail like a horned sentry, then lost interest and chewed the corner of a feed bin.
Side gate: latched.
I stepped back. A faint smear of mud on the bottom riser caught my attention.
It was fresh, oval, and too broad for Milly’s boots.
I jotted it down in my notebook, noting the angle and the tread.
Then I took a photo with my phone. I logged it mentally under the same column that already held: mailbox dented, grain sack cut, latch open, the note under the wiper written in WATCH YOUR BACK—still had my heart skipping.
Walking toward the barn, a feeling of being watched hung over me.
The barn smelled like a normal barn—damp hay and dust. But the normality ended there.
Inside, my toolbox sat open on the bench, the foam inserts showing an empty gap.
My hammer—fiberglass handle, worn smooth where my fingers set—was gone.
I stood for a beat, listening to the barn. The wind through the boards, a horse shifting its weight, hooves thudding softly against the dirt. But nothing out of the ordinary. I knew I hadn’t left that box open. I don’t leave things open. It’s not in my training or my nature.
I took the notebook out again. 0607—Toolbox open.
Hammer missing. No sign of forced entry.
I made a mental note to check the cameras.
I snapped the latches closed and crossed to the stall doors.
Secured. The back service door hook was engaged, but not completely.
Either one: they were in a hurry, or two: they were sloppy. My guess was the latter.
I set it right. The metal clicked and locked, and the door was secured.
On the way back, the sun showed a thin thread of gold across the porch. Through the kitchen’s glass door, I caught Milly’s shape—bare feet, hair knotted high, swaying in front of the oven. A bright, off-key melody drifted out when I opened the door.
“I love my muffin tiiin, I love my muffin tiiin, I love my muffin tiiin, please don’t stick this tiiime,” she sang to the pan, tapping it with a wooden spoon.
She had flour freckling her cheek and joy in her voice.
A blue sticky note clung to the cabinet: Muffins for Sue.
I watched for a while, taking in the moment, the scenery.
I could feel a habit forming if I wasn’t careful.
“If you ever go missing, I’ll just follow the trail of flour.” I smirked when she spun around, sending a small dusting of flour flying. “Morning,” I said.
She grinned, eyes green and wide. Then something knowing sparked in her gaze. Heat crawled up my neck, which was ridiculous. I wasn’t a teenager. I was being ambushed by a woman and a muffin pan. She placed her hand with the spoon on her chest, the spoon adding more flour to her chin.
“Don’t sneak. It’s rude to sneak. Besides, the flour is my insurance policy, that way I never get lost.”
I set my notebook on the counter and flipped it closed with one finger. “Sticking again?” I nodded at the muffin tin.
“Yes. But this is premeditation. I think the muffin tin has a vendetta against me because I dropped it one time. I burned my hand!” she said in defense, dead serious for three seconds before cracking.
The timer beeped. She reached for the oven with an old dish towel that had lost the will to live years ago.
Before she could burn herself, I reached past her.
My hip brushed hers, and my arms moved around her.
Not exactly a hug, but the smallest tension in my arms could change that.
The scent of her shampoo mixed with the scent of vanilla was captivating.
Mentally shaking my head, I lowered my voice, “Use this unless you want to burn your hand again and risk dropping the tin.”
Her body froze for a second, reacting to my proximity.
We’d done this dance before, and yet, my restraint continued to be tested.
She closed her eyes for a second, then slid the mitt on and pulled the tray from the oven, breaking the spell.
I suppressed a sigh and moved a few steps back.
Steam rose; the muffins domed cleanly, edges kissed gold.
She leaned in and inhaled. She was a mess and had no idea how much I liked it.
“Yes! They’re not burned,” she whispered, awed. “And they smell great!”
Her relief was ridiculous and contagious.
She turned to me, still close enough for the heat of the oven to brush my wrist. Flour still streaked her cheekbone like chalk.
Without thinking, I lifted my thumb and wiped the line away.
She went very still, her eyes wide, and her cheeks pinked.
She had no idea how alluring she was. The air fizzed between us, and she began to lean slightly forward.
I looked at her mouth and how she bit her lip nervously.
The moment was tight with tension, then—loud and shocking, the two of us jumped back a foot when a timer wailed beside us, breaking the moment.
“Recon report?” she asked, her voice low and unsteady. She knew I walk the property at dawn. I never call it that, but she thinks she’s teasing.
“Quiet,” I said, because most of it could wait. “Mailbox looks like it lost a fight again. I’ll straighten it after breakfast.”
Her brows knit. “Kids? Summer boredom?”
“Could be.” I reached past her for a cooling rack and set it beside the tray. “Most likely high school teens. We’ll tighten things up.”
“We?” She tested the word, and something warmed in my chest.
“You’re on muffin duty,” I said, tone dry. “I’ll handle the handywork.”
She laughed, then blew on a muffin and peeled back the paper. “Deal. After I feed Sue’s book club, I need to stop by the library, then Carl’s for, what’s the stuff called that makes the squeaky hinge stop squeaking?” She tried to hold back a smile.
“WD-40.” I raised my brows, hoping she was kidding.
“Right.” She snapped her fingers. “WD-40,” she repeated solemnly, then snorted out a laugh. “Want to come? We could grab lunch at Ethel’s. They have the fun red chairs.”
“Yeah. You order extra chicken.” I smiled to myself.
She blinked, surprised, then smiled slow. “You take notes on my lunch?”
“I take notes on everything,” I deadpanned.
“I noticed.” She offered me the muffin. “Quality control?”
I tore it in half. The muffin looked moist and fluffy. Lemon and blueberry. “Edible.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Edible? That’s your big review?”
I let the corner of my mouth tilt. “They’re good. Really.”
Her laugh burst out, and she squealed, bouncing in place. Bright and unguarded, the opposite of my quiet, watchful baseline. Milly flung her arms around me, quick and impulsive, and it tightened my chest. I folded her into my arms and held her until she eased back, cheeks flushed.
“They’re getting better,” she said. “You said ‘good.’” She did a little shimmy.
I stood there, warmth still clinging to my skin. I reached for the coffee. “Let’s get those boxed up. Then we’ll go to town.”
By midmorning, the ranch was awake in its own way: chickens scratching under the porch, Sherlock clanging his horns against the fence Austin fixed like he was teasing us before his big escape, Inspector sprawled in a square of sunlight that dared to hit my clean laundry.
I ran out to the barn to check the feed, and when I got back, Milly was already by the door, hair pinned up, planner in hand.
“When we go to town, can I add a few stops? We need groceries, I need to stop by Sue’s book club to drop off the muffins, and the stationery store.
If I don’t replace this notebook, I’m going to end up writing notes on napkins.
Don’t forget lunch, and maybe a quick look in the feed store. Sherlock chewed a hole in my sleeve.”
She rehearsed her errands out loud, and I caught myself smiling. “Let’s go.”
The drive in was blue skies and wide pastures, her humming threading through the truck cab like lace. She pointed out landmarks, rolled the window down, and let her hand ride the wind. She was carefree, looser than when she arrived.
“That’s the old mill Cassie swears is haunted. That’s where the fall festival sets up.”
She watched the world out the window, unburdened by the piling list of odd goings-on at home. The road unspooled easy.
Our first stop was Everwood Feed & Supply. I rolled my eyes as Milly insisted she could carry the fifty-pound sack of chicken feed herself. Chin tilted with stubborn pride. She lasted three steps before I lifted it out of her arms with one hand.
“Show-off,” she muttered, brushing feed dust off her jeans.
“Nope,” I corrected, winking as I slid the bag onto my shoulder.
Her eyes narrowed playfully, her mouth twitching like she wanted to hide her smile. “Fine. But I could have gotten it.”
She grabbed the same jacket she has now, with one less hole in it, and we were out of the store in 20 minutes.