Aubrey #3
“That’s very kind of you,” I said. Mr. Yates hiked up his pants—thank goodness—his butt crack had been hanging out all morning and was surely windburned by now.
Then he rubbed at his nose with a thick finger.
Hoyt slid an arm around my shoulder. Mr. Yates gave us a confused look.
Perhaps he had never seen a gay couple before.
We saw him off with a wave then I turned to gaze up at Hoyt. “Boyfriend?”
“Hmm, yeah, he was looking at your ass. I didn’t like that.”
“Oh posh, he’s straight. The man has several ex-wives. He was probably just trying to figure out where he could find paisley sleep pants. But I don’t mind using the B-word as long as you don’t.”
“I don’t mind at all.”
We kissed for a few lovely moments. “Mmm, I like kissing you and would love to keep doing so but we have hens to pick up and pasta with your family! Let’s go!”
I ran to the house, his hand in mine, tugging him along.
He slowed me down a great deal when I was trying to change, but after a yummy hand job that left me speechless, we finally made it out the door with the live trap I’d used to catch Ruggerio in the back of his pickup.
The day was bluebird-pretty. The sun warm, the truck bouncy, and the ride out to the countryside west of town filled with old country songs that Hoyt sang along to.
He was slightly offkey but I didn’t mind.
Nor did I mind the flurry of feathers when we got the girls from an old woman with about fifty chickens, all with peeps running around her yard.
I realized two valuable things on that trip.
One was that Hoyt had my heart in his rough hands.
Two was that wearing a suit to wrangle chickens was foolish. Lessons learned.
Still it was worth some dander on my tie and some poo on my jacket. The girls rode in the back of the truck in a dog crate borrowed from someone named Gunner at Snow Creek Ranch, under a tarp to keep the wind from ruffling their feathers too badly.
“You look happy,” Hoyt commented as we pulled into my drive.
“I am! I am quite happy.” So happy I was close to bouncing. Then I spied Ruggerio in the front window. I never cats knew could scowl so well. “Poor Ruggerio. I wonder if he would walk on a leash and harness? He looks lonely.”
“You could get him another cat to keep him company if you don’t want him to be an outdoor cat,” Hoyt suggested as the old truck dropped into Park with a lurch. “Sorry. Transmission slips once in a while.”
“That sounds uncomfortable.”
“For the truck is it.” He gave me a silly smile so I gave him a kiss. “You ready to tote these ladies to their new home?”
“Yes, very much so.”
And so the introductions were made. Bob was thrilled. He ran over to the girls to introduce himself. Two of the hens were mildly impressed with him but more interested in the scratch grain in a dish. The third, Sylvia, wanted nothing to do with my handsome rooster.
“Give her time,” Hoyt said when I began fretting. “New coop, new surroundings, new rooster giving her the eye. She should come around in a few days. If not then she won’t and he’ll just have to settle for two lovers.”
“I’m happy with one myself,” I cooed, dipping under his arm then rising to my toes for a smooch.
“Mm, me too. You want to go tidy up before we head to the ranch.”
“Goodness yes! I cannot show up for dinner with your brother with feathers in my pocket and poo on my tie.”
“He’ll like you no matter what you come to the table looking like.”
I stole one more smooch then dropped down from my toes. “Not as much as I like you, mind.”
“Sweet talking poets get me every time.” I play-swooned into his arms. With a strength that shocked me he swept me off my feet. Literally. “Hoyt! Your shoulder! The therapist told you not to lift heavy things!”
“Darling, you’re light as a raindrop.”
“Goose.” I giggled as he carried me inside.
Ruggerio was greatly displeased with us and showed it with a cold furry shoulder.
I’d buy him a leash and harness tomorrow after work.
Perhaps he would take right to it. Perhaps he would not.
If not then I’d go to plan B and look for a kitten to keep him company.
I hated to deprive him of the great outdoors though as he had been an outdoor cat for years.
Maybe I could get Mr. Yates to build me a cat patio when he came out to lay a concrete pad in the coop.
The pad would help keep predators from digging under the walls to kill Roberto and his ladies as they slept.
Who knew there was so much involved in being a good poultry person? Not me!
After a shower I found a clean suit, a demure blue with white pinstripes, that I paired with a soft blue shirt. A crisply ironed lavender tie completed the look.
“Should I wear a hat? I have a few,” I asked Hoyt as he paced the cottage eager to be on his way I assumed. “None as spiffy as yours, or what your brother and his beau will be wearing, but I have a sharp blue bowler that would give me a British gentleman-coming-to-tea look. What do you think?”
“I think you look more than fine without a hat.”
“Hmmm.” I pondered if he were being honest or just eager to get moving. It was close to dinner time. “Okay, I’ll not wear a hat today. Will I get to see some horses and cows.”
That brought a smile to his face. “Sugar, you can even pet a horse if you want.”
Oh I wanted. I so wanted!