“Humor me, Laney. Please.”
She huffs, but she hands over one box. Keeps the other—the one with the jewelry box—tucked against her chest.
Fair enough. Some things you carry yourself.
We make it halfway across the yard before Major Pecker appears.
He stops right in front of Delaney’s boots. He tilts his head, studies her for a second, then lets out a single, low cluck.
Delaney stills, the box balanced in her arms. “Hey,” she murmurs.
He leans in to brush his side against her ankle. Quick and deliberate. A claim, not a cuddle.
Then, as if that’s the limit of his social battery, he straightens, ruffles his feathers, and turns away, vanishing around the corner of the barn.
I blink. “That was… disturbing.”
Delaney exhales, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Yeah. We’ve bonded. He’s a rooster of few words.”
“You got the Major Pecker’s seal of approval,” Miss Maggie says from where she’s waiting on the porch.
Delaney shrugs. “Or he knows I’ll turn him into soup.”
Miss Maggie’s cackle echoes across the yard.
I bite back a grin and fail. “Even the damn rooster knows.”
“Knows what?” Delaney asks.
That you belong here. That you’re supposed to be mine.
“I was starting to think you’d gotten lost between here and Havenridge,” Miss Maggie says before I can reply.
“Twelve-minute drive,” Delaney says. “Hard to get lost.”
“You’d be surprised what these Sutton boys can manage.” Miss Maggie’s eyes are sharp, assessing, but warm. “Come on, then. Let’s get you settled. I’ve got coffee on and cinnamon rolls in the oven. If you don’t eat at least two, I’ll be personally offended.”
Delaney’s lips twitch. “I wouldn’t want to offend.”
“Smart girl.” Miss Maggie holds the screen door open to let Delaney into the kitchen. “Don’t screw this up," she mutters for my ears only as I pass.
“Working on it.”
The kitchen smells like home—coffee and cinnamon and something savory simmering on the back burner.
Delaney pauses in the middle of the room, as if she hasn’t stood here countless times before.
The worn wooden table, scarred by generations of Suttons. Cast-iron pans hanging above the stove. The window over the sink, framing the south pasture like a familiar photograph.
“Seems… warmer,” she says quietly, like she’s confessing something she didn’t mean to notice.
Miss Maggie beams. “That’s what happens when you see things with fresh eyes. Now sit. Eat. Then we’ll get you settled into your room.”
Delaney’s room sits at the end of the upstairs hallway. Twenty feet from mine.
I counted. Multiple times. Like a damn fool.
The wood floors creak beneath our boots, worn smooth by generations. Family photos line the walls: men in uniforms, kids on horses, Mom with a wide smile.
