“Wait!” I shout, and I don’t know why. “Can I come?”
It’s not like there is anything dangerous in this cabin. In fact, there is more danger outside of it than within it, but for some reason, it just seems safer to be with Boone than not be with him.
His eyes shift down to my feet. “I’m afraid I don’t have any boots that will fit.”
I glance over at the rather neatly assembled row of coats and a single pair of boots left. A monstrosity of a pair of rubber muck boots that look as if they will swallow up my entire leg as soon as I slip them on. And they do, moments later as I’m stepping into them.
“What are you doing? I’ll be back in just a few minutes,” he mumbles.
“Hat, please,” I request, extending my hand.
A deep sigh creeps up his chest and escapes through his lips before he bends over, sorting through a small wicker basket. A fuzzy red hat is soon placed in my hand.
“Thank you.” I tug the crimson cap over my head, flattening out the blowout I’d just had done that should have lasted through Christmas. Not that it is holding up well. Almost dying will do that to a good hair day.
Boone already has a black coat ready for me to slip on. An oversized coat that matches the oversized boots. I thread my arms through the large holes, and I’m sure I look absolutely ridiculous, but even my toes relax as the warmth of the heavy coat seeps through to my bones. This is the kind of coat I should have been wearing instead of my cotton-candy pinkone.
Chapter Seven
“What in the world is this?!” I exclaim as I look over what Boone has called a chicken coop.
This is no chicken coop. It’s fancier than that glamping trip I took three years ago with my friend, Heather, in Montana. There are nesting boxes with curtains, as if Boone cares about the privacy of all his female hen friends. String lights hang from above, and there’s even a golden-framed mirror with two framed pictures of roosters beside it. Roosters! As if even the hens need to daydream about their prince charming or maybe more understood by chickens…their prince clucking.
“My chicken coop,” he says flatly.
“This is not a chicken coop. I have friends in New York that live in less luxury than this,” I argue while my eyes dart back and forth, trying to take in all the details. That’s when I notice there are golden plaques underneath each of the nesting boxes. Henrietta. Henny Penny. Amelia Egghart. Betty. “Did you name your chickens?”
I’m pretty sure his beard is hiding his blush, because the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip indicates that he’s not proud of thismoment, and now I’m wondering if this is exactly why he didn’t want me to come out to his chicken coop. “I mean, are they not supposed to be named?”
Then I see the name Goose. “Did you seriously name a chicken Goose so you could call a chicken something it’s not, just like Dog, your cat?”
“Let’s just collect the eggs.”
His lack of an answer confirms that’s exactly what he did. This man has a weird sense of humor. “You did! Which one is Goose?!”
He’s busy putting eggs in his coat pocket and refuses to answer.
“Oh, Goose! Goosey-Goose-Goose! Where are you, girl?” I call out while patting my knees. There are at least a dozen chickens in here, maybe more. My knowledge of chickens basically ends with how an egg is made. I’ve always refused to pick one up no matter how many times Nathan or Jenny, my oldest nephew and niece, beg me to. I just can’t get over how much they resemble tiny velociraptors, and the way they run doesn’t aid their cause.
“What exactly are you doing?” He exhales as he stands up straight, proving that this coop is not a normal coop. A man of his size should not be able to stand upright in a chicken coop. That’s supposed to be part of the inconvenience of being tall—having to duck. And now I wonder if there is a chicken named Duck in here, too.
“Just trying to put feathers to names,” I answer. “Goose! Where are you, girl?”
“I’ve got six eggs. Is that enough, or do we need to encourage one of these ladies to lay another?” Boone questions, trying to tiptoearound my antics. I can feel it in the way he’s holding back an eye roll to call attention to how ridiculous I am.
“Depends on if that lady is named Goose,” I clatter back. “Why exactly is this coop so nice, and how many chickens do you have?”
“I have fifteen, and it’s a very secure coop to protect them from predators,” he replies.
“Such as?” I prod.
“Raccoons, foxes, bears. You know, things that live in the forest. Now, can we go back inside and leave the ladies to their laying?”
“Bears? Like the one on your wall? Did that bear try to get in here? Is that why it’s now hanging in your house? Were you the proud protector of your hens? The rooster they’d been dreaming about since the only manly chickens they’d ever seen were hanging on their own wall?” I detail out, watching as Boone’s face conjures up a new fold in his forehead with every question I ask.
“The bear head came with the cabin,” he groans. “Are you done now?”
It’s at this moment that Goose decides to make herself known. Not by clucking or even strutting over to me, but by spreading her wings and attacking. I swear spikes protrude from her grotesque feet as they plummet toward me.
