Chapter
One
LEONORA
Golden sunlight pierces the waning morning fog as my boots slice through powdery, ankle-deep snow.
In one hand, I hold a metal bucket heavy with fresh eggs—white, blue, brown, green. In the distance, the large coop is alive with fifty hens squabbling over fresh scratch and the preening of a grumpy, handsome burgundy Buckeye rooster.
A large sage-green shed with ample windows houses my prize show rabbit collection of American Chinchillas. Inside, I head straight for Missy’s large cage with a wooden nest in one corner. A couple of days ago, she started pulling fur—a telltale sign of an impending litter.
“How’s Mama?” I ask, opening her cage. The large, thickly furred brown rabbit hesitates between my hand and the nesting box. Protective. Another fantastic sign that the babies are here.
“So grouchy,” I tease, setting down the bucket and pulling the nesting box toward me.
I push the fur layer back with one hand to find six babies cold and stiff. “Dammit!” I check their claws for darkening. That means it’s too late.
I don’t find it. There’s still hope.
One by one, I tentatively lift a baby, check for signs of life, and then tuck it carefully into my bra. They’re icy against my skin, but this is far from the first time I’ve had to do this—an emergency measure for winter babies. Then, I turn carefully to my work, cleaning cages, breaking ice-crusted water bowls, replenishing feed, and giving my six does and two bucks dried, green clumps of Timothy hay.
Grassy, nutty smells fill the air as I work, humming to myself. I move more slowly, taking my time, ensuring the babies my body warms won’t fall out of my underwear or get crushed.
“Leonora Winchester?”
I jump at the grumbly voice behind me. “Yes?”
A man steps forward, standing in the doorway of the rabbit hutch. He tips his hat stiffly but doesn’t remove it. “Arlo Kincaid.”
Arlo Kincaid. My mind races for a moment, still caught up in rabbit mode. The new ranch hand.
He’s a good six-four, broad shoulders tapering into a muscular waist his tan Carhartt only teases.
He offers a hand, and I jump again, babies wiggling back to life in the safety of my bra.
“Oh!” It comes out on a puff of air as my hands reflexively grip my breasts to keep the little ones from escaping.
His emerald-green eyes round, his face darkening. “You’re… uh… You’removing,” he says like he can’t believe his eyes.
I frown, heading for Missy’s cage. “Can you”—wiggle—“uh… open this cage for me?”
He’s frozen for a moment, still unbelieving, and then he lunges forward. The metal hinge squeaks, but my hands are full.
“Now the wooden nesting box. Pull it closer.”
He complies, forehead creases deeper.
“Thank you,” I barely get out before I’m digging in my bra, carefully extracting each little writhing, warm body anddepositing it back into the wood chip nest beneath Missy’s layer of fur.
Arlo stands on his heels, mystified, heat climbing his neck.
“What?” I grumble, pushing the nest back into place. “Never seen a woman pull rabbits out of her bra before?”
His jaw tightens. “Can’t say I have.” His hands curl once at his sides, as if he’s bracing for impact.
Silence stretches.
Most men would’ve filled it with something crude.
