I shrug.
“Most people don’t have a one-eyed donkey named Pickle who screams if he’s left alone too long.”
That finally gets a real reaction out of him. Not a big one, but the corner of his mouth lifts enough that I know I cracked something.
“Pickle,” he says.
“Don’t judge him,” I tell him quickly. “He had the name before I got him.”
“Sure he did.”
“And the rooster,” I continue, ignoring that, “is named Sheriff because he patrols the fence line like he’s protecting the property.”
Cole studies me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with him or not.
“You live out there alone with all of them?”
“Yep.”
“No help.”
“Nope.”
His eyes narrow just a little, and the expression on his face changes from amusement to something more thoughtful.
“That’s a lot of responsibility.”
I shrug again, but there’s less joking in the movement this time. “They needed somewhere to go.”
“You’ve got a habit of picking up strays,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow. “You calling yourself a stray, Cole?”
“Cole.”
“Right,” I say, leaning back slightly and studying him again. “Cole.”
“So tell me something,” I add, tapping the neck of my bottle against the bar. “You ride into town, quietly handle three guyswho’ve been harassing my boss all week, and then sit here acting like you don’t want credit for it.”
His gaze flicks to Wayne down the bar again before returning to me.
“That bar matters to him,” he says.
I nod slowly. “Yeah.” A small pause settles between us before I add, “It matters to me too.”
“I noticed.”
I lean forward again, lowering my voice slightly like we’re sharing a secret even though the rest of the bar is loud enough that nobody could hear us anyway. “So are you going to tell me why an Iron Reapers biker suddenly decided Wayne’s problems were his problems?” I ask.
His eyes hold mine for a moment. Then he says quietly, “Mason asked me to take a look.”
My eyebrows lift. “Mason as in Mason-Mason? President of the Iron Reapers?”
He nods once.
“Well that explains a lot,” I mutter.
His head tilts slightly. “You know him.”
