“Hey!” I say, wandering toward the aisle with tools.
“You look like you fought a scarecrow.”
“That scarecrow started it.”
She laughs.
I grab hinges, nails, and a small bag of bolts I’m ninety percent sure I’ll need later.
“Farm doing okay?” Linda asks.
“Pickle tried to eat a watermelon rind the size of his head yesterday and got offended when it wouldn’t cooperate.”
“Sounds about right.”
I toss the bolts on the counter.
“Oh,” Linda adds, leaning forward slightly. “Wayne said you had some trouble at The Rust Nail last night.”
Word travels fast in small towns. “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” I say lightly.
Her eyebrow lifts. “And the biker?”
Ah, there it is. I pretend to inspect the label on the bolts while she watches me. “What biker?” I say.
Linda just stares, then she smiles slowly. “Oh honey,” she says. “That’s the worst poker face I’ve seen since my cousin tried to lie about stealing a goat.”
“Fine,” I admit. “Yes. A biker handled the idiots bothering Wayne.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What did he look like?”
I shrug. “Tall. Dark. Murdery.”
Linda laughs. “That sounds like half the Iron Reapers.”
“Yeah well,” I say, grabbing my bag. “This one had a name.”
“Oh?”
I head for the door. “Cole,” I say over my shoulder.
Linda’s grin grows wider. “Mm-hmm.”
I pause in the doorway. “What does that mean?”
“Oh nothing,” she says sweetly.
That definitely means something.
I step back out into the sunlight and climb into the truck again, shaking my head. Small towns are ridiculous. Everyone knows everything before you do.
Daisy thumps her tail when I start the engine. “Don’t look at me like that,” I tell her. She tilts her head. “Nothing happened.” She clearly doesn’t believe me. Neither do I.
Because while I drive back toward the farm with a truck full of supplies and a donkey waiting to scream at me again…
