I can’t argue with that. As long as there are animals out there being abandoned or mistreated, I’ll keep saving them, legal consequences aside.
“Guess I’d better enjoy my freedom while it lasts, starting with a long nap after everyone gets their breakfast.” I open the car door. “Seriously, though. Thanks for coming to get me.”
“Always,” Briar replies.
“Of course. We’re your ride-or-dies, and you’ll never find anyone better,” Charlie adds with a cheeky grin.
“Love you both. I’ll see you later.”
I climb out of the SUV and wave goodbye as Charlie swings the car around and heads back down the long driveway.
Once they’re out of sight, my shoulders slump, the weight of the night pressing down on me. As much as I want to go inside and crawl into bed, dozens of hungry mouths are waiting for breakfast. At least it’s my day off. I’m not sure I’d survive dragging myself into work on so little sleep.
After retrieving a bucket of food scraps from the house, I swing by the shed out back. I’d planned to fix it up someday, but I’m not exactly handy, and with everything else on my plate, it got put on the back burner indefinitely. The roof is sagging, and several slats are missing on one side which is patched with plywood, but it’s done the job so far. However, with its current occupants, I’ll eventually have to come up with a better long-term solution.
Someday, I’d like to buy the fifty acres behind mine. It’s been on the market for years because of the rough road access and its remote location—neither of which fazes me. There’s even a big red barn on the property that’s in functional condition andwould be ideal for housing more rescues. The problem is, Mr. Grady refuses to sell it in pieces, and there’s no way I could afford the current price, even if I worked at the feed store until I was old and gray. I’ve accepted that it’s a pipe dream, but that’s okay. I’ll make do with what I have—I always find a way.
I leave the food scraps outside before slowly opening the shed door, the hinges groaning in protest, and poke my head around the corner to make sure no tails or hooves are in the danger zone as I fully open it.
Daisy is curled up in the far corner with her head resting on a pile of hay. She’s a one-year-old Hereford cow with a shy demeanor, preferring to observe before she interacts with anyone. Her tiny, knobby horns are just starting to peek out from her fuzzy ears, and the patch of white on her forehead contrasts with her deep brown eyes.
“Good morning, sweet girl,” I coo.
On the other side of the shed, Peaches the donkey has her eyes fixed on me like she’s about to file a formal complaint with PETA. She’s dappled in shades of gray and tan as if the sun faded her coat unevenly, and her mane juts up along her neck in a stubborn ridge no matter how often I brush her. She was skin and bones when I brought her home but has filled out nicely in the months since.
“Sorry I’m late,” I murmur, resting my palm against her warm neck. “I was caught up in town, but don’t worry, I’m here now, and no one is taking you away from me.”
Her unimpressed gaze doesn’t waver. Whatever happened to Peaches before I rescued her left her with trust issues and zero interest in reassurances that aren’t backed up with food.
Once I’ve laid out fresh hay, water, and some homemade oat treats, I retrieve a bucket of scratch grain from the corner and head out to check on the other animals.
I’ve just closed the door when I hear a shrill voice coming from my driveway.
I glance up to find my neighbor Mrs. Bixby, striding across my lawn toward me. She’s a spry woman in her seventies, with silver hair pulled into a loose bun, oversized glasses sliding down her nose, and a floral apron over her faded denim dress.
“Whoo-hoo,” she calls out, waving.
I give the shed door an extra tug, making sure it’s shut tight. The woman has a bad habit of dropping by unannounced and using her visits as an excuse to snoop around my property. She’s been very vocal about her disapproval of my unofficial animal sanctuary within city limits. She won’t rest until she has enough evidence to get it shut down, which would force me to remove the animals from my property.
I plaster on a faux smile, returning her wave. “Hi, Mrs. Bixby.” I lift the bucket of food scraps with my free hand and start toward the pond, glancing back to make sure she’s following, putting as much distance between us and the shed.
The ducks and geese come waddling toward me, eagerly honking and quacking as I toss them handfuls of scratch grain. Most of them are from rescues in surrounding towns that didn’t have the capacity, and I couldn’t deny giving them a better home. They live in a wooden coop I got on clearance at the feed store that’s near the pond.
“You’re not an easy woman to track down,” Mrs. Bixby pants, pushing her glasses up her nose.
I toss another handful of grain before turning to her. “What can I do for you?”
“Came by to drop this off.” She lifts a casserole dish. “I made you another one of my famous veggie lasagnas.”
“That was very thoughtful of you.”
“It’s no trouble,” she says, her eyes darting around my yard, clearly looking for something. “I know how much you like them.”
Unfortunately, she’s right. I wouldn’t touch the food she brings based on principle alone if she weren’t such a fantastic cook. Good vegetarian food is hard to come by in a small town where everyone seems to survive on meat and potatoes.
However, I’m aware that the woman doesn’t do anything out of the goodness of her heart. She has an agenda, and my guess is she got word about my overnight stay at the sheriff’s office and is looking for Peaches and Daisy. There’s a reason I keep them in the shed during the day, only letting them venture outside to graze once she’s asleep.
To make matters worse, she’s convinced my dad being the sheriff earns me special treatment, which only fuels her resentment toward me. She’s always poking around and wouldn’t think twice about reporting me if she ever does find Daisy and Peaches.
