Now that my theft accusations are public, I’ll have to take extra precautions to keep them safe. I can only hope that Walker really did get rid of the evidence linking me to the auction animal heist like I think he did because otherwise I’m in big trouble.
Mrs. Bixby follows me to the pig pen, where Hammy and Peppa, my newest rescues, are wallowing in the mud. I found them at a run-down farm three towns over, where the owner’s health was failing, and he could no longer care for them. Peppa is carrying piglets, her rounded belly swaying as she nudges Hammy with her snout. With the babies expected in the next few weeks, I’ll be keeping a close eye on her.
I toss the food scraps into the trough in the corner of the pen and wipe my brow. “Is there something else you need, Mrs. Bixby? I had a long night, and I’d like to finish my chores so I can go inside and relax for a while.”
She clicks her tongue. “I heard about your stint at the sheriff’s office. Seems like you’re courting trouble for the sake of a few silly animals.”
I blow out a breath, not allowing her to get to me. “I’m not exactly sure what you heard, but my being held overnight was a misunderstanding. I have nothing to hide.” It takes all my self-control not to glance toward the shed. “All the rescues here are better off than they were before, and they’re well cared for, as you can see.” I motion toward Hammy and Peppa, trotting over to the trough, letting out happy snorts.
Mrs. Bixby narrows her eyes at me. “Let’s hope that’s the case for your sake. The truth always has a way of catching up,” she adds in warning, holding out the lasagna. “You’d better take this so I can go home and check on the stew I have on the stove.”
I have to fight back a sigh of relief as I accept the dish. “Thanks again. Can’t wait to try this one.”
She wipes her hands on her apron as she heads in the direction of her place. “See you soon, Birdie.”
I’m sure she’ll be stopping by more often now that she thinks she’s close to catching me in the act of harboring stolen animals.
To her credit, I’m sure being my neighbor isn’t easy with all the constant commotion. I do take in several animals each month, but at least I’m able to find most of them homes pretty quickly to avoid my place being too overcrowded. It’s kind of like being a used car salesman. I have to persuade people to adopt while making sure the animals are going to a better home than they were in before.
My rescue isn’t officially registered as a business yet, and I don’t ask for donations. I cover all the costs myself, which is the main reason I work at the feed store. The employee discount helps make stocking up on food and supplies more manageable, but it still adds up fast.
After finishing my rounds outside, I head back to the house, lasagna in hand. As I step through the door, I get a text I’ve been waiting for, and I balance the casserole in one hand to read it.
Tess: Good morning, sweet girl.
Birdie: Morning. How’s Mama today?
Tess is one of my mama’s nurses and checks in with me after every shift, so she must have worked overnight and is heading out for the day.
Tess: She slept well but woke up with leg pain.
Tess: I gave her a mild muscle relaxer and a berry smoothie for breakfast.
Birdie: Thanks for taking such good care of her. Planning to drop by this afternoon.
Tess: She’ll be so happy to see you.
Going over to my parents’ house to see Mama is the highlight of my week. I visit as often as possible, though weekends give me the most time with her. As an only child, we’re especially close, sharing everything from small worries to my biggest milestones. When she got sick, our roles reversed, and I stepped up to help take care of her, making sure she made it through doctors’ visits, managed her medications, and stayed on top of her physical therapy.
When I reach the kitchen, I find Nugget, my chicken, sitting on an orange in the fruit bowl.
“Miss me?” I ask, stepping closer to the table to stroke her back. “Hatch anything while I was gone?”
Nugget responds with a low trill, leaning into my hand as she fluffs her feathers, pretending she didn’t hear my teasing accusation.
She hasn’t laid a single egg since I brought her home from Mr. Grady’s where the other hens were pecking on her, and she was about to be executed. My friends and I staged a covert chicken rescue, and Nugget and I have been inseparable ever since.
For the first few days, I kept her inside so she could regain her strength. When I tried moving her to the coop outside, she’d march up to the front porch every night and squawk at the top of her lungs until I let her back in. After several neighbors complained about the noise, I caved and installed a doggy door so she could have free rein of the house.
Unlike most chickens, she prefers sleeping in until noon before venturing outside. She spends her afternoons pecking around the yard and exploring, then sleeps inside on whatever inanimate object she’s decided she’s going to attempt hatching that night.
She’s already dozed off again, and that’s all the encouragement I need to follow her lead. I’m taking full advantage and grabbing some sleep while I can—before I’m hit with the full weight of my reality again.
Stalking Your Crush: A Beginners Guide
Idrop the last of five bags of mealworms into my cart before pushing it to the end of the aisle, craning my neck to the front of Cattleman’s Feed & Supply, where Birdie stands behind the register. She’s wearing pink overalls with a white T-shirt underneath and the store’s standard-issue navy-blue apron tied around her waist. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, a strawberry-print bandana wrapped around her head. She gives the customer she’s helping one of her trademark smiles as she scans and bags their items with practiced efficiency.
It’s only been twenty-four hours since I saw her at the sheriff’s office, but I couldn’t wait any longer to see her again—no matter how much grief Heath will give me later for buying more feed when we’re already well-stocked.
