Embarrassment flushed through me as my gaze landed on the cowboy from last night. The one who had seen me have a nervous breakdown and then chopped wood for me. The look of surprise on his face let me know that he didn’t realize it was me until I turned around. But he definitely knew who I was now, and I found myself looking at him more closely in daylight. Over six feet tall,with a sharp jawline, dark brown hair, and piercing blue eyes.
I scanned his flannel shirt and jeans, looking for a name tag. “Do you work here?” I asked, hoping we would both ignore the mental breakdown firewood thing and forget it ever happened.
He shook his head. “But you’ve been standing in front of the feed I need for about five minutes now, so I figured I would offer to help.”
More embarrassment flushed through me, as if that were possible, and I stepped aside. “I’m sorry. Layer, crumble, meat. It’s all too confusing.”
He smiled, and I noticed he had dimples in the sides of both cheeks, which gave him a boyish look.
Even though I moved out of the way, he was not making any effort to get whatever he needed. “How old are your hens?” he asked.
I shrugged and held my hands up to indicate how tall the black one was.
He stifled a laugh. “And do you intend to butcher?—”
“No way! Eggs only.” I stopped him, and he side-stepped me, grabbing the organic layer bag, plus the grit and oyster shell. “Free feed all three. Plus water, of course.”
Water!I’d almost forgotten to get a watering feeder.
“Thanks.” I hefted the thirty-pound bag into my cart with a grunt and then the two small bags of grit and oyster shell.
“My pleasure.” He grabbed a bag of feed for himself and tipped his hat to me.
Just walk away. That is good. We’re clearly neighbors, and I just want to pretend like nothing happened last night.
“You know I don’t mind chopping your firewood if you?—”
“I’m fine!” I barked and grabbed the handles of my cart, beelining it out of there.
He’d had to go and ruin a perfectly good neighborly meeting by bringingthatup.
I got a watering dispenser for the chickens and two large water troughs for the goats and Bliss. Five hundred dollars later, I was back home and setting it all up. One of the goats tore into the alfalfa hay like a rabid wolf, and I laughed.
“You will be called Wolfy,” I told the one with more black spotting. He bleated loudly in agreement. The other goat vaulted into the air and landed on top of the bale, eating away. “And you’re Jumper,” I told her.
Bliss. Wolfy. Jumper… Only about twelve more names to go for the chickens.
By the time night fell, I was exhausted, yet I felt a bit lighter than when I’d woken up that morning. Having these animals to care for gave me purpose, and it was not lost on me that it was all from James.
That night, I numbed my mind in back-to-back episodes of my favorite TV show. I didn’t want to think about anything, not James or firewood or those animals outside. I was just surviving, and once I found a job and was busy at work, everything would be fine.
Chapter Six
Seth
What were the odds that I would see the same woman from last night in town? I didn’t even know her name. I’d heard about her husband in the paper. The biggest scandal to hit Willow Harbor in decades. A robbery-murder.
I should have properly introduced myself, but she was so…closed off and hurting. I didn’t want to do anything to upset her. I never should have mentioned that I would chop more wood for her in the feed store. She clearly wanted to act like I’d never witnessed such a private moment, but I just wanted her to know I was happy to help. I was chopping my own wood every day anyway. What was another bundle? But she’d been so short with me and had run off, so I knew I’d offended her.
“We should go check on the new neighbor. I heard her husband was the one who died in the robbery. Awfultragedy,” Maggie said as she cooked dinner in my kitchen. Most nights, my grandmother came down and cooked and we ate together. And she had this uncanny knack for bringing up things I was thinking about.
I hadn’t yet had time to tell Maggie about my run-in with the neighbor. I knew from the photo in the paper that her husband was the one I’d seen in church the first Sunday they moved here. The woman, too. They’d seemed really happy together, and my heart ached for the young woman.
“She must be devastated,” Maggie said. “Those kinds of things don’t happen in Willow Harbor.”
I nodded. “I met her in town, actually. Seems like she just wants to be left alone for a bit,” I told my grandmother, who’d insisted I call her Maggie since I was five years old.
Maggie stopped stirring the stew and peered over at me. “Does she have family here helping her?”
