Great. Add 'learn about chicken feather problems' to the list.
Cal was opening the driver's door when I reached the truck.
“Here.” I held out the envelope.
“Thanks.” He tucked it into his shirt pocket without looking.
I shifted the chicken in my arms, tucking her more securely against my side. “Quick question. This chicken, she's missing some feathers on her back. Is that normal? Or should I be worried about?—”
A low, strained moan came from inside the truck.
Cal's entire body went rigid. He moved before I could blink, yanking open the truck door and leaning in toward the crate.
“What—”
“Not good.” The words came out clipped. He was already climbing into the driver's seat. “I need to get back. Now.”
My stomach dropped. “Is Pudding okay?”
“Don't know yet.” The engine roared to life. “The chicken—check for mites. Call Sharon at the clinic if you need help.”
“But—”
The truck was already moving, gravel crunching under the tires.
I stood there in the driveway, one hand still raised like I was going to say something, the hen tucked under my other arm. She squirmed slightly, and I loosened my grip, lowering her gently to the ground.
“Sorry, girl. Go on.”
She fluffed her patchy feathers and strutted off toward the others, apparently unbothered by her missing feathers.
The dust from Cal's truck hung in the air, a faint cloud drifting across the driveway. I squinted down the empty road, straining for any last glimpse of taillights, but he was already gone.
Please let Pudding be okay.
The thought hit harder than I expected. I'd known that puppy for all of five minutes, hadn't even gotten a good look at it in the crate, but the image of those frightened eyes and trembling body wouldn't leave my head.
And that sound. That awful, pained moan.
My chest tightened.
Cal would know what to do. He was a vet. Probably dealt with emergencies like this all the time. The man had the social skills of a particularly grumpy rock, but at least he seemed competent at the actual veterinary part.
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how quiet the farm was. Just the distant clucking of chickens and the rustle of wind through the trees.
Mites. I need to check for mites.
Right. Because I had my own problems to deal with. A farm to run. Animals depending on me.
I turned back toward the chicken coop, forcing my feet to move even though part of me wanted to jump in my truck and follow Cal back to town just to make sure everything was okay.
Which was ridiculous. He'd probably think I was completely unhinged if I showed up at his clinic asking about a puppy that wasn't mine and that I'd met for approximately three seconds.
But who was I kidding? I was absolutely going to show up and ask about Pudding, and Cal was absolutely going to think I was unhinged.
Then again, that ship had sailed the moment I'd chased Chip straight into him.
Inside the coop, I grabbed the wire basket hanging by the door and checked the nesting boxes. Eight eggs. Better than yesterday's four, but nowhere near the twenty Walt used to collect every morning.
