Page 25

It didn’t help knowing that by the time I got back, she would be wide awake, calling me Sebastian, and not letting me anywhere near her magical tits.

Holly was already at the hen coop when I arrived. Mother Clucker poked her head out of the red checkered baby sling Holly wore tied to her torso.

“Seb,” she greeted me.

“Holly,” I returned. “Is Mother Clucker here for a playdate?”

“Don’t be silly. You know she doesn’t get along with her own kind.” Holly stroked the hen’s beak with her knuckle. “It’s good for her to see how others live when they have to earn their keep. It keeps her grateful.”

I could never tell when Holly was joking. She only laughed when someone was hurting.

“You’re not going to take her into the broiler barn, are you?” I asked.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

I shook my head. Fucking sociopath. She probably fed Mother Clucker potpie as a special treat.

“What?” she pressed.

“Don’t worry about it, Holly Jolly. Stick with us, and maybe one day you’ll be a real girl.”

“Oh, because y’all make it look so fun?” she drawled, like she hadn’t been born and raised in Seattle. “And what did I tell you about calling me that? I swear, it’s like you want to die.”

I smirked, arms wide like I was daring her. “Maybe I do.”

“I know.” A smile flashed across her face like lightning in a heat storm. “That’s why I let you live.”

It was really hard to tell when Holly was joking.

“Here they come,” I said as Ezra and Tyrone ambled sleepily down the dirt path from the guest cabins. “Pretend to be normal.”

Holly didn’t answer, but she rearranged her expression slightly into the bored half-smile of a friendly barista; only on her, it made me think of a haunted marionette doll. Creepy as hell. That was my fault for telling her to be something she clearly wasn’t.

“Morning,” Tyrone said.

Ezra shifted on his feet and said nothing. I didn’t take that personally. PTSD was a catch-all diagnosis for a hodgepodge of symptoms that never manifested exactly the same way in any two people. Panic attacks were common. So were depression, anger, and recklessness. Most of our guests had been to inpatient or outpatient therapy before landing at Mercy River Ranch. They weren’t here for psychiatric treatment. They were here to take a breath. Some stayed for a weekend, and others needed a bit longer.

Tyrone was here for two weeks. Ezra would be staying at Mercy River for three months.

“You both sleep all right?” I asked.

“Like a baby,” Tyrone said, but there were dark circles under his eyes.

Ezra simply shrugged.

I didn’t push. “All right. If you need anything, holler.”

Handing a basket to each of them, I said, “We have two chicken barns. That’s the broiler barn over there, where we raise the chickens that will end up on your dinner plate. Over here are the layers. We keep them separate as they serve different purposes, and the broilers tend to get aggressive. Neither flock is truly free-range, as you can see, and that is because of predators. It’s a big enough space for them to run around in and act like chickens. At night, they get locked up in the coop. When they’re in their yard, the mesh fence protects them from most predators, and the shrubs provide cover. And if a hawk gets too close, we have Birdie.”

Holly tucked her fingers into her lips and let out a shrill whistle. Birdie, our Great Pyrenees, came galloping from the far side of the broiler barn.

“Good girl.” I rubbed her big white head affectionately. “She takes her job as chicken guardian seriously.”

Ezra perked up the tiniest bit and held out his hand for Birdie to sniff. Animals had a way of getting through when people couldn’t.

Holly went in first, sliding open the door to the coop so the hens could run into the yard. It made gathering the eggs easier without a hen fussing over the theft of her babies. The sun was slowly inching its way into the valley. Days were growing shorter, which meant less egg production. Supplemental lighting in the coop helped even it out and kept the ranch self-sufficient.

The first nesting box had four eggs: two brown, one blue, and one white. I picked up a brown egg and gave it a quick once-over before putting it in my basket. “We check for eggs every morning, which means most of the eggs will be in good condition, but it’s still a good idea to look them over. We discard anything with a crack, even if it’s not leaking. Our hens lay eggs of all different colors, but you should pay special attention to the white eggs. Some of them are fake. It helps the hens feel safe about laying eggs. If they see eggs in a box, they think it must be a good spot to lay a couple more.”