sure as heck hope someone has been taking care of the animals. The lawyer informed me the neighbors had stepped in, and I pray he was right, because if the poor things have been starving, I’ll seriously lose it.
I spot a Blue Jays ball cap, and I tug it on to hide my mess of salty hair. I leave Jack’s room and head outside. The late-day sun shines down on me, and my stomach rumbles, a reminder that I haven’t eaten anything since the plane. Do they have restaurants around here? I drove through a small town on my way, but my sole focus was finding the farm. Perhaps I’ll head back after checking out the place.
The humid evening air warms my skin as I walk toward a big red barn and read the signs tacked to the side, listing all the goods sold in the orchard’s barn-turned-market. A broom rests against a rickety rail leading up a ramp to the main doors, but no way could that railing have passed any kind of inspection. I test it with my hand, and it wobbles. Tomorrow I’ll be looking for nails and a hammer.
You got this, girl.
And that’s not the first whopper of a lie I’ve told myself today.
Outside near one of the many barns, I find toys for the young visitors, numerous ducks bathing in muddy water, and chickens pecking the ground. Wow. I sure am a long way from home.
If I tapped my heels, would I wake up in New York?
I try to tiptoe around the puddles, but as we all know, luck is not on my side today. My shoes sink into the mud.
“Lovely,” I say, and the mud makes a sucking sound with each step. But nothing else could surprise me today. A squealing noise from the barn catches my attention. Okay, wait, maybe I spoke too soon. “Please don’t be a pig. Please don’t be a pig.”
My fear of small, squirmy pigs is irrational. It’s not like I’ve ever come across one, but when I was little and read Charlotte’s Web, the pig was nice and all but… I don’t know; it just freaked me out. Like I said, irrational fear. I negotiate the wet ground and peer into the dark barn. Something brushes up against my leg, and I falter backward just as a wiggly little piglet runs past.
“What the…”
My words die on my tongue when I turn and come face to face with a huge rooster. My God, what kind of steroids have they been feeding him? He’s half my size, twice as mean looking, and I’m sure he must be the local cockfighting champion. The little pig sidles up to him, and I swear to God he’s gone all smug-like. Oh, I get it. The rooster is your buddy, the muscle on the farm, and I’m a goddamn intruder.
As the two team up, I become painfully aware that they’re going to take me down in their town. Fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, and I bolt. Mr. Rooster lets loose a god-awful squawking sound and comes running at me. I’m still in heels thanks to my misplaced suitcase. Otherwise, it’s quite possible I’d tug on my flats and run the entire way back to New York.
But I can’t do that.
I rush around the red barn, remembering the broom I spotted earlier, and grab it. I hold it up, waiting for Mad Max to come at me, when the sound of a man’s voice behind me stops me cold.
“What are you doing?”
Broom still raised, I spin, and the guy takes one step back and holds out his right hand. “Whoa, easy.”
My heart races, then stops, only to race again. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The guy stares at me, his eyes narrowing like he’s trying to place me, but before I can tell him who I am, the rooster rounds the corner.
“Cluck, stop!” he bellows, and the rooster cools his jets. He squawks or barks or whatever it is that roosters do and offers me his backside as he trots off, like he’s the damn cock of the walk.
I take a deep, gulping breath and point with the broom handle. “What the hell was that?”
“That was Cluck Norris. He’s harmless for the most part, but you’re a stranger, and he thinks he’s a watchdog. He’s not supposed to be on your land. He knows that.”
“He knows that?” I spin around. Did I drop into an alternate universe, one where roosters communicate with humans? I shake