of animals to get your hobby farm started!” A man holding a leashed goat and pot-bellied pig called from beside a tree. “And a twenty-four-page PDF book to get you going.”
“I’m sorry, I just—” Chip raked a hand through his hair, bug-eyed.
His attire was different, more polished. He wore a suit that looked as though it couldn’t possibly have come out of that residence so dust-free. The five-o’clock shadow that typically accompanied his face was shaved clean.
“What is it you all are here for?” Chip’s eyes grazed the crowd.
Caught like a deer twenty paces from the blazing vest of a hunter in the bare winter forest, Bree halted. Held her breath. Prayed he wouldn’t notice her among the crowd.
She watched as his eyes roved over them one by one. Her chest tightened as the spotlight of his gaze drew closer. Closer and closer, bouncing off farmers’ hats and livestock and children and bread baskets and—
They stopped on her.
She stood in a scene surrounded by farmers and cattle, mowers and livestock. And she might as well have been naked.
Chapter 18
Chip
Unbelievable.
Simply unbelievable.
Whatever shred of belief he’d had that Bree Leake was a decent person after all was gone. The woman was out of her mind, sitting-in-a-stock-barrel-down-the-Niagara crazy.
Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, vehicles were pulling in. The cul-de-sac was lined on both sides with cars and trucks, the street congested with people and, bizarrely enough, farm animals. Stonewall Heights looked like the newest location for the Appalachian Fair. All that was missing was a Ferris wheel and a place to bob for apples.
Oh look, there was somebody with a basket of apples.
The man closest to him pressed closer still. He held up his guinea fowl. “I’ve got a hatchery with as many of these as you desire.” He eyed the living room. “They’re one-a-day layers, no finer fowl in the county.”
Chip noticed two men inspecting his bushes, another two giving a scrutinizing look at the gutters.
Two full-grown Old English Sheepdogs barked when Russell appeared at Chip’s leg.
Chip grabbed at Russell’s collar just before he lunged.
“I’m sorry,” Chip began, grunting as he planted his feet against the doorjamb and fought to hold Russell back. “Whatever you are talking about, I’m not interested.”
The man looked taken aback. “You’re—you’re not interested?”
Chip spoke firmly. “No.” His eyes cast over the group, landing squarely on the large man in suspenders. The insane woman hid behind him. “Please share the news.”
Chip yanked Russell back and tripped over him trying to push the door closed. Quickly, Chip twisted the deadbolt, cursing himself for putting the installation of blinds lower on the priority list.
In his pocket, Chip’s phone began to ring.
He didn’t have time for this.
The people stared through the window at him, and the man with the guinea fowl started to shout, “It’s a crock deal. The man’s changed his mind.”
A wave of disappointment and a few cries of injustice swept the crowd as they started to disperse.
One woman holding a duck under each armpit stared unnervingly through the window at him.
It was time to hide.
Holding firmly to his coffee, he snatched up his computer and went up the stairs to the safety of his room.
He peered out the window at the group below. It appeared that for each truck and car leaving, there was another pulling in. What on earth had Bree done?
Another loud knock sounded on the door downstairs.
He ignored it and opened his computer.
Frowning, he checked his email. Aside from about thirteen work-related emails, there was nothing.
He glanced down to the growing crowd and typed into Google, Abingdon VA Livestock Trade April 15.
The first few hits involved the weekly Abingdon cattle auction market report, and the Virginia Cattlemen’s Association covered the rest.
Trying to hang on to his composure, he avoided banging the keys with his hands.
The time on the phone said 7:16 a.m. He had approximately fifteen minutes to sort this out before he had to be in a meeting with the Bank of Abingdon—the only bank of the five he’d contacted interested enough to want to meet. Could he leave his house unprotected from these people?
From her?
In the yard, a woman was kicking his gutter lightly with her shoe. The elbow joint fell off.
His phone rang again, the number unavailable.
He snatched it up.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, I’m calling about your ad on Craigslist.”
An ad. On Craigslist.
He swiftly began typing as he spoke. “What about it?”