I collapsed into a chair with a groan. “I want a cape for this.”
Austin’s shadow fell across me. He carried the last crate of supplies as easily as if it weighed nothing, setting it down with a thump. “I’ll fashion you one out of paper and duct tape.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Very official.”
Levi and Mason swung by on their way out, each grabbing an end of a folding table. Mason shot me a wink. “You’ve got half the town wrapped around your finger already.”
“Pretty sure it’s the muffins,” I said, but warmth bloomed in my chest anyway.
“Don’t let her fool you,” Levi added, nodding at Austin. “She ran a good ship. Even the donkey stayed mostly in line.”
Austin only tipped his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Don’t I know it.” He winked at me.
By the time their trucks rumbled away, the hall was empty except for Austin and me. I packed the last crate half-heartedly, and Austin wordlessly took the bandages and ointment from my hand, finishing the job in neat, efficient order.
Mason and Levi had helped clean and stack the tables and chairs before they left, leaving the vet supplies to me. Austin and I worked side by side, packing the truck and the last of the vet supplies. Every move he made was measured and deliberate. Typical military. Every time I tripped over my own feet, he was there catching me before I toppled over.
Finally, as we stood at the doorway, supplies packed, the last echo fading behind us, I blew a strand of hair from my forehead. “Not bad for a city vet, huh?”
Austin adjusted the strap of the supply bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes met mine. “You did more than not bad. I think you can say you wowed them.” Austin nudged me with his shoulder.
The words caught me off guard.
Something inside me went soft and shaky. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
So instead, I reached for the crate between us. My fingers brushed his. He let the touch linger for a beat, then smiled at me.
The moment stretched around us and accompanied us all the way home. My head was cautious, but my heart was already on team Austin.
Chapter 8
Mystery with a Side of Muffins
Austin
When dawn arrived, it was a stark contrast to the city. It was a rhythm I was starting to love. The rooster crowed, the birds sang, and there were no cars honking or neighbors yelling and slamming doors as they rushed out late for work or school. It was a soft light that slowly flattened the shadows. I was up before dawn had a chance to really settle in. It was more of a habit than a choice. Boots by the door, notebook in my pocket, route fixed in my head: porch, side gate, barn, sheds, fence line, back gate, return.
The porch hinges whispered quietly when I eased the door shut, just as they should. The gravel crunched under my boots as I made my rounds. I took a moment to notice the dew on the ground. It made lace patterns across the grass. Sherlock watched from the fence rail like a horned sentry, then lost interest and chewed the corner of a feed bin.
Side gate: latched.
I stepped back. A faint smear of mud on the bottom riser caught my attention. It was fresh, oval, and too broad for Milly’s boots. I jotted it down in my notebook, noting the angle and the tread. Then I took a photo with my phone. I logged it mentally under the same column that already held: mailbox dented, grainsack cut, latch open, the note under the wiper written in WATCH YOUR BACK—still had my heart skipping.
Walking toward the barn, a feeling of being watched hung over me. The barn smelled like a normal barn—damp hay and dust. But the normality ended there. Inside, my toolbox sat open on the bench, the foam inserts showing an empty gap. My hammer—fiberglass handle, worn smooth where my fingers set—was gone.
I stood for a beat, listening to the barn. The wind through the boards, a horse shifting its weight, hooves thudding softly against the dirt. But nothing out of the ordinary. I knew I hadn’t left that box open. I don’t leave things open. It’s not in my training or my nature.
I took the notebook out again. 0607—Toolbox open. Hammer missing. No sign of forced entry. I made a mental note to check the cameras. I snapped the latches closed and crossed to the stall doors. Secured. The back service door hook was engaged, but not completely. Either one: they were in a hurry, or two: they were sloppy. My guess was the latter.
I set it right. The metal clicked and locked, and the door was secured.
On the way back, the sun showed a thin thread of gold across the porch. Through the kitchen’s glass door, I caught Milly’s shape—bare feet, hair knotted high, swaying in front of the oven. A bright, off-key melody drifted out when I opened the door.
“I love my muffin tiiin, I love my muffin tiiin, I love my muffin tiiin, please don’t stick this tiiime,” she sang to the pan, tapping it with a wooden spoon. She had flour freckling her cheek and joy in her voice. A blue sticky note clung to the cabinet: Muffins for Sue. I watched for a while, taking in the moment, the scenery. I could feel a habit forming if I wasn’t careful.
“If you ever go missing, I’ll just follow the trail of flour.” I smirked when she spun around, sending a small dusting of flour flying. “Morning,” I said.
She grinned, eyes green and wide. Then something knowing sparked in her gaze. Heat crawled up my neck, which was ridiculous. I wasn’t a teenager. I was being ambushed by a woman and a muffin pan. She placed her hand with the spoon on her chest, the spoon adding more flour to her chin.
