“Sounds delightful.”
“He runs a dog rescue behind the clinic too. Good man, even if he doesn't like to show it.”
I filed that away under 'information that doesn't help me right now' and refocused on Snickers, who'd abandoned the feed sack in favor of investigating the barn door latch.
“Anything else you forgot to mention? Surprise inspection? A goat rebellion?”
“That's it. Promise.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Rosie—”
“Drive, Walt. Barbara's waiting.”
He chuckled. “Tuesday morning. You'll be fine.”
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone and looked at Buddy, who'd wandered over to the fence and was watching me with his calm, seen-it-all expression.
“Apparently you have a doctor's appointment.”
Buddy blinked.
“With someone who'srough around the edgesbutgood at his job.”
The horse shifted his weight, unbothered.
“Right,” I said aloud, mostly to convince myself I had a plan. “Chickens. I should feed the chickens.”
Buddy watched me trek toward the coop with what I swear was skepticism.
The hens were already making noise—clucks and squawks that managed to sound accusatory. Like I was late. Which I wasn't. It was barely nine.
I unlatched the coop door and stepped into the chaos of feathers and indignation.
“Good morning, ladies.”
Twenty-four sets of beady eyes fixed on me.
This is fine. They're just birds. Small, judgmental birds who may or may not decide to lay eggs today depending on their mood.
I grabbed the feed scoop from the bin, trying to remember Walt's ratio. One scoop per four hens? Or was it two scoops per six? Maybe it was just “fill the feeders and hope for the best.”
That one. Definitely that one.
The hens swarmed my feet the second I started pouring, pecking and shoving for the best position. One particularly bold Rhode Island Red—I'd mentally named her General Cluckington—hopped onto the feeder before I'd finished filling it.
“Excuse you. I'm working here.”
She fluffed her feathers and settled in like she owned the place.
She probably does.
I topped off the waterer, collected a dozen eggs from the nesting boxes, and backed out before anyone decided my shoelaces looked edible.
The air had warmed noticeably in the time since Walt left, the kind of heat that promised no mercy by afternoon. The mountains rose around the farm like protective walls, their peaks still touched with snow even in June. Walt's land—my land now, apparently—stretched across the valley floor in a patchwork of green pasture, garden beds that desperately needed weeding, and the creek that marked the eastern border.
