My mouth opens. Closes. No sound comes out.
“You want to know what I think?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Yesterday morning, you tried to leave the meadow before I’d even said you could be there. Last night at dinner, you pushed food around your plate until I said something. This morning, you apologized for me making you coffee.” His gaze holds mine, unrelenting. “You’ve spent so long taking care of everyone else that you’ve forgotten you’re allowed to need things. And last night scared you because for thirty seconds, you let yourself want something just for you.”
The words fracture something I’ve been holding together with spit and willpower. I look away, blinking hard, because he’s right and I hate that he’s right and I have no idea how to exist in a world where a stranger can name the thing I’ve been hiding from myself.
“I have to check the chickens,” he says, standing. His tone shifts to gentler now but still commanding. “You’re coming with me.”
“I can’t—”
“You’re coming with me.” A statement, not a question. “Get dressed. I’ll meet you on the porch in ten minutes.”
He walks out before I can argue.
The chicken coop sits behind the barn, a rambling structure of weathered wood and wire fencing that looks like it’s been here since the ranch was built. Morning sun bakes the yard. The air smells like hay and grain and the scent of birds kept in close quarters. Eli leads me through the gate, a metal feed bucket swinging from one hand.
“Egg collection’s part of the seasonal position,” he explains. “Mornings and evenings. Sloane uses them for the lodge kitchen.”
I nod, scanning the interior. Twenty hens, maybe, scattered across roosts and nesting boxes. They cluck and shift when we enter, curious but not alarmed. It looks simple enough to reach into the boxes, collect eggs, and avoid getting pecked.
Then I see the rooster.
He’s massive, easily twice the size of the hens, with rust-red and gold feathers that catch the light like polished metal. His spurs are long and wickedly curved, sharp enough to slice through denim. When he turns his head to look at me, one yellow eye tracks my movement with predatory focus.
“That’s Ruckus,” Eli says without concern. “He’s territorial. Stay close to me, and you’ll be fine.”
“Territorial,” I repeat.
“He doesn’t like new people.” Eli sets the bucket down near the feed bins and starts scooping grain. “Give him a few days to get used to you.”
Ruckus struts closer, head bobbing, wings slightly raised. The message is clear: This is his domain, and I’m trespassing.
“What happens if he decides he doesn’t want me here?” I ask.
“He’ll let you know.” Eli dumps grain into the feeder. The hens converge in a flurry of wings and clucking. “Come on. I’ll show you which boxes to check first.”
He steps away, only three feet, only far enough to reach the first nesting box. And Ruckus attacks.
The bird launches himself at me in an explosion of feathers and fury, wings beating the air, spurs extended, his war cry splitting the morning quiet. I stumble backward, arms rising instinctively to protect my face. My heel catches on the edge of the metal feed bucket. The world tilts. Hay rushes up to meet me. I hit the ground hard enough to knock the air from my lungs, the impact jarring up my spine and rattling my teeth.
Ruckus lands on my thigh, claws digging through denim, sharp pinpricks of pressure that border on pain. His wings are still beating, creating a small windstorm of dust and straw. I’m too stunned to do anything except throw my forearm across my face.
Then Eli is there.
He scoops me up like I weigh nothing, with one arm under my knees, the other across my back, and lifts me clear of the hay and the furious rooster. The world tilts again, but this time I’m pressed against solid muscle and warm skin instead of falling. His heartbeat drums against my ribs where my side presses into him. He’s steady, unshaken. Like carrying me is the most natural thing in the world, like my weight is nothing more than a minor adjustment to his center of gravity.
Ruckus screams behind us, but Eli’s already carrying me out of the coop and into the yard. He doesn’t set me down until we’re clear of the fence, and even then he lowers me carefully onto a hay bale in the shade of the barn. His hands settle on my knees, warm and grounding, as he crouches in front of me.
“You hurt?” He scans my face, my arms, cataloging damage.
“I’m fine.” My automatic response to everything. “I just—he came out of nowhere.”
“He’s an asshole.” The corner of Eli’s mouth quirks upward. “You’re not hurt?”
“No. Just startled.” My pulse is still racing, adrenaline singing through my veins, but it’s not from the rooster. It’s from the way he’d lifted me effortlessly, like protecting me was instinct instead of choice. Like I was something worth protecting. “Thank you.”
His hands are still on my knees. Warm palms, rough skin, fingers spanning the width of my legs. One of his thumbs traces slow circles just above my kneecap. The movement sends sensations racing up my thighs. I can map every callus, every ridge of scar tissue, the strength in his grip. My breathing changes to shallower, faster. His gaze tracks the shift, then drops to where his hands rest on my body.
“Tomorrow, I’ll come with you,” he says, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Handle Ruckus while you collect the eggs.”
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