Cynthia Thomason - This Hero for Hire

“I believe in the fair treatment of all animals, yes. But I don’t consider it my life’s mission. I’m a nonviolent person. I don’t throw paint on fur coats or anything.”

He didn’t comment, so she tried a different subject. “I used to live here, you know.”

“Yes, I remember you. We were in high school at the same time.”

She leaned forward and slipped her fingertips through the metal mesh separating the front seat from the back. “Really? I only went to Mount Union High my sophomore year. I went away to school after that.”

She studied what she could see of his face in the mirror; she hadn’t gotten a really good look at his features at the accident site. Maybe they’d been friends. She hoped his memories of her weren’t negative.

He’d removed his ball cap, giving her a view of medium-length, slightly mussed, light brown hair. His eyebrows, darker than his hair, were thick and even. And those eyes, so serious, so intense. He’d smiled at her a couple of times, once back by the truck, when she’d sneezed, releasing feathers into the air. She’d found his smile so charming, she thought she might make an ally of him. So far, other than a couple of minor kindnesses, there was no sign that this guy was anything but by-the-book. But he did look familiar. She wished he would turn toward her so she could see his entire face. Even so, she was certain they’d had brief contact at one time.

“Did we know each other?” she asked after her scrutiny had become obvious.

“Not well. I was a senior when you were a sophomore.”

“Can I ask your name?”

“Sure. It’s Boone Braddock.” His gaze stayed on her face for a couple of seconds, as if he expected a reaction.

She steeled herself not to give him one. Boone Braddock! He was the good-looking senior she’d coaxed into the gym equipment room. She’d had such a futile crush on him. After she’d kissed him, he’d just stood there as if it were the worst moment of his life. She couldn’t get out of the gym fast enough.

But if this man was a Braddock, maybe fate might be on her side after all. She’d try talking to him without bringing up the gym incident. Judging from how he behaved at the time, he probably didn’t remember the kiss anyway. He may not have even known her name that day.

“Boone, of course! Your family lives out on Glenville Road, and your grandfather has that nice level piece of property there.”

He glanced back at her. “You remember my grandfather’s land?”

Be careful not to give too much away, Susannah . She didn’t know how much Cyrus Braddock had told his grandson. “I just remember driving past and thinking it was a lovely piece of property.”

“Well, that’s us.”

Of all the people she could have run into her first day in town, she meets up with one of the Braddocks, a family member of the very man she’d come to do business with. It was time to convince this hometown boy that she was not a criminal, but instead a modern woman who cared about the environment and the future of current and coming generations.

She asked a couple of leading questions and learned that Boone’s older brother, Jared, lived in Atlanta, and his parents were traveling the country in a motor home. She refrained from asking about Cyrus Braddock, Boone’s grandfather. She didn’t want to appear too curious about the man she’d come to see, at least not until she’d straightened out any misconceptions this cop had about her. She’d made positive strides with Cyrus in their correspondence, but the trust they’d established could be broken if his grandson influenced him.

Right now she should concentrate on getting herself out of an uncomfortable situation. The cop was going to book her. Her father was going to want to kill her. And her friends were in Oregon.

When they were near the town limits, she reopened conversation with the intent of raising Boone’s opinion of her. Maybe he didn’t know about her deal with Cyrus. Maybe he didn’t remember the kiss. “You Braddocks weren’t into chicken farming, were you?”

“No. My grandfather has a few chickens on his land, but they’re layers, and mostly we just take the eggs to the shelter over in Libertyville.”

“Now, see?” she said. “That’s very noble. And I’ll bet you let your chickens run free.”

He eyed her again in the mirror. “We do, but like I said, we aren’t breeders. I don’t have anything against the folks around here who raise chickens for profit. It’s an important industry in this state. A lot of people depend on the income from their broilers, including Sam Jonas.”

Was he going to keep intimidating her with the name Sam Jonas? She knew she was in trouble. And did Boone actually admire Jonas’s approach to raising chickens? It wasn’t her place to educate this cop about ethical treatment, especially when she wanted to make a good impression on him. But she’d never been one to play it safe when simple human decency was involved.

She cleared her throat. “I understand that raising chickens is a big industry in this state, but you have to agree that the way those birds were being transported back there was in no way humane. Besides being crammed into crates so tight they couldn’t even spread their wings, the chickens had no protection against the elements.”

Boone looked up through his windshield. “Susannah, it’s sunny and seventy-five degrees today. I don’t think any chickens suffered from frostbite.”

“Have you ever been to a chicken farm, Boone?”

“Of course. It’s not pleasant, but the majority of poultry is raised for human consumption. The birds have very short life spans, so comfort isn’t the main concern for the breeders.”

“I’m not talking about comfort. I’m talking about conditions that border on extreme cruelty.” She was preaching again and toned down her approach with unemotional facts. “Did you know that chickens are the only animals not protected by ethical treatment laws? From the time a chick is born, it never sees the sun. It’s drugged and overfed and lives in filth in cramped quarters. That might not be so bad except the only contact they have with humans is when the catchers come to grab them by one leg to stick them in another even more cramped crate for transport to slaughter.”

She checked the rearview mirror and tried to find at least a hint of compassion in Boone’s eyes, but his features were hidden in shadow. “How would you like to be held upside down by one leg by a creature twenty times your size?” she added.

He glanced over the seat at her. “I think we ought to keep this discussion within the realm of reality.”

“Okay, fine. But here’s another fact for you. By the time the chickens arrive at their destination, nearly half are already dead from exposure or stress.”

“Really?” Boone rubbed his hand over his chin. “Makes me glad I wasn’t born a chicken.”

She gulped back a gasp. “Is this a joke to you?”

“I’m a country fella, Susannah. I see lots of chickens. I eat lots of chickens.” He wrinkled his nose. “Lately I’ve smelled lots of chickens. I don’t spend a whole lot of time worrying about their living quarters.”

“Or anything else that is medieval about our treatment of farm animals,” she said under her breath.

“What’s that?”

“I said I need to use my cell phone. Can I take it out of my purse, please? I’d like to call my father.” She figured he would allow a call to the governor, but she was lying about liking to make it. Dreading was the more appropriate word.

Boone stopped at one of the four traffic lights in Mount Union. He turned ninety degrees to see her clearly. Oh, yes, she remembered that face. Remembered it very well.