Shannon Vannatter - Counting On The Cowboy

And his mother had been true to her word. She’d steered clear of him. If they’d both just stick to their promises, he could stay. Help his old friend out, finish the cabins, get Chase moved into his new house. But it would never work. He’d run into her eventually. A new handyman was the only solution. Though Chase hadn’t gotten any more applicants. Yet.

“You’re stirring early.” Devree’s voice.

His feet stalled as he glanced around.

Over by the goat enclosures. Her foot propped on the bottom rail of the fence.

“I could say the same thing.” He counted the goats—all eleven of them. Right where they were supposed to be—males in one pen, females in the other.

“Who could sleep around here with that stupid rooster on duty?”

“Aw, come on. Rusty’s just doing his job. And a fine one at that.” Just as he’d tagged her—classic city girl through and through. Even if she didn’t want to admit it.

“I’m gonna buy him a muzzle.”

The image made him chuckle. “I don’t think that works on a rooster. I take it you’re not a morning person?”

“I’m fine with morning. But this is the wee hours in my book.” The sunlight picked out honeyed strands amidst her cinnamon hair.

“It’s daylight.” He tore his gaze away, checked his watch. Six thirty-eight to be exact.

“Yes. But it wasn’t when he started up.”

A goat clambered to the top of the play station, nudged the current resident out of his way. “So that first day, I’d have never taken you for a goat lover.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you standing here watching them instead of holding your nose and running the other way?”

She laughed a little at that. “I’ve been here long enough my sinuses are burned out and no longer detect farm animal smells. And goats are kind of fun. It’s like they’re playing king of the mountain. I want to see who wins.”

“Knock yourself out.” He tipped his hat, continued on to the cabin. Typical, but with a few surprises.

“I’ll be there once you get it all evacuated.”

He hurried down the path, eager to escape the scent of her apple shampoo. A scent that he was starting to recognize as uniquely hers. Just one more reason Chase needed to find another handyman and Brock needed to go on down the road.

As he stepped up onto the porch of the fishing cabin, a thud sounded at the back. Not Devree. Maybe the ranch hands were moving the old furniture out today.

He turned the knob, but it was still locked. He inserted the key, clicked the latch, opened the door. Just inside, a tightly woven wire cage with the grid open, a dozen mice still inside. “Huh?”

It was a live trap for larger animals, not the kind he’d bought. And besides, he’d put his traps in the bedroom and kitchen. He shut the wire grid, keeping the rodents locked inside, hurried toward the kitchen.

The window in the top of the live trap he’d set revealed it was empty, the release open. The back door stood ajar. He hurried out, looked around. Caught a glimpse of a man wearing a baseball cap a hundred yards away.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

The man bolted for the woods.

Brock shot after him, down the trail, past the barn and into the pine thicket behind it.

The runner stayed off the trail. Briars clawed at Brock’s jeans. Some jabbed into tender flesh. The trees and undergrowth were so dense he couldn’t see the guy anymore, just followed the sound of his escape. Prayed he didn’t blindly step on a rattler.

A branch swatted him in the face. Eyes tearing up, he couldn’t see a thing. Still, he was caught off guard when he stepped in a hole, his knee buckling, and he went down. He jumped up quick, but it was quiet as he peered into the dense sea of green. Nothing, as he stood there and listened for several minutes.

Why would the man put mice in the cabin? He headed back toward the structure. It explained the constant infestation. And brought up a whole host of new questions.

* * *

Devree kept her eyes on the ground. Aware that snakes slithered in the cool of the morning and evening this time of year, she stayed on the path to the fishing cabin.

The rooster crowed again, close by. Surely, the guests hated him as much as she did.

“I’m up already,” she growled. “Can’t you just sleep in sometimes?”

A flash of red to her left. The rooster running at her.

She bolted for the fishing cabin, snakes forgotten, but the rooster cut her off. A flap of amber-colored wings, blue-and-green tail feathers, spurs aimed at her as he lunged/flew in her direction. She dodged, bit her tongue to keep from screaming. No waking Chase again or alerting Brock to come to her rescue. She scrambled around Rusty. He crowed in hot pursuit. Okay, maybe she wouldn’t mind if Brock showed up about now.

“You stupid bird, leave me alone.” She made it to the cabin porch, grabbed a broom, spun and jabbed it at the rooster.

He paced back and forth, looking cocky, crowed again, then turned and headed up the path back to the barn.

“Take that, you stupid rooster.” But as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t just leave him loose to attack guests. She followed at a distance. Not a ranch hand in sight to help her.

Instead of going to his coop, the rooster stopped near the goat pen, pecked at the ground. Though she’d never been inside the barn, if she could find some feed, maybe she could lure the foul fowl back into his lair.

At least he was the only one out. She rounded the goat pen, found a bucket near the chicken coop with seeds in it, opened the wire door of the pen, and jogged back to the huge bird. But not too close.

“Look what I got, big fella.”

The rooster cocked his head, strutted in her direction. Faster than she was comfortable with, but she still had the broom. She backed all the way to the pen, then threw the bucket inside. Thankfully, the rooster went in and she fastened the door in place.

She blew out a big breath, closed her eyes, leaned her forehead on the hand that was still holding the broom.

A noise behind her. She jabbed the broom as she spun around.

And almost gouged Brock in the chest.

His arms went up in a defensive stance. “I never would have pegged you for having such impressive rooster wrangling skills.”

She dropped the broom, covered her face with her hands. “Sorry. I thought Rusty had a friend.”

“I doubt he has any with that attitude. Whoa! Get back in there.” Brock scooped up the broom, darted around her. “No wonder he got out, there’s a hole in the pen.”

By the time she turned around, Brock had the broom clamped over the hole. The rooster flapped his wings and crowed, but at least he wasn’t going anywhere.

“That’s weird.” Brock knelt, inspected the wire.

“What?”

“It’s been cut. With wire cutters.” He ran his fingers along the slit. “See how it’s crimped—dull wire cutters do that.”

“Why would someone cut the wire?”

“I have no idea. But probably for the same reason they’d bring a live trap full of mice to the cabin.”

“Huh?” She shuddered. “Someone opened the trap you set?”

He told her about the extra trap and chasing the man he’d dubbed Ball-Cap into the woods.

“He broke in?” Her voice cracked. “Do you know who he was?”

“I couldn’t get a good look. He was too far away. But I don’t know many folks around here, anyway.”

“So someone’s been bringing mice to the fishing cabin. And they cut the wire, so the rooster would get out. Why would anyone do that?”

“I’m not sure. But once I get this wire fixed, we need to tell Chase. Can you hold the broom while I find something to repair the hole?”

“Sure.” She took the broom from him. As soon as he stepped away, the rooster flapped at the hole. But she kept him at bay.