“So, you want to put this five-and-a-half-foot, skull-faced, red-eyed witch outside our fainting goat’s pen, to scare off this bear?” His frown still hasn’t wavered, though now it’s coupled with amusement.
&
nbsp; “No.” I set my jaw defiantly, daring him to challenge me. “I want to put one on each corner.”
* * *
Tree branches scrape the paint of our old pickup truck as I coast along Roy’s narrow laneway at five after six the next evening, having waited for Jonah as long as possible. I knew not to expect him. I know he’s out doing critical, life-saving work, and yet I’m disappointed all the same.
The dogs are barking when I pull up next to Roy’s truck and cut the engine. Muriel had Toby text to remind me to be here at six. She drove Roy home from the hospital at noon today—news that had me shaking my head. Those two have the strangest relationship.
I suffer a moment of fear and doubt before I squash it and hop out. Oscar’s menacing barks calm and his tail begins to wag. He comes close enough to sniff my thigh before darting back. Progress, I suppose. Even Gus has quieted, as if accepting my presence.
The barn door is already closed. I can hear the goats bleating inside. Even the chicken coop seems to have been tended to—chickens all gathered around what I’m guessing is a feeder, the ground covered in wood shavings. It would seem the evening chores have already been done. Maybe Toby came by?
With no sign of Roy anywhere and not sure what else to do, I climb the porch steps and knock on the door. There’s a creak and an unintelligible mutter, and the sound of feet shuffling across the wood floor before the door opens.
A day later and somehow Roy looks worse than he did lying on the barn floor, bloodied and covered in lumber. The gash on his forehead may be cleaned up, but it’s camouflaged by a mottle of purple and blue bruising that’s extended down to his left eye. His arm is bound with a temporary brace and secured in a sling. Beneath a plain white T-shirt, I can make out the binding that wraps his rib cage.
But probably the most concerning part about his appearance is his ashen complexion.
“Hey … Muriel told me to be here at six to help you with your evening chores.”
He grunts. “Already took care of everything.”
My eyebrows arch. “Seriously?” I remember Simon slipping on an icy sidewalk and breaking his collarbone when I was eighteen. He was bedridden and downing Percocet for weeks. My guess is Roy has a much higher pain threshold than my stepfather, but he also has multiple broken bones.
“Let’s not play this game where you pretend you wanna be here, Calla.” My name sounds odd on his accent. Or maybe it’s that he’s using it at all, rather than calling me a city slicker or “girl.” I wasn’t even sure if he remembered it.
“It’s not about wanting to be here—”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s Muriel. I get it. So, let’s you and me make a deal—if that old nag asks, you tell her everyone’s milked, fed, watered, and in for the night. It’ll be our little secret. Everybody wins. So, you can go on home and let me eat my dinner in peace.”
I spy the bowl on his table and the opened can of beef stew on the counter, next to a prescription pill bottle. Painkillers, no doubt. The sticker seal on them hasn’t been broken yet. “So, tomorrow morning—”
“Like I said, I don’t need help. I’ve managed on my own up until now. I’ll figure it out.”
His deathly pale complexion is worrisome, but I’m not about to stand on Roy’s doorstep and argue with him. “Okay, then … Have a good night, I guess?” I edge away.
“You like eggs?” he says.
“Uh … yeah?”
“I hate eggs.”
I frown. “Then why do you have all those chickens?”
“Hold up a sec.” He turns slowly, and I catch the grimace that flashes across his face. Hobbling over to his fridge, he pulls out two cartons and shuffles back. “Here. Got no use for ’em. They’re already washed.”
“I thought you sell them to the diner?”
“You want ’em or not?” he snaps.
It clicks—this is supposed to be a gesture. Of kindness, of gratitude.
From a man who gives nothing for free, according to Toby.
I collect the carton from his waiting grasp, noting how his face may have yet turned a shade paler in the slight excursion to the fridge. “Thanks.”