I look him over, sizing him up, and then nod.
Once we’re in the truck, I have to ask, “So you have chickens?”
“No.” He puts the machine in drive. “I have a chicken. Cornelius Pecker. I was gonna call him Peckerhead, but Tobin insisted on something more elegant,” he says, pulling the truck forward, making a wide turn, and then driving onto the highway. “Sometimes I just call him Corny-Pecker. That’s enough innuendo, right?”
I hide my smile, unsure whether to laugh or cry for the poor rooster.
“Fair warning: he’s had the barn all to himself, so he might be grumpy when we get there.” He grins and winks at me. “Guess I should be warning Rosie and Stern instead.”
I shake my head, somewhat dumbfounded. “Why do you only have one rooster again?”
“Because he was the only chicken left at the feedstore. Someone dropped him off with a whole bunch. Didn’t want him. The rest sold out. They were going to make him into a casserole, so I brought him home. Let me tell you, he was all sorts of pissed when I opened the back of my truck and set him loose. He’s calmed down some since then…about four months ago. I’ll get him some friends later this spring. Eventually.”
I shake my head.
I’m not sure if hauling home an angry rooster makes him nice, or again, a total nutjob. Which makes me think of our current dilemma.
“Why are you doing this? Helping us, I mean?”
“The truth?” he side-eyes me.
“Please.”
“Because I’ve literally been snowed in ever since I found out what winters are like in North Dakota. I’m bored out of my fucking skull and desperate for company. Not the good Samaritan stump speech you were looking for, I’m guessing, but…”
For the first time in a long while, a smile automatically appears on my face.
I don’t have to work hard to fake it, to pretend like I’ve had to do with Dad for months.
It actually doesn’t fade off, either, so I call him out. “Nice, but try again.”
Ridge snorts. “What, you don’t believe me?”
“Nope. Nobody gets in a bar fight with an armed creep and brings two strangers to their house because they’re just bored.” I bite my tongue, wondering if I should be worried at his real motive.
Whatever it might be.
The sound of his laugh fills the cab. It’s a deep, booming, infectious chuckle that sets me oddly at ease and makes it even harder to keep that dumb smile of mine suppressed.
“Shit, lady. You’ve never been to Dallas, North Dakota before have you?”
“No, but I’ve lived in Wisconsin my entire life.” I shake my head. “It’s not that different. Lots of space between towns, farms, nosy townsfolk. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“You got a name to go with that mouth?” he asks, words that might sound rude coming from anyone else. But with the light tone, surprisingly, I don’t mind.
“Grace. Grace Sellers.”
“Well, Grace Sellers, what I said is the whole truth and nothing but. You’re welcome to believe me or think I’m about to chain you up in my pumpkin farm out back. Honestly, I’ve never lived in a place this barren in my life. I was raised a city boy all my life until coming out here.”
Huh. I don’t get the big city vibe from him, but maybe that explains Tobin. He must’ve come from Bismarck, Minneapolis, maybe Chicago.
“Why’d you move out here if you hate it so much?”
“Early retirement,” he tells me.
“Retirement?” I give him a puzzled look. “How old are you? You look way too young.”
“Thirty-three. You?”
I rake him up and down slowly with another slow, suspicious look.
It just keeps getting weirder.
How can some farm boy retire in his early thirties?
“Twenty-five,” I say quietly.
“Sweet age for a lot of things,” he muses, smirking to himself.
Ugh. I feel like I’d have an easier time with ancient Greek than deciphering this dude.
“While we’re playing twenty questions, how about you tell me what you’re doing in the middle of North Dakota, pulling Rosie and Stern through a blizzard, with a charmer like Dickless Pete on your heels?”
I try not to burst out giggling at his nickname for Pete.
“That’s…kinda a long story.”
“We’ve got the time. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re barely moving five miles an hour in this mess.”
I nod slowly. Maybe so. But my stomach practically eats itself at the thought of confessing our whole dilemma to a total stranger.
“Well, I would, but…it’s not my story to tell.”
“Your father’s?”
“Right.” I hold in a breath, not really wanting to direct him at Dad either, especially in his weary state.
Ridge’s gaze remains fixed on the road, staring through the billowing snow that’s coming down at a faster clip now than it was before.
“Fair enough. You’re lucky he’s still around,” he says. “My old man died when I was eight. Not that I’d seen him a whole lot before then—busy man, big company, maybe you know how it is—then my mother died a few years back.”