Sally: Autumn Storms (F&L Story #4)

Sally: Part 14

Part 14

Saturday, October 16, 2010.

Very early the next morning, with only two hours of decent sleep under his belt, Wilson dragged his feet toward the chicken houses, feeling naked without his hat. But he couldn’t find the darn thing this morning and had a sick feeling that it was still up in Sally’s kitchen. The horses and ponies had been fed and cared for, and with Sally still out hunting, he'd have to feed the chickens, too. Not his favorite chore. The hen houses smelled to high heaven, and there wasn't a day yet that he didn't come away without slimy poop all over his boots and feathers stuck to his clothes.

Yawning violently, he poured the mash and pellet mixture into the long troughs at the back end of the hen house. This particular breed of poultry, the New Hampshire Reds, was Sally's meat stock. The coop was designed with an interior, open arched room and an outside, enclosed yard. The chickens came and went freely though a series of flap doors on the other end of the long room, only being locked inside during the colder nights. From the size of the hens, Sally claimed that they would be fully grown in another two weeks and shipped off to a special processing center only accessible by independent butchers and restaurant owners.

Wilson had to admit that Sally's chicken operation was pretty sweet. Her meat producers grossed a sizable income due to the quality of the meat, and her egg-layers were in high demand at the farmer's market, according to Mr. North, who Wilson met earlier this week. If she thought on a larger scale, her chicken raising methods would be even more profitable. Then there were the specialty fowls currently living a life of luxury in a climate-controlled, chicken hotel. In the springtime, she'd start allowing the cocks to breed with the hens and incubate the eggs in specialized equipment in her home.

Those birds sold for a pretty penny.

After emptying the buckets of feed, he noticed the absence of the normal, hungry swarm of Sally's feathered friends. Usually the sound of the pellets hitting the aluminum troughs signaled the rush of scratching feet and clucking bodies, and a smart man moved quick to get out of the way. But not this morning. Wilson opened the side door to see out into the enclosed yard where the mass of chickens still milled.

That's when he saw her. Sally sat on an upturned feed bucket, decked out in green-forest camo and petting one of the reddish-brown hens in her lap. A sprinkling of bread crumbs on the ground around her feet told him that she was spoiling them again. She liked to do that, even though she kept saying that too much bread gummed up their crops and gizzards, making digestion more difficult for them. But sometimes she couldn't resist pampering her downy babies. And babies they were, whenever she was around. To him, the vicious monster usually pecked the mess out of him if he wasn't careful, but with Sally, they crowded around her, nudging her legs with their tails and combs or scrambling to be the honored fowl in her arms.

Wilson understood all too well what it felt like to be that chicken. If last night had gone any further, he might be strutting around this morning like one of her Dorking roosters. However, as painful memories of last night hit him, he tried to duck out of sight. But her head came up, and she smiled a greeting at him. “Good morning, Wilson,” she said in a normal, relatively happy voice.

He reluctantly emerged into the yard, keeping a wary study of her countenance. “I thought you were going to the deer camp this morning,” he replied and blanched at how callous he sounded.

She nodded and resumed smiling at him. “I did. I got back early because I only like to shoot one deer a week. It seems more fair to the other hunters that way. Got myself a four-point. We'll be having Deer Sausage Surprise when the meat is ready at the processor.”

Wilson shifted his stance and rubbed a palm over the back of his neck. She was acting like nothing happened between them. Like he hadn't laid her down on a table – of all freaking places to romance a lady. Like he hadn't behaved like a fourteen-year-old boy touching a real, live girl for the first time. There was no pity and sympathy in her gaze, nor any confusion or prudence. The absence of what should be there worried him.