Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 80176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
I’d been making upwards of a hundred dollars a week from them, and now, I didn’t have any income at all.
Luckily, I had money in the bank and I could, technically, start over. I had a nest egg thanks to my mother’s life insurance policy, but I didn’t want to touch that unless I had to.
And when I did get up and running again, there was still no guarantee that I’d have a chance to sell eggs to the same supplier again.
Not to mention it took at least five months before a chick was old enough to start laying eggs. And even then, it’d be several weeks more before they were laying them consistently enough to give me eggs every day.
I was lost.
So lost, in fact, that I was practically staring into the eyes of the big man that was somehow on my property before I even realized he was there.
“Ummm,” I said, startled. “Hello.”
He grunted something at me.
“What?”
“I’m here to help you build a fence.”
I looked at my watch.
“It’s seven in the morning…on a Saturday.”
He shrugged. “Used to be up at six on the dot. Been that way for four years now. Can’t just turn it off because I want to.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Okay,” I said. “But I don’t need a fence anymore.”
I looked around at my empty yard.
I’d gotten up this morning out of pure habit, slipped on my yellow rain boots with the flying chickens all over them and had gotten all the way out into the yard before I realized there was literally nothing for me to do anymore.
Normally, I would’ve walked out, opened the coop door, and then fed and watered my chickens.
However, since none of them were alive any longer, I didn’t have to do that.
My other Saturday morning ritual was to go into town, buy some feed and then grab a donut.
Now, there wasn’t a reason for feed.
I had my six baby chicks, sure, but they didn’t eat anywhere near as much as my older ones had.
I took a step from one foot to the other, and then happened to look down at what I was wearing, and nearly groaned.
Shit!
I brought my eyes up almost painfully, and looked at him, despite the embarrassment that was running through my veins.
“There is a reason,” he said, drawing my attention away from my ‘Mother Clucker’ tank top, and my hot pink shorty shorts that were clearly way too small for me, yet I continued to wear because I liked them and they were comfortable. I would be changing this outfit as soon as I got a chance.
“There’s a reason for what?” I wondered.
What was he talking about?
“To build the fence. You got more chicks the other day…didn’t you?”
I nodded.
I didn’t want to think about chickens anymore.
They were depressing.
“Well, I know a lady that’s looking to get rid of her entire flock. She’s moving into an apartment, and they don’t let them have them at her complex.”
I blinked.
“Why is she moving?”
Why was that my question? Surely, I could’ve come up with a more appropriate answer, like ‘Hell yes! I love chickens!’
But I didn’t.
Thank God.
My mouth could run away from me every once in a while.
Well, if I were being honest, I would admit that it was more than ‘every once in a while’ and more like ‘all the fucking time.’ But who was I to give a number to something? I wasn’t God!
“She—the woman that used to own the corner property up there—is moving into a retirement home. She’s got about ninety chickens…”
“Whoa!”
He grinned. “Don’t worry. Most of them are meat birds. She’s going to be processing those before she goes, but she has twenty-three egg chickens—if that’s even what they’re called—and was going to process them, too, but I told her you might be interested in them.”
My heart started to pound.
“That’s the sweetest thing I think I’ve ever heard.”
He shrugged. “They’re not your birds, but it’s something. And she said she has about eight dozen eggs she has nothing to do with if you’re interested in those, too.”
My eyes were filling with tears.
“Can’t get them if you don’t have a fence, though,” he grumbled, his eyes going down the driveway where it snaked through the trees. “I visited the neighbor whose dog you said attacked your chickens. She wasn’t willing to pen it up.”
I looked away, suddenly overrun with the need to throw myself in this man’s arms and hug the shit out of him.
I was able to refrain, though.
Barely.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said softly. “Her father was a vet, and used to be a whole lot more neighborly than her. I used to trade him a dozen eggs once a week for antibiotics for my chickens every six months or so. When I suggested that to her, she laughed in my face.”