“But—”
“Trust me, Cal. It’s horrible to see, but we can’t fix everything.”
They got out of the van and approached the farmer, who greeted Brix with a curt nod without acknowledging Calum at all. “How many?”
“Forty to start with. Might be able to squeeze in a few more.”
“I’ve got sixty-five off to slaughter.”
“We’ll take as many as we can.”
The farmer grunted. Brix took it as a sign to proceed and retrieved the crates he’d filched from Peg’s stash in the cliff-top cave. Calum helped him, his face a study in an emotion Brix couldn’t quite decipher. Brix nudged him. “Okay?”
Calum frowned. “I don’t like this place.”
“Neither do I. Let’s get as many girls as we can and skedaddle, yeah?”
Calum nodded and lifted the last of the crates over his head. In the early-morning sun, his biceps rippled, displaying the black-and-grey cheetah Brix had inked on him just before Christmas. Calum’s skin had been a dream to tattoo, and Brix carried the fact that he was the only artist who ever had close to his heart.
They took the crates to the farmer, who set about slinging the birds inside. It was tough to see, but Brix forced himself to watch as a reminder of why the rescue runs were so important, even if paying the farmer for his hens felt like rewarding him for being a complete cu—
A bird cried out, her leg caught in the crate’s lid.
The farmer pushed down, apparently oblivious. Brix moved forward to free the bird, but the farmer waved him away. “I ain’t got time for your fuss this morning. Piss off while I get these birds loaded.”
“Her leg’s trapped. Lift the lid up.”
“Piss off. Damn thing won’t last the week anyway.”
He started to push on the lid again, and Brix saw red. Fuck this. Perhaps John Lusmoore had been right all along and this farmer only understood his own language. Fury lit his veins, sudden and raw, and his hands curled into fists, ready to let rip.
But he didn’t get the chance. As he drew his fist back, Calum flew past him and put the farmer on his arse.
Brix freed the trapped hen as Calum advanced and stood over the farmer. “Show me where you keep them. We’re taking them all.”
Brix stepped forward, alarmed. “Cal, we can’t do that.”
“Well, we’re gonna.”
The barn likely held up to five hundred hens, a small-scale operation in factory farming, but still far too many for them to transport and rehome. “Cal—”
Calum held up his hand without sparing Brix a glance, saving his gaze for the farmer, who’d hauled himself awkwardly to his feet, clearly stunned by the gentle man who’d turned suddenly into the Incredible Hulk. “Do you love me, Brix?”
“What? Course I do. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Everything, because if you love me like I love you, you’ll know that we’re not leaving this hellhole while there’s still birds here. Call your dad. Let’s get this shit done.”
Calum hammered the final nail into the new giant chicken enclosure that took up most of Brix’s garden. “Looks good, eh?”
John grunted in the way Calum had learned was unique to Lusmoore men: gruff and coarse, with hidden hearts of gold—most of them, anyway. Calum had yet to meet the bad pennies Porthkennack rumours were made of. Not that he was in a position to judge if he did. Chinning the farmer at Redruth had earned him a police caution and five hundred battery hens to rehome, a task that was only now, a fortnight and a crash course in fence building later, close to being done.
Calum studied the enclosure he and John had built while Brix and Kim had constructed another at Kim’s place. “Will it hold fifty?”
“Aye, if they’re all good gals. Could be rowdy if ya get a couple o’ wrong’uns scrapping, but they’ll settle down. Chooks can make a home anywhere.”
The closet romantic in Calum liked the sound of that. He helped John pack away his tools, and then walked him to the gate. “Thanks for your help. Think Brix was ready to send me back to London when I said we’d take them all.”
“He’d have had me to answer for if he had.” John held out his weathered hand. “I told him a hundred times that farmer wanted shooting.”