“And I can stop yelling ‘demon’ at breakfast,” Nettie said, grudging.
“That would help.”
Henrietta fluttered down and pecked the ground near a dandelion. Bitsy watched her like she was a ticking clock.
Wyatt straightened. “We’ll start with the easy fix. Move the feeder. Toss a handful of scratch over there.” He pointed to the far corner, away from the path Bitsy used.
Rita nodded and went to fetch a tin.
Nettie leaned in, lowering her voice like she was about to confess a felony. “Rita thinks I’m dramatic.”
“I think you’re both stubborn.”
She cackled. “Fair.”
Rita returned and scattered feed. Henrietta hustled after it, single-minded and suddenly unthreatening.
Bitsy took a tentative step, then another.
“Well I’ll be,” Nettie said.
Rita lifted her chin, victorious. “French or not, she’s food-motivated.”
Nettie sighed, then gave Rita a quick side hug that looked like it surprised them both. “Alright. I’ll try the sheet and the scratch box.”
“And I’ll stop calling her a tiny Napoleon.”
“Progress all around,” Sam said from behind Wyatt.
Wyatt hadn’t heard him walk up. The clack of gravel under boots had been swallowed by his buzzing nerves.
Sam surveyed the yard, then Wyatt. “So we solved the Great Chicken War of Stillwater?”
“Diplomacy,” Wyatt said.
Nettie planted a hand on Wyatt’s arm. “Thank you, young man, for saving my goat from poultry terrorism?—”
“I didn’t?—”
“—I am baking you a fruitcake.”
Wyatt blinked. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
Nettie ignored her. “Extra cherries. The good ones. You can’t stop me.”
Sam laughed once, short and surprised.
Wyatt managed a thin smile, then headed back to the Tahoe with Lucy at his heel.
He shut the door and the world narrowed again.
His hand went to his phone.
Another check. Another breath held.
Unknown Number: Did you like my gift?