Page 53 of Her Saltwater Cowboy

That afternoon, with nothing to do but wait, Willow and Bella headed out toward the olive grove with boxes of garden supplies—and snacks, of course. The sun was baking the ground beneath them, and the air swam with the faint hum of bees and tractors working overtime.

“I’m so happy to have the garden as part of our new home,” Bella said, making conversation. “Rafael says we might even get an early herb crop.”

Willow adjusted her grip on the box. “If anyone can coax basil out of late spring soil, it’s you.”

They walked on, reaching the grove of olive trees that already showed signs of care, their shimmering leaves shining more and browning less. Willow set her box down beside a half-cleared patch of earth and plunked down beside it.

She opened the flaps and froze. “What. Is. That?” She tamed the shake in her voice.

Bella followed her gaze to a black-feathered bird, the size of a small dog, perched on a low branch, its beady eyes trained on them. It had a big, red head that shone like fire in the bright sun.

“That’s no turkey,” Willow whispered.

Bella strained to see it. “Are you sure? It looks kind of—feathery.”

“It—it’s some kind of buzzard.” Slowly, she started to rise.

The bird took that moment to let out a long hiss, like steam letting loose from a factory. The ugly, rattling sound filled the air as the bird stretched its wings out like a building, silent threat.

Bella let out a squeal.

Willow grabbed her arm. “Don’t move!”

“I’m not moving!”

“Don’t flap! They sense flapping!”

The bird tilted its head and let out another hiss. Bella let loose a yelp, and Willow—despite herself—screamed right along with her.

“Oh my gosh,” Bella cried. “This is likeSnow White! You remember that scene? The buzzards circling after the witch falls off the cliff?”

Willow’s stomach turned. “Yes! I used to fast-forward that part every time!”

“Me too! They’re gross! Why are they always around death?”

“Because they eatdead things, Bella!”

Another hiss. Another scream.

And then?—

Footsteps. Fast ones. Pounding like hooves on dry earth.

“Willow? Bella?”

Chance crashed through the trees, skidding to a stop in a cloud of dust. His shirt stuck to him, his eyes wild.

“What happened?”

Willow pointed skyward. “Buzzard!”

Bella flailed an arm. “It hissed at us!”

Chance’s face registered … something. Maybe relief. Maybe exasperation. He dragged a hand down his face and looked up.

“Oh. That’s just Gary.”

Willow blinked. “Excuse me?”

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