Page 18 of Mother Clucker

Christ, now I was getting hard. What had gotten her riled up, I didn’t know. But it didn’t seem to matter.

Luckily, she aimed for the front door of the house rather than the side door we’d used. That gave me a few seconds to get Junior under control before I had to face her.

I heard her clomping up the front stairs right before I heard the rapid and loud knocking—more like pounding actually—on the front door.

Drew shot me a glance. “Would you like to get the door? I believe it’s for you.”

“Yeah, thanks.” I rolled my eyes at his attitude, but in reality I couldn’t be more thrilled my little hellcat was here in full outraged glory. And that she was here just for me.

Drew was a good-looking guy. I was secure enough in my masculinity to be able to admit that. He’d been a good wingman in college for me. And I for him.

But this was one woman he’d better stay away from. I was staking a claim on Heather and all of her adorably annoying quirks.

“Who is it?” I said from my sheltered spot on the other side of the thick front door.

My smile grew wider as she called back, “You know who it is, you . . . you . . . dang . . . mother clucker!”

Her attempt to cuss me out without actually using any of the words necessary had me laughing out loud.

I decided to stop torturing her from behind the door but I had to wipe my hand over my face and try to look serious before I opened the door so she wouldn’t think I was laughing at her.

“Well, hello, Heather. Did we have a play date scheduled?” I asked, using her ridiculous term while glancing down at my cell. “I didn’t see a text.”

Her face was tinged pink in the cheeks as she fumed.

She narrowed those clear blue eyes at me. “Where’s Rowdy?”

“He’s in the chicken coop.” As much as I was enjoying her redheaded temper, I still had to wonder what had set her off.

We’d parted well enough at the shelter. What had happened since then?

“He’s still alive?” she asked, her eyes glistening. Christ, was she about to cry?

“Of course, he’s still alive. Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I can’t assume anything with you. You . . . you . . . chicken murderer.”

I frowned in confusion. I’d been called a lot of things. Strickland Feed had been accused of a lot of things as well recently. But chicken murderer wasn’t one of them.

One glance told me Drew was standing off in the shadows enjoying the show. I was enjoying it less than I had been after her oddball accusation.

“What are you talking about?”

“I know what you do. What Strickland Feed does. You kill chickens.”

I was beginning to understand. I had to remember where I was and who I was talking to. In Texas, we raised animals to eat them. But in California, land of the avocado and veggie wrap, I had a feeling things were different.

“In the industry we prefer the term processing to killing, or murder, as you put it. And I don’t kill anything personally. There are dedicated facilities for that.”

“So you admit it?”

“That I raise chickens for food? Yes.” My gaze dropped to her feet. “Are those leather sandals you’re wearing?”

Her gaze shot to her own feet and her mouth opened but no sound came out.

“You eat any kind of meat or are you one of those vegetarians?” I asked.

She swallowed. “I try not to eat too much processed meat?—”

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