Page 31 of Wrangled Love

My adrenaline kicks in, and all I can think about is escaping undetected. If we don’t, and Jensen finds out, he may never let me see Caleb again—especially if I get arrested for trespassing and stealing someone else’s property. I can’t let that happen.

“New plan,” I say in a hushed tone. “Birdie, you’re going to carry the chicken out of here. Charlie, you distract Mr. Grady. I’ll take the crate.” I’d leave it behind, but it has the Silver Saddle Ranch emblem on it, and the last thing we need is for this to become front-page news in the local paper.

“Why do I have to be the one to distract him?” Charlie hisses.

“Because Birdie panics under pressure, and you’d probably face-plant if you tried to run with the crate in those shoes.” I gesture toward her black ankle boots. They’re meant for a trip to the coffee shop, not a covert mission.

She lets out a sharp breath, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, a determined expression setting in. “Fine. Let’s just get it over with. I’m definitely going to need a drink after this.”

We watch as she stealthily darts along the perimeter of the chicken enclosure, ignoring the hens that continue to squawk loudly.

Once she is out of sight, Birdie lifts the fragile chicken from its pen, cradling it against her chest. “Shh, I’ve got you,” she whispers when it clucks.

We wait for what feels like an eternity, the sound of Mr. Grady’s boots growing louder with each step. Just as he’s about to round the corner, a loud commotion from the other side of the coop grabs his attention. I crane my neck to see hundreds of chickens scattering out of the enclosure, running in all directions.

That’s one way to distract him.

“Goddammit,” he shouts as he bolts toward the open gate.

My heart races, thumping wildly. Now is our chance to make a break for it.

I glance at Birdie, still holding the chicken, her brows furrowed in concentration as she tries to keep the bird from squawking its head off.

“Run. Now,” I order.

She doesn’t waste a second, taking off in a sprint across the yard. I grab the crate off the ground and follow. As we reach the tree line, I glance back, catching sight of Charlie, her hands pressed against her chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me to wear a sports bra for this?” she whisper-shouts.

I bite my lip, fighting the urge to laugh. “How was I supposed to know we’d be sprinting for our lives? Was it necessary to let the other chickens out?”

“What did you want me to do, distract him with my impressive rack?” She motions to her chest. “Even that wouldn’t have been enough to divert from the fact that we stole his chicken.”

“Correction, we liberated her,” Birdie adds, ever the optimist.

We don’t stop running until we get to the SUV. I toss the crate in the trunk, then climb into the passenger seat, leaning back to steady my breath.

Charlie slides behind the wheel and starts the engine. She turns and points at the hen, who’s now wrapped in Birdie’s jacket, its head poking out and swiveling curiously.

“Listen up, clucker. If you even think about making a mess in my car, you’ll be turned into chicken nuggets. Got it?” The chicken stares at her, nuzzling its head into Birdie’s chest. “That bird is as sharp as a rock.”

Birdie shoots Charlie a scowl. “Don’t say that. You’ll hurt Nugget’s feelings.”

Charlie throws her hands up in exasperation. “Oh, great. Now you’ve gone and named the thing.”

“Yup. Nugget is here to stay,” Birdie says with a toothy grin.

“As much as I love this feel-good moment, I think we should get out of here,” I say.

“You got it.” Charlie buckles up and pulls out onto the road. “Once we drop off the chicken, we’re going to the bar to celebrate.”

“Alright, but only if the bar has better music than your car,” I tease.

Charlie wouldn’t let us leave the bar until closing—too busy having the whole place cheering as she belted out songs about heartbreak, dirt roads, and bad decisions. Somewhere between her fifth margarita and grinding on every man who bought her a drink, I stepped in as her designated driver and got her home before things went too far with someone she might actually remember in the morning.

It’s well past midnight when I get back to thecottage, so I’m surprised to find the lights are still on. I stop in the kitchen doorway, shocked to find soaked towels spread across the floor and Jensen lying on his back under the sink, my tools scattered around him.

“What happened?” I exclaim.

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