Page 70 of Every Good Thing
“Me, too.” Ben has pushed for this since the first “trespassers” wandered into the off-limits barn and drove down our driveway during off-hours. People show whenever they feel like it, as if Saddletree was public land paid for by tax dollars, and they’re entitled to it.
“It’d be nice to have some privacy again,” I say.
“So, you’ll consider it?”
“Definitely. Saddletree is ours first. I’m sorry it hasn’t felt like that lately, but I promise that’ll change.”
“Lena, thank you.” He says the words slowly, oozing sincerity like it’s exactly what he needed me to say.
We share a look that assures me we’re thinking the same thing. Everything’s okay.
But everything’s not okay—Elsie Todd flags us down as we pull into the driveway later that afternoon. Ben stops and puts down his window.
“The bunnies,” she gasps, “they’ve escaped.”
Ruthie makes a strange wallop from the backseat while unbuckling her car seat. Ben puts the Jeep into park, mid-driveway, and we race to the pen. The door flops open, and the pen lies empty.
“I’m so sorry,” Elsie gushes. “Someone wanted a cuddle but didn’t latch the door properly.”
“Here’s one,” a crewman says as he approaches.
“Chandler!” Ruthie coos, eyes full of fat tears. She follows the man inside the pen, where he releases Chandler.
“Ruthie, stay here in case any bunnies come back,” Ben says. She plops on the tree stump inside, loving on the big ears of the rescued American Fuzzy Lop.
“Perimeter search,” Ben says. “You take the barn. I’ll take the chicken coop.”
I do as I’m told, starting in the stall where the feed is kept. There, Monica, a checkered black and white bunny, nibbles on a feed bag. I scoop her up and return her to the pen, where Ruthie claps through her tears.
Ben finds Phoebe and Joey, the Rex Rabbits, near the chicken coop, looking lost and confused. Jaye finds Rachel, the fluffy cashmere, under the hay in an empty barn stall.
But we can’t find Ross. After two hours of frantic searching for the pygmy rabbit, we take a fitful Ruthie home. She is devastated. Ben carries her upstairs, and she cries on his shoulder.
“Pygmies like to dig holes, remember?” I say, tearing up. “He’s probably hiding in a hole.”
“He’d never hide from me, Mom.”
In bed, she curls into a ball and sobs. Ben gives me a look outside her bedroom that stabs my heart—anger, irritation, blame—and our good day vanishes.
“I’ll keep looking,” he says gruffly. “Stay here.”
Ruthie soon falls asleep. Helpless, I stand on the deck with binoculars, hoping to glimpse the tiny bunny.
I don’t find Ross, but my property is overrun with trucks and gear. A huge white tent has been erected near the tractor-trailers. Construction has started on the new shelter by the pond. Crews set up scenes on the walking trail, in the main house, and around the carport. Golf carts, a small pick-up, a forklift, and over a hundred people traverse the landscape like ants over an anthill.
They’ve come in and taken over, just like he said they would. My promise to make this place feel like ours again feels further away.
Nineteen
LENA
Problems continue.
Damage along the back fence line by an overzealous truck driver meant a morning wrangling horses one-handed for me—not easy to do, especially with Shadow flicking his ass in my direction every time I tried.
Our first group meetings had to be rescheduled because of a misunderstanding with the film crew.
Ben was none-too-pleased to discover an entitled actor playing with the bunnies, even after we posted more signs not to enter. Ruthie’s cried herself to sleep every night over Ross.
