Page 58 of Lost Then Found
Or how she used to sound when I had her beneath me, breathless, begging.
Stop.
I can’t afford to think this way.
I blow out a breath and yank open the driver’s side door, sliding in, gripping the wheel like it’ll keep me steady. Lark has made it clear she wants to keep the past where it belongs, and maybe she’s right. Maybe that’s the only way this works.
This isn’t about us, and it can’t be. It’s about Hudson. Getting to knowhim, showing up for him. Being a father in the way I should have been from the start.
That’s the only thing that matters now. I need to remember that, no matter how fucking good she looks.
I shake my head, forcing myself to turn the key and put Lucille in drive.
Chapter 7
BOONE
The chicken is fucking winning.
Sage and I are grown adults—fully capable, halfway intelligent human beings who know how to handle livestock—and yet here we are, tearing through the house like we’re auditioning for a slapstick comedy.
“Betty White, you little asshole! Get back here!” Sage dives for her like she’s going for a fumble recovery, nearly face-planting into the side of the couch.
The hen flaps like a bat outta hell, clears the coffee table, and lands square on the arm of Mom’s favorite chair—because of course she does.
I’m bent over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. “We can rope a steer in under thirty seconds but a chicken’s our downfall?”
Sage glares at me like I’m the problem here. “Where the hell is Elvis?”
I throw a hand in the air. “I don’t know, but that lazy mutt better be out saving a goddamn calf or something.”
Elvis—border collie, cattle whisperer, occasional freeloader—is nowhere to be found. He’s probably sunbathing behind the barn, living his best life while we get clowned by poultry.
Sage makes another move. Misses again. Hits the rug with a grunt. “Shit.”
Betty bolts.
“Cut her off!” she yells, already scrambling up.
I make a break for the kitchen, trying to head her off, but the damn thing shoots between my legs like a feathered bullet. Nearly trips me in the process.
Something crashes behind me.
“Fuck,” I mutter, spinning around just in time to see a mixing bowl roll across the floor and a trail of mail fluttering in Betty’s wake.
We both freeze as she skids to a stop on the kitchen island—like she’s daring us to try again.
Sage and I lock eyes with the bird.
One…two…
We lunge at the same time.
And the chicken launches herself straight at my face.
“Shit!” I throw my arms up, duck too late. Something sharp digs into my shoulder as she claws her way up and over, using me like a damn springboard, and lands—no shit—on top of the fridge.
I whip around, feathers in my face, heart pounding, and there she is. Perched beside a box of Honey Nut Cheerios like she’s Queen of the Ranch. Smug as hell.
