Rules of Protection (Tangled in Texas) (Volume 1)

by Alison Bliss

  “Now, Emily, I don’t call you Miss Foster. I expect you to return the favor,” she said, walking casually toward the house. “If you refuse to call me Floss, then I’ll refuse to feed you supper.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said meekly. She turned to glare at me, until I corrected myself. “I mean, Floss.” Yep. No doubt about it. That was definitely a verbal spanking.

  I followed her into the kitchen and soaked up the air conditioning. The cool air was a relief to my senses, though Floss didn’t seem to notice the difference. It would take me awhile to get used to this heat. Of course, that’s assuming I’d ever get used to it.

  “Is Floss your real name?” I asked her as she pulled out the lemonade.

  “No, but Hank’s called me Floss long enough, I don’t much answer to Florence anymore. He always said I was skinny enough he could floss his teeth with me. Now, everyone calls me that. I reckon it’s what they’ll chisel on my headstone when I die.”

  Death wasn’t a comfortable subject for me, so I shifted gears as quickly as I could. “May I ask what happened to Hank’s leg? I noticed he limps when he walks.”

  Floss finished pouring lemonade into the four glasses on the counter. “He got kicked by the colt a few months ago, which did a bit of damage to the cartilage and bone. Foolish numbskull needs a knee replacement surgery, but is stubborn as all get out. Keeps putting it off.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a man, honey. Why do they do anything?” She picked up two of the glasses and motioned for me to grab the other two. “Hank’s afraid to be laid up for a while. He’d feel helpless, which isn’t a feeling he’s fond of. Plus, there’s enough stuff to do around here that he doesn’t want to burden me with all of it.”

  “Jake could help out until—”

  “It’s the first time Jake’s been back in over a year…since the funeral. I’ll be lucky if I can get Hank to sit at all. He loves that boy as if Jake were his own son.”

  I went out the door first, then whirled around to look at Floss. “Funeral? Who died?”

  She smiled lightly. “I’ll let Jake tell you about that when he feels up to it.”

  Without another word, we walked down to the barn. I stopped outside the gate, but Floss walked into the stall where Hank hammered some tin. A shirtless Jake shoveled on the opposite side, but both men glanced up at the same time, set their tools aside, and came toward us.

  “Thanks,” Jake said.

  He guzzled a long drink, working the muscles in his neck, while a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. When he lowered his glass, the only thing left was ice. I offered him my glass, which he grabbed with a slight hesitation. “You sure?”

  “There’s more upstairs,” I said, shrugging. “Besides, I drank some of it on the way out here.”

  “Trying to give me your female cooties?”

  I leaned closer and whispered, “I’ve been trying to give you my female cooties for the last couple of days.”

  Jake looked over to his aunt and uncle, who pretended they hadn’t heard us, then glared back at me with a hint of embarrassment. “Is there any conversation off-limits to you in mixed company?”

  “No, I normally say whatever pops into my head.”

  “Yeah,” Jake said in a low voice. “That’s the problem. I should be mucking out your dirty mouth.”

  I laughed and started to say something else, but Jake stopped me. “If you say what I think you’re going to, then I’m going to put my not-so-clean hand over your trap,” he threatened, his face serious. “Jesus. You need to learn to control that mouth of yours.”

  “How’s this for control?” I asked, giving him a sweet, angelic smile. “Muck you!”

  Jake gritted his teeth.

  “Emily, why don’t I show you around the property before I start with the chores?” Floss interrupted.

  “Sure,” I said. “That’d be great. Can I help you do anything?”

  Jake’s eyes widened, clearly shocked by my offer.

  Floss smiled at me. “Can you gather eggs from the chicken coop?”

  “No problem.”

  “Aunt Floss, do y’all still have that big red cock?” Jake asked.

  And he tells me to watch my mouth?

  “Yep. He’s a scrapper, doesn’t like anyone messing with his hens.”

  “Then I should get the eggs for you,” Jake offered. “I don’t think Emily would be able to do it.”

  My eyes narrowed, as if he challenged me directly. “Why, because of a measly rooster?” I asked. “God, Jake, have some faith.”

  “He’s a fighting rooster. Very aggressive.”

  “I think you’re taking this whole protection business too seriously. You make it sound like I’m going into a cage with a rabid pit bull. It’s a stupid chicken.”

  “Okay, but I don’t think you’ll come back with any eggs.”

  “I don’t know,” I said with a laugh. “I’m pretty persistent.”

  “Stubborn is more like it. But if you’re going in there, I want a front row seat. If you need any help—”

  “I won’t need your interference, Jake. This isn’t one of your FBI missions.”

  Hank handed me a small white bucket and grinned, which worried me. Then, in true parade fashion, he led the way to the chicken coop next to the barn. Apparently, this would be a family affair.

  The chicken coop was a large rectangular pen framed with chicken wire, had a rusted tin roof, and a door you opened by turning a small block of wood nailed to the outside.

  I had never gathered eggs before, but it sounded easy enough. At least until they mentioned the killer chicken. I should’ve kept my mouth shut and let Jake do it. If it wasn’t for the stupid power struggle going on between us, I probably would have. I didn’t actually want to gather eggs. What I wanted was to prove Jake wrong. Hard to do when he was always right. The bastard.

  “Watch out for the wasp nest in the back right corner,” Hank said. “If you disturb them, you’ll get stung before you can get out.”

  “Wasp nest. Back right corner,” I repeated, trying to dig deep.

  Jake opened the door to the large pen. Chickens of all sizes and colors ran toward the back, huddling against the wall. Hell, this might be easier than I thought. My confidence level shot upward, and I stepped inside without hesitation. The smell was disgusting. Tiny gnats were everywhere. I breathed through my nose instead of my mouth.

  The hen boxes were located on the right side of the pen. I moved slowly, trying not to scare the chickens—or myself—any more than I had to. Most of the boxes held at least one egg. Some had hens still in them. No big deal, though. I’d grab the eggs and be on my way. And Jake thought I couldn’t do it? What an idiot!

  I grabbed an egg out of the first box I came to and carefully put it in the bucket. Simple. Then I reached for another in the next box. The chickens left their huddle in the corner and dispersed, though they still avoided me.

  I spotted the rooster strutting nearby, but he looked as harmless as the rest of them. He was brightly colored with red, orange, and black feathers, but wasn’t nearly as large as I had pictured in my head. He pecked the ground around him as he walked back and forth, never coming any closer than the hens did.

  I shook my head, reached for another egg, and yelled out, “Jake, I think you’re a weenie. This rooster is as tame as a—”

  The rooster snared my attention when he threw back his head and crowed. It must’ve been his battle cry, because he launched himself at me in a fury of flapping wings and pointy beak. He was on me faster than I could run. I screamed like a girl and hit him with the bucket, knocking him against the chicken wire. He landed on the floor in a daze. I left the two broken eggs where they fell and ran.

  Jake opened the door as I dashed out, practically knocking him over. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  I held up my arm where a trickle of blood had formed. “That pecker bit me!”

  After a serious pause, the three of them burst in
to hysterics. I wasn’t the least bit amused. “What’s so funny?”

  Hank was the first to quiet down. “Honey, that’s the same as saying a shark licked you. Roosters can’t bite. They don’t have teeth.”

  “Felt like a bite.”

  Jake examined my arm. “It’s barely bleeding, you crybaby.”

  “Well, big man, then let’s see your technique. You go get the eggs,” I challenged, handing over the bucket.

  He smirked as he stepped into the chicken coop. There was a moment of silence, a light rustling sound, and then the rooster crowed. Feathers flapped and Jake screamed, hitting a much higher note than I did. Then he ran out of the chicken coop.

  “Holy shit!” Jake yelled, looking down at the scratches and a bleeding peck wound on his shirtless chest. “I agree with Emily—the damn nuisance has teeth!”

  Jake looked frazzled from his humbling experience. None of us could hold back the laughter. We laughed until each of us was doubled over in pain from our aching bellies. It was a side of Jake I hadn’t seen before. I’d seen him laugh and smile, but this was something different. He was more peaceful, more at home with himself.

  “All right,” Hank said, still chuckling. “Time to get back to work. We’ll let the womenfolk tend to those eggs.”

  Womenfolk? Now I knew where Jake got the macho bravado crap—his uncle’s an old-fashioned, sexist pig.

  Floss accepted the bucket from Jake and disappeared into the chicken coop. Moments later, she emerged with a bucket of eggs. Guess we should’ve left the job to the professional.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon with Floss. She walked me from pen to pen, pointing out the different types of birds they raised; pheasants, quail, guineas, white doves, and homing pigeons were some of the more diverse species. Together, she and I fed and watered all the animals on their property. Birds first, then horses, and then we went around the backside of the barn to feed the rabbits.

  There were two of them in a large off-the-ground cage, one black with lop ears named Jack and one white with brown spots named Twitcher. Jack happily munched a carrot, but when I offered one to Twitcher, she growled and hissed at me. I didn’t know rabbits could make sounds, but Floss said they could scream. It reminded me of Watership Down, and that movie always gave me the willies. I tossed the carrot inside and locked the cage fast.

  The men finished the colt’s stall and started stacking bales of hay. Afterward, they worked on the well pump together. Jake smiled a lot, as did Hank. I wasn’t sure which one of them had the better time, but I saw a lot of respect and love between them.

  I stood on the back porch eating an oatmeal raisin cookie left over from lunch and watched Jake work. He was still shirtless. Easy on the eyes, but hard on the mind. Hank pointed across the yard at something, but I couldn’t make out what it was. He said something to Jake that made him sprint across the yard and scoop it up.

  Curiosity got the better of me, and I went down the back steps. Both men stood at the base of a large dead tree when I joined them.

  “What are you looking at?” I asked, as Jake turned to face me. “Ooooh!”

  He held a tiny duckling covered in brown downy feathers. “Here, Emily, take this one.”

  “There’s another one, Jake,” Hank said.

  Jake jogged a couple of steps and scooped him up, handing that one to me, as well. “They’re going to kill themselves,” Jake said, looking up again.

  I gazed up at the hollow in the top of the dead tree, at least fifteen feet off the ground. “They’re coming from way up there?”

  Hank nodded. “Our Muscovy duck had laid some eggs in the hollow last year, but they never hatched. Didn’t think to check this year. Guess they laid some more and those hatched.”

  “Where’s their mother? Shouldn’t she be around here somewhere?”

  “She’s in the pond,” Hank said. “Can’t you hear her sloshing around in the water and calling them? She’s trying to get them to come out of the tree. Jake, grab one of those five-gallon buckets in the barn and a ladder. We’ll climb up and see if there are more in the nest.”

  While Jake got the ladder and bucket, two more yellow ducklings jumped out of the nest, bounced off the ground, and were now resting in Hank’s large hands. Their tiny heads poked out through his fingers and they peeped relentlessly. Jake leaned the ladder against the tree and climbed up. He came back down with six more ducklings.

  The four ducklings we held reunited with their siblings inside the bucket by clumping together on one side. “Now what?” I asked.

  “Now, we put them in a brooder box with a heat lamp,” Hank said. “It’ll keep them warm and safe from predators.”

  “What about the momma duck? Are you going to catch her?”

  “Why would I do that?” Hank asked, looking at me strangely.

  “How are they going to suckle?”

  Hank and Jake looked at each other with astonishment and then chuckled. “Emily, ducks don’t have nipples,” Jake said.

  “Or lips,” Hank mumbled under his breath with a smirk.

  I was confused. “Then why do the babies go under the momma’s wings?”

  “To get warm,” Jake answered, trying not to laugh again.

  My cheeks warmed. How was I supposed to know? It’s not like I was raised on a farm.

  Hank led us to the brooder box and opened the lid. There were two sides to the brooder, and one side already overflowed with colorful chicks. Huddled near the heat lamp, they all began peeping once disturbed. Hank plucked up a white chick and placed it gently in my palm.

  One peek and I melted. “Aww,” I said, cooing to the chick with the fluffy head. “It’s so cute.” Then it shit in my hand. “Ew, gross. Take this nasty thing.”

  Jake grabbed it and placed it back with the others. He didn’t laugh this time, but the shit-eating grin on his face told me he wanted to. I rinsed off my hand with the nearby hose while Jake put the ducklings into the other side of the brooder box and turned on their heat lamp. Hank gave them food and water, which the ducklings walked through and made a mess of within about thirty seconds.

  “Well, kiddos, dinner should be close to ready,” Hank said, looking at his watch. “Let’s wash up and eat. We’ll work on the well pump more tomorrow, Jake.”

  As soon as we went inside, I stepped into the bathroom and washed my hands with soap. Twice. Then I headed to the kitchen. “Floss, can I help with anything?”

  “Do you cook, dear?”

  “Does boiling water or using a microwave count? I’m willing to learn, but my mom wasn’t able to…uh…well, she wasn’t around.”

  “Everything is about ready, but tomorrow I’ll get you to help me with dinner.”

  “Sounds good.” I sat next to Jake.

  “Oh, and Emily, Junior called to say he was bringing over some clothes for you that belonged to his daughter. He’s going to drop them off in the morning.”

  Jake gave Floss a look, but I couldn’t grasp the meaning behind it and let it go. He probably wondered the same thing I did. How did Junior know I needed extra clothes?

  “That’s sweet of him,” I said, taking a sip of iced tea. “What about you, Jake? Don’t you need to go into town and buy a few things? You have fewer clothes than I do.”

  “I can pick up some things later.”

  “Actually,” Floss interrupted. “You have clothes you left up in the attic, Jake.” She smiled at me. “Every time Jake came in for a visit, he’d leave an article behind. I collected them in a box. Good thing, huh?”

  “Yep, good thing.” Jake smiled at her. “I’ll go up and pull the box down first thing in the morning.”

  Minutes later, Floss had dinner on the table. She put ears of corn on each of our plates and went to tell Hank dinner was ready. He was still in the bathroom washing up. I inspected the corn, but my stomach rolled with a wave of nausea.

  “Jake, I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I don’t think I can eat it after what you told me about the dead
bodies,” I whispered. “I’d always wonder if it came from the same field.”

  “My aunt and uncle grow their own corn,” he whispered back. “You’re safe. No dead bodies.”

  I sighed with relief. “Thank God.”

  Hank and Floss joined us at the table, and we passed around the platters of food. When Jake handed me a platter of golden fried balls, I paused. They resembled hush puppies, but I wasn’t sure about eating them.

  “What are these?”

  “Fish balls,” Hank said, dipping one in tartar sauce and taking a bite.

  “Seriously? I didn’t know fish had—”

  Jake clamped his hand over my mouth and politely excused us before dragging me away from the table. In the living room, he glared at me with exasperation. “What’s your problem?”

  “Mine? What’s yours? I’m sure they’ve heard the word balls before. Hell, I bet your uncle even has a pair.”

  “Damn it, Emily. I don’t want to think about my uncle’s balls before I eat,” Jake said, crinkling his nose at me.

  “Well, neither do I, but I was making a point.”

  Jake shook his head. “Jesus Christ, you have an issue with censorship.”

  “No shit!”

  “Next time, think about what you say before you open your mouth,” Jake warned. “Didn’t your parents teach you to respect your elders?”

  “No, I’m sorry they didn’t,” I snarled. “They were too busy dying to bother.”

  Jake froze, realizing what he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

  “Tell your aunt thanks for dinner, but I’m not hungry. I’m going to bed.” Then I walked out the front door.

  Chapter Eight

  Jake found me sitting on the cottage porch an hour later, rubbing my fingers through Dog’s white coat and scratching behind his speckled ears. Dog never moved, but his warm body suggested he was still alive. Barely. Maybe.

  He disappeared during the day, but by the time the sun went down, Dog was back on the porch and dead once again, at least to the world.

  “Taming the savage beast?” Jake asked as he sat next to me.

  I grinned, but my heart wasn’t in it. “He’s blowing his image. Aren’t country dogs supposed to be hunters? He might as well be mounted on the wall.”