Page 87 of Unstable

He laughs. “You are the henhouse. And well, Keaton’s not only got you covered, but I don’t think he’ll take too well to another man hanging around now that ya’ll are on the right track.”

I shake my head fast and frantically. “No, you’re wrong. He knows I need your help and he has no problem with you. He’s got his own farm to take care of. Gatlin, I promise, it’s not an issue. Please, I do need you. That’s what you said right, tell you when you’re needed? Well I’m telling you. And I can pay you now too, what do I owe you?”

“Henley,” he steps around the stall to stand directly in front of me, his eyes warm and patient, “this has nothing to do with money. Furthest thing from my mind. I can hear your mind whirling and you need to find Bourbon, put yourself at ease so you can truly hear what I’m saying. Tell ya what, you discuss it with Keaton and get back to me. Sound good?”

I glare at him, my hands finding their favorite spot on my hips. “I do not have to discuss everything with Keaton. This is my farm and my decision, alone.”

“Actually,” he rubs a hand over his mouth to hide the amused smile his eyes still give away, “I’m no expert, but I think that’s exactly what being in love means. Communicating, making decisions together, wanting the other person’s help and input. If he was gonna hire a woman to say, clean his house, keep his books, whatever, would he discuss it with you first?” His brows rise, the corner of his mouth twitching

“Elaina, older and married, already cleans his house, and Mr. Teo keep his books,” I snark back.

“Henley.” He looks down at me. Down as in, ‘you know what I mean.’

I sigh, leaning against the stall. “Okay, point taken. Yes, he’d talk to me first. Fine, I’ll discuss it with him, but I’m tellin’ ya, he won’t mind.”

“Uh huh, we’ll see. Now go find your dog and get some rest, you look beat. I got things taken care of out here. I’ll look forward to hearing the verdict,” he chuckles, going back to work.

I stomp to the Gator and the tires spin out with my aggravated take-off. Gatlin may leave. Bourbon may be missing. Keaton may go to jail.

And I may lose my shit.

My hands shake so badly I can barely steer and the threatening tears clog my throat, muffling my screams of Bourbon’s name. I drive back to the house, about to go in and grab a pack of hot dogs to start tossing out as bait, when I see him.

Oh, thank God.

“Bourbon,” I squeal, almost forgetting to kill the engine before I jump off and run to him, where he lays in front of the porch steps. “Where have you been?” I kneel and hug him. “You scared Mama.”

He rests his head on my knee, nudging my hand with his nose. I easily grant his request and pet behind his ears.

“Not gonna tell me, huh?” I giggle, so damn relieved he’s here and unscathed. “Fine, let’s go inside and you can help me. I’ve got a lot on my mind, so I need to keep busy. We’re cookin’ a feast, boy!”

He takes the steps slowly and I wait for him, holding the door. I go grab his bed and bring it in the kitchen then set a bowl of food and water beside it. My sous chef is all set.

Then I head to the deep freezer, knowing without a doubt, that all the things I need to make my favorite meal—just like my mom taught me—will be in there.

Sure enough, everything’s there—mom was always prepared in case one of her girls asked to cook with her. Some of the most special times in my life.

And obviously, she stayed prepared…just in case I ever showed back up and asked her to cook with me again.

“Remember Henley Gene, the more love you put into it, the better it tastes.”

She’d say that every time.

God, how I miss her. And to think, I could’ve had so many more years with her—wasted at my own stubborn, misguided hand. Though I’ve made strides in forgiving myself, I know that not a day will go by, for the rest of my life, that I don’t think of her with unconditional love and permanent regret.

Enough of those types of thoughts for now though. I wipe away my tears and start pulling out what I need to make my meal.

THE DESSERT IS DONE—definitely made with sugar this time—and the crusts on my chicken pot pies are golden, flakey perfection when he walks in the door.

“Smells damn good in here.” He rubs his stomach and hangs up his hat. “Whatcha cookin’?”

“Chicken pot pies and lemon meringue pie,” I answer proudly. “Hope you’re hungry.”

He stalks over and gives me a “missed you all day” kind of kiss. “Starving, lemme just go get washed up first.”

I set the table for us and make Bourbon a lil’ plate of his own while I wait—and for the first time today, a tiny sliver of peace finds me. This feels very…domestic, normal, dare I say resembling a life I could get very used to living?

“House is spotless and there’s a homemade meal fixed.” There’s a curious edge to his comment when he rejoins me. “My dad taught me, woman cleans and cooks like mad all day long like you’re hosting a party but you’re not, that means she’s either stewing or nesting. And since you’re not pregnant, yet, that leaves stewing. What’s wrong, baby?” He wraps his arms around me from behind and kisses my neck. “Talk to me.”

And that glimpse of peace? Gone. I spin in his arms and bury my face in his shirt, finally letting myself really cry. Body shaking, full-out blubbering. Releasing some of the weight I know he’ll help me carry.

“Hey now, come ‘ere.” He picks me up and carries me over to a chair at the table, sitting down with me in his lap. His face is lined with worry as he wipes away my tears and brushes my hair out of my face. “Henny, there’s nothing I won’t die trying to fix for you, so tell me what’s got you this upset, and I’ll set to fixing it.”

“Well first,” I hiccup a sob, looking over at my dog, enjoying his meal. “I couldn’t find Bourbon for hours today. I thought, you know how dogs will wander off to die? That’s what I thought.” I start shaking again.

“Okay,” he soothes me, kissing my forehead and stroking my hair. “Well he’s fine. He’s right over there, baby, filling his belly. He probably just got to sniffing the trail of a critter and went off a lil’ far.”

“Right, I know.” I nod curtly, jumping out of his lap. “Let me fix you a plate before it gets cold. You want tea to drink?”

He stands, taking my hands and leading me right back to the chair we’d just left. “You, sit down. I’ll make our plates. And keep talking, I know there’s more you need to say.”

---