Page 12 of Protecting Her Secrets

“Isn’t that what you were just doing?” I ask, but then I remember the red-rimmed eyes and wonder if he just needed a moment of privacy. Respecting that, I point outside. “You want me to go out there?”

“Yeah. I know my stuff will be too big, but I think I have some old gear that’s smaller.”

I squeeze his bicep. “Back when you were a baby lumberjack?”

His lip twitches, but he quickly schools his features. “Something like that. Gimme a minute.”

“Okay.” The last thing I want to do is leave his warm house, but Walker could ask me to do anything right now and I’d agree.

Twenty minutes and about a dozen clothing modifications later, we walk outside, and I’m immediately smacked in the face with cold wind and wet ice. It takes everything in me not to turn around and go back to snuggle on his couch.

“First, we gotta get the snow off the roof of the coop and make sure the bitches have enough power to keep them warm all night,” Walker says, pulling a weird-looking brush from a small shed. I can’t help but notice how his dog follows him everywhere he goes. He’s so attuned to his master, and it’s honestly impressive.

“The bitches?” I ask.

“Yeah, my ladies.” He opens the door to the biggest chicken coop I’ve ever seen, though that doesn’t say much, since I haven’t seen many. But it’s tall enough for him to walk inside, so that makes the thing huge in my books.

The first little room is like a chicken playground. There’s a swing, a teeter-totter, some fruit and veggies hanging from nets, hollowed-out logs for tunnels, and even a xylophone—one of those multi-colored ones every toddler has—attached to the chicken wire walls.

“This is for your chickens?” I ask. I didn’t think chickens needed all this stuff.

“Yeah. I feel bad they can’t roam free because of the predators, so I do what I can to keep them entertained when they’re locked up. Then when I’m home, I put them under that big old dome over there and move them around the yard so they can peck and shit.”

I smile so hard, my nose stings. Walker has chickens, and it makes me love him even more. “That’s cute.”

He leads me further into the coup, where the chickens are all sitting on their perches. “Because of the cold, there are only a few breeds I can own. So, those two right there that look likethey have stained glass on their bellies? They’re a breed called Wyandotte, and their names are Chicky Minaj and Flocker Dre.”

“Of course they are,” I say, as if naming your chickens after rap superstars is normal.

“Those two white and black ones are Brahmas, and their names are Eggy Azalea and Egginem.”

“They look exactly how I’d picture an Eggy Azalea and Egginem.”

“Right?” His tone makes me wonder if he knows I’m kidding, but either way, this is the most wholesome conversation I’ve ever had. “The mostly black ones are Ameraucanas, and they lay pretty blue and green eggs. Their names are Salt-N-Pecka and Lay-oncé. The last two are Orpingtons—Hen Stefani and Stevie Chicks.”

“I love how you spread your musical wings when coming up with names.”

He lowers his head in a bow. “Thank you.”

I watch as he cleans up a little and fills their water and food, all while talking to them as if they’re people. It’s fascinating to see the man he has become. He’s rougher around the edges, a little quicker to react and respond, and wilder, if that makes sense. But then there’s this chicken dad side of him that more closely matches the boy I married.

It reminds me that fifteen years is a long time, and I don’t really know him anymore. I sit with that while we go back out into the blizzard, over to a tiny home up high and only accessible by a ramp.

“This is where Goat Malone and Selena Goatmez live, but we can’t really fit in there, so you’ll have to peek.”

“You really stuck with the naming theme, huh?”

“Yeah, wait until you meet Moodonna out there.” He gestures to the small barn in the pasture.

“Moodonna? You’re ridiculous.”

He flashes me a goofy grin I’ve seen so many times before, and it mixes me up inside. I might not know the outer layers made of experiences I wasn’t a part of, but at his core, the part of him that will never change, is where I can still see the Walker I knew and loved.

I turn away, mentally face-palming because, for fuck’s sake, why am I trying so hard to make myself part of his story? What am I trying to prove, and to who? I used to know him and we used to be in love, but so what? I’m sure there are now plenty of other women who can say the same. It doesn’t make me special.

Only the woman who claims his future will matter.

Chapter Five

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